Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started off methodical. Precise. Purposeful.

Or at least that's what Tim tells himself, because if he didn't do it for a reason then he's just another lost kid.

Tim isn't some needy, desperate child, he's fine.

He's perfectly fine.

He doesn't need trivial things like attention and love and praise. (Oh god, praise, how he would kill to have Bruce say he was proud of him just once.)

No. No! Tim is completely and utterly fine on his own, he always has been, hasn't he?

What's a little longer? He can go a little longer.

So why is he on the bathroom floor again? Sobbing as quietly as he can, because, despite the size of the house and the distance between his bedroom and all the others, he will always be paranoid that someone might hear him.

Paranoid someone might find out how weak he really is.

How disgusting and filthy and wretched and tired and ugly he really is.

He doesn't know why he's so afraid of that, they all think of him like that anyway already.

His mind continues to berate him endlessly as he tries to focus on the sound of the faucet pouring in the background and the fan buzzing above.

If he focuses enough, he thinks that maybe he can force his brain to shut off and finally be free.

That kind of freedom sounds really good to Tim right now.

Really good.

A little too good.

So instead of letting himself fall further into that place, Tim heaves himself up off of the harsh tile floor and back into his bed, ignoring the smell wafting from the toilet.

He knows he'll just see it tomorrow morning and it will catapult him right back to this place, and a part of him kind of wants that to happen.

He can't forget his ritual

It's not like he ever could anyway it's the only thing he has anymore.

His rituals are the only thing keeping him going.

They are what help him get better!

They make him perfect. He must be perfect.

After all, he's not an acrobat who can toss himself through the air like a paper doll, or a hulking mass of muscle meant to strike fear into the heart of Gotham’s criminals, or even a pint size (ex) killer.

He's just Tim.

Hes just another little rich kid from Gotham who has no excuse for how sad he is inside.

Which means he has to work so much harder to be half as much. He has to do this.

He has to suck it up and ignore the pain and plaster on a smile and fight until he can't stand anymore, and then will himself to keep on fighting.

Of course he's not worthy of being Robin! He never was, never could be. He's just another lonely kid who Bruce took a chance on.

Except this chance turned around to bite him in the ass.

He knows Bruce knows it.

He's been a failure, Tim knows it too, that's why he's working so hard now, training so hard.

He's getting better, he really is! Or at least, he hopes he is, he's certainly been putting the work in.

He spends all his waking hours training until he passes out (which has been happening faster and faster lately, but oh well, it's probably fine, no need to bother Bruce any more than he already does) or patrolling until even pushing the trigger on his grappling gun feels like too much of a burden.

He silently likes those minutes he spends passed out, it's the only time he really gets a break, even in sleep he's haunted by his failures.

But every day, like clockwork, the bell rings at 7, signaling that dinner is ready and jolting Tim back up from the calm black that he secretly craves.

And, like clockwork, Tim drags himself upstairs for what is sure to be another tortuous hour or so of Tim’s life wasted that could be better put to use training

But Bruce insists on family dinners at least five nights a week, so Tim begrudgingly obeys.

-

“Look who finally came to join us!” Dick exclaims as Tim shuffles into the room.

Tim replies with an apologetic shrug and a glance in Dick’s direction.

He thinks if he tried to speak right now he might puke on the spot.

He can smell the food before Alfred brings it out, it makes his stomach somersault. Tonight its chicken with a dark sauce, some green thing he doesn't recognise, and mashed potatoes with a ton of butter on top.

Crap. That's not ideal.

Well, ideal would really be nothing at all.

Ideal would be empty and light.

But ideals are not happening right now, and Tim knows it, so instead he focuses on the food.

He stares at his plate until he starts to feel the eyes on him.

“Ay Timbo what's wrong, you're looking at that plate like it killed your grandma or something” Jason scoffs through a mouth full of mashed potatoes.

Tim chooses to keep looking at his plate, but he softens his expression and shrugs again to try to ease the tension.

He doesn't think he can look at Jason right now, let alone talk to him.

Jason who he idolized his whole life.

Jason who he tried his best to honor and live up to when he took on the mantle of Robin.

Jason who - no nevermind that family dinner is no place for thoughts like that.

They made up. Everything's fine.

Everything is 100% totally ok.

So why is Bruce staring at Tim now?

The lively chatter from the others has resumed, shouldn't he be busy talking to his normal sons? His sons who arent so fucked up they freeze when faced with a plate?

It's comical really, Tim’s more scared of a dinner plate then any number of the horrors they face each night when they don their capes.

Tim almost starts to chuckle to himself before he realizes Bruce is still staring him down, so instead he grabs his untouched fork and shovels a chunk of mashed potato into his mouth.

That seems to please Bruce and he stops his incessant staring. A wave of relief washes over Tim until he realizes what comes next.

Now he has to swallow.

It feels like a rock going down down down and a horrible weight in his stomach.

It makes his brain spiral out of control.

No, he's not out of control. He's in control.

Tim is the one calling the shots here.

Tim is the one doing this to himself. Bettering himself.

He has it all under control.

As long as he has his ritual, he has control.

He knows what comes next in his ritual. He knows what he needs to do now.

So what else can he do but complete it?

He forces himself to choke down a few more bites over the course of the meal, simultaneously mixing his plate around and cutting things up to make it appear like he ate more than his meager potion so no one will worry.

Not like they pay attention anyways. He's the strong independent one they know he's fine on his own.

Who even cares about the expendable replacement?

-

Now he's back in his bathroom, hands gripping the sink with white knuckles as he forces himself to look at what he's become.

As he stares at himself he remembers how he once looked in this mirror with eyes so bright and full of joy and hope for his future here.

That hope's been extinguished now and all that's left is the shell of a human staring back at Tim.

Some days Tim isn't even sure that the thing staring back at him is in fact him.

He never used to be able to count each of his ribs without flexing, or need to wear concealer to hide his dark circles that rivaled Bruce’s so the others don't bug him about the importance of rest.

He never used to stick his fingers down his throat either, though.

But now he does. He needs to.

Every night he chases that high.

The high of being so empty that all he can do is dry heave his lungs out. That's what Tim craves.

It's the only thing keeping him sane, in control.

Let’s be real, it's the only thing keeping him from killing himself right there on that damn tile floor that haunts his nightmares.

That's about the least “in control” thing Tim could do, so he shoves the thought out of his mind every time.

But it's always there, lingering, breathing down his neck, waiting for him to snap and finally, finally, loose control.

-

Tim was still holding on to the hope that someone in his family might notice.

When he had done it the first time he was convinced that the others could smell it on him.

Smell his guilt, his filthiness, his shame.

But no one ever did. It both infuriated him and relieved him.

Worlds greatest detectives my ass, Tim thought.

But then again, why would they care about him?

Perhaps Damian had said it best, when they were arguing over who should sit out a mission to fill in their fathers place at an upcoming charity gala, “It is not like anyone would miss you on the mission, Drake. Then again perhaps you should not go to the gala, I doubt they would even care you attended.”

It's true. He is unremarkable, replaceable, alone.

Maybe that's really why he is doing this to himself, so someone might pay attention to him.

Maybe if he hurt himself on the outside enough, someone would notice how much he was hurting on the inside.

But they never did.

Well, at least until Dick barged in on Tim passed out curled around the toilet full of evidence, the faucet still running, the fan still on.

Chapter Text

Tim is launched out of his spiraling thoughts with a bang.

He's confused for a moment until he realizes that the bang is real, not a figment of his imagination.

It's Dick, he's knocking on the door.

“Hey Tim, are ya in here? I need your help finding one of Dami’s swords, he seems to think you've stolen it, and he wants to search your room. I'm holding him off for now, but you gotta come talk to him.”

Tim’s vision is going fuzzy as he tries to listen and find some reason he can't help Dick right now, but he can't think straight because he’s slipping back into that familiar black.

Then he remembers with a jolt that he forgot to lock the door this time.

Not that it would make much of a difference with how easy it would be for Dick to knock this flimsy door down.

Well shit.

Dick’s gonna find out, he thinks, and a little part of him is secretly happy. Maybe he’ll finally get the attention he's been desperately craving for so long.

No, he doesn't need attention. He's not some stupid attention whore. That's not why he's doing this.

Right?

Yes, he's fine by himself. He doesn't need Dick and his stupidly concerned voice echoing off the harsh tiles.

But Tim doesn't move to barricade himself in, not that he really could in his current state. Even thinking of moving is making him nauseous again.

“Tim? I can hear the water running, don't play dumb. I know Damian's scary, but he's not that scary.” Dick scoffs playfully.

“Tim, I'm coming in. You better be decent.” he says, concern lacing his voice.

At this, Tim decides to stop fighting the warm black haze coating him. He’d rather that than face his older brother right now.

So Tim doesn't hear it when Dick slowly opens the door.

Tim doesn't hear Dicks painful gasp as he takes in the scene in front of him.

Tim doesn't hear the strangled curses and prayers that stream from Dick’s mouth as he violently shakes his little brother back awake.

The first thing Tim does hear is a question. A question he's heard and answered so many times he could recite his perfectly practiced response even in his current state.

“Holy shit, fuckfuckfuck, Tim, are you ok?” Dick curses as he grabs Tim's shoulders and shakes him up.

“Huh hu-oh Dick, ‘m fine, don worry ‘bout me” Tim says, voice groggy like he's still not quite there.

“Oh my god, Tim you scared me so fucking bad. I thought you were dead, baby bird” Dick practically shouts with relief.

Dick moves his hands from his bruising grip on Tim’s shoulders to envelop him in an even tighter hug.

Tim tries to remember the last time he was hugged. Like, really hugged. Not some quick squeeze as a “thanks for saving my ass on patrol”, but a real, meaningful hug.

Tim thinks it must've been the day Bruce adopted him all those years ago. He still remembers that hug, full of happiness laced with concern and a protective grip that was just a little too tight, all hidden behind Bruce’s walls of emotional isolationism.

But this hug is different, it's openly emotional, it means something, especially from Dick, who Tim has idolized since before he can remember.

“Hey Timmy, can ya hear me?” Dicks soft voice lulls Tim back into his limp body.

Tim suddenly becomes acutely aware of how pathetic he is being. When did he start crying? He can't possibly be that weak and touch-starved that he cries because of a hug.

God, what must Dick think of him right now?

The thought only makes him cry harder, and suddenly he's full on sobbing into Dicks shoulder, and Dick just… Lets him?

Dick doesn't interrogate him for an explanation for his current situation, though Tim can tell he wants to. He just rubs Tim's back and lets him cry for as long as he needs to, which is admittedly an embarrassingly long time.

But it feels good to finally let it all out, it feels good to have someone know, because even if Dick hasn't pieced everything together yet, he will soon enough.

That voice is still there in the back of his mind, though, berating him for being such an idiot that he didn't lock the door.

That voice is scrambling now, trying to make up any number of viable excuses he could use so Dick will drop this caring facade and leave him alone to continue with his perpetual routine.

A part of Tim wishes Dick won't leave, that he’ll stay and force Tim to finally stop.

Tim wants to stop. He really does. Deep down, he knows this isn't a sustainable lifestyle.

He never meant for it to get this bad, though.

In the beginning, he told himself he would only ever go to a certain point, then he would stop. There was always a number that he told himself he wouldn't cross, but in the end, he always did.

He consoled himself with the thought that he could stop if he wanted to.

The thought that he still had control.

He was foolish.

He just wanted to be perfect. Why is that so much to ask for?

But then reality hits him again, and Tim realizes he doesn't know what he'll do if someone actually tries to make him stop.

He would be nothing without his rituals, his routines.

And that utter lack of control over the situation scares the shit out of Tim.

“I-I promise it's n-not what it looks like” Tim pleads through choked sobs and snot running down his face.

“We don't need to worry about that right now, ok? All you need to do is focus on my breathing, can you do that for me Tim?” Dick says in a surprisingly steady voice, the same voice Tim’s seen him use to talk civilians down from a ledge.

