A/N: In January, I wrote and posted a gift fic on AO3 featuring Tim, Dick and time travel, but it was a rush job, and I was never fully satisfied with its quality. So, I decided to rewrite it, and as it subsequently became quite different from the original prompt, I am posting it separately under a new title. It can be read as taking place a couple of months after All the Corners That Are Left, though both stories stand alone.
This is a canon divergent story that is partially set after Infinite Crisis and just before One Year Later, but is a slight AU in that Tim is returning to Gotham with Bruce and Dick, and there's no Robin: Wanted storyline (don't worry, it sucks). It is also partially set somewhat after the events of Batman and Robin (2009) #25 and Batman: The Black Mirror, but Flashpoint and the New 52 reboot never happened. Therefore, it exclusively draws details from Post-Crisis comics, and exact issues are cited in the end notes. However, you don't need to have read any comics to follow! I welcome all readers.
Warnings for implied depression and suicidal thoughts.
Flight Mode
I want you to know
You're the reason I can go on
When the night swallows me whole
You're my promise of the dawn
—The Mudbloods, 'Find You' (excerpt)
Seventeen-year-old Tim Drake sat motionless in his aeroplane seat, face turned towards the large window beside him. If he concentrated on breathing steadily, eyes fixed on the broad sky above the Atlantic Ocean, he could ignore the way his older brother, seated opposite, was watching him, pretend he couldn't see how the corners of Dick's mouth betrayed a faint frown. Maybe Dick would think that Tim was meditating.
The world outside was almost oppressively blue, in stark contrast to the habitual greyness of Gotham: a city Tim hadn't seen for a year. None of them had, not since the –
His mind went thankfully, blissfully blank. Tim swallowed thickly, feeling Dick's eyes on him, and let his thoughts wander again, keeping them as innocuous as the view.
Bright clear skies above. Glimmering blue ocean waves below.
Try as he might, the images returned. Gotham meant Batman and Robin – and maybe Nightwing, too, now that Blüdhaven had been razed by Chemo. But Tim doubted that Dick would want to return to the nest after having spread his wings and flown solo for so long. Gotham also meant Batgirl, who had stayed behind with Alfred to keep the home fires burning.
Cassie could have come with us, Tim thought, not for the first time. He had been a little surprised to realise that he missed her blunt mannerisms and unnerving presence – even her habits of eating all his cereal and using up his hot water. Maybe she would have appreciated Bruce's need to recreate the global travels that had led to the formation of Batman. On the other hand, Tim knew that she cared little for symbolic journeys – her dedication to the mission was already ironclad.
Bruce had flown commercial on that initial return trip to Gotham at age twenty-five. Expressive and reflective in a way he never was while wearing the cowl, he had described the scenes from those twelve years abroad in such detail to Dick and Tim that Tim could vividly picture the final flight, hear the descent announcement and see the snow-capped roofs and bridges of his home city.
'I remember thinking that I should have taken the train,' Bruce had said. 'To be closer.'
'To see the city for what it was,' Dick murmured.
Bruce nodded. Tim had said nothing. He had been trying to imagine what it must have been like – to be abruptly orphaned at age eight, then leave home at thirteen to train around the world. With brutal clarity, he remembered how Bruce had paid for him to travel overseas after his mother's death. Tim, too, had been thirteen – grieving, unsure and guiltily relieved to be leaving his paralysed father. Back then, Bruce had refused to tell Tim about the sequence of training that had given rise to Batman, implying by his reticence that first-hand experience was the best teacher.
Now, Tim wasn't sure what to think about this softer, more communicative Bruce, who gave insight when prompted, who rested his hand on Tim's shoulder and told him in halting sentences that it was all right to need space to – to recover. To remember that there was no wrong way to feel about – what had happened, and to take his time. Tim appreciated the effort, but there was something so unbearably awkward about Bruce trying to talk to him about such things that Tim had merely muttered, 'I'm fine,' and moved so that Bruce's hand fell away, though the phantom weight on his shoulder remained.
It seemed impossible to reconcile the Bruce who was with him and Dick on a private jet from Wayne Enterprises with the Bruce who had betrayed Tim's secret to one of Tim's closest friends, who had gaslit him for his sixteenth birthday, who had hired and just as soon fired a Robin to replace him, who had kept Tim from seeing Steph on that final night of the gang war –
Again, Tim aborted the intrusive thought. He let his eyes stray from the window to the empty seat next to Dick's. Bruce had gone up front to speak with the pilot, and though he hadn't said why, Tim was sure he could guess. The thought did not excite him. He could not recall a single instance in the past year when he had felt the kind of joie de vivre Bruce was probably hoping to incite.
'Dick.'
Bruce's steady voice carried from near the door. Dick stood up and began to move to the aisle, but hesitated next to Tim, hands fluttering as if unsure of what to do.
'I'll be right back, Tim,' he murmured, and quick as light, he pressed a kiss to the top of Tim's head, burying his nose in Tim's hair.
Tim did not move. One of Dick's hands strayed to Tim's shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze, and then Tim was alone.
The minutes passed in a haze. He knew that Bruce and Dick were talking softly near the door, probably about him, but he could not bring himself to care. The world outside the window was so bright that he could not see the stars; he was adrift in space, yet being dragged back to earth against his will. His throat burned as he took a thick, shuddering breath, gripping the wide armrests of his seat for support. He could have been anywhere, or nowhere – he was helpless against the pitiless wave.
Breath slowly, came Bruce's voice in Tim's head, inexorable in a way that was achingly comforting. In through your nose. Hold it. Out through your mouth.
In, Bruce continued steadily, while Tim gasped for breath. Hold. Relax.
The noise of the aircraft faded into the background, until the only sound Tim could hear was his own breathing. Eyes closed, he was floating in a void; scenes that he relived every night played before him.
'Tim, she isn't … she isn't here, anymore.'
'Tim, you have to understand … there's nothing any of us could do.'
What was the next step? These feelings are mine … but I am not these feelings. But this time, the voice was his own, and Tim longed for Bruce's guidance to return as he tried to define what was coursing through him and making him tremble.
Pain. Loss.
His awareness travelled along his body as he flexed his fingers and noted the pressure of his shoes on his feet.
This body is mine … but I am not this body.
