Chapter Text
Green. It was all green. The green was eating him alive, yet giving him salvation.
It was his hands, molten, glowing green. All around him. His eyes burned, his mouth opened to scream yet nothing came out. Not even a breath. His clothes were sticking to his skin, he couldn’t move.
Then.
His mind opened.
Mirages of images attacked his mind. Black hair- No no, brown- green, surely- a smile, a smile placed on him- it was dimpled- yet, all he saw on their- her- his- their cheeks was scars. His hand- no, no hand. He didn't have hands. Yet, he did. And it reached out to the laughing- crying- laughing person.
It changed. Someone was holding him- them- him. Soft- calloused- rough- hands held him, rocking them back and forth, murmurs- too loud, it was burning his ear, and all they were repeating was ‘Tim. Tim.’ That was his name, correct?
Bat. Bats everywhere, attacking him, cradling him, killing him- No no they were owls. Owls? No no, surely Tim was mistaken. No-one was hurting him. Where was he? What was he? The green was still here. Was he the green?
Pain. Oh god, oh god, agony, hot and cold agony swirling through his body, like a siren, up and down in a mocking dance. Pinpricks, knives, ice, fire. Was he in hell? Had he sinned? His mouth- Where was his mouth? He had no mouth- opened to scream. He must scream. To alert someone of his presence- Was he present?
He needed someone. He needed his mother- who was his mother? The one with coloured hair who embraced him with sharp claws? Or the one who looked so achingly like him, that she herself stopped looking? Mother. Mother, where are you?
His father, perhaps? His mouth- he didn’t have one. Everyone had one, but Tim didn’t, he never deserved it, he never used it- opened to call- who? Who was his father? The man who had the night follow him, or the man who died in his arms?- Laughing, laughing, why won’t he stop, stop fucking laughing, stop laughing, you are not my father, you are a monster-
His eyes opened. Timothy Jackson Drake woke up.
His mouth- when had he gotten a mouth?- opened, and out came acid, coating the white marble floor in which he sat. His stomach lurched, and more bile rose in his throat, undignified gagging leaving his mouth as he emptied the contents of his stomach. More green liquid splattered on the floor, marring the pure marble with filth as Tim doubled over, his hands slithering up to interlock on his churning abdomen.
It hurt. His empty stomach desperately searching for something to eject while Tim sat on the cold marble. Cold. It was so cold. Tim shivered, his mouth dry, then wet with excess saliva, as he gagged and ejected more bile. Though, it was more spit than bile. There was nothing to puke up.
His eyes fluttered close as his gagging died down. His skull cradled a baby headache as Tim debated falling forward and collapsing on the cold marble beneath him. He almost did, but the repulsive sour stench of puke kept him from it. He doubted he smelt better, he could still smell the metallic scent of blood that hit him, and the sharp blade which rested near him.
What… He couldn’t even finish the sentence, all that was swirling around Tim’s mind was one singular word. What? His eyes burned with green and he gasped, his eyes flying back open. The Lazarus Pit. Tim gagged again, his hand shooting up to slap against his mouth. He had been dropped into the Lazarus Pit.
His blurry eyes darted around the- bathroom? Why was he in the bathroom? And his… his childhood bathroom, no doubt. Tim willed his shaky legs to support his weight as he stumbled upright, his tremor filled hands landing on the quartzite sink in front of him, his body falling towards where his hand lay. His waist roughly connected with the sink and he winced.
Tim met his own eyes in the mirror. He looked terrible. Tim looked back down. He ignored the knife on the floor. And the rope discarded on the side.
There must be a catch. No human ever comes out of the Lazarus Pit unscathed. Especially since he was in his Manor bathroom. He hasn’t visited the Manor in years, let alone lived in it. Something must be wrong. Time travel? Something sacrificial? He had to find out. Tim clenched his hands into trembling fists as he stared at the pure white underneath him. He had to find out.
He pushed himself up, swallowing down the taste of sour bile, and walked over the puddle of red and green puke on the floor… which was concerning, but he would deal with it later. He would clean it later. Tim exited the bathroom and into his room. It was messy, blankets strewn, pillows on the floor. Green on the bed sheets. He would clean that later as well. His eyes darted around. Skateboard, DnD board, camera- laptop. Perfect.
Tim collapsed on the desk chair, a shaky sigh leaving his mouth as his muscles contracted, the pain finally hitting him. It was no time to dwell however, so Tim opened his laptop. The background was different. It was not the picture he took with his family. It was the best he could capture, with Damian scowling in Dick’s arms. The best part was that Tim wasn’t in the photo.
