Tim Drake/Peter Parker | Soulmate AU
(don’t mind the double spaces, I copied this from my Ellipsus and I’m too lazy to fix it here)
No one is born in this world to be alone.
Bright yellows, blaring reds, brilliant greens fought for space at every surface, posters on the wall were a chaotic sea of cheerful pastels, the morning light filtered in through the window planes expanding along the wall. "Settle down, children!" Ms. Stewart's voice, warm as melting chocolate, lifted higher than the series of giggles and shuffles. "Or else, I won't talk about Soulmates."
Immediately, a wave of wounded gasps bounced off the colorful walls, tiny feet thudding against plush carpet, little chairs scraping, crayons collectively dropping in a soft thump. The most eager of all, with wide, deep, ocean blue eyes, sat five year old Tim Drake, on the edge of his radiant yellow chair, knuckles growing white from the pressure, excitement practically vibrating in his blood.
Soulmates. A best friend but better. Someone to spend your whole life with, a bond woven in destiny itself, someone to love, to cherish, to have.
And Tim Drake wanted that, wanted love, wanted it so, so desperately. He wanted to feel wanted, feel important, feel like he actually mattered.
Ms. Stewart stood in front of her white board, a stick figure drawn in a blazing blue marker. "Who can tell me what happens when you fall during recess and scrape your knee?"
Overly excited hands shot up in the air; Tim almost stood out of his seat, stretching his muscles as humanly possible, thinking for a second if he can raise his hand higher than the rest, he'll get picked. Pick me, please!
"Anna," Ms. Stewart called on instead, a swell of disappointed sighs and whines filled the space, as a sinking feeling as old as time settled in Tim's chest.
Hands dropped from the air like flies, but Tim hesitated, frozen for a moment, gripping the edge of his table, barely registering the way it creaked.
Then he let his hand fall.
"Nothing!" Anna laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.
"That's right! You feel nothing, because you haven't touched your soulmate, yet! You're protected by what we call a 'Shield'." Ms. Steward turned to the white board, adding another stick figure. "When you touch your soulmate, you'll feel a shock, or something warm," She drew the stick figures holding hands, happy smiles in their circle faces. "It's different for most, but once you touch, you'll be able to feel pain."
That's when uncertainty, perhaps frightened gasp rolled through the classroom like a thunder cloud. Another kid raised his hand, "But, Ms. Stewart, why? Isn't that bad?"
Gently, Ms. Stewart shook her head. "I like to think that it means loving someone so, so much that it just means getting hurt is worth all the risk, the pain. Someone worth being careful for."
Tim swallowed, glancing down at his hand, a curiosity eating him from the inside out. What does pain feel like? Did it feel like the ache in his chest? Heavy and complicated? Was it worse? Did it feel worse than being alone? Someone worth being careful for, her words echoed meaningfully in his mind, and Tim smiled, small, but hopeful.
"At eleven years old, you'll start getting your soulmate mark, it'll appear anywhere on your body." Ms. Stewart said and Tim absorbed the information as if feeding it directly into his brain. "See, it'll look something like this," Ms. Stewart pulled her sleeve up, turned her wrist, and showed it to the whole class. "It'll be incomplete, but once you meet, it'll glow and as your bond grows stronger, it'll grow and grow until the mark is complete."
Her mark consisted of a half drawn hummingbird, muted colors reflective like a rainbow under the ceiling lights, shimmering as if it had life of its own. "As you can see, I haven't found my soulmate yet, but I know I will soon. No one is born in this world to be alone."
Those words, it stuck to Tim, branded into his mind, clutched onto it tightly with little fingers. Tim won't be alone.
"Now, why don't we draw what we want our soulmate to look like!"
A tentative smile crawled onto his face, picking up two crayons, red and blue. What would his soulmate look like? To be honest, Tim didn't care, all he wanted was to be chosen. Picked. Nothing else mattered, he already knew his soulmate would be perfect and he giggled.