He was disconnected, suspended weightlessly in the sky. Abruptly, a scene came into focus: a crater of destruction, with a bloodied body at the centre …
Tim's heart hammered as his eyes flew open, scenes dissolving. He tried to grasp at the fleeting remnants, but it was like being woken from a vivid dream: only the final images lingered, without context or closure. Nor could he recall the rest of the meditation Bruce had taught him long ago.
Get it together, he told himself, ignoring the way his hands were slick with blood – no, with sweat. It was impossible to swallow past the nausea flooding him.
'Tim?' Dick had returned, and Tim forced himself to look up. Though he avoided Dick's gaze, he couldn't help noticing the worry lining his brother's face.
'Yeah?' he said, voice scratchy.
The worry deepened. 'Bruce and I were wondering … are you up for taking a turn flying?'
A sentiment lingered just out of reach – something reminiscent of happier, more carefree days when Bruce would fly Tim to San Francisco every weekend after school, and Tim would wheedle Bruce for a turn in the pilot's seat. When Tim's biggest concern had been how to deal with his father's mercurial temperament and ignorance of Robin. When Tim had had a father, and a sort-of girlfriend, and a best friend, and a fearless girl who had died in the Thompkins clinic believing that everything was her fault and that he, Tim Drake, hated her …
'Tim?' Dick repeated. His obvious trepidation sent a hollow, sick feeling through Tim. He hated when Dick sounded like that – as if he were clinging to a hope that Tim could not fulfil. He shook his head, throat too tight to speak.
Dick's hand came up and hovered near Tim's shoulder, then dropped when Tim did not react. 'Sure,' he said quietly, sounding far too understanding.
An angry itch erupted beneath Tim's skin. He hated to be patronised.
'Bruce and I will be up front,' Dick continued. 'Thought we'd give the pilots a bit of a break. Let us know if you change your mind.'
Staring down into his lap, Tim nodded once. He heard Dick's small exhale, sounding almost like a sigh, and then Dick was turning away, his legs leaving Tim's line of sight.
'Wait!' The word tore from Tim's lips as he jumped up, snatching one of Dick's hands in both of his own. Dick froze, and then they were both looking down at Tim's trembling fingers.
As quickly as he'd grabbed it, Tim dropped Dick's hand. His face burned. He just knew Dick was giving him those big blue eyes full of pity, and he also knew that if he looked up, he would not be able to keep from going to pieces.
'How … how long till Gotham?' he managed to ask, the words barely more than a whisper.
'Bruce said two more hours or so.'
Tim nodded. Abruptly, he moved towards the aisle, forcing Dick to take a step back. He gestured to the back of the plane. 'Gonna catch a nap,' he mumbled.
'Sure,' said Dick again. There was that slow, calm something else in his tone that made Tim want to twitch and escape, made him wish Bruce would interrupt and give him a mission or at least keep Tim grounded with his stern, reassuring presence. He brushed past Dick; after a moment, he heard his brother's footsteps retreat in the opposite direction.
A door separated the plane's seating area from the lounge. Steadfastly ignoring the increasing blurriness in his vision, Tim surged towards it and wrenched it open.
BOOM!
There was a blindingly white flash of light, and Tim instinctively threw up an arm to shield his face. In the same moment, the door flew out of his hand and slammed shut behind him.
As quickly as it had come, the light faded. Tim lowered his arm, then stumbled back in shock.
He was no longer in the plane. What surrounded him was an unfamiliar room that reminded him of the Batcave – it was grey and filled with high-tech equipment that surrounded a wide desk, on which perched several large computer monitors. And sitting in a black, high-backed office chair and staring straight at Tim was a young man, perhaps a few years older, with thick dark hair and –
Tim jumped, almost knocking his head against the door. A couple more worry lines, longer hair and thinner cheekbones could not disguise the fact that Tim was looking at himself.
'What just happened?' he near-shouted, voice cracking; he could not seem to meet his counterpart's eyes. 'Where am I?'
The other Tim was motionless for a moment, then he spun the chair to face the desk and put his head in his hands, swearing under his breath. Tim approached, pulse still racing.
'You need to tell me what's going on,' he said, trying to inject force into his words as he regained composure. 'Did – did you bring me here?'
'I didn't mean to,' came a muffled voice, and it sounded so eerily familiar and yet so unlike his own that Tim recoiled. 'I must have got the formula backwards.' The figure thumped his head against the desk with a drawn-out groan.
Curiosity pushed past the numbness. 'What were you trying to do?' asked Tim, moving closer again.
The other Tim raised his head and looked up at Tim with bleary eyes. 'I was … look, it doesn't matter. Just messing with something, I guess.' He sighed. 'Sorry that you got dragged into this. I'll reset the portal as soon as –'
'No!' The word burst out of Tim's mouth before he could think. He settled a little under his doppelganger's piercing gaze. 'I mean …'
He knew what he meant, but he did not know how to express the fact that the thought of being sent back to that relentless aeroplane journey was more than he could stand. Still, there was something far too understanding in the older Tim's eyes. Tim looked away, eyes prickling.
'Time travel,' he said, when he could speak. 'That's what you did. Or … were trying to do.'
'Yes,' came the wary response.
Tim's mind was flickering awake, spiralling through possibilities. I didn't mean to, his counterpart had said. I must have got the formula backwards.
He froze as the implications hit him.
'You were trying to reach the future, but instead you got me,' he half shouted, agitation bubbling with him and making him tremble. You don't know what to do any more than I do. 'Send me back further. Help me fix this.'
'Fix –?' The other Tim stared at him. 'Are you kidding? You can't change the past.'
'Unless I'm from an alternate universe, being here has already changed the past.' Tim swallowed past the lump in his throat. 'You know what's happened. I – we – need this.'
'You … you're saying …' His double seemed lost for words; however, Tim felt sure he could fill in the blanks, because he knew his own mind.
You don't think it can get better.
An awkward silence fell, but Tim did not break it. He did not think it necessary to point out that his mere presence in the future indicated that his older self was also dealing with demons so personal that he felt he could not confide in anybody but himself.
'Look,' said the other Tim, interrupting his thoughts, 'I can't send you back further. I don't know how –'
'I could –'
'– and I don't want to.' Tim's wide-eyed panic was met with a hard stare, and then his counterpart added, 'So don't ask again. I should never have messed with this in the first place. You can try the door all you want – this room became a closed-environment system as soon as you arrived. It won't revert for another twenty-six minutes – sooner if I can figure out what went wrong – and when it does, you're going back to your own time. Are we clear?'
