All Things Past
CHAPTER 1
(Zombie Apocalypse AU 'verse)
Summary : It's been seven years since the outbreak, since the bridges and tunnels leading out of Gotham were blown, since Tim has crossed paths with Dick and Damian.
When he's seemingly at the end of his road, Tim stumbles across Damian, after all that time.
Dick has been dead for six months- Jason nearly eight.
Damian's quite sure Tim couldn't have made it another week, had they not both been in the right place at the right time...
Tim hears the fighting well before he sees it- a problem, considering that every corpse in a mile radius is clearly hearing it as well. If he thought the streets were congested before, it was soon about to get far worse.
Meaning he was in all likelihood about to be trapped for days. Already running on fumes and down to the dregs on food scraps, it meant that he was about to be having a particularly bad time.
Possibly for the very last time. If so... well, so be it he supposed. At least it wouldn't be his own doing. He could make peace with that.
Still... curiosity. It had been a great many of weeks since he had last seen another living party, and they hadn't remained with the living for very long after. Even if the poor fool fighting in the streets below was having their final stand, they had at least made it this long too. As good of face to remember as any if he found himself starving to death over the next handful of days- and there was always a chance that they had gear...either on them or stashed close by, which might be his salvation in all of this.
So he heads toward it. Nearly misses his landing twice moving between rooftops. Too weak, too tired... Maybe it wouldn't even take a few days to fade away after all.
The mystery party is indeed ground level- balsy. Desperate. Had to be. Nothing out there was worth the risk of scavenging on the ground floor in that section of the city, and hadn't been for ages. Anything worth taking was long gone, or hidden well enough that you would find yourself dead before discovering it.
Tim lands on the last rooftop, across from the chaos, and stares down at what drew a foolhardy scavenger in.
Hardware store. Privately owned back in the day verses corporate. Small but tall- three floors. But not as tall as the surrounding buildings. Rooftop would be a trap. So he understands the why- if looking for something specialize outside of the norm, it stood a chance at still existing. That he could understand- just not the worth. He couldn't think of a single thing valuable in this day and age that could be behind those walls.
He can only see the swarm of rotting bodies from his current angle, not the individual that they're clawing to get to just around the corner- so he doubles back, takes the neighboring rooftop over one, and dives onto the adjacent landing, all the while listening to the snarls, and grunts, and thwack of whatever melee weapon's being used.
Tim leans over the ledge to peer down, finally see the culprit- and he can't breathe...
His lungs seize. It feels like he's been dropped into the bay in winter, veins suddenly ice, pulse hummingbird fast. He hears static- then ringing in his ears.
The man is large- holding his own despite the sheer quantity of pursuers. There's a mound of slain corpses at his feet six feet in any direction, stumbling up those still clawing to get at him.
He's wearing the cowl...
The cowl.
He watches frozen, in disbelief, waiting for the hallucination to slip. For his eyes to focus and the cruel lie to slip away...
But it doesn't happen. The cowl persists. Eventually he accepts it as truth.
When his brain finally turns back on, and he starts sucking in deep wheezing gasps of oxygen, he finally registers the weapon.
A sword.
A katana.
He stays frozen in place, gaping, watching the figure down the undead two, three, four at a time with each swing of the blade. Won't let himself get his hopes up, not when there's still the possibility of watching him die down below.
His fingers dig into the concrete ledge. He ignores the wave of vertigo- of nausea from his nerves, rooted in place, eyes unable to pull themselves from the visage of the cowl after seven long, horrible years.
Despite all odds, even though exhaustion surely should have taken its toll on the figure fifteen minutes prior- if not well before he managed to make it there the bear witness, the last of the immediate throng of undead hits the ground motionless.
There are more on their way, two or so minutes out, but more than enough time to chance departure.
His body comes back online just as the sword is sheathed and the glint of a grapnel catches his eye.
Overwhelming panic sets in. He almost lurches right over the ledge in his haste.
"DAMIAN!" His voice high pitched and fractured with disuse screeches out-
The cowl snaps upward to meet his eyes, entire body rolling to face him, stiff and guarded. He sees the moment recognition lands as Damian's shoulders spasm and his jaw grows tight.
