Chapter Text
Bruce left Tim in the cave hours ago and the second youngest Wayne figured the man didn’t want to be near him after the truth bomb fell. There was a small part of Tim that was glad that he wasn’t totally at fault, the logical and emotionless piece that blinded him during missions. It was something good to have within his mental arsenal, a way to separate oneself from whatever horrors or personal relations in high-intensity situations. Bruce taught them all that neat trick, though it seemed like Tim was the only one to master it like the old man, and it was that same trick that left Tim in the dark when Wonder Woman and Superman left.
He didn’t know what the man was thinking, couldn’t decipher any piece of information or emotion in any of the frown lines and hardened stares Bruce refined. There were no muscle twitches or tightened fists. No held breaths or clenched jaws, no gaze deflection or finger taps—absolutely no tells that told Tim what Bruce’s thoughts were. And it irked him. Tim was supposed to be the detective, Bruce’s heir in regards to his intelligence and wits when it came to cold cases and mysteries no one dared to touch. There was a reason Ra’s called him and Bruce the “detective” after all. So Tim should’ve been able to figure out how Bruce was feeling, right?
If he was Dick, he would have no problem. Two decades of standing at the oldest Wayne’s side aided him in understanding the man’s language; he could translate all the grunts and scoffs and hums with ease, and he knew what every side hug and head pat meant. Every invisible smirk and fake smile—Dick Grayson could understand their adoptive father better than Tim. If he was Jason, he could see the intentions behind his moves. Why he pressed on certain subjects and ignored others, motivations, and obsessions would become clear and Tim wouldn’t have to fight for his spot on the team. If he was Cassandra, he wouldn’t need to try for his attention. His only daughter (though an argument could be made for Stephanie, Barbra, and Harper) didn’t need to do anything extra to earn Bruce’s love, for her, he gave it willingly. Gentle smiles and warm hugs were never scarce and never needed to be earned. And if Tim was Damian––if he was the abandoned bird, the child left behind…
He didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to plague his mind in the self-loathing he was sure to lose too. It already wormed its way into his mind, sunk its teeth into him, and didn’t seem to let go, much like the guilt.
Tim stared at the computer. Screen black from inactivity and dust still covered it like a film, reaching into every nook and cranny Alfred meticulously cleaned daily. Or, as daily as he used to before Tim sent him and millions of others into a magic coma. There was still an absence of data, a five-year period of time that wasn’t accounted for correctly. In his research earlier, before he was interrupted and proven an accomplice, many news organizations tried to give updates on Gotham, but they were nothing more than a five-minute segment, a line of text along the bottom screen, or a memorial screen and compilation on the disappearance anniversary.
He knew there had to be more, someone had to have kept a steady record of information that Tim could sift through and collect data. That was what he was good at. Collecting data, analyzing different sources and all the evidence gathered to come to a solution or a conclusion. Constantine told him the reason why and how they disappeared, but it still left Tim with a gaping hole of information: What happened while they were gone?
The videos! The catalog of videos recorded during their disappearance that Tim was ninety-eight percent sure Damian made and that he forgot about when the others were transported into the cave. How could he forget them? That’s why he had come down to the cave in the first place, that’s why he sat in the dusty chair that was once polished to perfection. The blue screen on the computer wasn’t as blue anymore, the centimeter-thick layer of dirt and cave residue changed its digital color to a weird gray hue, but Tim could still see past it. Two icons lay dead center of the home screen. One was labeled “measurements,” it was an Excel spreadsheet that scrolled all the way down to one-thousand eight-hundred and fifty-six with the same numbers repeated in the first and second columns. It was the height and perimeter of the magic dome that trapped Damian. Tim could imagine the size of it in his mental map, one edge cutting through the Gotham-Metropolis bridge and the other on Highway twenty-five towards Blüdhaven.
The other—the cursor hovered over the folder, Tim’s fingers hesitating to open it—was named “video logs.”
One thousand, two hundred and thirty-six videos.