Oddly, this older Tim reminded him of Bruce. Tim nodded, unsettled by the similarities.
'Say it.'
'We're clear,' Tim muttered, receiving a narrow-eyed nod in return. He sank into an extra chair near the desk, watching as his counterpart accessed and edited a variety of computer programs that he could not hope to make sense of.
His curiosity had evaporated, leaving only a chill in his bones. If this version of himself was so isolated and desperate as to orchestrate a visit from his future self, then what hope remained for his own life upon his return to Gotham? Bruce would return to protecting the city – because this trip has been about rediscovering what it means to be Batman – Dick would rebuild himself from the ashes of his past life – of course he can; he's done it before – and Tim would … Tim would …
No Dad. No Steph. No Dana. Nothing to keep him tied to Gotham, now that he'd finally completed the rite of passage that had begun with his mother's death. His face grew hot as he remembered what Bruce had told him well over a year ago, after his father's funeral:
I'd like to adopt you, Tim. I'd very much like you to consider becoming my son.
An incredibly generous offer that he'd refused – not even having the courage to reject Bruce to his face, Tim had invented an uncle to act as his legal guardian. But, upon discovering the truth, Bruce hadn't even been mad. He'd helped Tim cover his tracks, accepted his need for independence and even said he was proud of him. It had been exactly the conclusion that Tim had hardly dared hope for.
So why did Tim now feel sick and ashamed whenever he recalled his response to Bruce's offer?
'How old are you?' the other Tim asked, interrupting his thoughts.
'Seventeen.'
'Okay. What date is it for you? What's just happened?'
'What?'
'I need to know details so I can figure out where I went wrong. What were you doing when I pulled you here?'
'Don't you remember?' Tim asked evasively.
The older Tim made an annoyed expression that was familiar, if somewhat disconcerting. 'Just tell me what the date is.'
Haltingly, Tim did as he was told, and watched as his double's face paled a little.
'Oh. Oh. You were on the plane, weren't you? With Bruce and Dick?'
Tim nodded briefly.
'I remember now. I'm s—'
Ice shot through Tim's heart. 'Don't.'
The older Tim spun away from the screens and held up his hands as he faced Tim. 'I'm just saying, if anyone knows what you're going through, it's me.'
'I don't want to talk about it.'
He was met with a shrug. 'Maybe you should.'
'Speak for yourself,' Tim muttered, springing to his feet and beginning to pace. This windowless room, with its unrecognisable technology and steel-coloured walls, was so unlike any he had ever lived in that he felt deeply unsettled by this stranger who wore his face. What else had happened to compel Tim's older counterpart to attempt to contact their future self?
'Why did you do it?' he asked suddenly, halting his pacing at the desk. 'Why did you want to contact the future?' Don't you have anyone else to talk to who isn't another version of yourself?
'It doesn't matter.'
'Of course it does,' Tim cried, his adrenaline mounting. He gestured at the complicated mass of lights and wires that framed the door he'd come through. 'You don't do all this for something that doesn't matter. How long have you been trying?'
The older Tim scowled at the keyboard. 'None of your business. Now, leave me alone so I can work this out.'
But a horrible thought had occurred to Tim. 'You're still Robin, right?'
The chair whirled around with a rush of air. 'Stop asking me questions!' his older self hissed. 'I'm probably in enough shit as it is! You're right here talking to me and you can't figure anything out?' Slightly red-faced, he swivelled back to face the monitors, but not before Tim glimpsed the glassiness in his eyes.
Of course, Tim thought. He could have hit himself, for he well understood his alternate self's desire to find proof of a future worth hoping for. At the same time, it was a chilling and unwelcome revelation.
'Damn it,' he whispered. He sank to the floor, adrenaline ebbing away. An isolated part of him looked down and noticed that his hands were shaking. He pressed his palms to the floor, blinking hard as he tried to formulate the impossible question – who had this Tim recently lost? Dick? Alfred? Bruce?
'Hey,' came a hesitant voice from close by. Tim raised his head slowly to see his alternate self hovering before him. As he watched, the older Tim said, 'I'm sorry. This is all my fault. You didn't ask to be here.'
Tim straightened and flexed his fingers, trying to ease the shaking. 'You know when I'm from,' he said.
'Yes.'
'Then you know how shit it's been.'
Tim heard a sharp intake of breath. 'Yes,' said the older Tim softly. 'Tim, I …'
'I know you shouldn't tell me what happens,' Tim broke in, looking up. 'All I want to say is, don't you dare feed me some bullshit about how I should just keep my chin up and it'll all get better, because it's obvious that's not true, or I wouldn't be here.'
The older Tim met Tim's eyes for a long moment, displaying an expression that was impossible to read. 'Damn, it really colours your perspective, doesn't it?'
'What does?'
'Never mind. Look, I …'
'What's a closed-environment system?' Tim interrupted.
'It shuts off all contact with the world outside this room. No phone calls or news alerts, to ensure you don't interact with anyone but me, or learn more than you should. The same goes for the room you came from – no one can enter it until you return. I only planned on using it once, but …' He shrugged and grimaced, returning to the computer to continue his earlier work.
Hardly recognising what he was doing, Tim followed. There was a chat window on one side of the large screen. Underneath the heading NIGHTWING (sent: yesterday), which was accompanied by a tiny avatar of Nightwing, it read:
Hey Tim – what's up? Just making sure we're still good for Saturday. It'll be great to check in with you. Let me know when you see this, okay? Maybe call me?
A hand waved in front of Tim's face, obstructing his view. 'Can you not?' said the older Tim, closing the chat window without typing a reply.
'You don't have to keep the system closed because of me,' Tim said, feeling suddenly dizzy as relief flooded him. He had not known how much he needed the simple reassurance of Dick's continued presence – the most enduring constant in his life. But the sentiment quickly gave way to guilt as he recalled how he'd rejected Dick's patient offers of help, and realised how he was hindering Dick's ministrations, even now.
'Yeah, well … you would be difficult to explain.'
You should talk to him, Tim wanted to say, but he knew it was hypocritical.