Tim tried to ignore the hollow absence frosting in his chest, digging his nails into the flesh of his arms, no matter how much he tried, he just couldn't look away, couldn't drag his eyes away from Steph and Cass.
They weren't doing it on purpose, Tim knew that, yet that ugliness bubbled in his throat, his ribs felt more and more like a cage for his lungs, burying a sharp pressure in his chest behind a controlled breath. Why? Tim couldn't help but wonder, watching how effortlessly happy Cass and Steph could be, with every laugh, every smile, every quiet glance at each other, a mirror of what Tim lost. Why me? Tim isn't a bad person, he doesn't think, he helps people, never asks for anything in return, so why, why was his future taken from him?
Tim managed to pull his gaze away from his sister and best friend. Despite the longing, the mourning of what he could never have, Tim was glad, he was glad Cass and Steph and everyone in his family and friends didn't have to go through what he is going through.
Because Tim could live it with. He could live with never being anyone's first choice, not when everyone else had soulmates, he's lived with it for years, that aching loneliness, at home with his parents, it's not so bad here at Wayne Manor, but it's not the same. What's living with it for the rest of his life anyway?
His eyes burned and Tim hid it behind a polite smile, "Imma go work on a case," Tim said, pushing himself off the couch. That should be believable enough, always drowning himself in a case, something he got from Bruce.
Duke lifts his gaze from his notebook from beside Tim, a pinch between his brows portraying concern, like he could see right through his lies. But Tim just slipped his headphones from around his neck back onto his head, blasting music to ignore any questions, and pretended not to notice the eyes on him as he left.
None of it mattered anyway.
They didn't, couldn't, understand his pain. They never had to wake up every birthday morning, like him, standing in front of the mirror, only in his briefs, wide eyed, untainted by the truth, enthusiastically searching for a mark, pleading for it with his whole heart, with his whole soul. They didn't have to see their soulmate mark appear, like Tim did; dull, faded like one scrub, one wipe, would forever erase his mark like it never existed in the first place, an incomplete shape, almost like an hourglass, branded cruelly on the back of his left shoulder blade.
A permanent reminder of what he could never have.
They didn't have to go to the doctors, like Tim had to, all alone, just because his parents were on a long business trip. Again. They didn't have to sit there in the incredibly large, white room, each tick of the clock booming louder by the second, his heart beating too fast, too scared, too worried, too alone. His nanny might've been there, somewhere outside the room, but she wasn't his parents. His parents that were supposed to be here with him. They didn't have to sit there as the doctor tried to explain to an eleven year old boy why his mark looked so sickly, so wrong.
They didn't have to put on a brave face, like Tim, hiding the tremor in his chin, in his smile, in the way his eyes shone with unshed tears. They didn't have to go home that night, like him, crying into his pillows, too quiet to be heard. Not that it mattered, no one was home to hear his cries anyways.
They didn't have to sit in school, watch kids his age find their soulmate early. They didn't have to pretend like Tim did, pretending he couldn't hear the adults gossiping about his condition with pity, like he was some poor, wounded animal.
They didn't have to go through any of that.
And he hope they never do.
Tim blinked out of his daze, finding himself in his room, sitting on his bed beside his nightstand. His eyes drifted to the drawer, trying not to think about it, he really did, it was just harder not not to think of it. His hand moved before his mind could stop it, pulling the drawer open, caressing what was inside with his eyes.
He remembered that day vividly.
He, with the upmost care, achingly gentle, lifted the years old drawing onto his open palm. He grazed the side of the paper as if it was a delicate flower petal, something precious to the touch.
His parents had returned home from one of their trips and Tim had ran up to his mother, a huge grin eating at his cheeks, hiding the drawing behind his back. They drew their soulmates in class that day, what they think they would look like at least. Tim was too excited, so much so, he didn't react to the light reprimand from his mother about running inside the manor.
