Work Text:
"It's okay, Tim. It's okay."
You stand there for lord knows how long, watching Batgirl cradle what once was Robin in her arms, repeating the same hollow assurance over and over.
It's not okay.
To abduct a child – torture him relentlessly for an entire month – intending to crush his mind and body and spirit – and, on top of it all, compel him to commit cold-blooded murder – how could any of it be okay?
But he has to be okay. You have to be okay. Even when inwardly you want to curse and yell and cry at the unfairness of it all.
Why couldn't it have been you? You could've handled it, withstood any pain in his stead. Because you're Batman, dark knight and defender. Unbeatable, unbreakable. God among men. And he's just Robin. Dear, sweet, innocent Robin. A minor, and a mere mortal. Nothing bad was ever supposed to happen to him, not on your watch.
But you weren't watching him, were you.
"…I think he's asleep."
The breach in pattern and subsiding of sniffles stirs you back to attention. Batgirl tucks the boy's slumped head over her shoulder, tenderly rubbing his back.
"Poor kid. He must be exhausted. What in the world did Joker do to him…"
"Electroshock torture."
You respond in monotone.
Her pupils widen with horror. "My God. How could that monster…?"
"I'll explain more on the way back. For now we need to get him out of here."
You move brusquely, unclipping a pair of handcuffs from your belt. Batgirl bites her lip as she shields her body around the small bundle.
"Are those really necessary?"
"As a precaution. We can't be sure he won't attack us again if he wakes up."
Begrudgingly, she allows the restraints. You lift the weight – too light – and transport him out to the Batmobile, placing him gently in the backseat. Batgirl insisted on riding beside him, and you made no objection. Someone needs to monitor his status, and you don't trust yourself to keep an eye on the road with whitewashed hide and green hair glaring in your periphery. (Ignoring those tiny gloved palms that had just aimed a gun at your head, fettered though they may be. You've seen him chop through the same chains before; you taught him how.)
You hurtle down the hill from the asylum, detouring across the lawn the avoid wasting time with hefting the demolished gate out of the way. As you tear through the town at top speed, you recite back to Batgirl what you witnessed on the tape Joker showed you. She punctuates with perturbed exclamations, but it's all vacant noise – static. A part of you wants to think that this is all just a movie, a mistake. Some kind of sick joke, gag reel. Reflex. Someone, Alfred or Dick, will pop out with a hidden camera and shout "surprise" and you'll all have a hoot and forget about the last three weeks like it was a bad dream. (Erase the sounds of silent scream.)
But when you glance in the rearview mirror and see the boy mumbling and moaning restlessly in his slumber, Batgirl consoling his cheek with concern, you know the nightmare is far from over.
Pulling into a concealed driveway in the mountainside, the passenger (perhaps "prisoner" is still more precise at this juncture) jars awake as soon as the engine's hypnotic pulse shuts off. The hood slides back, and his eyes blink as they daze and adjust, darting frantically about his surroundings.
"Tim? Hey, hey, it's all right. Do you know where we are?"
Batgirl quickly speaks to reassure him. He scrunches his brow, staring up at the stalactites and shadowy critters flitting back and forth between them.
"Buh-at." He slurs slowly, as if struggling to recall how to form words. "C-cave." Piecing the information together bit by bit, irises lit with hazy recognition. "…Bat-cave."
"That's right, this is the Batcave. You're home. You're safe now."
"…Ho-me?"
At that moment, Alfred appears at the top of the stairs.
"Master Bruce, I received your message. Thank God you found him. Is he all right?"
He descends in a hurry, halting abruptly when he catches sight of the hunched shape being helped out of the car.
"…Good heavens."
"The Joker had him. He's been tortured and brainwashed. This is the result."
You brush past him, summarizing briefly.
"Sir, you're limping. And bleeding as well-"
"I'm fine. Take care of him first."
The butler straightens sharply at a commanding bark.
"Yes, of course."
As you begin dialing Leslie's number, you hear their conversation continue vaguely in the background.
"Tim, you remember Alfred, right?"
Pick up. Pick up.
"Al-fred… He's… a friend."
Please pick up.
"I'm going to remove these now. Promise you'll be a good boy and listen to Alfred?"