The other Tim sighed. 'I don't know how to say this in a way that'll get through to you, except by emphasising that I know what you're thinking because I've been there. I know what you see might look bad, but that's because the way you feel right now … it changes how you see everything. Makes things look worse than they are. Don't get me wrong, nothing's perfect, but my current problems are on a different … scale.' He groaned. 'Dick would be better at this.'
This last sentence was such an intimately familiar feeling that, for the first time, Tim truly believed that the figure before him was his older self – at least, it was easier to focus on that than on the stilted words that had come before. Again, he was confronted with the sensation that his innermost thoughts were on cheap display, compelling him to do anything that would take the focus off himself.
'What do you mean, a different scale?' he asked.
The other Tim looked even more uncomfortable, and Tim felt a brief sense of bitter triumph, only to deflate when he said, 'I don't know if I should be telling you that.'
'You don't have to go into details.'
'Sure,' came the unconvinced response. 'It's just normal stuff that you don't have to worry about. Anyway, I have to make sure this is going to work properly, but in the meantime, feel free to make yourself comfortable.' He gestured around them, then turned back to the computer, hunching over the keyboard as he typed away.
Tim looked about the room. For the first time, he saw beyond the tech and gadgets and papers strewn across the desk and noticed the scrawled notes pinned on the large corkboard that covered one wall. As if in a trance, he moved closer. In the centre of the board hung a wall calendar dated less than two years into the future. The first few notes read:
Dinner WM Sun 5th
Tea with Alfred Thu 10:30 am
Arcade with DG DW Sat 11th
Talk with B about RR college?
Then there was another note written in a drastically different hand to his own – curly, with playful hearts in place of dots.
How long will it take you to see this? I put the leftover curry in the fridge – DON'T FORGET TO EAT IT! And answer your messages for once!
Tim stumbled back, heart hammering. The notes were ostensibly his own, but he felt as if he were trespassing on a life beyond his reach. It had been easy to imagine that his own future was the solitary existence of a vigilante hardened by personal loss and struggling to find direction. And yet, as the corkboard grew blurrier and blurrier before him, he knew that this was not the case. This Tim had a brother who called him – and, when that failed, used an official line to make sure Tim knew he was heard and loved. This Tim went to the arcade and family dinners and had a friend who stayed over and left curry in his fridge.
This Tim had a family.
A different scale, he thought, ignoring the way his eyes burned. Still, there must have been something that had triggered this fruitless search through time.
'What did Dick want?' he asked suddenly, blinking hard before turning back to the desk.
'To remind me about something coming up. And to check in. He does that.'
This Tim made plans for the future. Tim almost wanted to ask if the leftover curry had been eaten, but instead settled for, 'What about college?'
'How do you – oh.' Tim's alternate self slumped back in the chair, sighing. 'I don't know. I don't even have a GED.'
Tim blinked. 'But, surely you finished school …' He studied the tired young face before him, putting the pieces together. 'Wait, did you drop out?'
'Kind of.'
'How do you kind of drop out?'
His older self flushed red. 'And I'm sure you've totally figured out what you're going to do when your plane lands!'
Tim opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again, pulse thrumming in his ears. Temporarily displaced in space and time, he could not fully leave behind the world that had taken so much from him. The year abroad had allowed him to spend invaluable time with Bruce and Dick, but it had also turned him adrift, with no one left to tug him back to Gotham's shores. He looked away, numbness spreading through him.
'I'm sorry,' came a soft voice from beside him, but Tim did not move, even as his older self continued, 'I've gone about this all wrong.'
Tim's nose was starting to run. He pressed his hand to his face, pretending to stifle a sneeze as he sniffled, but it was no use. A sob burst out of him, loud and frantic in the stillness, and then he was unable to stop the tears from flooding forth. Conscious of his counterpart's presence, he stumbled away, blindly finding the wall and sliding down it as he buried his head in his arms, shrinking in on himself. He had not cried like this since … since …
His older self sat down beside him solicitously. Tim hated it. He wished he could wrench the door open and disappear behind it – even if it wouldn't take him back to the plane, it would be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
'I know how you feel,' said the other Tim, in a hesitant murmur. It startled a choked laugh out of Tim. He turned away, scrubbing his face with his damp shirtsleeve. There were a hundred things he wanted to say, but he could not make himself speak, not with the way his throat was tight and his hands shook.
So fucking what? This is nothing but a game to you. A moment where you can look into the past and be grateful that you're no longer a nervous wreck. Is that it?
'Shut up,' he muttered. 'You're an idiot. Or, I am. Whatever. If that's true, then what did you mean by the way I feel right now?'
His counterpart sighed, taking a long, shuddering breath. 'It's … it's like you've tripped and fallen in a hole that you can't get out of. You think you're alone, and there's a storm above you – it turns your whole world grey, and it feels a hundred times easier to sit down and let the rain fall than it is to stand up and call out for help.'
Tim looked up. The way he'd felt on the plane – adrift in space with the world moving around him, propelled into the future against his will …
'Trust me, Tim,' his future self said softly. 'I know.'
Tim closed his eyes. He wanted to ask, how did you get out, but the simple words made his throat close up again, and he choked on another sob.
'But then I looked up,' the other Tim continued, 'and I saw people reaching out to me.'
'Who?'
'Bruce. And Dick and Alfred. And I know you're thinking that you're not me yet, but you have to understand – you will be.'
It was this last assurance, more than any trite metaphors, that finally got through to Tim. He swallowed and flexed his hands against the floor, feeling the coolness beneath them, grounding him.
You will be.
You will be.
'And that's why I need to send you back,' his other self said, pushing himself to his feet. 'So you can have that chance too.' He gestured to a digital countdown that inhabited a corner of his screen. 'It's almost time.'
Tim nodded. He only had three minutes left, but the inevitability of his return did not feel as damning as it had before. Making sure his counterpart's back was turned, he stepped over to the large corkboard, found a pen and a blank note and wrote:
Call Dick back
He affixed his note to the board, then stood there a while longer – not reading more of the messages, but forcing himself to remember the world he would be returning to, and deciding what he would do next.
At last, his older self said, 'Okay, you'd better get ready,' and Tim hurried over to the computer.
They looked at each other for a long moment. Then Tim said, 'You know, you should take your own advice. Talk to someone other than yourself.'
'Very funny.' The older Tim pointed to the door. 'Go stand there, same way you were when you arrived.' And then he added, when Tim didn't move, 'I'll call Dick back after you go, all right?'