"Mother, we drew our soulmates." He tried to keep that politeness, even as his voice wavered, holding up his drawing with bright eyes.
Her mother quirked an eyebrow, taking the paper from Tim with grace, her eyes roaming the drawing before a low laugh escaped her. "Silly boy, your soulmate can't be a boy." She waved her hand in the air, his drawing swishing along, her other hand placed over her heart, amused.
Tim furrowed his eyebrows, canting his head in an innocence only a five year old boy could carry. "It can't?" Did his soulmate being a boy or girl really matter? Shouldn't it matter if they're kind and good, instead?
"Tim, you can't have babies with boys." She said it almost condescendingly, "The Drake family will need a blood heir. You should get rid of these ludicrous ideas, it'll confuse you from right from wrong."
Was having a boy soulmate as a boy really wrong?
Tim watched with wide eyes as his mother threw his drawing into the trash.
"No more of this nonsense, alright?"
Back then, all five year old little Timmy could do was clench his hands into fists that he hid behind his back, showing his practiced smile. "Of course, mother."
Later that night, Tim had searched the trash for his drawing before it got thrown out and he kept it hidden.
What was so wrong about a boy soulmate? Tim didn't care, hugging the dirty drawing close to his chest, boy or girl, he'll cherish his soulmate no matter what.
But that was a merely a dream, a reality that could never be his.
Tim placed his old drawing back inside his drawer, taking in the poorly drawn version of himself, smiling, holding hands with an impossible dream, brown hair, brown eyes, red hoodie and blue pants, and dead. Tim had to drag his eyes away, closing the drawer. His mind just loved torturing himself.
Sighing, Tim leaned back on his hands, rolling his head to the side just to see Bruce standing there, knuckles hovering on Tim's wide opened door. His heart spiked, then Tim smiled, small, pulling his headphones down to his neck. "Sorry, I didn't hear you."
"I'm aware," Bruce glanced at the headphones still pulsing with music, then shifted to the nightstand, before meeting Tim's eyes with a steadiness, not cold, but not warm either, an odd in between.
There was a pause, then retreating his knuckles from the door, Bruce asked, "May I come in?"
Tim meekly shrugged, tucking one knee under his chin, slouching.
Taking his acceptance, Bruce quietly closed the door behind him, then in controlled, deliberate steps, approached Tim's bed. The mattress dipped under the added weight as Bruce sat beside Tim, silence once again consuming the space around them. It wasn't awkward, per say, definitely not comfortable either. An odd in between, just like everything with Bruce.
"Tim," his name came out soft, softer in a way it made Tim's chest tighten, "You do not need to act okay all the time," Bruce glanced at Tim, blue eyes steady, edges gentling. "It's okay… to not be okay."
Tim inhaled—sharp, releasing a rattling sigh. Jeez, he was this close to just breaking and wouldn't that be embarrassing? Instead, Tim loosely wrapped an arm around his leg, tugging it closer to himself as his foot languidly swung off the bed. "Yeah, says the poster boy for emotional stability," Tim couldn't help the little curve of his lips. "No offense."
Bruce quirked an eyebrow, a quiet huff of a laugh, not quite, rumbled in his chest. "Fair point. However, I'm still the adult here." A pause then with a smirk, "And I am qualified to recognize train wreck."
This time the smile reached Tim's eyes, "Well, you did adopt Dick and Jason. Got a whole station full of them."
It was nice, these little moments, ones Tim would forever cherish, it doesn't occur often. For a moment, his chest felt lighter, his mind a little clearer, just for a moment, until the part of him that loves suffering, slipped through.
Would he have had moments like this with his soulmate? That was enough for him to suck in a harsh breath, turning his head away, biting on his lip. It wasn't fair—imagining it, thinking about it like it could become a possibility. Late night talks, morning cuddles, silly back and forth, someone to share the most vulnerable part of himself to. Tim wanted it. That connection. He wanted, needed, it badly. Someone to make him feel seen. Someone, Tim wanted to take care of, to protect.