The longest ones were recorded on holidays and birthdays, it seemed. Tim noticed that the first one to reach the ten-minute mark, which was the average length of the longer videos, was from Damian’s birthday. The one after that was Christmas, then Cassandra’s birthday, then Selena and Bruce and the rest of the family’s until the next Thanksgiving and Christmas when it repeated the next year. Tim was selfish. Just like the orb, Tim knows he should watch the first video. Listen to young ten-year-old Damian explain how much he can about what happened before delving head-first into the deep end, but he didn’t. He clicked on the video from his birthday.
Tim stared at the video player, a quick second of a loading screen before the picture flickered into existence. Damian was young, he realized. Halfway to becoming twelve and just as thin as he was now, his clothes were a jumbled mess of his own and Tim’s. Damian’s shirt peeking from beneath Tim’s jacket which was muddy and fraying at the sleeves and hem. Tim’s bag was hanging against Damian’s leg as he walked away from the camera and looked to the edge of the screen where Tim could see the noses of their dogs. “Titus, Ace, sit.” Once Damian made sure they wouldn’t move, he dug into his bag and pulled out a singular cupcake. There was no frosting, nor a pretty cover to wrap around the bottom of the treat, but it did have a singular candle. Red, yellow, and white stripes swirled its way to the bottom and into the chocolate dessert, Tim’s favorite. He lit the cupcake and placed it on the edge of the rooftop.
Golden rays of the sun washed over Damian as he sang, eyes toward the light and a sad smile on his face,“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.” Tim could feel his heart breaking with every word. “Happy birthday dear Timothy, happy birthday to you.” Damian stepped away from the cupcake and sat beside the camera, he didn’t once look at the device, instead, he leaned against one of his beloved dogs and spoke to no one.
“Happy birthday, Tim,” he said. “I know we haven’t gotten along much in the past, but, I wish for you to know that it wasn’t hatred that I felt for you—Perhaps at first, in those first few months after my mother’s surrender over me—it was jealousy. And I would never admit these truths if it weren’t for your disappearance, our dynamic would have remained the same, but at least you would be here.
“My…solitude has put many of my actions and words toward everyone into a new kind of perspective and it made me realize that my anger was never, and should never, have been directed toward you.” Tim covered his mouth, lips quivering and eyes watery. “I was jealous that you never had to try for father’s affection, you never seemed to struggle during missions. It was like you were the heir grandfather wanted me to become because you earned your title as detective. You piece together evidence from unlikely sources and solve the case, you fight tooth and nail for your position in father’s team…You deserve the name Robin, I don’t.”
Every word had Tim’s heart breaking into splinters, had his stomach drop to the floor and tugged his heartstrings like it was a harp. It wasn’t often his little brother was emotionally vulnerable. Where he would lay his heart bare for all to see and let himself be the child he was, but when he did, when Damian cried in anger or from anguish, it was because he had enough. It was because he couldn’t hold those feelings he was taught (beaten) to bottle up; the cork kept his emotions and his pain in check till it shot out due to the overwhelming amount that he kept trying to shove down. Tim wondered if he was a reason Damian didn’t–couldn’t let himself be vulnerable. If the petty fights and spiteful arguments they shared further cemented Damian’s distrust in his brother. The brother that’s supposed to make sure he’s safe, to make sure he’s happy and loved. Not antagonizing him for not knowing anything different than the violence and cult-like brainwashing he was subjected to since birth.
“ I am just a spoiled child who believes everything will be handed to them because of my name,” Damian turned to Ace. The German Shepherd nuzzled their head into Damian’s hand, begging for attention. “I now realize how selfish and narcissistic that way of thinking is, and I would like to apologize.” He turned toward the camera, and it was then that Tim could truly see what his brother looked like. His hair was longer than it normally was and it lost the vibrancy it had, now it lay flat, lifeless, and dull atop his head. His eyes were much like his hair—dull and a bit lifeless.. Dark circles surrounded his under eyes and sunk into their sockets, much like how his cheeks were hollow. None of the baby fat he should have was left, consumed for energy because of the malnutrition and dietary restrictions forcibly placed upon him. “Should the day ever come that you return and that I am there with you, know that although I seemed cold and distant to you, you were the brother to whom I related the most. And I wish you all the very best, happy birthday Timothy, today you are nineteen years old but a thousand years wiser.”