Satisfied, Tim went, putting his hand on the doorknob.
'One more thing,' his double said, coming up behind him.
Tim paused, handle turned but door still shut. 'What?'
'Say yes to Bruce.' Then he felt a hand on his push the door open, there was an ear-splitting BANG, and the room and his future self were gone. When Tim finished blinking, he found himself standing in the plane's lounge.
But then I looked up –
Tim took a breath, remembering his resolution, and before he could let himself hesitate, he made his way to the cockpit. Both Dick and Bruce nodded at him as he entered, their eyes searching him with what Tim now recognised as care, not pity.
'Hello, Tim,' said Bruce, in his warm, deep voice. 'The offer still stands.'
– and I saw people reaching out to me.
No was the reflex on the tip of Tim's tongue, but he swallowed it back. He still did not feel the same elation at the opportunity that he had felt over a year ago, but perhaps that did not matter – being able to take control of his future and return to Gotham on his own terms was enough of a first step.
'Sure,' he said sincerely. 'I'd like that.'
As soon as the door slammed shut, ending the closed-environment system and sending his younger counterpart back to the past, nineteen-year-old Tim felt himself slide to the floor. His limbs were trembling. The events of the past half hour had been so unexpected that the memories were flooding back, unwelcome and overwhelming. Even though he knew it was impossible, some primal part of him longed to reactivate the portal and force his way onto the aeroplane so that he could reassure that tired, lonely child of a truth he himself was still struggling to believe: that everything would be all right.
It was like the rest of Tim was still seventeen instead of nineteen, tattered and fragile as a butterfly's wings, sure that nothing short of changing the past would mend the gaps that were exposed when he moved and grew when he flew. But the cocoon had burst a long time ago. The futility of it all hit him like a wave, washing him clean even as the salt water brought old aches to the surface, and he did not know how long he remained there, curled up on the floor as he tried to reconcile the half of him that knew he should look up and confront the storm clouds with the half of him that had never left that aeroplane.
He felt rather than saw the world disappear around him, sinking into inky blackness, and he wrapped his arms around himself as he tried to come back to the present. It had been foolish, he knew now, to hope that his future self would have the answers and reassurance he was seeking, when he had just received proof that he had always been this way: a neurotic character, anxiety personified.
A shrill, repetitive noise broke through his daze. The phone on his desk was ringing.
Tim staggered to his feet and followed the sound. He half wished whoever was on the other end would give up before he answered, so he could ignore the pressing guilt. Maybe it was Dick again, calling just to check on Tim – it was a habit that he had never broken, and Tim was sure he never would. The thought made him oddly melancholy. Maybe it was Steph … no, she tended to just drop in.
He picked up the receiver without glancing at the number. 'Hello?' he said, voice scratchy.
'Tim!' The voice on the other end sounded so agitated that it took Tim a moment to recognise it as Bruce's. 'Talk to me. Are you all right?'
Tim's pulse spiked. 'W-what?'
'Are you safe?'
'Yeah,' Tim said, suppressing the urge to add of course. 'What's up?'
Bruce spoke over Tim as if he hadn't heard him. 'There's been a disturbance in the Nest that set off alerts in the Cave. Something or someone created a closed-environment system that shut down all lines of communication for exactly half an hour. Your phone and comms weren't working.'
Tim's heart sank. His skills must have deteriorated if Bruce had determined what had happened almost immediately.
'It's fixed now,' he said. 'Everything's back to normal.'
'I want an incident report,' Bruce said. He sounded slightly out of breath, as if he had been sprinting, or still was. A series of proximity alarms went off in quick succession, sending Tim's heart rate skyrocketing as he scrambled to determine their cause, and then Bruce ordered, 'Answer your door.'
'Answer …' Tim checked the camera feed, then surged to his feet, sprinted to the door, unlocked it and flung it open. There stood Bruce, wearing ordinary clothes and a slightly wild-eyed expression that faded when his eyes settled on Tim.
'There you are,' he said, and then stepped forwards, sharp and purposeful, so that Tim had to move aside to let him in. The door shut with an air of finality; Tim felt almost as if Bruce, with Batman's keen eye, would be able to figure out every detail of what had just happened simply by looking. Bruce was doing it now, standing in front of Tim, scanning the room but swiftly honing in on the wire-covered doorframe that had been a portal.
'You did it on purpose,' Bruce said.
'Yes.'
There was a pause, during which Tim became increasingly aware of the way his pulse had still not returned to normal.
'Why?' asked Bruce finally, but his tone had changed: the urgency was replaced by something of similar intensity, but more personal, and so raw that Tim felt sudden shame. He dropped to sit on a nearby sofa, and Bruce copied him, waiting.
'I needed to make sure,' he mumbled, staring at the floor. 'I didn't want anybody to interrupt.'
'Interrupt what?'
Tim felt his cheeks colouring. 'It doesn't matter now.'
Bruce inhaled raggedly, as if each breath were being torn from him. 'Tell me.'
He needed to stop running. Tim closed his eyes, then opened them to meet Bruce's. 'My conversation with my future self.'
Tim had only seen Bruce shocked a handful of times – each in moments of such intensity that Tim had scarcely been able to register the raw expression as surprise. He watched now as Bruce's face drained of colour, lips parting and eyes widening slightly. Then Bruce closed his eyes to reorient himself, just the way Tim had, and ordered, 'Elaborate.'
There was that Batman voice again, ready to tell Tim off, like he was fourteen again and itching to drive the Batmobile, not an adult with his own place and job and future plans. Tim sighed.
'It didn't really work – there was a mistake in my calculations,' he began, steeling himself for the inevitable fallout as he began to explain. He was hampered by Bruce's continual interruptions; at one point, Bruce stood up as if he could not bear to be near Tim any longer, and began to pace.
'You know the dangers of meddling with time! I am incredibly disappointed that you would even consider making such a reckless decision –'
'I told you, it was only for half an hour!'
'During which anything could have happened. Nobody else could enter!'
'Which is why I was perfectly safe!'
A pause.
'Were you?' Bruce asked, in a tone of deadly calm.
Tim felt himself turning red. 'Don't you dare use that against me, Bruce.'
Bruce took a long breath. At his sides, his hands opened and closed, as if he was unsure what to do with them. At last he said, carefully not making eye contact, 'Have you been taking your medications?'