Then the grapnel fires- claw slamming into the concrete barrier at his right, and he startles, stumbling back a few feet.
He's there in an instant, towering over him, sun glinting off the cowl, lenses up and eyes wide.
It's the most beautiful thing he's seen in a long time. His eyes and throat start to burn.
"Drake?" His voice is deeper than he thought the boy's would get- deeper than Bruce's.
It feels like a knife in his ribs.
"You- you have no idea...I...I had given up hope that you two-"
It's only then that it registers-
Damian is alone.
He's wearing the cowl.
The devastation rolls through him and he sways on his feet, has to brace himself on the ledge, face screwed up in anguish.
He knew of course that chances were high that Dick and Damian had been killed, long ago. But the not knowing for sure always allowed for hope... The confirmation- the sudden onslaught of grief was crushing.
He sucked in a ragged desperate gulp of air before steadying himself. Couldn't help the fat tears that bubbled up and rolled down his cheeks, even if he fought back the sobs and pulled himself up straight.
"How... how long has he...?" He trailed off, jaw trembling.
"Six months." The response was immediate, but short.
It's equal parts a comfort and devastating. Dick made it longer than most- but he missed him by mere months.
They were both there, all along, somewhere in the city. So very close and yet so far...
He swallowed.
Damian stepped forward, and he startled, enough to rock back on his heels. But the man only reached forward and grasped the edge of his jacket, folding it open with a frown.
"Damian?" He furrowed his brow, confused by his actions, but Damian didn't respond.
Instead he dropped his hand and turned to peer down at the street, where those that had been summoned by the noise had finally arrived en mass.
"We should depart- come with me."
A demand- not a request, but he certainly wasn't going to argue. He jerked his head in agreement and stepped forward.
But rather than going the route in which he'd come, Damian instead reset the grapnel, and before he could protest an arm snapped around his waist and lifted his feet up off the ground.
Tim hadn't gotten the shocked squeak of protest out before they were airborne, and his body was being pulled against the other man's. The force stole the air from his lungs. He barely managed to hook his ankle around Damian's calf and fist his hands in his coat to get a good grip before they snapped to a stop- and promptly shot off a second time.
It had been so long since he'd last flown. It seemed like a lifetime ago- and honestly, it had been... and it was brutal.
He felt the world spin, and frantically beat at Damian's shoulders. Mercifully, after the next contact the man stayed put instead of relaunching, and it was a miracle he managed to untangle himself fast enough.
He hit the ground on his hands and knees, hard, retching as he went. Stomach empty he conjured only bile. The dry heaves were painful, and slow to cease, wrenching at already sore and fatigued muscles.
It was humiliating- something he hadn't done since he was thirteen and freshly learning, training his body... even more so because it was Damian watching him tensely.
It takes everything he has to push up on his knees, and make to stand instead of dropping down onto his side in defeat , stomach still twisting.
He's spent though- unable to get onto his feet of his own volition, and the burn in his throat returns.
But to his surprise, Damian's hand slips into view. An offering.
Tim takes it, and is promptly pulled to his feet. Hands steady him at the shoulders, and only release when he stops swaying.
He watches Damian take a step back, looking him up and down, appraising. He fails to prevent his shoulders from tucking in, in response.
Damian sighs, squeezing his eyes shut, and he wonders if the man's decided he's more trouble than it's worth.
"Change of plans... You are in no shape to make it so far, not like this. I have alternatives..."
"Less far" sounds like a plan he can get behind, but it also means "not done yet" and his stomach flops at the prospect.
He swallows, and resigns himself to his fate as Damian curls back around his side and grasps him beneath the ribs.
Having already plain as day seen how pathetic he's become, he doesn't care what Damian thinks as he buries his face into the side of his chest, blocking out the buildings whipping past as he koala clings.
It's a close call, several times over, by the time Damian comes to an eventual stop. By then he's genuinely concerned about unlocking his limbs, unsure if they'll hold him upright without Damian keeping him vertical.