When the video cut off, the screen pausing on the last frame of Damian smiling at the sunset, the candle’s flame burning the same shade of gold as the sky behind it, Tim didn’t register the tears that fell from his eyes. He didn’t feel the cold streams running down his cheeks nor hear their quiet ‘thuds’ against the desk. His eyes just stared at the screen, watching the sad sight of his grieving brother. Were they all like this? Are all the videos going to wreck him and send him into a crying fit of guilt and self-loathing?
Hours passed as Tim watched the videos. One after another, Tim saw his brother grow older and quieter in the city where Tim grew up. He saw the slow transition of Damian relaying information in a report-like manner, as if he was merely talking to Batman post-mission, to introspective monologues about his sins and all the wrong ways he’s treated people, to compilations of moments that showed how lonely he was. Empty streets and quiet halls, the faintest sounds of animals as Damian walked along the canals that ebbed and flowed through the damaged roads, wrecked trains and cars, and colonies of animals that still run rampant if Tim were to believe the Gotham news channels.
At times during those hours, when the night fell over the city and Tim barely moved the computer, his siblings had come down to the cave. He knew they were restless. Five years spent asleep as if nothing happened, their bodies returning to the schedules they set all those years ago. Walking along the rooftops, the sleepless nights, dreaming as the sun rose only to repeat the next day. Tim knew that they couldn’t just sit around as Gotham tried to pull itself together and learn how to live in a world five years older than they were; so here they were beside him.
Duke was the first brother to sit beside him. He didn’t know what to do with the confusing freedom and had chosen to investigate the abandoned cave when he spotted Tim. Now, don’t get him wrong, Tim knows that Duke wasn’t the closest to the rest of the family by choice. The kid had grown up with parents, lived a normal life, and then joined the costumed freaks, but he was still Tim’s brother. So when Duke pulled up a chair beside him, eyes wide with horrified realization of what truly happened to Damian, he didn’t expect the kid to grab a hold of his jacket sleeve as a child would to a parent. His hands trembled and watery eyes watched as Damian ran from one of the tigers from Gotham Zoo, image fuzzy and shaky with every step.
The next three to join their binge party were Jason, Cass, and Alfred.
They were just starting the second year of winter logs when they walked out of the elevator. Whatever jovial mood Jason and Steph had was shot down when they heard Damian’s voice—rough and scratchy and in pain—echo in the cave. Their smiles fell and words died off on their tongue the closer they got to Tim and Duke. A heavy, cold downpour muffled any other sound, it drenched out the footfalls and the yelp of surprise. Consumed the thud of a falling body and the snap of an ankle-breaking, but not the sharp cry of their youngest as he wrapped a hand around his ankle. Stephanie couldn’t look at the screen, back to the computer and hand covering her mouth, and Tim knew she was trying to hold herself together. She had told Tim more than once that she saw Damian like a little brother, a spunky, sarcastic, and blunt child who would play off her quips and witty banter with ease. So to see him like this, drenched in the cold water of winter, grunting in pain as he tried to walk to some sort of shelter, hurt. It hurt Jason. Tim’s older brother who vehemently denied any sort of emotional vulnerability, who tries and fails to separate from the family, and who could relate to Damian in ways Tim never could. But here he was, fists clenched and jaw tight much like Bruce earlier that evening, turquoise eyes staring at the screen as if it offended him. Tim supposed it did; the way it immediately played the next video where Damian lay in a random bed, skin pale and sweaty, coughing up a lung, but reporting the day’s events as if nothing happened.