Tim sprang to his feet, nearly upending the coffee table between them. 'Damn it, Bruce! Who do you think I am?'
'All right,' said Bruce, holding up his hands as he gazed at Tim, infuriatingly calm. 'All of them?'
Tim passed a hand over his face and slumped back down onto the couch. 'Yes. Fuck.' Who was Bruce to come over here and micromanage him? Under his breath, he mumbled, 'You don't have to remind me that my brain's broken.'
'Tim.' Bruce pressed his lips together, looking annoyed. 'That's not true. I asked because I wanted to ensure that you're in a rational and healthy state of mind, and …' He stumbled over the words as he said, 'I regret that the only person you felt you could confide in was yourself.'
All the fight went out of Tim. Sometimes, he hated how eerily perceptive Bruce was – resented the fact that they had so much in common. Did Bruce feel as if he were looking at a past version of himself when he saw Tim?
'Have you deactivated the circuits?' There was a hard edge to Bruce's tone that would have sent Tim crumbling inside, once upon a time.
'They only respond to my triggers,' said Tim. 'I'll dismantle them.' His voice felt strange, as if he were speaking into an empty corridor; the words echoed in his ears, sending his vision tunnelling. Bruce had probably spent the majority of the last half hour trying to contact Tim, becoming increasingly desperate at the lack of response. Now that Tim had come face to face with his younger self, he had at last been able to see what Bruce and Dick and Alfred had glimpsed back then – the debilitating grief, the self-destructive apathy.
Damn, it really colours your perspective, doesn't it?
Bruce had raced to the Nest to find Tim. Had he been waiting outside the building, calling Tim's phone over and over, terrified of what he might find when the walls of the closed-environment system came down? Tim's heartbeat raced as the enormity of what he had done crashed upon him. He had snatched his seventeen-year-old self out of that interminable aeroplane trip and forced him to engage with a future neither of them wanted to deal with, before shoving him back into the past with little explanation. Bruce had been trapped in the past for so long – making his way to the future had almost killed him. Had Tim sentenced himself to years of futile wandering through the years, insatiable curiosity keeping him wondering if he would ever be able to break free from – from –
The emotions bubbling within him reached their boiling point. Tim swallowed hard, but it didn't help. Bruce was hovering in front of him, eyebrows creased as he spoke sharply. Tim wanted to turn away, but something was keeping him rooted to his seat, yet somehow floating in space. It was difficult to breathe; his chest was convulsing. Someone touched his hand, and Tim jolted.
'Tim. Listen to me. Follow my voice, son. Can you do that for me?'
Tim blinked. The world was blurry, but he found Bruce among the blood and the rubble, blue eyes as steady and guiding as a lighthouse in a storm as he said Tim's name, over and over.
'B-Bruce,' Tim managed. He could not say more; it was all he could do to keep from drowning. He gasped for breath, feeling his hands shaking once more, but this time he could not control them. He did not deserve the tender, concerned way Bruce was looking at him now, not when he'd shut him out so many times and especially now, despite knowing how badly not being able to contact his son must affect Bruce …
'Don't try to speak,' said Bruce steadily. 'Breathe with me. In-two-three-four-five, out-two-three-four-five. In-two-three-four-five, out-two-three-four-five.'
I can't, I can't, Tim's brain screamed, but he ignored it, keeping the words securely within him, because Bruce never accepted can't as an excuse. Gradually, his breathing slowed as he followed Bruce's commands, forcing himself to cling to them even as he could not stop himself from remembering the terrible thing he had done.
'Tim,' Bruce said again. His voice was different again, gentle in the rare way it had never been when Tim first met him, and Tim choked on a dry sob. That was how Bruce spoke to small children – but Tim was an adult now, and it was childish to hope that just because Bruce was back that everything would be okay. And yet, the way Bruce was looking at him …
Without thinking, without saying a word, Tim surged forwards and wrapped his arms around Bruce in a tight, desperate hug. Bruce was so warm and soft that Tim burst into silent tears, shoulders shaking as if his soul were being ripped from his body. He had a fleeting thought that he was getting snot all over Bruce's shirt, and then Bruce was murmuring in his ear and wrapping his own arms around Tim, holding him close, and when the storm clouds parted, Tim could hear Bruce saying, 'It's all right, Tim. It will be fine.'
A memory came to Tim, of a time when he had been a lonely orphan who was certain that he'd made the worst mistake of his life, all because it had seemed easier to invent a long-lost uncle than to allow someone else to be legally tied to him after he had already lost three parents to murder and trauma. Believing himself alone in the world, he had isolated himself in his grief, only to be saved when Bruce again offered proof that Tim was seen and loved.
Tim pressed his eyes shut, though tears still leaked out. I'm such an idiot, he thought.
'Tim? Can you hear me?' Bruce's low voice was a rumble in Tim's ear. Tim pulled out of the hug, nodding but keeping his eyes averted.
Bruce exhaled roughly. 'Good.' He was kneeling on the floor in front of Tim, whose back was against the lower edge of the sofa. The coffee table had been shoved aside: a glass of water on it had spilt slightly.
Tim wanted to show Bruce he was fine by pushing himself to sit on the sofa again, but he could not seem to make himself move. It was if his limbs were on strike, and it was all he could do to keep his mind in the present. He felt sure that Bruce would make him talk, and he dreaded the moment.
But Bruce remained quiet, his eyes flicking over Tim the way they did whenever Tim paid a visit to the Batcave after a long night on patrol. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, compelling Tim to listen to every word.
'When I first returned to Gotham, I was directionless. I went out onto the streets not knowing what I was fighting for, just that I had to do something to curb the crime, even if it meant risking myself.'
Tim nodded. He knew this story.
'The night I became Batman, I was deeply wounded. Desperate with impatience. A bat crashed through the window of my father's study. I knew what I had to become, and what I had to do. The moment Batman was born was the moment I picked up the bell and rang for Alfred. The moment I realised that I was never alone, and let myself ask for help.'
Bruce took a long breath, while Tim continued to stare at his own hands, rubbing his knuckles and letting the sensations ground him.
'When I learnt of the closed-environment system, I knew that you must have put it in place. I was concerned that you felt you needed to lock yourself away.' Bruce's voice cracked, and Tim couldn't help it: he looked up to meet Bruce's glimmering eyes. 'I thought you would rather hurt yourself than ask for help, and that nobody would find you until …' Bruce faltered.