“O-ok” Tim says, and he tries his best to force his mind to focus on the in-out motion of Dick’s chest.

Slowly, Tim begins to match his pace, and eventually, he isn't sobbing quite so hard anymore, and that voice in his head is more of a buzzing in the background than a full-on assault.

“Tim, are you ok to stand up now?” Dick asks in that sickeningly composed voice, and Tim realizes he's still desperately clutching onto Dick from his position on the floor.

Tim just nods because even though the tears are softer now, he thinks if he tries to talk, they might come back in full force.

So Dick helps pull him up and half-carries Tim through the hallways and down the stairs.

“We're gonna go back to my place, ok baby bird? I don't think it's good for you to be in this house right now” Dick asks tentatively, a pinch of worry creeping into his voice.

Tim just meekly nods again, because as much as he wants to crawl under his familiar covers and cry himself to death, he also desperately wants to get away from this house and everyone in it.

So Dick carefully loads Tim into his car, and suddenly they are speeding off to Blüdhaven with a kind of urgency that betrays Dick’s poised facade.

-

“Hey baby bird, we’re here” Dick whispers, and Tim’s eyes flutter open.

The affectionate nickname makes Tim sick to his stomach, he can't help but assume it's forced in nature.

“Do you want me to carry you in?” Dick says, and Tim nods a little too eagerly, desperately wanting the security that he felt in Dick’s strong arms earlier back.

So Dick silently obeys and carries Tim up to his room, laying him down on his bed before grabbing him one of his old sweaters for Tim in an effort to cease Tim's violent shaking.

Tim hadn't even noticed how hard he was shivering until Dick let him go.

Tim wants to beg Dick to stay, to hold him and tell him everything is going to be ok, to tell him he loves him even though he's so repulsive.

But he can't, that would be pathetic, and Tim has been pathetic enough already tonight, so instead he curls himself up as tight as he can and fruitlessly attempts to fall asleep.

It's been 30 minutes, and his eyes are still glued open, so he decides to accept his inadequacy, and he drags himself to the living room, where he finds Dick.

Tim hovers in the doorway and watches Dick for a minute. Dick’s cradling a mug of tea while staring off into space, looking deeply contemplative and…scared?

It unnerves Tim to see someone whom he's always thought of as indestructible so shaken up by this. It must be worse than he thought. He must be worse than he thought.

“Dick?” Tim murmurs, half hoping Dick might not hear him.

Dick scrambles to put himself together, startled by Tim’s sudden appearance. “Oh! Hey kiddo, are you ok? Do you need anything? Are you cold? I can turn the heat up if you need, or-”

“No, no, I'm ok, I just- I need you? I-I don't really wanna be alone. ” Tim says, unsurely, like he's scared Dick will see through him and decide to do the sensible thing and kick him out on the street.

Dick jumps into action and leads Tim back to his bedroom with a protective arm around his shoulders.

They lie down together, and Tim finds sleep effortlessly with Dick’s strong arms around him and his smooth voice blanketing him with promises of safety that sound too good to be true, but bring comfort anyway.

Tim didn't realize how tired he truly was until sleep finally claimed him.

Chapter Text

“No! I know he took it! Who else would it be? Drake is the only one bold enough, or rather stupid enough, to pull something like this” Damian seethes, and Dick responds with the exasperated sigh of an older brother who's been through this one too many times before.

“Ok, ok, let's calm down now, alright? Are you sure you haven't misplaced it?”

“I know it is not lost. I do not lose things, especially not my best sword! I want to see his room.”

“Dami, why don't you let me talk to him first, ok? You two would just get in a fight.”

“Hmph. I suppose that will suffice, but if that does not work, I expect to be given full access to his room.”

-

Dick approaches Tim’s bedroom door hesitantly, not in the mood to get in the middle of a tiff between the youngest brothers right now. Oh, how he would kill to be at home snuggled up with a mug of tea, watching Real Housewives of Metropolis instead.

But Damian would never let him, or poor Tim, hear the end of it, so he knocks.

“Tim? Are you there?” he asks, to no avail, so he pushes the door open and quickly notices Tim must be in the bathroom because he can hear water running in the distance.

He begrudgingly walks over to the en-suite and knocks again, “Hey Tim, are ya in here? I need your help finding one of Dami’s swords, he seems to think you've stolen it and he wants to search your room. I'm holding him off for now but you gotta come talk to him.”

When that doesn't receive a response, he starts to get a little annoyed, “Tim? I can hear the water running, don't play dumb. I know Damian's scary, but he's not that scary.”

Ok, now he's getting a little worried, “Tim, I'm coming in. You better be decent.”

At this, he cautiously opens the door and lets out what he thinks must be the most inhuman noise he's ever made, because right there, unresponsive on the floor, is his baby brother.

His baby brother, whom he’s supposed to protect above all else.

“Oh, no no no Tim, no god please no” He rambles on as he urgently shakes Tim’s shoulders a tad harder than he knows he should. The prayers keep streaming out of his mouth unbroken until he sees Tim’s eyes twitch open.

“Holy shit, fuckfuckfuck, Tim are you ok?” Dick pleads, immensely relieved that Tim’s eyes opened at all.

“Huh hu-oh Dick, ‘m fine, don worry ‘bout me” Tim responds, slurring his words like he’s partied too hard tonight, which by the looks of the bathroom he must have.

But he couldn't have been out partying, he was just with them at dinner?

Suddenly, it all clicks. Dinner.

Tim’s weird behavior at family meals, combined with the condition of this bathroom, leaves little room for interpretation as to what Tim was doing in here.

Dick is so scared by the realization that he immediately pulls Tim into what might be the tightest hug he's ever given, but he just needs to be as close to him as he can right now. He needs to make sure he's safe.

“Oh my god Tim you scared me so fucking bad. I thought you were dead, baby bird” He says, more to reassure himself that Tim is not, in fact, dead, than to reprimand Tim.

After a minute, Dick realizes Tim has drifted away again, and he briefly starts to panic before he remembers all his years of training. So instead of freaking out as he did before, he steels himself and puts on his calmest voice, “Hey Timmy, can ya hear me?”

Dick is incredibly relieved when he hears the soft crying under him, because even if Tim’s crying, and he hates to see his little brother cry, at least that means he's alive and alert.

So he buries Tim’s head farther into his shoulder and lets him. As much as he wants to ask Tim what the hell is going on here, he understands what it feels like to bottle up your emotions for so long, and right now, he knows it's best for Tim to just let it all out on his own terms.

Tim breaks the painfully loud silence with a strangled “I-I promise it's n-not what it looks like”

“We don't need to worry about that right now, ok? All you need to do is focus on my breathing, can you do that for me Tim?” He responds, doing his best to remain composed under the barrage of emotions threatening to cloud his judgment. The last thing Tim needs right now is to feel guilty about how much he scared Dick. It’s Dick who is the guilty one.

“O-ok” he hears, and slowly but surely, Tim begins to calm himself down from unrelenting sobs to more of a quiet whimpering. While Tim does this, Dick decides that there is no way Tim can safely stay at the manor right now, not with all the prying eyes that belong to people who are probably the reason Tim is in this situation in the first place.

As he contemplates this, Dick discerns that he must be one of those people, and the thought makes him want to die a little inside. He loves his family more than anything, and it kills him to see Tim like this knowing he was so stupidly oblivious to what must have been a months-long struggle, at the very least.

“Tim, are you ok to stand up now?” Dick asks once he's deemed Tim stable enough to continue.

Tim nods back, and Dick takes this as his cue to pull him up and almost-carry him down to his car.

“Were gonna go back to my place, ok baby bird? I don't think it's good for you to be in this house right now.”

Tim just nods again in response, so Dick cautiously sets Tim down into his car like he’s afraid he might shatter him at any moment, and steps on the gas.

-

As the nearly 30-minute-long car ride drags by, Dick unravels more and more as he thinks about how complicit he's been. However unintentional it was, it still pains him to realize the part he’s played in this.

Dick knows now is not the time for him to be feeling sorry for himself, not when he has someone a hundred times more hurt than he has ever been in the back seat, but the thought is not quite enough to stop the rabbit hole of self-pity Dick’s fallen into.

Thankfully, Dick has always been the best at helping those at their worst.

-

“Hey baby bird we’re here” Dick whispers, and he breathes yet another sigh of relief when he sees Tim’s eyes begin to open.

Dick thinks he won't ever get over the pure bone-chilling horror of seeing what he thought was Tim’s corpse. He thinks he might forever be checking for that rhythmic rise and fall of Tim’s chest in the rear view mirror, just in case.

“Do you want me to carry you in?” He asks, and when Tim nods, he is relieved once more. He doesn't know how much longer he could have gone without physically making sure Tim is ok.

Dick manages to stay quiet when he picks Tim up, which is a feat considering how appallingly easy Tim is to carry. Dick knows he’s a strong guy, hell, he's even beaten Batman in fights before, which is why it makes the effortlessness of this task even more noticeable to him.

As Dick carries Tim up to his bed, he feels something sharp poking his arm and realizes with a barely suppressed gag that that sharp object is Tim’s spine. It's not the fact that Tim is skinny that repulses Dick, it's the reason why, the acknowledgement that Dick is a part of that reason, and the thought of just how much skinnier he might have gotten, had Dick not found him when he did, that does it for Dick.

After Dick lays Tim down, he notices that he's shaking, so he quickly grabs his favorite old Gotham High hoodie and makes sure to tuck him in extra tight before turning up the heat, and finally making his way to the living room for a much-needed cup of tea.

-

Once in the living room, Dick is powerless to stop the mantra of “this is all your fault” that pounds inside his head, so he just stands there and stares at nothing in particular while his long-abandoned tea goes cold.

A voice so quiet that Dick thinks he might be hearing things again breaks the stillness with a tentative “Dick?”

“Oh! Hey kiddo, are you ok?" Dick clamors, "Do you need anything? Are you cold? I can turn the heat up if you need, or-”

“No, no I'm ok I just- I need you? I-I don't really wanna be alone.”

Dick's heart almost breaks at the revelation, and he responds swiftly by wrapping his arms around Tim and leading him back to bed, just like his parents had once done to him when he had nightmares as a little kid.

They lie down, and Dick, more for his own assurance than Tim’s, begins to whisper soft affirmations that everything is ok, ignoring how his world is falling apart right before his eyes.

Eventually, Dick registers that Tim has long since fallen asleep, and has the novel idea that maybe he, too, should get some rest.

Chapter Text

Tim wakes up to soft light filtering in through the shades and the smell of fresh Earl Grey tea and cinnamon oatmeal wafting through Dick’s small apartment.

Drunk on sleep, Tim doesn't register why he's in Dick’s apartment for a few heavenly seconds. Soon enough, reality comes crashing back, as it always does, and Tim feels his heart drop to his stomach.

Fuck, Dick’s going to make him “talk about it” now, Tim realizes, and the thought makes his heart drop from his stomach all the way down to his toes.

Even though he would never admit it out loud, wow, is Tim hungry right now. He would be a liar if he didn't say that a very tiny piece of his brain is elated at the thought of consuming something other than black coffee and bland rice cakes. However, the overwhelming majority is still petrified of stepping out of its routine, even if just by one meal.

Tim does eventually make his way to the kitchen, where he finds a thoroughly shaken-up and sleep-deprived Dick cooking oatmeal in a pot that looks like it's just been taken out of the box this morning. Knowing Dick and his habit of surviving mostly off of cereal, protein shakes, and tea, it probably was.

How was what Tim was doing really that different, anyway? Limiting your food groups, however accidentally, can't be good for you either. So, why didn't anyone question Dick about it? Tim had only gone one step further, but now it was all "You're going to die”, “This isn't safe”, “You need help”. He doesn't see the difference, or the point in it all.

They can't really stop him anyway. They'd have to strap him down and tube him before he’ll ever really give up.