"Tim," It wasn't harsh, but it was firm, a strong hand gripping his shoulder, bringing Tim back to the present. Tim looked at Bruce, saw how his eyes, dark and displeased, focused on Tim's lips, then Tim felt it, something pressed on his lower lip. Blinking, Tim noticed the handkerchief. "You're bleeding." Bruce muttered with a frown.
Tim took hold of the handkerchief, "Sorry," He looked away, dabbing the cut on his lip, treating it like a minor inconvenience. No pain, after all. Another reminder of his loneliness.
Bruce curled an arm around Tim's shoulders, tucking him under his chin, Tim's eyes probably widen comedically so, muscles locked. "I am here for you, Tim. I may not be ideal, but I am here."
Warmth pooled in his chest, heat burned behind Tim's eyes, and his lips trembled, a shaky hand reaching up to hold onto Bruce's shirt. Suddenly, Tim felt like that scared little boy sitting alone in that too big of a room, while a stranger, the doctor, told him about his mark. "I-It's not fair," Tim blurted, a strangled sob refusing, fighting, to not be heard, burying his face in the collar of Bruce's shirt.
Words, am I not enough?, snagged sharply in his throat, like the jagged curve of a rock, did I do something wrong?, everything bubbled, crawling, hot and bitter, but he couldn't let any of it out. Its embarrassing enough he was crying in the embrace of his adoptive father. He couldn't spew any more nonsense, show any more weakness than he ready is. But god, did it feel nice to be hugged.
Tim just wished it could've been by his soulmate instead.
The last thing he remembered was Bruce's cologne, sophisticated, expensive. Remembered the pitiful sobs that left him as Tim cried, cried, in Bruce's embrace.
Shit. Tim totally fell asleep and Bruce totally tucked him into bed. He threw his blanket over his head, groaning loudly, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
It's not too late to make a new identity and move countries. He heard Switzerland is pretty this time 'round.
A knock sounded at his door, before it pried opened, followed by. "Good morning, Master Tim. How are you feeling?"
Tim could only groan, exasperatedly long, "Alfred, I was tucked in! Like a child! A child, Alfred! I have suffered a catastrophe, my dignity has collapsed. I don't think I can ever face Bruce again." His voice sounded faintly muffled from under the blanket, face burning as the memory haunted his mind.
"Well, that explains it. No wonder, Master Bruce seemed to be in such an uncharacteristically pleasant mood this morning. He hummed a tune, sir, truly a terrifying display."
That only seemed to make Tim prolonge another dramatic groan.
"This day can't get any worse."
"I was wrong. It can get worse."
"Oh, yeah, a total nightmare." Duke leaned against Tim, arm draped over his shoulder. "Look at them," Duke sighed, sounding like a disappointed father finding out their child had been eating all the cookies from the cookie jar. "No tragic backstory, just pure unadulterated cringe. It makes me sick."
Despite the old ache thudding beneath his ribs, Tim cracked a small smile, even as the longing itched under his skin. The hallway consisted of the usual melodrama of the day, kids their age who already found their soulmate, are idling by lockers, sharing secret exchanges, flashing smiles that made that ache spread.
Shoes squeaked against the polished tile, pristine lockers lined the wall, club posters plaster all across, desperate to invite more members.
In the middle, stood Tim Drake, hands gripping his backpack straps more tightly than he should. He didn't belong here, around people with soulmates, he didn't belong anywhere. It's rare, a soulmate dying before you could meet them. But it was possible and it happened to him. Tim would spend hours researching, hours spending on finding a miracle. Maybe it was fluke, he had thought once, forcing himself to ignore the hard proof facts for some false hope, clutching onto a childish dream.
He didn't matter how many hours he spent trained on his laptop screen, didn't matter how many times he would refresh the page, it couldn't change his fate, couldn't give back what's his.
No one in this world is born to be alone.