And Alfred, the man who was the glue to this family, had merely lowered his gaze and handed everyone a cup. Tim knows that the sight on the screen broke the man. Alfred had always taken care of them when they were sick and injured, he tucked them into bed and helped them get to the restroom when nausea took over, it was his duty. One he took lots of pride in, especially when it came to his son in all but name and grandchildren. Yet here he stood, hands holding onto the tea cart for dear life, wrapped in the guilt of not being able to care for Damian.
Dick and Cassandra joined their watch party shortly after Alfred distributed the tea.
Cassandra wasn’t fond of talking, Sure, she can talk and speak when she wanted to, but for most of her life she had been mute—words weren’t the most natural way for her to communicate. She spoke through her actions: quiet footfalls and ghost touches as she silently walked behind you, out of sight or just barely in your peripheral vision. Cass told someone she cares when she drags them into her arms for a warm, bone-crushing hug and feather-light fingers dancing over your scalp. So when Cassandra came and brought Tim’s head to lay against her shoulder, of all their weeping and saddened siblings, she chose Tim, it was both not and a surprise.
What was a surprise was the rising anger and remorse in his eldest brother. There was never a time when Tim saw Dick angry—no, he has seen him angry during patrol and missions, but this was a different kind of anger. One that had no target and was mostly frustration, that sank its teeth making you helpless about something or someone, when there was no possible way you could help them. It gave a certain look in Dick’s eyes, as if he would blow at any moment to anyone for no reason other than just being in his proximity. Tim felt a little frightened of Dick. For as long as he’s known him, including when he would stalk them with his camera at the ripe age of nine, Dick was never the one to let his anger control him. He gave himself the position of peacekeeper, of politician between the silent lines in their family, he kept them from splitting off and becoming isolated. (No matter how many times both Jason and Tim tried, Dick somehow managed to rope them back in with much reluctance.)
And yet, standing to the furthest side of the group, hands clenched at his hips and nails no doubt digging into his palms, Richard Grayson glared at the screen in silent rage as he watched his littlest brother tremble from the cold.
Damian had been, in all but name, Dick’s son. He was the one that Damian went to when Bruce had been too commanding, stuck in his militaristic mindset which did more harm than good. Damian confided in Dick about his school troubles, when the snobby, nepotistic children of Gotham’s’ rich and famous teased and ostracized him for being Damian Wayne. And though Tim jokes about how Damian is a “real boy” now, Dick was the pioneer when it came to helping Damian assimilate into his new life. He helped him understand the world outside the league, helped him discover his own opinions about anything and everything. He helped him learn how to make friends and social cues and nuances that develop about American culture. Damian was Dick’s son more than he was Bruce’s, and Tim couldn’t imagine what must be going through his head watching their youngest struggles unfold in front of their eyes
Tim stared at the door leading to his brother’s room. Zatanna, Jon, and Constantine had left the manor a few hours ago and their view party just dispersed, solemn and quiet with their thoughts. He didn’t pay attention to where everyone went or what they were doing. He thinks he heard that a few of them were going to go to the watchtower, some might be joining Bruce in a conference with Wayne Enterprises executives about relief programs and what to do, but ultimately, Tim couldn’t care less.
With his racing heart and disjointed thoughts, Tim wore a path into the rug outside Damian’s door. What should he say? Should he say something, or should he let Damian speak first? What if his little brother doesn’t want to talk to him or see him at all? Does he know that Tim was the cause of his recent trauma, the reason he didn’t have a semi-normal high school experience, didn’t get to hang out with his friends like a regular kid.
How does one begin to speak about what happened?
Tim wasn’t the best when it came to emotional situations like this. His default responses were an awkward pat on the shoulder with the monotone words of “there, there” or to seek out someone who was capable of comforting the distressed person. He had the comfort capability of a rock, and even then a rock would be better because at least it would be paying attention to whatever the person was saying; most of the time when someone ranted to Tim he would mentally check out and watch their mouth move, words sounding like the adults in Charlie Brown. But now, with the guilt that gnawed at his inside, Tim side-eyes the looking oak door that separated him from his brother.