Tim pushes the thoughts away and sits down at the kitchen island, not bothering to announce himself, knowing that Dick will have sensed his presence by now. Luckily, he has, because he doesn't give Tim a startled look when he turns around to place the two bowls and spoons down.

“I thought oatmeal would be ok, but I can get you something else if you need, maybe some eggs? Or, um, I have some cereal too.” Dick says, looking uncharacteristically nervous. Almost like he thinks Tim might run away at the mere mention of food. Which might not be such a bad idea right now, Tim thinks.

“Dick, oatmeal's fine.” Tim offers, with a painfully forced smile.

Tim regrets it the second the words leave his lips. Fine? It's not fine, this oatmeal alone is probably about 200 calories. 250 or more at least, to be safe, because who knows the amount of brown sugar, or, god forbid, maple syrup, Dick might have snuck in there.

Breakfast is not the time for carb loading, not if you want to start the day off right, in Tim’s book. Tim’s usual breakfast consists solely of as much black coffee as he can choke down before 9 am. While Tim doesn't particularly like coffee, especially when it's black, it's low in calories, suppresses his appetite, and gives him some much-needed extra energy, so he tolerates it. He never thought he would see the day when he would miss those bitter, empty mornings.

“Tim?”

…

“Hey, Tim, are ya ok there?”

Tim snaps his head up to meet Dicks questioning stare. “Oh, uh, yeah, I'm here, why?”

“You just looked like you were thinking too hard…” Dick says cautiously, like he's talking to a feral caged animal.

The subsequent silence that sets in has to be one of the most tense and awkward moments the two brothers have ever experienced. It’s finally broken by the painful scrape of Tim’s chair against Dick’s old flooring.

“Look, I’m really sorry, Dick, but I just can't do this, not right now, ok?” Tim says with feigned confidence and very real anxiety, remembering his numerous responsibilities he's no doubt already late for, and heading for the door. Unfortunately, Dick throws himself in front of it before Tim can get a good grasp on the handle.

“I know you're worried about all the stuff you need to do, but please don't leave, ok? I called Bruce, and you have the day off. Well, you have the next three days off, actually.”, he says hurriedly, like he read Tim's mind.

“You had no right to do that, Dick!” Tim seethes, “I have work to do, I have people to help, I have responsibilities for Christ's sake! I can't just take vacation days whenever I want to 'hang out' with my brother!”

“I told Bruce you were sick, ok? Not like, well, that kind of sick, but like the flu, or something. Just…just stay, please? At least for today. I-I’m worried about you, Tim.”

Tim concedes with a huff and sits down once more, knowing it would only be more suspicious if he just showed up and told Bruce he wasn't actually sick. He can always find a window to sneak out of later anyway, he knows there's no way he’s getting past Nightwing right now.

-

The silence is broken yet again, just a few minutes later.

“You know we need to talk about this now, right?”

Tim forgoes a verbal response in favor of rolling his eyes and giving Dick a bored look.

Tim did know. He always knew it was only a matter of time. Now he’ll have to sit through the painful “I care about you”, “I don't want to see you hurting yourself”, “I love you” bullshit spiel Dick will no doubt give him. Ugh, what he wouldn't give to be sipping his coffee while poring over spreadsheets right now.

“You never even touched your breakfast. This isn't ok, Tim, you're gonna…you're gonna die if you stay like this.” Dick says, voice barely above a whisper, like he's actually scared of the possibility. Tim is surprised and irritated by what seems to be genuine emotion in his voice. Why should he even care? They never did before.

“I know, ok! I know.” Tim suppresses the urge to include “what if I want to die like this” at the end because the last thing he needs right now is for it to be his fault that Dick Grayson was reduced to a pathetic puddle on the floor. He feels bad enough as it is, he doesn't need someone trying to guilt-trip him into staying alive, too.

“Tim, this is serious. You need help. More help than I think I, or Bruce for that matter, can offer you.”

“So you're gonna put me in a fucking psych ward or something?! Yeah, that's how you deal with problems, you lock them away, because that's worked soooo well for you guys in the past.”

Tim is fully yelling now because he knows if he doesn't yell, he will cry, and he has seriously cried enough in the last two days to last him a lifetime.

“Tim, I really don't want to fight you. I know that won't work. I just want to get you help.” Dick pleads, “Maybe a therapist? Or some kind of nutritionist? Bruce has ones that we can trust. There's no shame in it, I've seen a therapist on and off since I first came to Bruce, it helps a lot, trust me.”

“Oh, what do you know, Grayson.” Tim spits the words like acid, “You're the perfect one, the one everyone wants to be. You’re Batman and Bruce’s favorite, always will be. Hell! Even the other heroes got themselves sidekicks after they saw how good you were as Robin. I'm not speaking to some fucking shrink, and I am not ashamed. I know how disgusting I am! I made peace with it a long time ago.” Tim says, the venom practically dripping off of his words now. “You can say it, you know, bulimia, it's what I am, there's no use hiding it. You might as well shout it out your bedroom window, “Timothy Drake’s a bulimic everyone!”. Such a shocker! The failure son failed even more than we thought was possible! Who would even care if he jumped off a fucking-”

“Tim!” Dick snaps and shouts for the first time, before calming himself down enough to continue, “No-no one thinks of you like that, you aren't a failure. God, Tim, you are one of the best things that's ever happened to us. You are smart, and funny, and kind, and you're gonna be ok, I promise. You have us, and we love you so so much. We all just want to help you.”

“You don't love me. You're ashamed of me. I was never wanted. I was just there to fill the hole left by Jason. Now that he's back, I might as well just fuck off back where I came from! I'm not needed anymore, Damian can be Robin for all I care, I'll just disappear so you all can be happy again.”

“Tim, you were never just a replacement. God, Jason never should have- Look, I’m sorry, ok? We never meant for you to feel like this. We love you, we do, I promise we do.” Dick implores.

“Yeah, you might have never meant to do it, but it still happened.” Tim says defeatedly, “Look, I'm done with this conversation. I don't need your help, I'm happy like I am, just stop, ok?” he continues, and it's only half a lie. He really isn't ok (shocker), but right now he would rather anything else than face the possibility of recovery and all that that may entail.

“Fine, Tim. We will table this conversation for now, but only if you agree to stay here with me for the time being.”

Tim reluctantly does, again. He remembers the plan he made earlier to sneak out a window when Dick’s back is turned, and he feels a little better.

-

“Alright! So what movie do you want to watch?” Dick says excitedly. He somehow managed to get Tim to force down two small pieces of plain toast through some incessant begging and agree to watch a movie with him. Now he’s acting like he’s just climbed Mount Everest.

“I don't really care, Dick, just pick one. I need to use the bathroom before we start.”

“Ok, well, we’ll pick one when you're back then,” Dick says with a frown, and Tim throws a questioning glance over his shoulder, only to see Dick stand up from the couch and make his way over to him.

“Dick, I don't need a fucking babysitter, I can pee by myself. I'm not completely mental.”

“Well, I don't doubt that. However, I do doubt you won't try anything more than peeing in there, so for the time being im going to be staying right here.” he says, as he parks himself directly outside of the bathroom door, “Oh, and don't bother trying to lock it or anything, I broke the lock like two years ago when Wally got stuck in there.”

Fuck Dick and his stupid fucking conscientiousness. He's right, but still, fuck him.

-

“Ok! Let’s get this party starteddd!” Dick says, seemingly even more amped up than before, "While ya were in there, I decided that we are going to watch a classic today, The Princess Bride!”

“Yeah, a sappy love story, that's exactly what I need right now. I feel better already.” Tim grumbles sarcastically, but he sits down and accepts the blankets Dick immediately smothers him with, nonetheless.

He's got to admit, it feels kinda nice to just get to be around his brother. There's no pressure of questions, or work, or unwanted discoveries. He can just be, and for the first time in a long time, Tim feels content.

Not quite happy, not yet, but content.

Chapter Text

Dick wakes up before Tim does, and spends longer than he would like to admit staring at his baby brother sleeping. It's creepy, he knows, but he just can't help it. He needs to see him, he needs to be able to see that he's ok with his own eyes. 

In truth, he's scared. He's scared of what Tim has done to himself, scared that he might not be able to help him enough, scared that he's beyond help. The only way he's found to quiet this fear is to focus on the steady rise and fall of Tim’s chest. It reminds him that Tim is still here, he's still alive, and he can still get better. He's not too far gone, Dick’s not too late, not yet. 

Eventually, Dick gathers up the courage to drag himself away and to the kitchen. Dick spends what feels like hours debating what he should offer Tim for breakfast. Pancakes would be too much, right? He doesn't want to scare Tim off. Maybe eggs? But what kind? He mulls it over until he finally decides on oatmeal. It's fairly bland, easy to make, and filling, even in small amounts. 

He really hopes Tim is ok with oatmeal.

-

As the oatmeal is cooking, Dick realizes that he needs to call Bruce. Last night, in the heat of the moment, he neglected to notify Bruce where Tim had gone. If he hasn't already realized, he certainly will soon, and Dick does not need a worried and pissed off Bruce breathing down his neck on top of everything else he’s dealing with right now.

“Dick? I'm happy you called. I was just about to call you, actually. Do you know where Tim is? I can’t find him anywhere in the manor, and he’s not at W.E. To be honest, I am starting to get concerned, he's not one for being late to work.” Bruce sounds just like his usual composed self, though, with how well Dick knows him, he can tell that under it all, Bruce is scared. He always is when it comes to his sons, he’s lost them in more ways and times than he can count. The concern is understandable.

“That’s actually what I was meaning to call you about, Bruce. I have Tim here with me in Blüdhaven. He was really…sick last night, and I thought it might be good for him to get away from his work for a little bit. He seems kinda burnt out. I'm sure it's nothing serious, but I think it would be good for him to take a few days off and stay with me, if that's ok with you, of course.” Dick lies through his painfully gritted teeth and prays Bruce won’t see right through him. 

“Yes, yes, I suppose that will be ok, but have him back by Wednesday night at the latest, please. We can keep an eye on him from then on, should he still be feeling ill. Please keep me updated.”

Dick breathes a silent sigh of relief, “Of course, I’ll call again tomorrow.”

“Alright, goodbye chum. Tell Tim to feel better. We need him at his best.”

“I’ll tell him. Bye, Bruce.”

The line disconnects, and Dick collapses, his panic dulling. He is in disbelief that he got away with lying to Bruce, he has always been able to tell in the past. Dick doesn't know how he will keep this up; he needs to tell Bruce the truth, but he can’t betray Tim’s fragile trust, not now, not yet.

-

Dick feels Tim’s presence before he sees him. Perhaps it's a result of all the rigorous training Bruce put him through, but this feels different. There is a tangible shift in the air when Tim walks in. It's as if all the air in the room has been pulled taut. The change is noticeable enough for Dick to feel anxiety pool in his chest.

Dick realizes that he has absolutely no clue what to do with Tim now that he's awake. Does he confront him? No, that seems too brash. He can't scare Tim off when he’s in this delicate state. He needs to keep a level head. So, he steels himself and breathes twice to ensure his expression remains casual before he turns around to place the bowls on the counter delicately. 

Every move he makes and word he says is triple-checked to ensure it won't scare Tim off. Unsurprisingly, it takes him a second to remember he should say anything at all right now. 

“I thought oatmeal would be ok, but I can get you something else if you need, maybe some eggs? Or, um, I have some cereal too.” He racks his brain for any other foods he has that would be bland enough to keep Tim calm. He’s never dealt with something like this before, but he’s been taught about it. He tries to remember that particular lesson from Bruce, something about keeping an eye on them after eating and making sure the food isn't ‘intimidating’, whatever that means. 

“Dick, oatmeal's fine.” 

Ok, that's good, Dick thinks. He can do this, he just needs to breathe.

Dick tries to remember more of what Bruce told him. How is he supposed to bring up the obvious again? 

Right, don't be aggressive or defensive. Don’t center the conversation around food; make it about habits and the consequences of his actions. Don't be negative, or judgmental, or angry. Be calm. Offer support. Tell them that you love them. Be the shoulder they can cry on and scream into. Be helpful, like you've always been. 