In the end, it seems he needn't worry much, because Damian simply doesn't let him go at all. Instead he shifts the duffle wrapped around his opposite side out of the way, braces his hip against the wall of the rooftop access, and undoes the chain barring access. Tim watches him tuck the chain into his coat pocket- then suddenly the door's open, and Damian is pulling him along through it.
There's a latch on the inside, and he sets it.
With the door shut, and no windows, it's pitch black-
So the panic sets in.
He's blind, in a world of monsters... No night vision. No knowledge of the building's layout. No way of knowing whats around the corner...
Damian must feel his pulse rapidly tick up, because he taps a finger where his hand's wrapped around his waist, and tsks into his ear.
"I haven't survived this long by luck. The upper four floors are cleared and secure. Checked frequently, and I only utilize the uppermost. You need not panic..."
Even with that declaration however, he doesn't loosen his hold until they're through two more locked doorways, and suddenly there's light once more, pouring in through large windows.
In its former life, it was an office floor of some sort. Desks and cubicles, water cooler along the wall. But it's immediately obvious that it's been repurposed for quite some time.
It's controlled chaos. Clean- dust and grime free at least, but the bulk of the furniture crammed along one wall, all but a few cubicles dismantled, electronics in a scrap heap, components sorted. Crates of provisions.
He settles some then.
This may not be where Damian initially planned to bring him, but it's long been his all the same.
Damian leaves him leaning against a desk to file the duffle away, and he watches his movements, rapidly growing weary. The downside of feeling safe- adrenaline rush gone, the exhaustion made itself known in full force. So he leans more of his weight on it to hold himself up.
He must nod off almost immediately, because he wakes with a jolt as Damian barks out "Drake!" from across the room.
"Sorry..." he apologizes, and straightens back up on his feet.
His knees start to shake.
Damian stares, but makes no move to rejoin him.
"Strip."
Ah.
It makes sense. He's crashing, at a rapid pace. Came out of nowhere- Damian has no idea where he's been, what happened before he called out to him...
It would be more surprising if he didn't make sure that he wasn't bitten.
Thankfully, it's been years since he's had any shame, any embarrassment regarding nudity. So he nods, unzips his pants, and shimmies them half down his thighs before sitting down atop the desk.
His jacket drops to the floor with a loud thunk. The thermal beneath, arms plastered with duct tape, come next as he wrenches it over his head, and tugs his hands through the rigid sleeves.
Tim pries the sweat damp t-shirt from his torso, shuddering as the chill hits clammy skin. He tries to ignore the sharp inhale that sounds from Damian as he tosses it to the ground- he's well aware of how he looks... how much he's deteriorated since Jason. But he's been alone, homeless, and struggling to find anything still edible for months.
It's more of a fight than usual to get his boots off. His fingers don't want to work, the knots too tight. He avoids looking at Damian, even after he's able to finally pull them off. He shucks his pants off afterwards, slides forward onto his shaking feet, and drops his boxers to the floor. Does a slow spin with his arms wide- almost trips over his belongings doing so, and stops where he started, eyes on Damian.
He's clenching his jaw again. Body stiff.
Tim raises a brow at him and tilts his head.
The only wounds he's sporting are a pair of half healed skinned knees. No points of concern.
Damian moves finally, but not towards him. Instead he starts rummaging in crates while he stands there awkwardly in the nude, growing colder by the second.
It's not long though before Damian is stomping toward him, bundle in hand, and suddenly he has an armful of fabric while the man steers him through the room.
He's pushed down into a metal folding chair inside a cubicle arrangement, and Damian starts gesturing at things.
"There is not much in the way of amenities here- the satellite locations are utilized as mostly holdovers from exhaustion, injury, or path congestion. But the water canister there is mixed with diluted soap, the rags to scrub and dry yourself, and the lidded pot is the latrine should you need to use the facilities. I'm aware that you are exhausted, but for the longevity of the clothes you should wash first. We may need to stay put for a few days before you are fit to travel, by the end of which we will both be happier for it. I suspect it's been quite some time since you have had the time and means to wash..."
He blinks as Damian promptly takes his leave afterwards.
