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Tim pulled open an old laptop from his younger days before Damian and when he was newly named Robin and known as just Tim Drake and not Drake-Wayne. It logged him into an old email account, a throwaway even at the time he was using it to keep in contact with Dick and Bruce. A string of notifications followed; there were a few pieces of spam, but what caught his eye were the messages from Dick.
Tim’s chest clenched when he saw the dates, the first one month after leaving on his search for Bruce years ago. The familiar burn of righteousness ate it away just as quick, remembering he was right.
Tim clicked the email, noting the lack of title or any text. It was a video, the image frozen of Dick in his old Bludhaven apartment, a few moving boxes placed around the background. Tim, despite himself, hit the play button.
Dick sat there, staring off to the side, barely blinking. Tim took in the bags under his eyes and the heavy set of his shoulders. Eventually, the older man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. There was a brief moment where Dick made eye contact with the camera.
It was heart-wrenching, the shattered light behind his brother’s blue eyes. It tore a breath from Tim with a sharp stab.
Dick curled himself forward, burying his face in his hands. There was the whisper of a voice, then Dick was back, closing the laptop with a set jaw.
It took Tim ages to breathe again. It was relative though, could have been seconds or minutes; he didn’t know. He rewound the video, the detective in him chasing the audio before his heart could catch up.
The muffled “get over yourself, Grayson,” caught Tim in the throat, deafening in the otherwise silent room.
Tim didn’t want to think about the feelings in his chest, chasing after his curiosity instead. The next video was from a few weeks later. It opened to the recognizable scene of Dick’s manor bedroom. He was sitting in the middle of his floor. The laptop was around eye-level, sitting on the man’s bed.
Tim hit play.
Dick swayed on screen, his right hand holding a bottle of alcohol from what used to be Bruce’s stash. He flashed a bright smile, “Tiiimmmmmmyy,” he crooned at the camera. “Timantha, Timmy-Tot, Baby Bird.” He swayed in silence, the smile slowly falling from his face. “Timothy Drake-Wayne.” He said, his gaze drifting away.
“Richard Grayson-Wayne.” He whispered to himself, slowly and carefully, as if testing the words. There was another pause, and Dick took another long drink.
Tim counted the bob of his Adam’s apple, getting to four times before he came back for air.
“Tim,” Dick said, shuffling himself closer to the camera, “I’m sorry. My brain is just so-“ Dick waved his hands around his head in circles, barely missing cracking himself in the skull with the bottle. “The words are mixed up; I can’t get it straight. They keep changing languages, and I can’t keep up.” Dick sounded distressed, nearing desperate for Tim to understand. “But I do know that I love you. No matter what, and no matter what you have done or will do, I will always love you. You are my younger brother, and no one can replace you.” Dick whipped away his tears with the back of his hand.
Tim was curled in on himself, and legs pulled up to his chest, fingers clutched into the meat of his thy. He wasn’t crying, but his gaze was misty.
“I know I’m a shit, brother. I know I let you down; I failed you. And I failed Jason. I’m doing the same thing with Damian.” Dick let out a shuddering breath. “I’m not – This wasn’t the plan.” Dick scrubbed his face with a groan. He was missing the bottle of alcohol this time.
“I am so sorry.” Dick whispered, gaze aching and sincere, “I’ve let you down and broken your trust. Just know I will be there if you need anything. I love you, Timbo, and hope you’re safe.” Dick cut the video there with a small watery smile.
Tim swallows back everything he was feeling, pressing forward instead. The next video was of Dick in the master bedroom in the Penthouse; he was shirtless bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, bruising was dark around his neck and up the side of his head. An IV was just on the edge of the screen, running to Dick’s arm.
Tim hit play.