Ok, he can do this, he knows he can. He just needs to pretend that Tim is any other civilian who needs his help. 

Well, here goes nothing.

“Tim?”

No response. He's probably just burying himself inside his head. Try again. Don’t worry. Stay composed, for Tim’s sake. 

“Hey, Tim, are ya ok there?”

Eventually, Tim responds, “Oh, uh, yeah, I'm here, why?” 

Dick knows he’s not, not really anyway. He's probably drifting off in his head, trying to protect himself from what is sure to be an extraordinarily painful conversation. 

So, Dick delays it as long as he can. “You just looked like you were thinking too hard…”, he deflects and turns away. Desperately trying to keep the uncomfortable silence going, because anything is better than making the confrontation he knows he needs to. 

Dick hears the scrape of Tim’s chair before he sees him stalk towards the door, and springs into action, immediately blocking the door.

“Look, I’m really sorry, Dick, but I just can't do this, not right now, ok?” Tim persists.

Dick reassures himself before speaking, Tim’s just freaking out about all the things he needs to do, he’s not leaving you. You can not let him leave. “I know you're worried about all the stuff you need to do, but please don't leave, ok? I called Bruce, and you have the day off. Well, you have the next three days off, actually.”

“You had no right to do that, Dick! I have work to do, I have people to help, I have responsibilities for Christ's sake! I can't just take vacation days whenever I want to 'hang out' with my brother!” Tim berates him, but he can take it. He’ll take anything if it means Tim will stay. 

“I told Bruce you were sick, ok? Not like, well, that kind of sick, but like the flu, or something. Just…just stay, please? At least for today. I-I’m worried about you, Tim.”

Dick visibly relaxes when Tim finally sits back down. Albeit with a huff of annoyance, but he's still here, so it's a start.

-

Dick ruminates in the silence before he finally works up the courage to say what he’s wanted to ever since he found Tim, what feels like lifetimes ago. 

“You know we need to talk about this now, right?” 

Tim just rolls his eyes. 

Ok, he needs to stay stoic, he can't have Tim think he's trying to start a fight or force him into anything. Tim is just being defensive because he’s scared, which is understandable. He just needs to push him a little more. 

“You never even touched your breakfast. This isn't ok, Tim, you're gonna…you're gonna die if you stay like this.” Shit, wait, he thinks, he needs to compose himself. He didn't mean to sound so wounded. If Tim thinks he’s trying to manipulate him into stopping, this conversation will devolve into an argument in seconds. 

“I know, ok! I know.” 

Crap, he's getting angry now. What else did Bruce say to do? Right, offer help, don't be pushy though. 

“Tim, this is serious. You need help. More help than I think I, or Bruce for that matter, can offer you.”

“So you're gonna put me in a fucking psych ward or something?! Yeah, that's how you deal with problems, you lock them away, because that's worked soooo well for you guys in the past.”

Tim is screaming now. This is not how Dick meant for this to go.

“Tim, I really don't want to fight you. I know that won't work. I just want to get you help.” He pleads, “Maybe a therapist? Or some kind of nutritionist? Bruce has ones that we can trust. There's no shame in it, I've seen a therapist on and off since I first came to Bruce, it helps a lot, trust me.”

“Oh, what do you know, Grayson.” He spits, and the words hit Dick like a truck. 

“You're the perfect one, the one everyone wants to be. You’re Batman and Bruce’s favorite, always will be. Hell! Even the other heroes got themselves sidekicks after they saw how good you were as Robin. I'm not speaking to some fucking shrink, and I am not ashamed. I know how disgusting I am! I made peace with it a long time ago.” Tim pauses before continuing, “You can say it, you know, bulimia, it's what I am, there's no use hiding it. You might as well shout it out your bedroom window, “Timothy Drake’s a bulimic everyone!”. Such a shocker! The failure son failed even more than we thought was possible! Who would even care if he jumped off a fucking-”

“Tim!” He snaps and yells. No, no yelling. That's the worst thing he can do right now. He needs to be the voice of reason here. He needs to breathe.

“No-no one thinks of you like that, you aren't a failure. God, Tim, you are one of the best things that's ever happened to us. You are smart, and funny, and kind, and you're gonna be ok, I promise. You have us, and we love you so so much. We all just want to help you.”

“You don't love me. You're ashamed of me. I was never wanted. I was just there to fill the hole left by Jason. Now that he's back, I might as well just fuck off back where I came from! I'm not needed anymore, Damian can be Robin for all I care, I'll just disappear so you all can be happy again.” 

“Tim, you were never just a replacement. God, Jason never should have- Look, I’m sorry, ok? We never meant for you to feel like this. We love you, we do, I promise we do.” Christ, how could he have let this happen? 

“Yeah, you might have never meant to do it, but it still happened.” Tim sighs defeatedly, “Look, I'm done with this conversation. I don't need your help, I'm happy like I am, just stop, ok?” 

The words crush Dick’s heart, but he knows nothing else productive can come from this conversation now, so he concedes. “Fine, Tim. We will table this conversation for now, but only if you agree to stay here with me for the time being.”

Thankfully, Tim does, and that's all Dick really needs for now.

-

“Alright! So, what movie do you want to watch?” Dick is bursting with excitement. Somehow, he managed to get Tim to eat something (it was small, but still a win) and agree to watch a movie with him! 

“I don't really care, Dick, just pick one. I need to use the bathroom before we start.” Tim says with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

Yeah right Tim, he thinks with a frown, “Ok, well, we’ll pick one when you're back then.” Tim looks back at Dick, only to see Dick stand up and make his way over to him, because no way he is going to let Tim be alone in a bathroom right now.

“Dick, I don't need a fucking babysitter, I can pee by myself. I'm not completely mental.”

“Well, I don't doubt that. However, I do doubt you won't try anything more than peeing in there, so for the time being im going to be staying right here.” he says, and he places himself right outside of the bathroom door so he's not fully invading Tim’s privacy, but he can still hear everything going on in there, “Oh, and don't bother trying to lock it or anything, I broke the lock like two years ago when Wally got stuck in there.”

Tim grumbles and rolls his eyes, yet again, but he doesn't resist, and that’s a win to Dick. 

-

“Ok! Let’s get this party starteddd!” Dick says, with even more enthusiasm than before because Tim actually listened to him for once, "While ya were in there, I decided that we are going to watch a classic today, The Princess Bride!” It's one of his all-time favorites, Bruce watched it with him when he was sick once. 

“Yeah, a sappy love story, that's exactly what I need right now. I feel better already.” Tim’s eye rolling is starting to get a little excessive, but he sits down and doesn't resist further when Dick piles numerous blankets on him, worried that he might be getting cold.

They settle in to watch the movie, and Dick tries to focus on it, he really does, but it feels too good to be next to his brother, to finally be protecting him after having brushed the signs off for so long. It takes his mind off the movie, but he doesn't care. He would be perfectly content to sit here on this couch with Tim for the rest of his life, he thinks.

Chapter Text

Dick is roused by the muffled ringing of his phone that was carelessly shoved under a pillow sometime during his brief bout of rest.

Gosh, what time is it? It’s not even light out yet…

He clears his throat and answers, “Hello?”

“Hello, Dick. I’m calling to check on Tim. Is he feeling any better? We would like to have him back at the manor as soon as we can.”

Of course, it's Bruce. Shit.

“Oh, uhh, yeah, he’s a little better today, but, um, I’m not so sure about bringing him back to the manor so soon.”

Crap, that was definitely not convincing at all.

Bruce caught him off guard, calling this early.

“...And why is that?” Bruce says carefully, skepticism peeking through the words.

Dick accepts his fate. There's no hiding this from Batman now. He's not sure he really wants to hide it any longer. He knows he can't do this by himself. He is completely out of his depth here, and even if Bruce himself can't help, surely he knows someone else who can.

“Please promise you’ll stay calm if I tell you?”

“Dick, what is going on?”

Shoot, he's getting scared now.

“Um, just give me a minute. I need to find a more private space to talk, ok?”

Bruce grumbles something under his breath, but doesn't press further.

Dick gingerly scoops Tim’s head off his lap and lays him down carefully on the couch, adjusting the blankets to fully cover him again when he notices his slight shivering.

Dick finds his way to his bedroom as slowly as possible, relishing in the few seconds of peace he and Tim have left before Bruce bombards him with endless questions and concerns.

“Ok, uh, well, I-I don't really know how to say this…”

“Dick, seriously, tell me what is happening right now before I drive over there.”

“...The kid’s makin’ himself throw up, Bruce.” He whispers, trying to force the tears that threaten to well up down.

It hurts to actually say it out loud. It makes it seem like it’s actually real, and that thought is terrifying.

It makes him want to run back out to the living room to make sure Tim is still alright, but he doesn't. He quells the urge and braves the sudden onslaught of emotions, forcing himself to pay attention to Bruce’s shocked response.

“I'm sorry, what?” Bruce says with a voice so openly full of fear that anyone could discern it.

“Yeah, Bruce…he’s not ok. Like, at all. He needs help. Do you still have the names of those therapists I used to see? I think–”

“Dick, he needs much more than just a therapist, if you are correct about this. This is not the same as when you were grieving your parents; this is a serious and dangerous mental illness. He needs to go to a facility fully equipped to deal with his issues.”

“You can't just push all your problems away, Bruce. He needs help, not just from a hospital, but from all of us. Putting him in a facility would only make him worse. Right now, what he needs is to be around his family, to know we support him and love him, while still giving him access to the resources he needs. I don't disagree that he needs professional help, but he doesn't need to be locked up like some kind of animal.”

“Dick, you and I both know we can't give him the help and attention he needs on our own. If he truly is doing this to himself, he needs stability. He needs a routine, medication, surveillance; he needs many things we just can't give him with the lifestyles we lead.”

“Y-you haven't seen him though, Bruce.” He pleads through now futile attempts to choke down his tears, “He's…he's so small, Dad. I feel like I might break him just by looking at him wrong. ” Dick admits, and for a moment, he is reduced to a little kid again, before he remembers that there is a real child in the next room who needs his father even more right now.

“Can you please just trust me that he shouldn't be put away right now? He needs us. We can’t abandon him. Can we just try my way first? If it doesn't work, fine, then we’ll try yours, but can you trust me, just for now? Please?”

A deep sigh and a pause just long enough to make Dick sweat follow before Bruce reaches his verdict.

“Fine, chum, but I have more concerns. I want to talk to him.” He says, his voice uncharacteristically soft and sweet-sounding.

The words caress Dick with make-believe safety, coercing him into wanting to reveal his darkest secrets.

Suddenly, it slaps him in the face that, even if he doesn't mean to do it, Bruce is manipulating him; he's teasing the affection he has been striving for his whole life.

“He’s asleep right now. I really don't want to wake him. He looks like he hasn't even gotten 8 hours put together this week.”

“I need you to tell me as soon as he wakes up, but, in the meantime, how long has this been going on?”

If he keeps using that sickening sweet voice, I might puke

He almost laughs at the irony, but he stops himself, that would be too cruel. Instead, he clears his throat and answers carefully.

“I'm honestly not sure, but it looks like it’s been a long time.”

“God, how did we miss this, Dick? He’s been dying right in front of our eyes.”

“Not anymore, he’s going to get better now. We’re going to help him, together.”

-

Tim wakes up freezing and disoriented.

For a minute, he can't remember where he is, and it sends him into a brief state of panic before he remembers that he is in Dicks apartment. He is safe here.

The peace that follows this realization is momentary, as he soon notices that he is alone again. He is consumed once more by the fear that Dick has left him, for good this time, before he hears his soft voice filtering in from the bedroom door.

He gets up and cautiously makes his way over to investigate. That’s what he does best, after all.

He listens through the door until he can clearly hear Dick’s familiar voice, and immediately wishes he had paid more attention to Bruce’s lectures on eavesdropping.

