Chapter Text
It had started with puppy eyes.
And like everything else, it wasn't just puppy eyes for long.
Stupid Dick and his stupid big blue eyes and wobbly lip.
Now he was on a mountain and dusk was approaching quickly. There was no signal out here, his string of texts to Jason remaining firmly undelivered. Stupid wifi. Stupid road trip. Stupid Damian.
They'd managed to make it out of Gotham and to their campsite without one of them killing the other. It had been a quite ride - both of them under orders to act as civil as possible to the other. They'd set up camp silently, listening to Dick's excited prattle and senseless chatter. Bruce worked beside them, equally silent. Cass was quiet, but her quietness was full of energy and excitement. She'd never been camping before. He and Damian had even called a truce (aka: Alfred had forced a truce upon them) so that she could have an enjoyable trip (and so everyone else could as well). And it actually had been pretty nice. Kinda. Then Dick had been insistent on a campfire and sharing stories and it had just gotten... tense.
Damian hadn't meant to, he knew that, but it still hurt. They'd been having an okay time, almost approaching the point where they could peacefully co-exist in the calm environment. Then he'd made that comment and everything they'd build up just crumbled.
It was a stupid comment. It wasn't even directed towards him. Damian had been saying something and then he mentioned in an offhand way how long it had taken for him to finally become Robin. Like Tim had just been an annoying glitch in the system, keeping the computer from preforming its intended duties.
It was pathetic. He shouldn't be reacting to something like that so strongly. It was tiny and unimportant and shouldn't be taken seriously. Jason would likely laugh him over the ocean when he discovered what had happened. He could hear his response even now,
"Really Replacement? Just one little mention of the demon brat's obvious impatience to be Robin and you run away into the woods? Wow. How brave of you. Practically a role model of maturity."
Mental Jason was right. He was reacting weirdly. Something wasn't quite right - but he couldn't put his finger on it.
Leaves crunched beneath his feet. The others would probably be waiting for him so they could have marshmallows or something. That meant he should go back eventually.
But going back meant having to face them and for some reason that felt weird. Why was he feeling like this? There was no reason not to get back to the others. In fact, it was probably better for him to get back. It would be pretty easy to get injured accidentally what with all the mud and leaves and nature stuff.
A branch smacked him in the face, filling his mouth with small fern-like leaves. Sputtering, he wiped a spiderweb from his cheek. Did he ever mention that he hated the outdoors?
Glaring at the offending branch, he turned on his heel, prepared to take the path back to the campsite. His head spun for a second, and then everything seemed to snap back into focus.
Foliage, dark greenish in the quickly fading light, surrounded him on all sides. There was no hint of a path anywhere. An irrational bout of fear threatened to overtake him. It might have taken him. His heart was a bird trapped in his ribcage.
There was nothing to be scared of, realistically. He knew how to fend for himself and had escaped the wilderness many times before. Getting temporarily disoriented in the forest was nothing to be worried about. He was fine.
With forced calm, he began walking towards where he was pretty sure the path was. The panic began to encroach upon him again. Ever so slightly, his pace quickened. There was no reason to be afraid, right?
The trees quickly plunged into shadow and his pace picked up even more, despite the danger. When a branch, wet with last night's rainfall, brushed against his cheek and sent chilling droplets spattering against his neck, all rational thought went out the window.
Scrambling, shoving his way through the bushes, slipping in the soft mud, he raced towards where he guessed the camp was. Fear spiked through him as his feet flew out from under him.
Falling. Snapping. Screaming. Rocks sliced at his limbs like vicious teeth. Branches became blood-bearing beacons. Spiderwebs clung to his skin in a shuddering embrace.
His screams were abruptly silenced when he hit solid stone with jarring force, the air ripped painfully from his lungs.
Once again, the strange fog that clouded his mind drifted away - maybe it was the pain - and he was left shaking in agony.
Rolling to face the ground, he began pushing himself to his hands and knees. Almost instantly his wrist flared in fiery anguish. He fell to his elbows, clenching his jaw tightly. That's when he felt the telltale throbbing of a broken leg. With his luck, he probably damaged a few internal organs as well.
After a moment, he gritted his teeth and pulled himself up to a half crawling, half standing position. He'd crawled with a broken leg before, he could do it again. Staggering along blindly, he tried to find the source of that running water he was hearing.
The rushing sound grew louder and louder until it was an all-encompassing roar. Slanted stones were slick from the spray of what he suspected was a waterfall. Searing pain tore through his snapped leg as it glanced painfully off a rogue rock. He flinched, and his hand spasmed, slipped from its hold, and abandoned him to gravity's whims. His head cracked against the ground and just like somebody flipping a switch, everything went black.
Nobody was there to watch as a teenage boy tumbled down a short outcropping behind a raging waterfall.
Nobody was there to see his limp body plummet towards the frothing, angry waters below.
Nobody was there when dazed blue eyes flittered open underwater, tracing the silver stream of bubbles to the surface.
Nobody was there when Timothy Drake-Wayne's lungs filled with crystal-clear fluid and his weakening heartbeat faded away.
It would be hours before they found him - glassy-eyed, still, cold - carried by the current onto the pebbly beach.
In the boy's pocket, a phone glowed with an unsent text.