"Sup, bitches!" Another arm joined Tim's unoccupied shoulder, "So, what are we silently judging today?"
"Hey, Steph!" Duke lazily waved his hand, both of Tim's closest friends using Tim as as a coat racket but for their arms instead, then realization knock both boys into alertness, springing away from Steph as if she carried the plague.
"Are you trying to infect us?" Tim asked, nose buried in the soft joint of his elbow, accusingly narrowing his eyes at her.
Duke followed suit, whipping out a disinfectant spray from… wait, where did he get that from? Tim mentally shoved that thought aside. Point is, Duke sprayed the air, using it as a barrier.
Steph made a sound of offense, "Bruh, you're literally acting like I got the zombie virus or something like that."
"Same thing," Duke shrugged.
Steph rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "I literally just got a fever. I got better like two days ago?"
"That's such a small window, Stephanie. Duke and I may not feel physical pain, but we can feel the emotional exhaustion of it." Tim stepped behind Duke, using him as his shield despite Duke's 'Hey!'. "Keep your distance, I don't want to be in your squeezing radius."
Before Steph could say anything, the bell rang, and Tim took that opportunity to dip. His body is a temple and he sure isn't going to let himself feel more exhaustion to the exhaustion he already has! He had cases to solve, he needed his energy somewhere, on anything but bed rest, otherwise his mind would wonder.
He'll think of his soulmate, the same one dead in the ground, rotting somewhere, a life taken too young. Imagine a future he could've had.
That stupid ache settled in place of his heart, his heart pulsing in a way it was dragging against his rib cage, heavy, slow, and painful in a way he couldn't explain. Would physical pain feel this bad? You'll never know, that stupid voice in his head said and that was all it took for Tim to come crashing down into reality.
Trapped in the hollowness if his mind and chest, Tim accidentally walked face first into a door that conveniently swung open at the same time he crossed its path. His vision clouded at the edges in inky darkness, stumbling back as his hand slapped against something solid, something cold, the ringing slowly bleeding out his ears.
Tim blinked his eyes into focus and tilted his head at the horror being thrown at him. The teacher looked pale as if she had committed the greatest sin of her career; injuring a rich kid.
Tim smiled, polite even if it didn't reach his eyes. "My bad, I wasn't paying attention."
"M-Mr. Drake!" The teacher squeaked, horrified, hand hovering over her mouth as if to silence her gasp. "You're bleeding!"
That's when Tim felt it, something wet and warm tickling down his nose. Well, shit. Tim lifted his school tie and used it to absorb the red liquid steadily staining his skin. "Just a little."
The teacher let the door shut behind her, standing anxiously in front of Tim, smile trembling. "Y-You won't tell Mr. Wayne, will you? I-It was an accident, I swear."
Tim blinked, angling his head as he studied the woman, her soft curls bundled in a loose bun, few wild tendrils framing her face. Her eyes were dark, dilated from fear, Tim noticed, like he noticed the way her pulse jumped in her throat. It was good, the concern, but it wasn't for Tim. It was for herself.
That familiar ache twisted something inside of Tim, an almost defeated smile showing. "Of course not, Miss."
A grateful smile lit up her features, eyes clear from relief, no sign of any concern for his well being at all. Tim's unoccupied hand reached and grabbed at his elbow, feeling a dull pressure, not painful, not in the slightest, just present. A cruel reminder.
Tim was born to be alone.
"I am so happy to hear. Please, escort yourself to the nurse's office." The teacher smiled, any fake care thrown out the window, leaving Tim alone, he'll always be alone, with that ache that'll never leave him.
Tim tipped his head back, staring blankly at the ceiling above, his tie pressed firmly against his nose. Any emotion on his face gone, drained.
The day kinda just went by, the world spinning as if everything was okay, but Tim didn't have a soulmate, or rather he did but they died, left Tim, unintentionally or not, they left Tim.