Dick’s voice sounds different. His voice sounds broken, and it scares the shit out of Tim, to say the least. Fear and shame course their way through his veins with every word he takes in.

“Y-you haven't seen him though, Bruce.” He hears Dick practically sob the words out, and it snaps something inside of Tim, tearing back open a pit of agony in him he thought he’d sufficiently patched up in the months after his dad’s death.

The pained sound of his voice is enough to send Tim sprinting to the door, clutching at his newly gaping chest.

He realizes halfway through the effort that he won’t make it without passing out. The movement is too much, too soon. He wills himself to stand still as everything begins to go fuzzy, and he hears that harsh ringing in his ears. He slowly sinks down, bracing his back against the tiles of the kitchen island. The all-too-familiar feel of cold ceramic sends him spiraling even further.

This is all your fault. If you were just a normal kid, this wouldn't be happening. If you could’ve just hidden it better, this wouldn’t be happening.

He hits his head repeatedly with the palms of his hands in an effort to cement the thoughts permanently into his brain as a perpetual reminder of his inadequacy.

You hurt Dick. You hurt your brother. He’s been nothing but kind to you, and this is how you repay him? You scare him. You disgust him. It’s all your fault.

He wants you to leave. They all want you to leave. No one wants you here. You’re ugly and useless, and you just can’t seem to stop causing problems for everyone around you.

God, you need to get it together, Tim.

He hits himself particularly hard at that, and it snaps him back into the present. He remembers his original plan to get out of here as quickly as possible while Dick is distracted with Bruce, and resumes it with full force.

Shit. Bruce. This means Bruce knows now. He’ll never leave me alone again.

He decides he'll deal with that later; right now, he just needs to leave. He heaves himself up away from the godforsaken tiles and begins to inch towards the door, making sure to keep an ear out for any noises coming from the bedroom.

Once he determines the coast is clear, he slips out the door, closes it softly, and immediately starts to sprint for his life.

It’s exhausting, but worth it in more ways than one. He can finally breathe freely, and he gulps down the welcome air in waves.

He can stop walking on eggshells now. He can starve, and binge, and purge, and train as much as he needs to now. He can get worse now.

No, not worse, better. He corrects.

You’re making yourself better, for them. If they can’t see that, that’s ok, they’ll see once you’re perfect.

Once you’re enough, they’ll love you like you want them to.

They have to.

Chapter Text

When Dick finds him, Tim is so high on adrenaline and self-hatred that he can't see straight.

He is precariously positioned, far too close to the tipping point of the 10-story building for comfort, yet somehow that fact brings more comfort to Tim than someone else's arms ever have.  

The once-straight lines of the world blur and warp together like a kaleidoscope of shapes, and Tim finds himself not caring much when he sees the distorted edge of the building winding its way closer and closer to him. 

He forces himself to ignore the guttural screams from the far side of the rooftop as Dick runs, arms outstretched, towards Tim in a desperate, impossible plea to stop the course of events already set in motion long ago. 

As his foot hangs limply over the finish line, and his other leg starts to give way beneath him, Tim reassures himself that this is what Dick wants. It’s what Bruce wants, what they all want. 

Even if they refuse to admit it out loud, he can tell. He’s always been able to tell. He could tell from the first time he saw those piercing eyes really look at him, and he knew it was not, and never could be, with the same pure love and adoration reserved for the one true boy wonder and his beloved martyr of a successor. 

At the very least, if he’s somehow wrong and it's not what they want, it's what they need. This is the better outcome for everyone involved. It has to be, there's no other way.

So, as the edge lures him in closer like a siren’s song, he stops resisting and fully embraces the inexplicable freedom and weightlessness he can feel spreading through him for the first time in four excruciating years. 

- 18 hours earlier - 

Tim leans apprehensively against an alley wall and allows himself five minutes to panic and hyperventilate at the knowledge that Dick must know he’s gone by now, and Bruce is probably already hunting him down, before he starts to formulate his plan.

There's only one way out now.

The thought terrifies him, but it also fills him with an unexplainable breath of relief. He has wanted this for a long time, but he’s never quite dared to execute his numerous dreamt-up plans. 

So, slowly, he calculates. If he is to do this now, it has to be perfect, and he’s in a time crunch here. He tries to determine where he can go that is far enough away no one important will find him too soon, but close enough to home that he can be easily identified. He doesn't need anyone to spend excess amounts of energy on trying to find him when he’s already long gone; they have real jobs to do, they have people worth saving to save.

He forgoes the grappling hook he had swiped from Dick while his back was turned the night before, as a contingency, a quick escape plan, in favor of walking. He decides that he wants to spend his last hours walking so he can contemplate every decision that has led him to this point. He wants to know why he is the way he is, why he’s so irreparably broken. He wants to be certain of his choice because there's no going back from it. 

Perhaps it all started with his real parents. That is, his biological ones. He supposes “real” might not be the right word, as they never did fulfill the roles “real” parents should. Those trivial duties were left to the many nannies, and eventually, the stark, lonely echoes of Drake Manor that became his only friends. 

But, then again, he was always so in control back then. He’s envious of that time. He could do as he pleased, and maybe it wasn't as bad a situation as he was making it out to be. He shouldn't be so pessimistic; he’s sure they loved him, in their own way. Maybe the trade-off for freedom is affection.

So what if he didn't get hugged much as a child? Plenty of kids don't, and they don't turn out as screwed up as he did. Plenty of kids are worse off than he was and turn out better than he did, just look at Jason. The poor kid grew up in a crime alley and still managed to be a better Robin than Tim did.

No, there's got to be something chemically wrong with his brain. Some of his wires must have gotten crossed up there. But his parents had him examined so often as a child that it can't possibly be the reason. He brushes this off as an afterthought. If it's true, the difference must have been insignificant enough for them to have whisked it under the rug so easily.

Then it must have happened with Bruce and the family. The family, not his family, the family. Sure, they never abused him, but sending a teenager out to fight crime for you can hardly be called good parenting. 

Maybe he got hit in the head one too many times on patrol, and it finally stuck. Maybe he got one too many broken bones, and that sick black sadness that has always been living inside of him, haunting him from the within, began to leak its poison out through the fissures. 

For years on end, he was forced to listen as he was lectured on how he wasn’t properly living up to the Robin mantle, to Jason’s memory, to the insurmountable mountain of expectations that he and Dick unknowingly created for him to climb while Bruce pulled him down with words whenever he got close to the summit. 

For years, he was forced to watch how Bruce adored Dick and worshiped Jason’s memory in his own, quiet way, while he stood on the sidelines, waiting for it to be his turn. Stupidly, naively believing his turn would come one day. 

The only true love he felt from Bruce in all those years was when he was in the Robin costume. He thinks that must have been because when he was in that costume, Bruce could let himself pretend for a moment that Tim wasn't the one wearing it. He could put aside the minute differences until he inevitably fucked everything up, of course. 

He started these vile habits to make himself better, but deep down, he knows he hasn't kept true to that. He can feel his body eroding beneath him, but he can't seem to stop, to want to stop. Every time he steps on the scale he thinks just one digit lower, then I'll stop, but he breaches those invisible limits every time. His habits have quickly evolved into a coping mechanism that gives him the illusion of control that he has been craving ever since he stepped through the door to the Batcave.

Now, he's dug his heels far too deep into the quicksand that tightens around him with every futile attempt at an escape. The only way left out is up.

Well, down, really.

And with this, he reaches for the handle of the building he carefully selected from the horizon earlier.

He decides to walk up the endless flights of stairs to punish himself one last time, to give himself one last chance to opt out of this permanent solution, but he can't find nearly enough reasons not to. 

So he climbs and climbs until he reaches the very top. It’s eerily empty, and he supposes that is fitting. He’s been so alone his whole life; it's only fitting that in death he will be too. 

He begins to put one foot in front of the other, without even fully realizing it, until he is balancing on the edge.

He steps one foot off and everything slows down, then speeds up and comes crashing down around him as he hears a voice call out for him. 

Please, just let me go. 

But the voice doesn't let up, it pleads and begs, and gets louder and louder and louder until it feels like it is consuming him on all sides. The world blurs together, and he can't discern that voice from the ones in his head threatening to eat him alive.

Let go, Tim, let go.

He’s a liar, Tim, don’t listen to him.

Please, Tim, please don't leave me.

Just one more step, Tim, just a little farther.

Tim, I love you.

We love you.

Love. It’s a funny thing, love. It’s so hard to tell if it’s real. He knows this love is performative, a sad attempt to make him stay trapped in this life. Trapped like a bird in a cage, dancing for everyone to gawk at while it rips each of its feathers off one by one in front of their very eyes. 

He lets the voices consume him as he slips away, over the edge or into a hazy black, he's not sure, but he lets it happen nonetheless, whatever fear that still lingers dissipating in time with this vision.

That is, until he is wrenched up and out by a firm grip on his arm.

Chapter Text

Dick hangs up the phone and just stands there, completely still, for a minute.

He’s at a loss for words and movement, gazing dumbly at the wall like it’s the most captivating sight he’s ever set his eyes on. It’s better than dwelling on the events of that phone call.

He decides to let Tim sleep a little more; he needs it, and Dick needs some time to collect himself lest he burst into tears in front of the poor kid. He walks over to his bathroom, and it feels like he’s not really the one walking there, like he’s looking down at his body from above with someone else controlling it like a puppet. 

He stops and stands in front of his mirror and just stares. He doesn't know what he’s doing; he feels stupid and childish. It’s like he’s trying to remind himself he’s real. The events of the past few days have felt like a complete fever dream that he’s still not sure actually happened. 

As he stares at himself, he is overcome with the thought of how Tim must have done this exact thing countless times, alone. The concept of his baby brother looking at himself and seeing some ugly alien monster looking back destroys him completely. 

He drops to his knees and sobs. He sobs like he hasn't in years, like he did when he was a little kid. The strangled cries wrack through his body violently until he’s lying helplessly on his side. The terribly cold floor only adding to the shaking of his body.

The tears slow down after an embarrassingly long time. Once he believes he has calmed down enough to stand up, he pushes himself gingerly off the floor. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror once more, face red and puffy, tear tracks covering his swollen, blotchy cheeks. The sight makes him angry, not at the weakness he has shown, but at the fact that he’s this wrecked while Tim is asleep in the next room.

That kid has been through infinitely more devastating trauma than Dick ever has in all his years of crime fighting, and Dicks the one crying? He’s more than weak; he’s being downright manipulative. There's no way he can go out there and face Tim like this. God forbid Tim thinks this is his fault; who knows what it might do to him? 

So, he lies down on his bed and curls up into the fetal position, tears silently returning despite his best efforts to keep them at bay.

He wants to be comforted and held, and that desire makes him sick to his stomach. If anyone needs a hug right now, it's the kid who is actually suffering right outside the door. 

Dick’s fine, he just needs to get his shit together. 

-

Crapcrapcrap when did I fall asleep?!

He jolts awake and is immediately filled with dread. It is much brighter in his room than he remembers it being, and his pillow is thoroughly stained with the remnants of his tears.

Shoot, Tim, I hope he’s not up yet. 

 Dick gathers up what’s left of his pride, wipes his face clean, and brushes his hair back before cautiously stepping out into the living room, praying with every fibre of his being that Tim is still sleeping peacefully on his couch.

His blood runs cold within seconds.

He should've known. He’s so stupid, falling asleep. Of course, Tim ran off; the poor kid is probably freaking out in some back alley right now. He’s such an idiot. He should have seen this coming; he should have kept a closer eye on him, been there for him.

Hell, I would've run away myself if I were Tim.  

Ok, he needs to think. Where would I have gone if I were Tim? He probably just needed some air. He couldn't have gone far. 

Unless…Shit, what time even is it?

He glances at the clock and his heart sinks to his stomach, it's midday, the last thing he remembers was from 6 am. Tim could be anywhere by now, depending on when he left.

Dick grabs his shoes and practically bursts out the door, forgoing any attempt at making a plan. All he knows is he needs to find Tim as fast as possible, before he does anything drastic.