“Alfie says I have a concos- concussion,” Dick announced with a slightly slurred speech. “And he gave me good drugs, even though I don’t have time. I have- I have a meeting -” Dick snuggled lower in his pillows, dragging the laptop with him. “with Henderson in marketing- ” he continued, eyes drooping closed, “about the budget for one of his projects. He is a bigoted asshole and gets all pissy when someone reports him for misallo- misallocating funds. They want two million for the A.R.T project…”
Tim blinked as Dick rambled about budgets and projections of various Wayne Enterprise projects. He follows along as Dick jumps between topics: touching about R and D projects, over to the current charity event, how they had to replace a portion of HR recently, though he didn’t go into detail. Tim follows through the WE history, pulling up the projections and requests of the A.R.T project and agreeing with Dick’s assessment. He reads about the overhaul of the HR department, frustrated on Dick's behalf that it took this long to correct. Dick’s voice trailed off to soft, comforting snores in the background as Tim followed the tidbits of information. It was a piece of string; the more Tim pulled, the more he found.
He was reading through the incident report with the director from the Japan CEO when Alfred’s voice cut through his thoughts. Tim jumped, turning to his door, only to find it closed. From his computer, Alfred let out a soft sigh, “Oh my boy,” The man said, sounding far more broken than Tim ever remembers. A hand drifts into view, tucking Dick’s bangs behind his ear. The camera angles down as the laptop closes, cutting the video.
Reality slams back into Tim, hard and fast. A sudden panic pushes him forward, desperate for the next video. It was two months after the last. It’s of Dick’s apartment again. He was holding a bottle of cheap whiskey, and his face was flushed red. It’s dark, the only light from the kitchen off-camera to the right and the streetlights through the windows. There were deep bags under his eyes and the bulk of bandages under his shirt.
“I can’t do this,” Dick whispered to the darkness. “I’m going to get everyone killed, Damian, Steph, Alfie, all of fucking Gotham,” He states it like a fact. Dick took a long drink; this time, it was six bobs of his Adam’s apple. “I wish you were here, Tim.” He continued, voice rough and ragged, “I need you. I wanted you as my Nightwing.”
A gasp was ripped from Tim, savage and sudden. He knows what Nightwing means to Dick. It was independence, freedom from the shadow of Batman. It meant being equals.
Dick leaned towards the camera, face taking up most of the frame. “I want you by my side, Tim. But you deserve so much more than the Robin to my Batman. You’re so much-“ Dick was cut off by a sharp knock at his door. He doesn’t move to stand, but crashes back into his chair to take a long drink with a heavy sigh.
“Open the fucking door, Grayson.” The person at the door yelled, pounding a few times for emphasis.
Dick still doesn’t move and continues to take the occasional drink. His shoulders were tense, and his body was tight for a fight. The pounding does stop eventually, but Dick doesn’t relax.
It takes only a few seconds for the door to burst open with the call of “Fucker.”
Dick doesn’t respond, just ignores his guest and continues his slow trudge into an alcohol-induced blackout.
A redhead stomped into view, and it took Tim longer than expected to realize it was Roy Harper. The man snarled at Dick in a way that reminded Tim of Jason back in the day. He grabbed the bottle from Dick’s hand, but Dick moved out of the way, though barely. He swayed on his feet, out of the other man’s reach.
“What do you want, Harper?” Dick growled in a way that was typically reserved for villains and thugs.
Roy wasn’t fazed; if anything, he was amused. “I’m here to pull your head out of your ass,” Roy said, making another reach for the drink and this time succeeding.
“Oh fuck off,” Dick rolled his eyes, leaning on the chair to keep from falling over. “I don’t need your shit.”
“My shit?” Roy raised an eyebrow, “Short pants, have you looked in the mirror recently? You’re spiraling.”
“So?” Dick snorted, sliding to sit on the arm of the chair, the same one centered in the video.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Roy said, placing the bottle out of reach and moving to brace at the other arm.
“So?” Dick said again, this time venomous and dark. It was equal parts accepting and challenging.
Tim took in a sharp breath in tandem with Roy on camera. Tim could hear his heart in his ears, thumping loud and angry. He didn’t catch the look on Roy’s face, shifting too quickly to follow.
“You’re going to get them killed,” Roy said instead.
Tim didn’t know how that would make a difference, but it seemed to do something.
Dick let out a choked sound, his face crumpling. “I know,” he admitted, sounding pained. Roy moved forward, wrapping Dick in a tight hug.
Tim closed the video, not wanting to see the rest and feeling like he was violating his brother’s private moment. There were two more videos; the next was dated three days later.