Well, at least he was polite about it he supposed...
-x-
He knows Damian is shocked when he doesn't surface for twenty minutes- mostly because he's sure he caught a glimpse of him peaking over the walls a handful of times throughout the process, probably making sure he hadn't managed to drown, or brain himself during his efforts.
It wasn't a lie though- other than when he had gotten rained on a handful of times in the last few months, he hasn't had the means or security to get clean in ages. He's been wearing the same clothes, unwashed, just as long.
So he scrubbed, long and hard, until his skin was pink and irritated, even his hair- until the water no long ran grey or brown.
Then afterward he pulled the hoodie over his frame, swimming in it as it reached his knees, and dragged the too-big pants up the jut of his hips, grateful for the drawstring, because they wouldn't have stayed up otherwise. He'd already had to roll them up at the ankles.
But... though surprised, Damian looks pleased as he steers him to another section of the room- one that's surely changed in the time he was cleaning up.
There's a small round metal fire pit that was previously tucked into the far corner of the room now out in the open with a grate set atop it. In addition to the pot sitting on top of it, a cot and a nest of blankets now sits just beside it, and it's there that Damian coaxes him to the ground to sit.
That signals the end of his battery life. He's almost immediately light headed and shaky, impossibly tired, and his vision starts to blur.
"Rest. I will wake you when there is food."
It sounds like a plan.
He lets himself sink onto his side, burrowing into the blankets- it's more comfort than he's been privy to in ages, and he watches as Damian goes about starting a small fire in the steel basin.
He doesn't get further than that.
-x-
"...thy?"
He comes to sluggishly, eyes unfocused, and seeing only the flicker of orange reflecting off the white walls. It's night now, the windows are dark.
"Timothy?"
This time there's a hand on his shoulder that shakes him out of the haze, and he squints up at the man seated next to him.
Damian.
He- he'd almost forgotten.
Tim blinks away the remnants of sleep, and pushes himself upright onto his elbow.
Damian is no longer wearing the cowl.
Still very recognizable as himself- but no longer looking so very ripped out of Bruce. Jaw a bit more square, yet round, nose a bit shorter and wider. Skin bronzed from the sun exposure that was pretty non-existent back when their patrols happened strictly at night.
He looked good. Was managing to take care of himself far better than he had managed, clearly. Hell, even Jason had been on the leaner side by the time he'd gone... Damian on the other hand looked as though he were just as fit and well fed as Bruce and Dick had ever been.
He felt a new wave of shame wash over him.
He's not given the time to process that though- Damian pulls him properly upright, steadying him as he crosses his legs in front of himself, and presses a bowl into his hands.
"Eat. Slowly, or you will make yourself sick."
He blinks, staring down into the bowl.
It's soup- thicker than broth, far from clear, with small bits of vegetable swimming in it. The aroma was amazing- he was certain it wasn't anything he'd ever smelled before, and he just...
...didn't understand?
"I- what is it?" It tumbles through his lips, half wonder, half disbelief.
"Having only access to emergency stores, prioritizing fast preparation, the base is ground peas and legumes. Within you have rehydrated carrots, scallions, and potato. A multitude of herbs for flavor- but the pepper, ginger, and fennel should help aid your stomach. Your earlier vomiting, in combination with your infrequent eating means we will have to take things slow and cautiously."
He stared- but Damian seemed unfazed, and only flicked his eyes down to the bowl, and back up to his own.
So he took a sip.
Then another.
His eyes started to burn again.
Tim's half way through the bowl when he starts to feel impossibly full. Despite how he very much wanted to choke down the rest, he didn't want to waste it by hurling it all up later in the night. Regretfully, he passes Damian back the bowl, shaking his head.
But Damian didn't frown, didn't roll his eyes, just accepted it back- and began to finish it off.
Either the man had only made enough for him, or he had eaten before waking him. He wasn't sure he wanted to know which.
Stomach full for the first time in weeks, warm from the embers still burning, and cocooned within the mound of blankets and too big clothes, he found himself quickly drifting back off.
He falls asleep watching Damian tend the pit.