“Master Timothy,” Alfred called, snapping Tim’s attention away from all the possibilities that lie behind the door. “Whatever it is you’re contemplating, perhaps you should do it somewhere that isn’t the Persian Tabriz runner. Might I suggest the sun room? Your vitamin D levels are lower than they should be.”
He looked at the butler before his gaze fell back on the door. “Alfred.” The British man stared attentively at his second youngest charge. “What if Damian hates me for what I did? He has every right to not like me because of it, but, what do I do then?”
“I cannot claim to know Master Damian’s thoughts nor his reaction to whatever you’ll say to him,” he said. “But I do know that your answers do lie on this side of the door. And whatever the outcome of your interaction will be, you both have faced much worse and will overcome any troubles that follow.” Alfred placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder, his lips upturned with a slight smile, before he continued on his original path.
He watched Alfred disappear down the hall before his eyes fell on the brass doorknob. With a large breath, Tim sucked in as much courage as he could and turned the knob, he peeked his head through the open slit and called out to his brother, “Damian? May I come in?” He tried to steady his heart as he stepped further in.
Damian’s room wasn’t like how it used to be, which was a dumb thing to point out, of course it wasn’t going to be the same. Before—Before Tim activated the orb, Damian had been more of a stickler for order and proper item placement, keeping his room in a perfectly clean and organized state that would bring a tear to Alfred’s eyes. Tim knows this habit was drilled into him when he was growing up in the League, orders to place every weapon used in its proper place in fear of punishment or in the dire events of an attack. And while Alfred encouraged the resident Wayne’s to keep tidy, he never got angry or upset with their rooms being a pig’s sty, and Tim would know. But Damian would have never let his room turn into the state that it was now.
Papers were stacked along the right wall, important documents from city hall or WE kept safe from the elements and animals that roamed the city. Some were tacked onto the wall but the photos caught his attention more than the papers because they were his photos, the stills and lighting studies that filled the photo albums in the back of his closet. They were the reprinted copies of Gotham Academy newspapers, ones where he was the photographer who snapped pictures of the winning score in a game, where he captured smiles during dances and the perfect angles in school plays. Some were framed, clearly more important to Damian than they were to himself. Candids of Tim’s friends, of their family, the ones of space from the first time Tim went aboard the Watchtower. He was surprised to see the photo of himself when he first put on the mask. There was a line of them along the left side of the computer, the first of Dick, then Jason, Tim, Cass, Stephanie, Cassie, Damian, and lastly Duke. (The right side where Bruce kept the photos of Harper, Cullen, Kate, and the forced selfie with Harley, Ivy, and Selena.)
Seeing the picture of himself framed in Damian’s room left the lump in his throat heavier, like the words he needed to say were a bowling ball, threatening to leave a hole in his throat if he didn’t speak.
Damian himself sat by the window, bookshelves lined the wall either side of the glass and Tim doesn’t think those were there before, in hinds hands was Jason’s well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice. Their older brother’s annotations and color fodder tabs poking through the yellowing pages. Cracks ran up and down the paperback copy and a few corners of the cover were bent, but Jason would never throw it away, now it lie in Damian’s hands as he lowered it to his lap.
Tim wrung his fingers with his other hand, the pressure proving an anchor while he spoke, “l–I, um, wanted to speak with you about something.” Damian looked up and let his gaze, silent, patiently waiting for his brother to continue. He sat down, legs folded beneath him and he clenched the fabric of his sweatpants. “Has anyone told you how it happened yet?” Damian shook his head.
“Okay, um, so five years ago–” Tim could feel his heart drop when he said that out loud. He knew it was half a decade, he heard everyone else say it tensely in conversations between each other and with the other heroes, but he never quite understood the meaning behind those three words. “After a mission with the titans, I brought an orb that belonged to Felix Faust that Warp was going to use on Jump City, and I was going to analyze it and make a report because that’s protocol, right? Bruce always makes us do it for everything. I should’ve gone to Constantine or Zatanna with it first, they would’ve known what it was easily, but I didn’t and because of that this happened.”