Dick was in the kitchen of the Penthouse, sitting at a barstool. The sun is bright behind him, a rare sight in Gotham. “So…” Dick began once Tim hit play. “Apparently, some of the videos have been sending.” His face flushes in shame, gaze dropping to his clenched hands. “I am really sorry, Tim. You weren’t supposed to see those; no one was. Dianna suggested it as a therapy thing, and I can’t even do that right.” Dick sighed, “I’m sorry, you don’t need my shit. I hope you can forgive me for this and everything else. ” Dick blinks away the tears in his eyes, “I love you, Tim. I hope you are staying safe. Let me know if you need anything, no questions asked.”
The video cuts there.
Tim takes long measured breaths before moving to the last video, dated April first, just a month before Bruce and Tim returned.
The room is new, with a wall of windows at Dick’s back and a high-backed office chair. “I know I promised to stop these,” Dick muttered, pouring a dark liquid from a crystal decanter into a glass, just short of overrunning. “Also promised I would stop drinking,” Dick toasted the camera. “But exceptions.” Dick stood, walking to the arching windows. The camera refocuses on his back. He’s in a lovely suite, tailored in all the right ways. The view was of Gotham, from Bruce’s office, Tim notes with pained reluctance.
“I just –“ Dick paused to throw back a drink. “I wanted you to know that I really, really want you to be right.” He let out a wet laugh, “I want Bruce back. I don’t care if I have to stay Batman. I’ll keep running WE. I’ll give up Nightwing, Bludhaven, and being a cop.” He turns back to the camera, tears slowly rolling down his face. Tim could feel his trail down to his chin, hitting like a punch in the gut.
Dick took a long calming breath, and Tim found himself matching pace. “I just couldn’t get my hopes up.” Dick admitted,” It’s selfish and cruel to you, but I can’t. I know it doesn’t make sense, but I couldn’t, I can’t do this while hoping one day Bruce might come and save me. It would kill me.”
Tim takes a sharp breath, thrown by the certainty in his older brother’s voice.
“I was drowning, still am.” Dick admitted, “I can’t wait for Bruce to save me, or I won’t make it.” He shuffled back to the desk, placing the glass to the side and curling up in the desk chair. His knees are pulled up to his chin, matching Tim’s current position.
“I really want you to be right,” Dick whispered, broken and desperate. “I really need a hug from my dad.” The video cuts at the heartbreaking admission. It held tight on Tim’s lungs, blurring his vision and crushing his chest. He struggled away from everything, his skin too tight, the room too small.
Someone was knocking, but Tim didn't notice. He can’t breathe. Light flooded his room as Jason opened his door with a witty remark about the noise at the ready. Instead, the man lets out a cry of surprise that draws in everyone else from their bedrooms. There’s a flurry of movement that Tim doesn’t even try to follow. Bruce’s face drifted into his line of sight, asking questions and telling him to breathe.
Tim can’t, and he tries to tell that to Bruce. It comes out as a wheeze instead. Bruce’s face drops from sight for a moment, his hand still sitting on his shoulder, warm and comforting. With Bruce out of view, Tim could see Dick in the doorway, face etched in concern.
Tim felt sick, the hand on his shoulder burning, pushing him down. He struggled away from Bruce, away from contact. He reached for Dick in desperate need to do something. Dick responds instantly, bright and hopeful, in a way that when Tim looks back at this moment, it will break his heart more.
Dick guided Tim’s hand to Dick’s chest to feel the steady inhale and exhale. Tim follows his lead, feeling how Dick’s heartbeats under his fingers. Eventually, Tim could breathe on his own again, shaky but growing stronger. He doesn’t want to let Dick go, doesn’t want to lose his brother. He doesn’t give Dick a chance to leave and tackles the older man with a full body hug. He pressed his ear against Dick’s chest, listening for the steady beat of his heart.
Dick cups his hand along the back of Tim’s neck, making soft, reassuring sounds. He doesn’t ask Tim questions or demand answers. Instead, He guided Tim to bed, curling protectively around him against the world.
Sleep dragged Tim down, past his desperate questions and guilty thoughts. He fell asleep, with the fleeting wonder if Dick ever got his hug.