You rotate in time to see him nod, and Batgirl bends down to undo the bonds. Every muscle in the cavern tenses, but as soon as the shackles are released he merely lets his limbs hang loose by his sides, looking expectantly at Alfred like he's the only being who exists in the world. An angel who kindly takes his hand, leading him up the steps from hell. From darkness into light.
"Come, Master Timothy. Let's get you cleaned up."
"…Whoever's calling, this better be an emergency. Do you realize what time it is?"
Despite the weary exasperation, the elderly voice that finally greets on the other end is like a divine saint that elevates your own soul.
"I have a patient for you."
"…Bruce? What trouble have you gotten into this time? Don't tell me something's broken again."
"It's not me. …It's Robin."
There's a grave pause.
"How bad is he?"
"I need you to come to the Manor."
"Why, what happened? Is it so serious you can't bring him to the clinic?"
"Just come. Please."
"…Understood. I'll be right there."
–
The waiting is agony.
Barbara left to meet her father at Arkham after calling to inform him and Dick. You're alone, anxiously pacing the front parlor despite the burning anguish in your leg. You hastily patched it as best you could by yourself, relying mainly on fading adrenaline fuel to keep you upright. Even though you've changed back into Bruce Wayne, you feel anything but a million bucks right now.
At last, the doorbell rings, and you wrench open the knob to usher the physician in.
"Bruce, what in the world is going on? You look positively awful."
As you describe the situation, her own expression pales.
"I always feared something like this would occur… The very idea of taking on a 'junior sidekick'… It's bad enough you go on these suicide missions every night, but how could you have let this happen to someone so young?"
You have no words, no arguments. You can only lower your head in shame, realizing how right she is.
"What would your father think?"
The angry, whispering disapproval lingers in the air, cutting you like a knife.
"Good evening, doctor."
You're spared from further lecture – although not from confronting your own sin – by Alfred's timely entrance. He has what now more closely resembles 'Tim' in tow, at least superficially. The hideous stage cosmetics have been successfully scrubbed off his complexion for the most part – thank God it was only greasepaint and not permanent bleach – although his hair is still tinged with verdigris. Even though the gauntlets and gauche garb were removed as well and replaced with pajamas, the slack ensemble only emphasizes how gaunt and haggard he is, jawbones drawn and pinched like he hasn't eaten or seen sunlight in days. (Which you glumly realize is probably an accurate assessment.) In essence, it feels more like a robotic simulation, an animatronic model made to look like him. There's none of the spark and spunk he used to have, no more eager stars of excitement in his bold, wondering eyes. Only a meek, dead doll dragging along, a zombified puppet trailing by its strings. Abiding obediently by a leash like a petrified puppy.
Shuffling his feet, Tim timidly shies behind Alfred as Leslie approaches.
"Hello, Timothy. There's no need to be frightened. My name is Dr. Thompkins. I believe we may have met before; I run a small clinic in Park Row. Do you mind if I take a look at you, and maybe ask a few questions?"
He hesitates, tugging slightly at Alfred's sleeve as he shifts his gaze upwards, as if requesting permission. …Not from you.
And that's when you notice. Not once has he regarded you since that instant in Arkham when he was about to shoot a spear between your eyes. Instead, he seems to be deliberately evading any contact or communication in your direction.
Alfred gives an encouraging pat, and Tim signals willingness.
"Good. Why don't we go in that other room?"
You start to follow them, but Leslie holds up her hand.
"I think it's best if you stay outside."
Before you can even protest, Alfred advocates on your behalf.
"Pardon me, but is that wise?"
Leslie purses her lips in that firm, no-nonsense air you're familiar with from when she would treat you as a lad yourself.
"In order to make a proper evaluation, I need to speak with him – in private." Her tone drops to a hush. "And if I'm not mistaken, he seems less… comfortable with you around. Your presence could be a hindrance to obtaining specific details out of him. It might be easier to open up to a relative stranger in a relaxed environment, without any other adults or authoritative figures he could perceive threat of punishment from, however false it may be. Right now he's likely mixed up and associating speech with distress – or disloyalty. He has to feel calm and safe enough to be able to tell me the truth, and he can't do that with you looming over my shoulder like you always do."
The blade twists deeper in your gut, but you acquiesce.
"I'll… go see how Barbara is doing then."
She and the Commissioner could probably use a hand with the mess you left behind after all.