Tim was angry, not at his soulmate, but at himself.
"What's wrong with me?" Tim muttered, an arm folded across his knees tucked almost protectively to his chest, resting his cheek against the curve of his arm. Idly, he sparked the lighter.
He doesn't remember when he got the lighter. He just… saw it one day, brilliant red, vibrant blue, colors drawing him in like a siren song he couldn't quite explain. It wasn't necessarily his favorite colors, but it called to Tim, stood out like a beacon in darkness amongst every other color.
Tim had a free period and not wanting to deal with anyone, not with their soulmates alive and breathing, not even with Duke or Steph, Tim had escaped to the roof, sitting on tile, watch the spark flare then die.
Sometimes, Tim had thoughts. He brought the lighter close to his face, holding the flint wheel. Bad thoughts, probably, but it was his. His tongue lolled out, hovering dangerously close to the flickering flame. It's not like Tim felt any pain, physical at least. It was warm, the flame kissing under his tongue, but it didn't hurt. I want to feel pain. Tim flicked the cap close, slipping his tongue inside. He never does more than needed, never to get caught or leave evidence.
Then he flipped the cap opened, igniting another little flame. Lifting his head, he held his palm over the heat, leaning in closely, not touching but Tim felt it. A ghost of a warmth. He knew he wouldn't be able to feel burn. He knew he wouldn't feel a thing at all.
He wanted to, he wanted to press his skin down, watch his skin burn.
Tim flicked the cap shut again, letting out a long sigh, slipping the lighter back inside his pants pocket. Those thoughts, the bad, it got worse sometimes. Tim peered over the edge of the roof, the gentle breeze blowing through his hair.
It wouldn't hurt. He had thought one time. It'd be so easy. But Tim never went through with it. It was just thoughts, his family wouldn't understand if he told them. They'll think he's serious, would probably want to lock him up or have him seek professional help.
It was just bad thoughts.
By the time school ended, Tim was walking down the hall, Duke by his side and Steph trailing a couple of feet behind because Duke and Tim were serious about not getting sick.
Steph vocally complained about it, but she obeyed.
"How about we walk to Bat Burgers?" suggested Duke, "I could use some greasy delight."
Tim half shrugged. "Sure," he glanced at his blood soaked tie, then looked at Duke, wanting to focus on anything but the googly eyes two couples were giving each other. His grip on his backpack strap tightened.
Tim didn't pay attention, he usually didn't, stuck in an in between, half alert, half asleep. Words spilled form his mouth, Tim just wouldn't be able to say what exactly he was saying. He was responding to whatever Duke was saying and threw comments back at Steph. The world felt… far, underwater would be a better way of explaining. Physical, Tim was present. Mentally, emotionally, he was curled up in the gave beside his soulmate.
They were walking down the busy streets of Gotham, shoulders bumping into his despite his mindless efforts to avoid. It didn't matter anyway, it was just something to be easily forgotten.
Then someone brushed against him, shoulders almost touching, a gentle caress of a finger brushed against Tim's, a warm tingly zing shooting up his arm, immediately locking his muscles in place, stealing his breath away.
Somehow, among the impatient honks, roars of engines, screeching of tires, thumping of footsteps—despite the city breathing, Tim heard it, clear as day, a quiet, too quiet, a hurried, almost muffled, "Sorry," and when Tim turned to look, he only saw a crowd of unfamiliar faces.
His brows pitched tightly, peeking down at his hand, more specifically at his pinkie finger, the warmth fleeting, gone as soon as it came. The thing was… it didn't hurt. Tim knew it wasn't pain. But it was weird.
Damn it, Steph. Tim sighed. He swears, if Steph ends up getting him sick, he'll definitely get back at her.
It was the first crime of the night, Tim leaned against his extended bo staff, having a lazy smirk that dipped into that shit eating category. "You know," the collective inhale of sharp breaths did not go unnoticed, "There are easier ways to get energy. Ever tried espresso? Not really my thing, but boy, it works wonders! And it involves significantly less jail time. Who would've thought?"