Now it was black. Somehow, seeing the black made him feel worse.
The password was the same. His mother’s birthday.
He opened GothNet and started typing. First, the date. December 1st. It’s been a month. Tim released a shaky breath and continued. He searched up ‘Bruce Wayne’ and pressed enter. Bruce’s face showed up, smiling and waving away paparazzi as the description on the right wrote ‘Gothamite, Model, Businessman.’ Model? That was new.
Tim backspaced and searched up ‘Batman.’ The results made him blink. There were no blurry images of a black figure, rather… articles? ‘Batman; More Harm Than Good?’ , ‘The True Identity of Batman.’ , and ‘The Rise of The Bats.’ all greeted his eyes. That couldn’t be. Batman wasn’t… speculated mafia group?! No no no, they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. His mouse scrolled down. ‘Batman’s most infamous case.’ Hm. He clicked play, and-
Stephanie. Stephanie was the person who was covering this ‘cold case.’ Wasn’t she a part of the- and Tim’s stomach churned while thinking about it- Bats?
“Hey guys! How are you all doing? Today I am…”
Weird. Must be her civilian disguise. He opened another tab and searched ‘Members of Bats.’ There was no result, only threads of put together theories. He scrolled and scrolled, but no mention of anything besides Batman and a theorized Robin. They were right. Maybe they were operating differently?
Then, Tim made his mistake. He searched up ‘Oracle.’ To no-one's surprise, articles of Greek Mythology came up. No. That wasn’t what he wanted. He searched up ‘Spoiler.’ No results, only a guide on not spoiling movies and games. ‘Red Hood.’ Did you mean: Red Robin. His laptop glitched slightly. No. He didn’t. Lastly, he searched up ‘Nightwing.’ His laptop was glitching again, but he needed to know. ‘Robin.’ Another tab. ‘Batman.’ Another tab. ‘Barbara Gordon.’ Another. ‘Dick Grayson.’ Another, another another another another another-
Stephanie's voice stopped, stuttered on the syllable she was in. Again and again. Tim jerked back, the high pitch and excited voice drowning out in a scream, ringing against his ears. His computer shut down, his reflection in the inky black of his closed screen. Silence. The clock goes tick and tick and tick. Tim’s breath is shallow as he stares at the closed screen. His charger was still on. His laptop camera was beeping.
He felt bugs crawl on his back. His shaking hands grabbed the top part of the screen and slammed the laptop close. What the fuck? What the fuck? What did he get himself into? His vision blurred, the stickers on his laptop an unintelligible mess. What was he going to do? Why did the camera beep? What-
His phone rang. Tim flinched, his eyes darting to his phone. It had a clear phone case, a photo of a poppy on the cover. Janet’s favorite flower. No photo of Dick and him in the circus when they were little, in which Dick and him had both put on.
He picked up the phone. ‘Mother.’ No. Janet Drake was dead. And Ha- no. No, she was not his mother. He pressed accept and pressed it to his ear.
“Hello, Timothy?”
Silence. Tim pressed the phone closer, his mothers voice reverberated in his ear. Janet Drake. Her sharp yet gentle tone, the way she heightened every last syllable she said so that it sounded like a question. Tim blinked away the ache in his eyelids. It was really her. His chest ached horribly for a moment, before he regained his composure.
“Hello mother. How is your… trip?”
“Hm. It’s satisfactory. Have you been studying? Any tests I should know about? How’s the business?”
He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything, except for the family he was wretched away from, and the blurry memories of what was meant to be, but never happened.
“Yes. No tests for now, the business is good.” He hoped that would suffice.
“Good.” Tim hated the way his heart palpitated louder when his mother praised him. “We’ll send a suit in a week or so for Master Wayne's ball you will go to..” The name sounded venomous in her tone.
Tim didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything over the way his throat felt like tar covered its every surface and his eyes started trembling. All that left his mouth was the sound of his breath hitching painfully in his throat.
A sigh. “Timothy, did you have that nightmare again? I told you to take the melatonin pills Mrs. Mac gave you.”
“Sorry… Sorry Mom.”
“Hm. We’ll call you later. Father says hello. Take your medication.”
A clicking noise. The call ended. He was alone, in his room, in his Manor. He looked around at the open bathroom door, then at the bed which had a glowing green substance on it.
He forgot how much he was scared of being alone. Or… was he really alone?
His laptop camera was still beeping.