–
By the time you lug yourself back, covered in soil and sweat from burying the Joker's body, Leslie is about to pack up her medical kit.
"I've done all I can for now. The twilight anesthesia's wearing off; I've given him another dose of sedative to help him sleep."
Can you fix him?
She sighs.
"His wounds are treatable. He'll probably be going through a period of severe withdrawal for several days, but I believe we can wean him off the Joker toxin eventually."
That means he'll get better, right? He'll be normal again? He'll go back to being the carefree kid who pulls dumb puns and daredevil stunts and smiles cheerfully while swinging his legs, if not from rooftops?
"It's not his physical condition I'm worried about though. Mentally, he's unstable. He's been through an extreme traumatic experience, and I can tell you it's going to require intense long-term therapy. I fear this is far beyond my capabilities. …I'm not a psychiatrist, Bruce. He needs professional help."
I'm not sending him back to Arkham.
"That's not what I'm suggesting. There are other options available. I was going to recommend that perhaps you admit him to the pediatric unit at County General's psych ward. Or, if you want my personal opinion, I could refer you to a licensed specialist…"
No. No hospitals. No other shrinks. You're the only one I can trust.
"…I'll do what I can. But I make no guarantees."
Thank you.
"Don't thank me, Bruce. We're not out of the woods yet. Far from it. And don't think I'm not holding you accountable for all this."
You know. You'll accept responsibility, foot the bill, do whatever it takes to make it right.
…At length, you risk one more inquiry:
"Does he hate me?"
The wrinkles of her face soften.
"You have to understand, Bruce- the one he hates most right now is himself. He thinks he failed you. Became what you hate. He's scared to let you see that side of him. Scared of himself as much as the Joker."
It wasn't his fault. He was confused, under duress, acting in self-defense.
You're not sure whom you're trying to persuade more with that statement.
"I know that. And I think deep down he knows that too. Still, it's going to take time to convince him otherwise. …That despite what he's done, whatever error he's made, he's still a decent human being with a good heart, capable and worthy of love and affection."
She rests a hand on your shoulder, and you're not sure whom she's trying to persuade now.
"Now, let's have a look at that leg."
–
He's terrified of thunderstorms.
At the first rumble and sign of lightning, he'll immediately dash for the dim confines of the closest closet, curling in a fetal position as he cocoons himself in jackets and down. Entrenching within trenchcoats. Bracing tightly into a ball and clenching his jaw, he alternates between hugging his knees and clamping cloth over his ears to drown out the din. Whimpering and wincing at every resounding boom, counting down each one to encroaching doom; cringing further upon crackles of electricity bursting underneath the door. It's like he perceives the silver sky-webs as a creature's claws, slivers of a beast's tentacles extending towards him, roaring in wrath.
He traces the tendrils over and over again in grim, grade school-esque drawings, which Leslie proposed as a way to help "convey his emotions". Reproducing ominous images of guns and knives, morbidly stabbing, stripping gray flesh off shrieking, skeletal stick figures. (Judging by these, any projects involving scissors are clearly out of the question.) Other pictures are more difficult to interpret: grinning, deformed fish dripping from purple clouds of acid vapor as abstract rain. Sometimes he'll just scribble randomly over the strange doodles, dumping dull shades on the canvas, blending water splashes and streaks into a freakish maelstrom. The puddle's murky palette usually merges into a pitch gloom, despite providing an abundant rainbow of paints at his disposal to choose from.
For that matter, it's almost as much a catharsis for your benefit: spending extravagant amounts of money on a vast array of various arts and crafts supplies… Not for the fact you can afford it, but because it's the only method you can conceive of to show support. You lavish expense on entertainment, indulge whatever inventive whim in distant hopes of fostering some semblance of "fun" again – recapture stolen youth. Boosting confidence through creativity. (You cautiously read every label in the aisle to ensure selected products are nonhazardous before purchasing, lest he ingest or inhale; he's had enough chemicals pumped into his system at this point that he doesn't need pigments absorbed as well. Juggling an assortment of medications is already an arduous task, and you still haven't identified every element of whatever jumbled serum concoction Joker injected in him.)