It was three of them, considerably taller, bulkier than Tim, fun, standing around a car, hood pitched up, crowbars resting by the car bumper. Oh, Jason would have a field day.
"Shit—it's the bird!" The shorter of the three staggered a step back, growing whiter than a sheet, short of bolting. Good choice—for once.
"Calm down!" The man who was attempting to steal the car battery, hair slicked back by grease, pastier than the dude wanting to flee, turned to face Tim with a cocky grin. "It's just the baby bird, I don't see the Bat."
Tim rolled his shoulders back casually, straightening his back. "Baby bird? Oh, that's cute. Really cute. I wonder what that makes you guys," Tim kicked his bo staff and twirled it easily, before letting it rest on his shoulder. "I think I'll be nice, why don't you leave the car battery alone and I won't kick your ass so hard you'll be drinking out of a straw for months, like the last guy I dealt with."
The third guy, Quiet, Tim will call him, cause well, he hasn't spoken at all, snatched up a crowbar on his way to charge at Tim.
Tim just sighed, sounding older than he is, disappointed by the youth. "I mean it's your medical bills." He could practically see the attack from the future, predictable. Tim faked a yawn, side stepping and hitting his staff against Quiet's back, hearing him tumble into a cluster of small metal trash cans, essentially knocking himself out. "Oh, I was kinda expecting, I don't know, a fight?"
Greasy hair moved to stick, Tim easily blocking with his Bo staff, directing his knee straight into the guy's side. Hard. Tim laughed, enjoying the adrenaline of the fight, with no real stakes at, well, at stake. Greasy hair didn't really put much of a fight, but Tim sure did took his time with him, probably bullying him more than he should've, but in Tim's defense, he did give them the option to walk away.
It's seriously on their hands for any broken ribs.
A sharp, an agonizing intrusion, alien, so wrong, so blinding, Tim didn't even hear his own cries, not until he was down on his knees, trembling fingers clutching his side. A static unlike any other jolted in his blood, white-hot and wrong, so, so wrong. His cries doesn't quiet, its ripping out from his very soul, tears freely falling from his eyes, barely concealed behind his mask.
His world blur, colors bleeding into each other, figures disappearing into nothing, distant, so distant voices calling out him. His brain scrambles desperately to interpret the damage, wild eyes zoning in on the knife sticking out of his side.
He forgot about the skittish guy.
Tim muted a cry, biting hard on his lip until he could taste metallic, feel a sting, sharp and real.
It almost sounded like Bruce. He sounded so, so far away.
"Robin! Report! What happened!"
Tim hears them, faintly, but he doesn't see them. Bruce, where are you? He wanted to say, mouth opening just to spill more choked sobs.
Tim hears static in his ears, followed by a voice… Barbara? But Tim doesn't see her? Where is she? Where everywhere? Why won't this feeling go away? What's happening?
"—location—Batman!—losing him—" then sweet, sweet silence. Only, he's still crying, gripping the handle of the knife and with gritted teeth, he pulled it out, feeling something hot gush out immediately, feeling it fill his throat. The knife clattered painfully loud against the asphalt, as Tim tried to seal the red river pooling out of him.
Was this… pain? Real physical pain? Tim's been stabbed before and it has never, ever felt like this. Like his whole body was… was on fire. Just too hot, hotter than anything he's ever felt. Hotter than he can ever imagine.
Tim couldn't have met them—they're dead. Dead. Rotten down to the bones, somewhere. This can't be… can it?
Tim smiled. He actually, genuinely smile, feeling a laugh roll out of his heaving chest as his tears wouldn't stop falling, and then he sobbed, whimpering alone in an alleyway, his location lost, of course it would be, and now that he felt pain, actual searing, excruciating pain.
With his vision spotting, he caught a glimpse of beautiful red and blue, then darkness.