Which is why I was perfectly safe!
Were you?
Tim wanted to speak, but the words would not come. He wished Bruce would not look at him like that: so fragile and raw, as if Tim could send his fears spiralling with a single word.
I never planned on hurting myself, Tim tried to say. I made a stupid decision. What came out instead was, 'I'm sorry.'
Bruce's hands twitched, as if he wanted to embrace Tim again, but thought better of it. Tim was not tactile, and neither was Bruce – perhaps Bruce was thinking of how Dick would respond in a similar situation. Just thinking about his older brother sent Tim's pulse into overdrive. He'd ignored Dick's messages and calls. It was likely that Dick, like Bruce, had been worried sick.
'What are you sorry for?' asked Bruce.
'I shouldn't have meddled with time. I'll dismantle the circuits now.' Tim made to get to his feet, but Bruce's gentle touch on his arm stopped him.
'Wait, Tim. Sit for a moment.'
Tim sat.
'Talk to me,' Bruce murmured, and though the words were ostensibly an order, Tim heard the plea behind them. Bruce wanted Tim to talk to him: he was present, and he was listening. Tim's jaw unstuck, and the lump in his throat gradually shrank until it was barely noticeable.
'It was weirdly … easy to talk to him,' Tim began slowly, studying his own hands. 'Myself, I mean. Maybe because he felt like someone else. I think I told him what he – I – needed to hear, but I just …' Feeling self-conscious from his father's eyes on him, Tim lost his train of thought. Why was talking to Bruce so hard?
Once upon a time, Bruce's simple invitation would have sent alarms blaring in Tim's ears. With his past self so fresh in his mind, he vividly remembered how disconcerted he had been by Bruce's clumsy attempts at comfort when Tim was in the midst of personal tragedy. But he was older now, better able to see from his father's perspective, and he realised just how much he appreciated the fact that Bruce had tried – and was still trying, even now, even though Tim was an adult.
'I think,' murmured Bruce, 'that you found it easier to talk to your younger self because he presented you with a problem you needed to solve. He gave you a purpose.'
Tim started. 'You're saying I find it easier to talk to people when I'm trying to fix them?'
Bruce raised an eyebrow and Tim blushed, remembering that he had never dared confront Batman until he realised that somebody needed to save Bruce from himself.
'Um,' he said eloquently, caught off-guard. 'Way to psychoanalyse me, Bruce.'
Bruce smirked. He heaved himself to his feet, knees creaking slightly, and sat on the sofa again. Tim followed suit, recognising that Bruce was giving him space to talk. Trying to sound casual, he asked, 'Do you remember what happened afterwards – when we came back to Gotham after a year? There was that case with Two-Face, and then …'
'Of course,' said Bruce, smiling a little as he made eye contact. 'You allowed me to adopt you.'
The simple phrasing sent a spark of warmth to Tim's chest. He'd allowed Bruce to adopt him, like Bruce considered it an honour to be chosen. To be his Dad.
'Yeah.' He tried to conceal his reaction, but he had a feeling that Bruce saw right through him. 'Why did you do it?'
There was a long pause, and then Bruce said quietly, 'Why did I ask to adopt you?'
Tim swallowed. 'Yes.' The unspoken addition hung in the air: after I previously made it clear that I didn't want to be adopted.
Now it was Bruce's turn to look even more confused. 'I told you,' he said. 'You needed – you deserved – the security. We were partners. That hasn't changed.'
Tim felt as if he'd tripped going up the stairs. He was lost. 'I don't understand. After I made up Uncle Eddie …'
'I think I see,' said Bruce. 'You possess a very admirable quality, Tim. Your sense of duty. You came into my life insisting that Batman needs a Robin. The day I returned to Gotham, I found Alfred waiting for me as if I'd never left. I wanted the same for you. I needed you to know that, regardless of whether or not you think you are needed here in Gotham, you always have a family to come home to.'
For you to have the security I feel you deserve, I'd have to adopt you as my son.
'I … um … what would you have done if I'd said no?'
'The same thing I did the first time I asked. I'm proud of you, Tim, and I trust you to make the right decisions.'
'But, if I said no, would you ever have …' Tim didn't know how to finish the sentence, couldn't figure out how to articulate the complicated thoughts jumbled inside his head, but Bruce answered anyway.
'If I felt it necessary. If I thought that you doubted your place in this family. If I needed you to understand that I have considered you my son since your father's death – if not since the first time you saved my life, and because of all the ways you have saved me since.'
Tim's ears were red; he was sure of it. 'Thanks,' he mumbled, staring at his lap. 'I guess I should have told you, back then, how much it meant to me. Both times.'
'You did,' said Bruce gently. His blue eyes were fixed on Tim, who felt compelled to look up and meet his father's gaze. 'Not in so many words, but I know you – not least because I recognise so much of myself in you.' He nodded at the corkboard. 'Talk to me about Red Robin and college.'
Bruce had no idea how – or perhaps just never bothered – to ease into most conversation topics, but Tim was used to the whiplash. 'I've been looking into courses,' he said. 'There's one at Gotham University that I'm keen on, but even if I fill out my resume with Wayne Enterprises experience, they still want a GED.'
Bruce's expression changed. Creases formed between his eyebrows, and then he said in a low tone, as if worried about how Tim would react, 'You don't have to limit yourself to Gotham.'
Tim's heart thudded. Bruce sounded perfectly serious – there was no telltale quirk of his lips that Dick had once pointed out to Tim. 'What do you mean?'
The creases deepened. 'If there are other places where you might like to study, you shouldn't feel like you have to stay in Gotham. The rest of us will be fine without you – no.' Bruce held up a hand, as if to physically ward off any misconceptions. 'That's not what I meant. If you choose to explore a wider variety of options, you should be aware that while you will be missed, you should not feel under any obligation to … damn it.' Bruce frowned again, this time passing a hand over his face in frustration.
Tim felt a warm rush of affection. 'Bruce, it's okay. I get it. That's not it. I just … well …' Bruce's eyes were so fixed on him that Tim had the brief impression of being a bug under a microscope, but he quickly suppressed the thought, and his next words came out in a rush. 'Steph and I have been talking about getting an apartment. Together.'