…On occasion, when he concentrates hard enough (at least according to instruction to depict "contentment"), he can bring himself to conjure more common, colorful content via vivid red birds and sunset scenery, golden capes fluttering over city landscapes. (Somehow managing to effectively capture dynamics of flight with skilled crayon strokes.) Adding contrast to the composition with black masks and bats – before subsequently ripping every single sketch into shreds.
It takes him forever to simply go near a toaster again, let alone touch or use most daily power-driven appliances. Plugs, sockets, wires; all of them need to be kept out of reach and safety-proofed, as if for an infant. You deactivate all excess outlets, defuse and defang, insulate and inspect – constantly checking and conducting careful circuit tests in order to block potential conduction. (Not to mention subtly swapping the Bat Signal nightlight in his room for a plain one.)
There are other triggers as well, and you endeavor to learn them all, memorizing a meticulous list on how to neutralize them prior to exposure. Creating a sheltered atmosphere as per Leslie's advice by minimizing ambient distractions – containing within a crystal cage, a modified crib. Limiting sensitive stimuli and stressors not just for the sake of aiding recuperation, but also for your own well-being. Anything clown-related is strictly prohibited, and God forbid he see a grill or smell barbecue… One time he tackles and nearly critically injures Alfred for daring to wear an apron in the kitchen (the latter might've ended up in traction had you not intervened), apologizing profusely afterward upon regaining clarity, but maintaining guard all the same.
The first few nights, he refused to even sleep on a real mattress, could scarcely stand a couple hours without getting up and crawling to the floor. As if he were uncomfortable being on anything but a hard surface. …Like he didn't deserve it.
Even when he's heavily put under, he'll still toss and turn, often rousing in the middle of the night, kicking and screaming loudly. (It's fortunate you don't have any neighbors to upset, else the persistent racket would surely incite them to riot. If anyone were to file a complaint, not even Gordon's influence could likely deter the launch of a full-on investigation.) You rush to his side, wrap him up along with thrashing sheets (pinning his arms on purpose to prevent self-harm), rocking until he settles down.
You don't mind the screaming. It means Tim is still inside, just afraid to come out. Afraid to accept the harshness of a fractured fantasy, of abuse delivered by delusion of grandeur and blind devotion to an idol. Ideals displaced, manipulated and "molded" to putrid decay, serving another's depraved needs. Scarecrow was a bogus; the real bogeyman must've thought it funny to disguise himself to the next generation as a disgusting bozo. A gloating glutton who feeds off dread, gleefully taking pleasure in distorting delight to despair. Converting a child's unbridled joy into something more terrible than anyone could imagine.
…Still, at least you can somewhat comprehend that contorted notion, rationalize the motive for such behavior. The kid has every right to be afraid of the demons that plague his skull, dancing in visions only he can see. (If only you could leap in and slay them all you would.) Fear is natural, visceral. Primal. You know fear. Know how to use it as a weapon, strike others' cores with it. …Know the damage it can do.
The laughter is something else though.
It echoes through the halls at odd intervals, even when he's asleep. Dry, mirthless sound interspersed with bouts of hysteria, completely alien. Sometimes the uncontrollable giddy spells last for hours on end, and when mania reaches its peak he becomes uncharacteristically violent, vicious. A danger to anyone who comes near, as well as to himself. Aggressively lashing out like a rabid animal, hissing and growling, scratching savagely at any intruders to his space – or else invisible bands choking his wrists. Resorting to nails and teeth rather than fancy tools or fists, throwing a fully feral fit. Every now and then he'll disappear afterwards into his shell, shrouding in a fort of blankets like a lair as he blankly transfixes on the walls. Reducing respiration, his senses enter a practically comatose state, a half-hibernation trance. Utterly rigid and unresponsive, inert. Non-alert. Remaining stiff as a statue until gurgling amusement ripples and rises to his throat again, transitioning to the first stage of the cycle.
You don't know how to react to these… "fluctuations" in mood (wavering over use of obvious terms like "creepy" or "crazy"). Can't even tell whether the hallucinations and hostility are induced or inhibited by drugs. Can only listen to hypnogely helplessly. Pray that it passes swiftly, that the morning will bring peace.
But when he snaps out of the snickering stupor (and you have to remind yourself that he will – he has to), whose hovering silhouette will be the one he sees vigilantly stalking by the foot of his bed: a stark, intimidating outline barely illuminated by moonbeams flickering through the window – tentative but tenacious, unwilling to leave to go on regular patrol except during rare respites – even when criminals are likely running amok in Gotham each evening you don't show?