Dick’s never been a religious man, but now, he prays. He doesn't know what exactly he's praying to, but he does it nonetheless. He needs all the help he can get. 

Please let him be ok, please. I need him to be ok. 

-

Whether it be by divine intervention or pure luck, after countless hours of walking and praying and nearly pulling his hair out by the roots to keep himself from dialing Bruce’s number; he can’t know what a failure Dick has been, especially after he let Dick try his way of helping first; he finds the kid.

At least, he thinks he has, hopes he has.

He was walking through Halyard Square for the umpteenth time, trying to scrounge up any sort of a lead on where Tim could have gone, when he saw it. His grappling hook.

He knows it’s his; he just got it last week and hasn't even used it yet. The kid must have swiped it last night and took it with him when he left.

Without the grappling hook, he can’t have gone far. He must be around here somewhere. 

He revamps his search with newfound vigor. He needs to find Tim, and fast.

He begins to look around the surrounding area and is disappointed when he doesn't immediately find anything. He keeps up his search until he stumbles upon a carelessly wide-open door on the ground floor of a particularly tall building. Nobody in their right mind would ever do that in Blüdhaven, of all places. 

He has to put everything in himself into forcing his eyes to look up, wishing with every bone in his body that his worst fears won't be confirmed. 

When they are, his blood turns to ice once more, and his heart sinks down farther than he thought possible. 

His body turns rigid because, up there, looking down at him, is his baby brother he thought he had lost forever. 

You're not too late. Now get a fucking move on before you are. 

So he books it, moving like lightning is coursing through his very veins. Every nerve in his body is on fire as he races against an invisible clock, timer ticking down with every step. He takes the stairs two at a time in his haste, forgetting an elevator is even an option, and cursing himself when he remembers it is. 

He almost shouts in relief when he feels the cool metal handle of the door to the rooftop. He pushes it open hurriedly and has to clap a hand over his mouth to stop himself from hurling right there, partially because of all the sprinting up stairs he just did, but mostly because of how Tim looks standing there.

He’s shrouded by an invisible cloud of pain. He looks smaller and more fragile than ever before, and all Dick wants to do is run over there and tackle him in a hug, but, with the ledge right there, he knows that probably isn't the smartest idea.

Tim looks completely lost in his own world, not batting an eye at anything Dick shouts in his direction, and the look he has on his face, a look of pure determination he only gets when working the hardest of cases, terrifies Dick. 

Dick puts everything he has left into running to the other side of the roof, hoping he doesn't scare Tim in the process, but Tim looks so lost in space that Dick doubts he'll even notice him barreling towards him.

He sees Tim step a foot off the ledge, and he involuntarily screams.

He’s almost there, just a few more steps, and he’ll have him safe in his arms again.

Hurry up, Dick. Time is running out.

He reaches a hand out, barely grazing Tim's sleeve before it slips out of his grasp and down, down, down. He screams once more, this noise more of a mangled cry for help than a beg, and he dives, careful to keep a hand on the edge of the building.

He latches onto Tim and yanks him out of the air with more strength than he thought he was capable of. He thanks whatever higher power must have been listening, and Bruce for all his years of training, as he swings Tim back up over the edge.

He grabs Tim’s limp body and crushes it in a suffocating grip full of love, panic, adrenaline, and a million other feelings coursing through him all at once. His mind goes blank, save for one thought.

I love you, baby bird. 

Chapter Text

It's been quite the month for Tim. 

That's the understatement of the century; it's been the worst month of his life.

Let’s review, shall we? He hit absolute rock bottom, was found at rock bottom by his prefect saint of a brother, was kidnapped by said brother, ran away, tried to launch himself off a building, was saved again by his brother, and has now been forced back into living at Wayne Manor where he has to eat three meals a day and sit in the living room under Alfred’s watchful gaze for at least thirty minutes after. 

In other words, things could not possibly get any worse. At least, he hopes they can't. 

-

Tim wakes up shaking like a leaf. These days, the drafty old house feels more like being put in a deep freezer rather than the mild inconvenience it once was. He shudders and reaches for his favorite sweater, the one Dick lent him that night at his apartment. He’s sure the polite thing to do would be to give it back, but every time he tries to, he finds himself yearning for the rare warmth it provides. He lingers in the comforting smell of his older brother, refusing to let Alfred wash it. He knows it's weird, but it smells like Dick, and he'll take all the comfort he can get right now.

Speaking of uncomfortable situations, breakfast is fast approaching. Tim reluctantly drags a new pair of sweatpants on and makes his way down the treacherous stairs that criss-cross the old house. He has to pay extra attention to his steps and grip the railing on his way down. 

Recently, he’s noticed the need for this support less. He’s noticed himself getting stronger; he can stand up without his vision blacking out, and run around without feeling faint; don't tell Bruce he’s been running around anywhere, though.

On one hand, he enjoys the newfound strength and stamina. On the other hand, he hates himself more than ever before. While his physicality has improved, he has only been sucked down into a deeper, darker hole mentally. 

Every time he looks in the mirror, or, god forbid, steps on the scale he hid from Bruce long ago, he has the urge to cut his body into tiny pieces, slicing off every sliver of fat until he is left as nothing but bones. Bones would be good. Bones would be pretty; they would be light. 

He can feel the fat bubbling up on him, threatening to consume him. He can feel the way it grows with every swallow, the way it latches onto him and takes root, spreading like a virus he has never been able to rid himself of. He can feel the way it sticks to him and stays, even through all his efforts to sweat it out. He can feel it even under the baggy clothing he tries to disguise his vile appearance with, feel the way it spills out over the waist of his sweatpants.

He can see it too. He can see it in the puffiness of his cheeks, the way his stomach rolls and distends more and more with every new meal. He can see it in the thin white and purple marks that begin to decorate his skin, mocking him with every look in the mirror. 

He has made it down to the kitchen, no small feat with the thoughts permeating his mind. At least he didn't resort to locking himself in his room this time. Though he doesn't think he'll ever do that again after having to see Bruce kick down the door and threaten to sleep in Tim’s room. He’d like to keep whatever privacy he has left; otherwise, he wouldn't be able to complete his nightly workout regimen. 

He takes a seat at the kitchen counter and finally looks at what Alfred has chosen to make for him this morning. He almost starts to shake in fear when he sees that it's French toast. It sits there in all its buttery, sugary, syrupy glory, and Tim can't take his eyes off it. He’s been so hungry the past few days, he feels like he could eat the whole pantry, but that's bad. That's wrong, disgusting, fat. 

God, you're so fat. And fucking stupid too. Quivering in fear over French fucking toast? You have got to get it together. Get back on track. 

He picks up his fork and glances helplessly at Alfred, who simply offers an encouraging smile and nods to the food, indicating he needs to start eating.

He takes a small bite, and the flavor overwhelms him. It’s amazing, he’s missed Alfred’s cooking immensely, and he wants nothing more than to devour this plate, but that's wrong, that's so so wrong.

He takes a couple more tiny bites before he tries his favorite trick.

“Gosh, I am just so full. I don't think my stomach is used to all this food yet. Do you think we could take it a little slower today? Please?”

He shoots those famous puppy dog eyes at Alfred, and the poor man melts. 

“Well…If you are truly not feeling up to it at this moment, I suppose we could give you a slightly larger portion for lunch instead.”

Shoot, not exactly what he was aiming for, but he’ll take it. He’ll take anything that means he can postpone eating for a little longer. The temptation is beginning to be too much, and he needs to remind himself of what's really good for him.

He makes his way back to his room happily and practically slams the door shut, making sure to lock it after. He lowers himself to the floor and begins his favorite exercise, sit-ups. He loves the way they make his stomach hurt after, they mask the pain of the hunger cramps with a pleasant burning that reminds him of his rules with every little movement. 

He spends the rest of the morning like this, only slightly sad that no one comes to check on him until 12:00, well after he’s showered and washed away all evidence of his disobedience. 

“Master Tim? Luch is ready. Master Bruce is still at work, but he sends his regards.”

Still at work, what a joke. He’s always at work. He can’t even bother to make time for his dying kid.

Because you aren't his real kid. He would drop anything for Dick; you just aren’t enough for him. But you can be.

“I-I’ll be right down, Alfred. Sorry.” 

He shuffles dejectedly down to the dreaded kitchen for the second time this day. His life seems to have been reduced to these movements: room, to kitchen, back to room, back to kitchen, and so on. His love of a routine is overtaken by his hatred for this specific room. 

He plops down in the chair and visibly cringes at how he can feel the fat moving within him with every harsh movement. Luckily, Alfred’s back is turned, fixing what is no doubt going to be the biggest and most difficult meal of Tim’s life.

Alfred sets the plate down in front of Tim, and Tim recoils at the sight. The sheer size of the portions nearly makes Tim jump out of his skin. 

“I'm supposed to eat all of that?” He asks, pleading with Alfred once more.

“You are to eat as much as you can, master Timothy. Bruce’s orders.”

Tim gulps and stares at the food for a solid five minutes. Alfred has the sense to keep quiet and decides to focus on cleaning the dishes in the sink instead. 

Tim tentatively raises his fork and begins.

In the end, he eats much more than he thinks he should, though anything more than nothing is too much in his book.

He feels sick. He feels like a balloon ready to burst at a moment's notice. He wants to rip his skin off and claw the food out. He’s not allowed to.

Instead, he is forced to sit and stare at the wall while Alfred watches, occasionally glancing at the clock over the door.

Tim starts to bounce his knee, but one sharp look from the older man stops that activity dead in its tracks. 

Tim’s mind is running a mile a minute, trying to think of some way, any way, he can get rid of everything he’s just consumed. Before he knows it he bursts out in tears from the stress.

“I-I can’t do it, Alfred. It’s too much, I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”, he garbles between tears. 

Alfred takes Tim into his arms and rubs the boy's back soothingly. He opts to stay silent once more, but his actions speak louder than any words could. He holds Tim there, anchoring him to reality, and lets Tim cry into his shoulder for what must have been at least an hour, while dutifully rubbing his back and softly shushing any nonsense Tim tries to spout.

Eventually, when Tim has quieted down enough, Alfred brings him back up to his room and makes him lie down. Tim barely registers Alfred sitting down with a book at Tim’s desk chair before sleep overtakes him; he is far too exhausted from his bout of emotion. 

-

When Tim wakes up, it’s pitch black out, and Alfred has disappeared. He gathers himself up and stands on shaky legs. He doesn't know what he’s doing; all he knows is he feels an indescribable pit of hunger and despair in his stomach. He makes the all too familiar trek to the kitchen and abandons all his morals and self-control at the sight of the fridge.

He opens the door and loses himself. He binges like he never has before. He used to binge occasionally, but he hasn't in quite a while. He had been doing so well; he was so in control. Now, with this new routine imposed on him, he has lost all semblance of control, and with it, all care for himself.

He stuffs himself until he can feel himself bursting at the seams, then he practically crawls on his hands and knees to the nearest bathroom and barely grazes his throat before he’s hacking up his guts.

He spills and spills and spills until all that’s left is clear acid that burns his throat on the way out, a painful reminder of his failure. He stays there, lying prone next to the toilet just like he had done all those weeks ago.

This time, regrettably, it isn't Dick who finds him, but someone much, much worse.

“Oh, chum, I'm so sorry.”

The whispers fall on deaf ears, and the hug that envelops him does little to quell his shaking.

He can feel the guilt rising in his sore throat, and all he wants to do is hide in a corner, but Bruce stubbornly keeps his grip on Tim bruisingly tight.

“We're gonna get you help. Don't worry. You're ok.”

If this is ok, Tim really, really, doesn't want to be it.

Chapter Text

It's been well over a week by now.

Over a week since Bruce found him in the bathroom and held him, and told him everything was going to be ok.

It's more of a shock than it should be to Tim at this point when he realizes Bruce’s words are all lies.