Bruce's eyes widened slightly, but he made no other reaction. 'I see,' he said, pursing his lips. 'Is that all?'
'Well ...' said Tim, thrown a little by the apparently blasé attitude, 'there's one more thing, actually. It's something I've been thinking about for a while, and I don't know whether it'll be a long-term decision or if I'll eventually come back with a different name –'
'You're giving up Red Robin,' Bruce interjected.
'That's just it,' said Tim. 'I want to, but I don't know if …'
His throat constricted as a vision rose before him of a bloodied girl lying in a school hallway, and his own fruitless attempts as he fought to save her life, horrified that his own actions and inactions had led to him being unable to save her as Robin. But then he remembered that first sight of his father's cooling body on the floor of the condo, and the anguish in Barbara's voice as she told him that there was nothing any of them could have done.
'That's why you attempted to contact your future self,' Bruce said, halting Tim's spiralling thoughts. 'You wanted to know if you were making the right decision.'
Right on the money. 'Yes,' Tim said, but the answer seemed incomplete. There was something at the edge of his mind that he could finally identify as a sort of disbelief born from years of desperately longing for the kind of intransient happiness that seemed to come naturally to others. But then he looked up, meeting his father's eyes, and was profoundly struck by the realisation that Bruce knew exactly how he felt, because he had been there himself.
'You're my son,' said Bruce, as if that explained everything, and maybe it did. 'No matter what you do, there will be things you cannot change and people you cannot save. I've spent years dwelling on my choices, thinking that if I just did things differently, I could have saved more lives …' A shadow crossed his face, and Tim suppressed a shiver. 'But trust me, Tim – that kind of speculation leads nowhere good.'
What you do … for all those people … it's worth it, Tim. Never question it. It's worth it.
Tim swallowed, shivering at the echo of his final conversation with his dad. Would Jack Drake be happy if he could see the way Tim now wanted to throw away years of helping others for a chance of being normal?
Bruce spoke again, and this time, there was a wry smile on his face. 'We both know that you've never needed my permission for anything you set your mind to.'
Tim grinned a little. 'Yeah.'
'I'm proud of you,' Bruce continued, and Tim could swear he felt his own heart stop beating at the plain way Bruce said the words – as if he were speaking an incontrovertible truth. 'For doing something for yourself. However, I want to ensure that you're working towards a goal, not running away.' His gaze rose to the ceiling, treading carefully. 'And I hope that I am not the cause.'
'You're not. I promise. It's … it's the opposite, I think.' Suddenly self-conscious, Tim sat on his hands so that he would not be distracted by his own nervous twitching. 'I've done enough wandering the world – I don't want to leave Gotham.' Not when I have so much family here. 'It's my home.'
Bruce surveyed him, a muscle twitching in his jaw, but he did not say a word.
'Before you ask, I don't have another name. I don't know if I'll be back.' Tim shut his eyes briefly, willing Bruce to understand. 'I love Gotham. I love Steph. I like crimefighting. But I want to try this out.'
To Tim's relief, something that could be understood as a smile settled on Bruce's face, and then he put a hand on Tim's shoulder and squeezed it. The simple touch was so reassuring that Tim felt tears spring to his eyes, and he hastily blinked them away as Bruce said, 'Tell me more about college,' and at last he knew that Bruce understood.
Afterwards, when Bruce had left, Tim found himself returning to the large corkboard. When Bruce first adopted him, it had been hanging in Tim's new bedroom at the Manor as a gift, and had since been a mainstay throughout several redesigns of the Nest. Steph's note caught his eye; he couldn't stop the warmth that blossomed in his chest as he read it.
Tell Bruce to take care of you, Dad had said, but it had taken Tim years to understand what that meant.
He touched the brief note his past self had left him, then took a breath, a smile curving his lips as he left the memories in the past and picked up the phone to call his brother.
So I will search through every second of the past
Until I find you, until I find you
Search every corner of this Earth until there's nowhere left
Until I find you, until I find you
—The Mudbloods, 'Find You' (excerpt)
A/N: Although I like to rely on canon, I've employed a few headcanons of mine. Please be kind. Thank you for reading, and do let me know what you think by leaving a review!
Sources:
Shoutout to the Mudbloods for drawing a beautiful EP out of a cursed stage production. I've linked the song in the poll on my profile.
Bruce, Dick and Tim left Gotham for a year at the end of Infinite Crisis, which also contains Blüdhaven's destruction and Kon's death. For the sake of this fic, I'm assuming that Dana (Tim's stepmother) died in Blüdhaven.
According to Robin (1993) #138, Cassandra has a habit of breaking into Tim's apartment to eat his cereal and take long showers.
References to Bruce's original return to Gotham are from Batman: Year One.
After his mother's death, Tim travelled overseas in Robin (1991).
Bruce betrayed the fact that Tim was Robin to Steph in Robin (1993) #87.
Tim's sixteenth birthday and its fallout happened in Robin (1993) #116-120.
Steph was Robin briefly in Robin (1993) #126-128 and Detective Comics #796.
The final night of the gang war, in which Bruce told Tim about Steph's (apparent) death in the Thompkins clinic, occurred in Batman #633 (Batman: War Games).
Tim's meditation technique is drawn from Detective Comics #620 (Batman: Rite of Passage).
Bruce flew Tim to San Francisco after school in Teen Titans (2003) #8.
Jack Drake's mercurial temperament is apparent throughout Robin (1993).
Bruce first offered to adopt Tim in Robin (1993) #134, and discovered Tim's fake uncle scheme in #139.
Tim's base in Park Row was introduced in Red Robin, and the Robin's Nest is used as a general name for his base in various comics, including Robin (1993) #138 and the New 52 comic Batman Eternal (see #50). I've taken liberties with its layout, and the corkboard is my own creation.
Bruce was trapped in time in Final Crisis and Batman: The Return of Bruce Wayne.
Bruce's recount of the formative moment he asked for help is inspired by Batman: The Return of Bruce Wayne #6, which in turn is drawn from Batman: Year One.
Bruce successfully adopted Tim in Batman #654 (Batman: Face the Face).
After his father forced him to give up Robin, Tim unsuccessfully tried to save the life of his classmate and sort-of girlfriend, Darla Aquista, in Robin (1993) #129 (Batman: War Games).
Tim and Jack Drake's final conversation is from Identity Crisis #5, and Jack's death is in the following issue.