The hero who saved him
or
The man who betrayed him?
–
You ask – demand to know once, during one of his "episodes":
"Where's Tim?"
JJ looks at you and giggles.
"Timmy's not here anymore."
He's in there somewhere. I know he is. Give him back.
"Timmy was weak. A crybaby. Little wretched shit wouldn't shut up, wouldn't stop whining. Waiting, wailing for Batman to come and save him. So Daddy kept hitting him, over and over… Even though the pathetic worm needed to be taught a lesson, I couldn't stand back and watch anymore. You weren't coming, so I had to take over."
You locked him away.
He chuckles at the accusation, sneering derisively. "Coward fled by himself, ran off into his own little 'secure' realm. Couldn't deal with reality anymore, I guess. But I was strong, I could take the hurt. I could protect him."
You've done enough. Now let him go.
A twitch of irritation – or perhaps dissatisfaction. His smirk vacillates, vanishing before being supplanted by an obscure grimace. "Can't. Daddy's watching. Always watching. He'll be mad at us."
I want to talk to Tim.
"Yeah well maybe he doesn't want to talk to you, old man!"
The costly ornamental clock smashes on the wall beside your head, followed by a China plate. But you don't flinch. Don't move. Don't breathe.
Let me talk to Tim. Please.
Frustration wells, flooding against the dam – sentiment surging behind a barricade. Charging and churning until it crashes through the ruptured channel, unleashing a streaming barrage of wild expletives, a bombardment of blame that's been long building up towards both parties. Inner turmoil roiling, exerting overwhelming pressure beneath a fortified exterior, mutely repressing resentment and (mutual) self-loathing. Ticking down to zero until he detonates. You don't bother disproving or dodging projectiles, letting him lob and vent, explode into a volatile rant – at you, at himself – expelling all the pent-up vexation that's been lodged inside, driving the wedge between you further. He flings obscene insults and (increasingly expensive) items everywhere as he proceeds to lividly demolish the living room, razing and raving in a razor rage, rashly upending furniture until the area approximates a combat zone. Shrapnel scrapes your skin, but you stand your ground, declining to budge. Toughly taking in the tirade without offering any retort or retaliation. (Rather, you idly reminisce to the time Alfred came under temporary effect of laughing gas and destroyed a priceless Ming vase. …If only you had let Joker fry then.)
Eventually he runs out of ammo, and when that doesn't work to daunt or dissuade, he breaks – into tumultuous sobs. Trembling, he takes a faltering step towards you, stretching out like a bawling toddler. You catch him as he wobbles and falls, collapses into a colossal wreck – a crying, shaking, howling heap in your arms. Conflicted, he grapples between beating his paws on your chest and clinging to it. Gasping and grasping, flailing, failing to reject. His head is hectic, pounding – hounded by the deafening argument of split personas within his consciousness. Crisis of infinite identities. Separate psyches collide and clash, a whirlwind of whispers, taunting and haunting, wreaking eternal havoc as they all clamor for authority – each facet of a fragmented personality claiming "authenticity": Id versus (alter) ego versus super(hero)-ego.
The quarreling quells, quieting as his sincere side wins out. He clutches your collar with all his might to keep from sinking further, desperately holding on to the vestiges of his sanity. His family.
"I'm sorry, Bruce. Oh God, I'm so sorry…"
Abandoning dignity, he weeps openly without reserve. You wipe dry his tears and soothingly embrace the huddled, shuddering mass (so slim and subdued and startlingly vulnerable), enveloping in warmth.
"I'm sorry too, son."
You forgive – and forbid – from ever putting on the uniform again, and he silently affirms agreement. Closing his eyes, he leans his frail forehead against your breast – where the standard symbol of your shattered link would typically be – murmuring faintly through unadorned fabric.
"Was I a good soldier? Was I?"
You answer him, honestly.
"Of course you were."