He saw Damian’s eyebrows furrowed, confused, and he sat up straighter, listening carefully to what Tim was going to say next. “Constantine said that the orb reacts to the wishes and commands of the last person to interact with it, and because I brought it home and I was tired so I was thinking about napping. The orb activated.” Tim stared at the floor as he spoke, terrified to look at his brother. “He said that the magic keeps one person behind, to protect it, and I thought about you. I wondered where you were, if you were going to be okay—it had happened too fast and the-the next thing I knew I was awake.
“God, Damian I am so sorry,” he cried. “I did this to you and I feel so guilty. It kept me up all night because I knew I did something bad but I didn’t know how bad, and then I watched your videos—god, your videos. I felt like the ground was going to eat me alive watching those, and-and I know I should’ve asked you if it was okay to watch them, I felt like a douche because I didn’t ask you if that was okay.” Tim didn’t try to wipe the tears that fell or try to stop his rising panic. This was a punishment, he decided. All these negative emotions were what he deserved but it wasn’t enough, feeling bad wasn’t never going to be enough to atone for what he’s done. “And in the videos you spoke about how you look up to me and how you wish you were as skilled, and liked, and loved like how I was loved and each time it made me feel like shit. I don’t deserve your praise, Damian, I’ve never had. I’ve treated you like shit, so many times–so many–and I understand if you hate me.”
Hiccups wracked his body, chopping up his already uneven speech, and Tim could barely hold himself together to apologize properly. He was a sobbing, whimpering, pathetic mess, groveling at the feet of his younger brother. Jack and Janet would’ve hated him now if they could see him, a Drake crying in front of a Wayne, and if they could rise from their grave and beat him like they used to—Tim still doesn’t believe it would be enough. “I don’t expect you to forgive me—I don’t want you to forgive me, I don’t deserve it. But if I could switch places with you, go back and have myself be trapped here instead of you, I would, I would do it in a heartbeat, Damian. You didn’t deserve this, you’ve never have, and words can’t describe how sorry I am.”
Tim curled in on himself, unable to even look Damian in his eyes as he apologized, but the words weren’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to make up for what he’s done. His confession didn’t lessen the pain in his heart, and he didn’t expect it to, nor did the burned of guilt weigh any less on his shoulders. Was this how Atlas feels? The sky an ever present strain on his body, pushing him into the ground to crush mind and spirit because eventually one would surely break. Gods walk among men in his world and he’s seen many crumble from the pressure, Atlas would be no different then, neither will the immeasurably heavy sin that pressed against him.
Tim’s breath hitched, eyes widening as he felt his brother wrap his arm around him. Damian was never one for physical affection, much like a cat, he’d rather have another person within his vicinity doing their own thing while he did his. Perhaps it was because of how touch was synonymous with dubious intentions, earned love, and beaten rules and regulations from a family that thinks of “the greater good” rather than a person individually. Tim wondered if their family fell into the last category. Hardly anyone here initiated physical affection, Dick, Stephanie, and Cass being of the minority who did, but for the most part, everyone was content with awkward shoulder pats and equally as awkward side hugs. Yet it was Damian who initiated the hug, he wrapped his arms around Tim and squeezed him tight for comfort. Tim knows he didn’t deserve it, but still, he wrapped his arms around his brother in return.
“It’s not your fault,” Damian whispered, his voice shaking and uneven from years of unuse. “You didn’t know.”
Tim buried his face into Damian’s shoulder, unapologetic for the large wet spot in his shirt and the way he held on a bit too tight, thankful that his brother was even talking to him. Damian might have some kind of vendetta against him later on, he might want to never speak to him or look at him ever again—but this, holding his too thin baby brother in his arms, relishing in the fact that he’s here with him after all that’s happened, was enough. It will always be more than enough.