The man hasn't even been able to look at Tim properly since that night. He’s shrouded himself completely in his work, making sure that even when he is home, he avoids most contact with Tim.

The entirety of the communication they've exchanged this past week consists of a few pained “hello”s and some perfunctory smiles in the hallways.

Tim thinks it has to be on purpose. There's no other explanation. Bruce must be so terribly ashamed and disgusted of Tim that he can't even stand to look at him anymore, let alone carry out a full conversation.

Tim remembers how just a few weeks ago, he would have bolted at the mere mention of having to sit down and have a conversation with Bruce about his habits. His past self would be horrified to see his desperate, silent begging for any chance to just talk to his dad.

He doesn't want to talk to you because he doesn't love you because you aren't good enough anymore.

You let yourself go, he can tell. He’s repulsed.

Tim knows the voice is right. It’s never steered him wrong thus far. He really should've learned to listen to it by now.

It’s his fault anyway, for how bad he got last time, the voice was trying to tell him what to do, he just kept messing up and being a pig, and then having to get rid of it.

He did it the wrong way. He took the fast way out. This time, he needs to be disciplined.

He can eat, he just needs to be smart about it. He needs to stay good and pretty and small; he can do that.

He can do it for Bruce.

-

Tim is elated at how easy it is to execute his new plan; to stay light and still convince everyone he’s fine.

He really is fine, though. He's just taking his health seriously. This time, he won’t let himself get bad.

Never mind how he continues to train until he physically can't anymore. Until he’s collapsed on the floor in exhaustion, stomach cramping so hard that he can't even bear to drink water.

Or how he can only eat something if he deems it “clean” enough, and if it's not clean, he ends up screaming at everyone unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity.

It's all going to be good for him in the end, though. He’s been good. He’s sticking to his diet and training schedule. He’s even stopped getting worried glances from Dick when he bends over just so, and you can see his ribs poking out, and Bruce is finally talking to him again!

Everything’s going perfectly; his plan is going perfectly.

So why does he still feel that pit in his stomach? Not just a pit of hunger, but of fear, of jealousy, of indescribable anger. It’s the same pit he filled before with his binging, but now he has nothing to turn to.

So he throws himself into training, fighting, getting better, so maybe he’ll be allowed back in the field one day.

He’s insatiable. Nothing can fill him up, and he hates himself for it. He can fill himself with food, or emptiness, or sweat, or work, or a myriad of other addictions, but it's never enough.

It'll never be enough. Not until they notice him, really notice him.

Not until they all love him.

-

It comes one day.

It's autumn, the leaves are dancing and dying, and the air is crisp with the warning of snow.

It’s uncharacteristically quiet; there are barely any cases to solve or work to be done otherwise.

He’s sitting in the batcave trying to busy himself when it happens.

Bruce spins around in his chair to face the boy sitting opposite him.

“Why don't you take a break?”

Tim, who has been working himself bare, is filled with relief at the words before he remembers he can't stop working. He's not good enough to take a break yet.

“You've been doing much better these past few months, Tim. I'm proud of you.”

The words are accompanied by a tight-lipped slight upturn of Bruce's lips, and Tim is completely and utterly dumbfounded by the words that he's sure must have slipped out without Bruce’s permission,

He sits there, mouth agape, racking his brain for an appropriate response. He never practiced what to do in this situation. He never thought this would happen.

He never thought he could be enough.

“T-thank you, Bruce.”

“Of course, son. Go rest for a bit. I can finish this up by myself.”

Tim nods, still in shock, and quickly gathers his stuff before heading back up to his room.

He closes the door, and the pleasant bubble of silence made by Bruce's words is almost immediately ripped away from him.

You can't get lazy now. You need to keep working.

He might have said he’s proud of you, for now, but what will happen if you don't keep it up?

Who knows if he was even telling the truth?

No, no, it sounded real, didn't it? It had to have been real. Tim needs it to have been real. This all can't have been for nothing.

The words he’s desperately wanted to hear for years now seem to have only opened up a new chasm of hurt for him to be swallowed by.

His whole life, all he's ever wanted is for someone to be proud of him, to love him. He finally has that, and that's not even enough.

That's ok, at least he’s on the right track.

Maybe if he goes just a little bit further, then he’ll feel ok.

He just wants to feel ok again.

He wants to be 10, scrambling through the streets of Gotham with a camera bigger than his head just to capture a blurry photograph of his heroes. He wants to be a kid again.

He wants to feel something, anything again. Anything but this ever-present sensation that fills him with the absence of caring and far too much care at the same time.

He wants to live. He wants to smile over ice cream cones with his brothers in the heat of July without a care in the world. He wants to have a movie night with his family and actually eat the popcorn for once, not his stupid crumbled-up rice cakes.

He has absolutely no idea how to do this.

The boy with a million contingencies, a plan for everything and everyone life could throw his way, is finally rendered helpless.

He’s been so lost for so long that he has no idea how to function like a normal person again. He has no idea how to be himself. He has no idea who he even is anymore underneath it all.

Because who is he, really, without all the red knuckles and lies? He’s torn himself down into pieces and built himself back up into a shaky patchwork tower that relies on the ability to close his fingers around his bicep to function properly.

He has utterly no idea who he is without any of it. Without the rituals and cover-ups, the need for validation, for praise.

He's nothing. His very existence is a sham.

He’s whatever everyone else wants him to be and never what they need, what he needs.

Sometimes he thinks about what it would mean to just stop. To let the exhaustion win for once. To not wake up already hating himself for breathing.

The thought terrifies him almost as much as it comforts him. Because if he stopped trying, if he stopped chasing that impossible version of himself they could be proud of, what would be left?

So he keeps going, even when his body begs him to stop, even when his hands shake so badly he can barely get his suit on.

He keeps going because he has to. Because maybe if he bleeds enough, starves enough, fights enough, maybe someone will finally see him.

Maybe, for just one second, Tim will stop feeling like he’s rotting from the inside out.

Maybe then he’ll finally be enough.

But deep down, he knows it won’t be enough. It never is.

No matter how much he gives, how much he breaks himself apart to fit into the spaces they leave for him.

The praise always fades, and he’s left alone again, staring at a reflection he can’t recognize, wondering when he stopped being a person and became a project.

And still, he’ll keep trying, because it’s all he knows how to do.

Every skipped meal, every broken bone, every sore muscle, is proof he’s working, proof he exists, proof that maybe, just maybe, he’s worth something.

But being worth something will never be the same as being loved.

Chapter Text

Through all the inner turmoil, Tim has forged a new routine for himself. One that he convinces himself is normal. It's the only way he has stayed sane; stayed in control.

It's been a few months now, and while Tim has lost some weight, he's managed to convince the family that it's just his weight going back to normal after he royally screwed up his metabolism. He was always a skinny kid, after all.

It seems to be just believable enough that it gets them off his back, but he can still feel their eyes on him, cataloging everything he puts in and out of his body more precisely than even he ever did. 

He feels like he's running on autopilot. He’s eating normally; well, not quite, but it's better than before; he's training hard, working hard, but somehow, underneath it all, he still feels numb. 

He was told just yesterday that Bruce would be allowing him back on patrol for the first time in three days, and what should have felt like an inexplicably happy moment was instead filled with indifference.

Sure, he's glad he'll get to burn off some more, but he can't seem to bring back that excited, apprehensive feeling he used to treasure when he was Robin. 

In some weird way, the lack of emotions makes him proud. He's finally controlled himself enough to suppress that little kid within him that used to cry at every little correction. He tells himself that this is better than the alternative, that he shouldn't worry so much, that he should just shut up and be happy with what he's got because he's got a hell of a lot more than most people. He’s already been selfish enough to last him a lifetime. 

With that thought, Tim decides to finally drag himself out of bed and downstairs to begin the first step of his routine: breakfast.

-

It's a normal morning in the Manor, well, it's about as normal a morning as you can get in a family of vigilantes. 

It's quiet, polished, suffocatingly domestic, and Tim hates every last second of it. 

He sits down, and immediately a plate containing one soft-boiled egg and a piece of thin whole-grain toast smeared with avocado, as well as a steaming cup of black coffee, is placed in front of him by kind hands. 

Tim smiles up at Alfred, thanking him for the safe breakfast without needing words. 

He picks up the coffee first. He's pleased that he seems to have trained his body to accept the dark liquid with ease by now. He wishes he could load it up with creamer and sugar, but that would be bad. Sugar would make him slow. He needs to be healthy. 

He always makes sure to drink his coffee first, with the hope that it might fill him up a little more, so he doesn't have to lie when he tells them the reason he's pushing his plate away is because he’s full. 

He downs the cup and reluctantly starts on the food. He cuts the egg open and makes sure to let the yellow yolk flow onto the plate rather than the toast. He gingerly picks up the toast and is surprised when he manages to finish it. Sure, it's only one small piece of toast, maybe half an avocado, and some egg whites, a meager breakfast for some, but the numbers swirling through his head tell him otherwise.

He quells the voices with the promise of his health. His ability to patrol and help others relies on his weight staying stable.

He sits back in his chair and takes in the scene in front of him. 

Dick is downing cereal with vigor while playfully arguing with Jason, who has a mouth half full of another one of his disgusting protein bars he seems to have no shortage of. Alfred is nowhere to be seen, probably cleaning up in the kitchen or something. Bruce is sitting in his usual chair, drinking coffee and pretending to read the morning paper while really watching over his sons with fond eyes, his favorite activity to do before he has to leave for work all day. Damian is sitting across from Tim, and looking at him quite strangely, now that Tim thinks about it.

“Hey Dami, what's wrong?” He asks, genuinely curious and trying to break some of that ice that always seems to form between them despite his best efforts.

“You look tired, Drake. Father won't let you on patrol again in that condition.”

Outwardly, Tim remains calm, shooting Damian a half-hearted, annoyed look and retorting with an obviously annoyed “I'm fine, Damian. Go worry about yourself.”. However, on the inside, Tim is spiraling. 

Damian's comment reignites the familiar old friend that is the endlessly critical voice in the back of his head that loves to remind him of his failures. 

You're getting sloppy, Drake.

You can't even be healthy right. 

Maybe you just suit being sick better.

Maybe you suit being nothing better.

He has to physically hold himself back from screaming shut up across the table to the voice. 

Tim manages to calm himself down enough eventually, hiding behind the flurry of brothers coming and going to work or patrol like a long-forgotten ghost.

He makes his way back up to his room and barely closes his door before he's bursting out in tears at the edge of his bed.

In some ways, he's grateful for the sudden return of emotion; it's as if the floodgates have opened. Yet, in others, he can stop thinking about how this started, Damian's comment. 

He knows it came from a place of love, at least, he hopes it did, but it still only served to further confirm his worst fears. He can be noticed by them, but only for the wrong reasons. All he's ever wanted was to be noticed by someone.

They only seem to pay attention when something is actively wrong with him, never with the follow-through of making sure he's ok from then on.

-

The next time Tim cares enough to pay attention to his surroundings, it's family dinner. Bruce insists on doing it every Friday, and is particularly happy about this one as it marks the last day Tim is benched from patrol. All Tim can think of is how he hopes they didn't bake a cake or something like that. It seems like the sick kind of joke they would think was “nice”.

He sits up straighter in his chair, trying to look engaged in the small talk and laughter being passed around, but all he can focus on is the feeling of eyes on him. He's hyper-aware of the way they moderate what he's eaten, how he's sitting, how often he smiles, and so much more. 

He can see Damian still watching him from the corner of his eye. He doesn't look suspicious this time, just…curious. It unnerves Tim, makes him feel like some sort of lab rat being dissected bit by bit. 

He briefly wonders how much the kid has been told. He never told Bruce and Dick not to tell anyone, but he doesn't think they would've without asking him first. 

Bruce tries to make small talk with Tim. It comes out more awkward than Tim's sure he meant it, and that only reinforces Tim’s sense that the affection is conditional. He hasn't eaten as much as he knows he should've, and he's begun to see a direct correlation between the amount he ingests and how the others interact with him. Too little and they get awkward, too much and they get sappy. Most days, he tries to find a balance, but lately, he finds himself caring less and less about what they think of him. So long as the number on the scale stays relatively the same, he's fine. 