Tomorrow, and a lifetime later, he won't be able to reflect on this declaration due to rebounding delirium and depression. Overcompensating for guilt by suppressing everything your partnership – relationship – friendship stood for, good and bad. Flashbacks to war but not ceasefire. Whatever foundation for a shot at happiness crumbled when he fired – when you "fired" him. For him there's no fulfillment, only relief of duty. Dismissal. Disillusionment. Disappointment. It'll take all his effort and will to climb back up from the bottom afterwards, impaired self-esteem slowly recovering from the whole sordid ordeal (only for it to ultimately consume him once again, "relapsing" after years – decades even – have elapsed). Until then, any accomplishments or approval he once sought will mean nothing. The breadth of bitterness broadening between you stings, but even when ages pass and he wants to try and mend the gap, you won't permit yourself to cross that bridge. Instead you turn your back on the tide, wallow in waves of remorse. Resist the temptation of exoneration – of salvation. Because it's easier to retreat than move forward. Beyond.
…Because even if, somewhere down the road, he finds the resolve within himself to reconcile – absolve your own stubborn conscience – you won't forget you were the one wrong, for recruiting a bright-eyed boy into battle in the first place. Lured in with hope and a welcome hearth to escape your own loneliness, leading only to misery in the end. Your inadvertent contribution to the crime was unknowingly far greater, if you could have only foreseen the cost of captivating worship. He admired you, adored you – and you let him down. Invested more energy in cultivating and carving than caring, sculpting purity for your own selfish objective, preparing to succeed when you're gone. Training to march as a mascot to your petty parade, a masquerade. …Some mentor – guardian – parent you were. For all your scolding and "molding", tending a garden of flames for the future, fanning embers and glimmers of glowing prospect – in such a short span they were snuffed out. Smothered without a second chance to rekindle. Never to ignite – take flight – again.
Even though someone else sprung the trap, you were the one who set it.
You've dug your own grave. Now lie in it.
–
You found the suit at Arkham – stumbled straight into it whilst exploring the ruins for any evidence you missed – slipped over a dummy in a straightjacket, dangling from the ceiling of a bare cell by a noose. No doubt another cruel display Joker was planning to mock you with before dealing the final blow, had he been given enough time. …Or maybe, he strung it up as a warning – a grisly example to goad the victim it once belonged to. The thought makes your blood boil, simmer to a sear, swear and furiously punch the wall until knuckles are raw as you fume and speculate just how horrendous he could make a hostage's experience. Seething with steaming contempt, you coldly cut the suspension and took it home, along with a disturbingly large collection of more films and photo albums you retrieved rooting through the remains.
You sift and pore over them all, one by one, to confirm the source of each and every scar on Robin's body – internal or external. Defying but not denying suspicions a thousand times over. Each atrocity is worse than the last, owing exorbitance and… "originality" to that insane bastard's inflated sense of self-import. (If points could be awarded for inspiration in causing suffering, the Joker seemed to be actively trying to amass them all.) Though you swell with pride upon seeing your brave warrior hold out for so long, such ruthless brutality is too much for any one person – let alone an adolescent – to bear, and you wonder if it's a mercy it didn't kill him. You doubt you could have even endured it without ultimately succumbing to the impulse to extinguish Joker – if not yourself – once and for all. (If JJ hadn't ended him, then you suspect you eventually would have.) Some of the malicious acts recorded are so repulsive they make you retch. Yet you force yourself to compose and compile, review and revile. Rue every last gruesome deed, matching to marks of defilement. …Repress bile growing in your gut. Replaying until your stomach can't take it anymore and wants to hurl, until you want to hurl a chair at the screen.
You place the costume delicately back in its case, next to Batgirl's. Someday, Nightwing's would join too, and so would yours, when you've driven yourself to the brink of moral abyss – over the edge in an endless, empty attempt at atonement. For murder and madness and mother and father and children who looked up to you, who had faith in you, would die for you. Would follow you to the ends of the earth, pledging fealty forever.
Never again.
…And yet, you couldn't return the favor when it counted. You don't know how to give back, reclaim what was lost. Restore honor to a dismantled mantle – nevermind a mind mangled beyond repair. How to even show grief or mourn anymore, as much as you lament the row of regrets rallied behind the glass. The only thing you can do is keep fighting, carry on the solitary mission (you'd rather sully your own hands, let them burn at this point than pass on the torch – inherit your liar's throne and crown of thorns, your rotting empire of dirt – even though you'll end up violating that vow too). For everything – and for nothing.
For "family".
Even then, it won't be enough. But – for now – this is how your legacy begins and ends: Not with a whimper, but a "Bang".