You should test them, see if they really do care about you.

Huh, that's…not such a bad idea. 

He knows it's just another one of his intrusive thoughts, something his fucked-up brain has come up with to enable him, but he’s curious. 

He decides to finish as much as he can handle, which is admittedly not much more, but enough to ease the palpable tension that always seems to linger in the room, then he makes his move.

He excuses himself to the bathroom, promising to be quick, and is thoroughly confused and secretly pleased when they let him go with little resistance. 

He shuffles to the bathroom and locks the door in seconds. He goes through the motions of his old routine, though making sure to leave out the part where he pukes his guts up. He doesn't think he could get away with that, yet, but god does he miss it. 

He turns on the faucet and sits down by the toilet. He makes sure to scratch up his knuckles a little and pop in some gum to make it more convincing before he exits the room.

He heads back to the dining room and sits down without much of a fuss. Initially, he’s surprised that no one has said anything. With how carefully they seem to have been watching him, he has no idea how they have missed this. 

Maybe they haven't been watching you.

Maybe they don't care at all. 

Maybe you should really do it, see what it takes for them to notice you, love you, finally. 

He wants to, he wants to scream and cry and slam his fists into the mahogany that mocks him with its perfect shine. He wants to let them know just how hurt he is.

He needs to prove to them how much he is hurting on the inside.

Either they didn't notice, or maybe they did and it didn't matter. Both realities hit him like a brick and leave him reeling. 

He feels vindicated and utterly destroyed at the same time. He was right; he must not matter enough to notice, and that crushes him. 

Tim excuses himself from the table quietly and starts to walk back to his room.

-

The manor is quiet at night. Not peaceful, not soft, just quiet. It's the kind of silence that hums in your ears and slowly drives you mad.

Tim is sitting on the edge of his bed, shirt crumpled and hair still damp and cold from the shower. The faint smell of the mint gum that he used still lingers in his unbrushed mouth. It's the same brand that he used to use and that both comforts and disturbs him.

His knuckles sting and glare from where he's split them open again, through his scratching or his aggressive scrubbing in the shower, he's not quite sure. He moves his hand under the dim lamplight and flexes his hand open, wincing at the sight of the fresh marks. 

No one knocks.

He's not sure why he's waiting for them to either. He supposes it's because of that stupid, childish part of him that refuses to let go of that last little bit of hope he drags everywhere. 

He waits as the laughter and chatter downstairs fade. Still, no one comes to check.

He tells himself it's fine, good even. 

Suddenly, a knock startles him and he is filled once more with that childish hope. 

“Drake?”  It's Damian's voice, precise and clipped even in its softness. 

Tim stiffens at the voice instinctively; it's a reaction he's been trying to stop, though he's quite obviously failed so far. Tim straightens his shirt and drags the sleeves back down before responding with a “Yeah?” that is just a little too eager.

The door creaks open a bit, and Damian's face pokes through, obscured with some strange emotion that no one would even be able to notice unless they knew him.

“Father wanted to know if you would be training with us tomorrow morning.”

Tim swallows, “Uh, yeah, I'll be there.”

Damian nods once, seemingly making his way to leave, before he stops himself and turns back around. 

“You…stayed in the restroom for quite some time.”

It's not an accusation, at least it doesn't sound like one. It's more of a statement, so Tim treats it as such and refrains from answering. 

Damian tilts his head ever so slightly and continues, “You look unwell as of late.” he says, matter-of-factly, “Perhaps you should rest more.”

The words aren't cruel; if anything, they are shockingly sincere, but Tim feels it all the same. He feels the terrible panic begin to rise, the panic that maybe someone did notice, that maybe Damian saw too much. 

He forces a small amicable laugh, “Yeah, I’ll, uh…do that. Thanks”

Damian responds with his eyes. He looks at him carefully, like he desperately wants to say something else. He seems to decide against it and instead just hums and closes the door. 

The latch clicks, and the ever-present silence floods back in in full force.

Tim exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding and leans back on his bed, staring at the light on the ceiling until his vision goes spotty. He feels that same pit in his stomach, that pit that aches with some elusive, unbearable longing.

He wants them to notice.

He doesn't want them to know. 

He can't tell which would hurt more.

You see? It’s nothing. You're fine. You can keep going. No one has to know. It's easier that way.

Down the hall, he can hear Damian's door close. He rolls onto his side and curls up into a ball. It's the only position that seems to give him any sort of comfort these days. 

He lies there, motionless, trying to remember the last time he felt real.

Chapter Text

Tim's alarm clock blares bright and early; he briefly considers throwing it across the room. 

For a moment, he lies there, completely still, listening to his heartbeat. He exhales carefully, a futile attempt to slow his racing mind.

His body is trembling with excitement and apprehension from the moment he pushes himself onto his feet. Today is the day. The day that he's finally allowed back on patrol, and, while it isn't for many hours, the anxiety eats him up on the inside regardless. 

Today is a test, a chance to prove to Bruce, to himself, that he can still do this. That he can still be the perfect Robin. 

He checks his gear twice; it's laid out in perfect uniformity on top of his dresser. The way the pieces are spaced out is exact, measured. As if his superstitiousness can guarantee his safety, as if his preemptive attempts at perfection can guarantee he won't fail again.

He checks his gear once more. For good measure.

You're ready, he assures himself, Bruce wouldn't let you go if you weren't. 

Bruce trusts him. 

Don’t you dare fucking screw it up.

-

It's quiet in the kitchen. Tim measures out his breakfast with clinical precision, double-checking the food scale is zeroed out before each item is placed on it, pleasantly surprised that no one is around to chastise him for it. His thoughts about the numbers are fleeting for once; after all, numbers are controllable, patrol is not. 

Dick enters the kitchen, grabs a bowl, and pours cereal into it without a care in the world. 

Why can't you just be fucking normal?

“You good, Timbo?” He says, more curious than concerned. 

“Oh! Uh, yeah, totally. I’m fine.” Tim answers, perhaps a bit too quickly. He's caught off guard, pulled out of the perpetual cycle of jealousy he loves to drown himself in. 

Damian watches them from the doorway. His eyes are sharp; they seem to stab into Tim’s skin and probe for information. Damian remains silent, assessing. Somehow that feels worse. Either way, Tim feels like he's being watched, and it makes his shoulders tense up. 

-

The rest of the day passes by in a blur of numbers, eyes, and way, way too much information for Tim to fully process.

He doesn't come alive until the suit zips around him.

It’s a new suit, Tim can tell it is. He hates the way he can tell extra allowance has been added at the seams of this one. He hates the way it hugs him, sticking to every curve and roll like it’s been painted on. He especially hates the memory of how it used to be baggy. He avoids the mirror in their changing room. 

What if you faint? 

What if you slow them all down? 

What if Bruce notices how much of a burden you've become?

Tim breathes carefully, physically forcing his muscles to relax. He can vaguely feel Batman's presence behind him. Tim turns around; Bruce nods. 

Batman provides instructions, briefing him on their objectives and warning him about what rogues they will likely encounter tonight. Tim hangs on to every word, replaying them over and over in his head. He’s afraid might miss something crucial; he doesn't trust himself not to. 

The Batmobile hums beneath them as they speed out into Gotham, the skyline whizzing past in a blur of sharp angles.

Tim remembers the nights when patrol felt effortless, fun, even. He used to be able to lose himself in the rhythm of it, the purr of the engine, the repetitiveness of swinging from roof to roof. 

Safe to say nothing feels effortless tonight. 

-

The first few alerts are easy: a petty theft, a small house fire. Simple things, really. Nothing too taxing.

And yet, his legs are burning. His breath is shallow after the shortest of sprints. He lands a jump fraction off, sending shooting pains up his ankle. He takes a punch that he definitely should've seen coming. His panic flares.

It's just a fraction, he's just a little sore, out of practice. It’s ok. He'll get back in the groove.

There's no room for mistakes, Robin. You're either in this 100%, or you're out. 

He forces himself to keep going. He covers up his stumbles with forced smiles and laughs about whatever stupid thing Dick and Jason are arguing about on the comms now. He keeps his hands behind his back whenever Batman talks to him, hiding the way they're shaking with every labored breath. 

He tells himself it's ok, it's just nerves, rust. He'll shake it off. He has to.

He pushes himself harder. He sprints when he could grapple; he takes the riskier options. Every action is an attempt to prove, to himself and Batman, that he belongs here, that he's worth the effort it is to keep him around.

Behind his mask, his thoughts spiral.

Dick never struggled this much.

Jason would never let himself get this weak.

Damian would sooner die than be caught taking a hit from a random mugger. 

Batman’s watching. He can tell.

He should be good now; he's been doing everything right, hasn't he? Why does he feel like this, then? Why is his body refusing to cooperate?

It happens quickly.

He misjudges a distance. His fingers slip right off the edge of the roof, the wet cement giving way to rushing air. For a moment, he’s weightless. He contemplates letting the fall happen; he's probably not high up enough to die. 

He barely catches himself in time; his muscles scream at the strain. He hauls himself up over the edge and tries to pretend like it was nothing. His heart hammers. The city spins around him. He forces himself to go faster, to catch up to Bruce–to Batman. 

The shame engulfs him; it wells up in his chest and threatens to spill out.

This isn't just in his head anymore; his body is giving him away. 

He's not ready. 

He might never be again.

-

He takes off his suit quietly when they get back. Offering the shortest responses he can think of to Bruce and Dick’s incessant questions and concerns. 

“I’m fine.” He tells them, because that's what he always says. And he is fine, he just needs to work a bit harder, that's all. He needs to be better than fine. He can do that; he's always been a hard worker. 

By the time he's back up in the manor, his resolve has hardened.. Tomorrow, he’ll train harder. He’ll sleep less, work more. He’ll eat a bit less, too. That's probably why he got so winded; he just needs to shave off a few pounds, and he’ll be light as a feather again, ready to flip across buildings at a moment's notice. He’ll fix this, one way or another. 

He has to.

-

Back in his room, the silence suffocates him; it presses in, bringing the all-too-familiar voices with it. 

He peels off his undersuit with shaking hands and throws on a clean pair of underwear and an old t-shirt. He sits down on the edge of his bed and elects to stare into nothingness for the time being. Emotions swirl around in his chest; he’s relieved he survived the night at all, given all his mistakes, but just surviving isn't success. He needs to be better, do better. 

Damian passes by his doorway that he's carelessly left open. He pauses and stares at Tim, yet again.

“You were slower than usual today.” He says. It's not unkind, the way he says it, it's more of an observation. 

Tim shrugs in response. He doesn't feel like getting into it with Damian tonight. He wants to go to bed, to drown himself in the merciless black of sleep. 

Damian lingers for a minute before eventually leaving. Leaving Tim alone.

He lies back. His heart is still racing. 

Sleep doesn't come easily to Tim; it never does anymore. He lies there, staring at the ceiling like maybe the blank expanse will offer him the answers he's been so desperately searching for.

Every time he closes his eyes, his moments of weakness replay behind his eyelids like a slideshow of his failures.

He presses his palms against his ribs–good job, you can still feel them–and counts his breaths. In 1 2 3 4, hold 1 2 3 4, out 1 2 3 4, hold 1 2 3 4. Again.

You held on, he reminds himself, you didn't fall. But that isn't as comforting as he thought it might be; it just reminds him how close he was. 

Tomorrow he’ll be better, he reassures himself. He’ll reboot his meal plan, fully. He’ll shave off whatever it is that is slowing him down. No one needs to know. This is his problem to fix. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw until it hurts. He refuses to cry; that would just be another admission of weakness. 

Eventually, exhaustion takes over, but not before it reminds him that, while he made it through his first patrol back, it still wasn't enough. He wasn't enough. 

God, all he wants is to be enough.