Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim was tired. It was a common feeling to him, but that information didn't help him feel any better. If anything, the annoyance he felt for the situation  increased significantly. Young Justice had been planning this hangout for weeks, and knowing that Bruce still kept Tim this late to finish his latest report on gang activity in his area. Unlike any school reports, Bruce forbade him from doing it from the tower, which Tim thought was stupid considering Bruce wouldn't let him take off his mask around them but allowed paperwork that tied back to his civilian identity. Not that Tim would ever correct him on it, the less Bruce paid attention to him these days, the more secure he felt.

'Disregard that thought, it's not helpful' he points out to himself, 'Emotions are for later. For now, how many goons did I tie up on 5th and North Way?'

He types out a word, two. Deletes them. Clicks out a long string of periods while he tries to think of the correct answer. In all honesty, he was pretty checked out during that fight. Earlier that night, Kon had had another fight with Clark, which had left the younger super emotional enough to seek out Tim at his houseboat. For not the first time, he wondered how much trouble he would get in for beating the shit out of Superman with kryptonite-embedded brass knuckles. Unfortunately, he concluded, the repercussion that would come out of it wouldn't make the situation any better. Days later, after Tim had finally told Dick about it, the other boy happily reported that the situation had been resolved positively- he tries to drag himself out of his thoughts. Focus.

He stays on task long enough to finish the report, and even write up the tail end of another case file he and Jason had been working together. The facility raid had gone better than either of them expected, honestly. Tim had liked that case; Tim caught a ton of guys he didn't want out on the streets dealing some guaranteed-deadly drugs, and if someone just happened to make off with the weapons merchandise they had been smuggling for Black Mask, well, it wasn't Tim's problem what happens after he leaves the situation in Jason's hands.

After what feels like forever, he hears the steps of the Bat behind him. He turns, eyes locked with his mentor in a question. The grunt of approval he gave was all it took for Tim to be up and out of  his seat, bounding across the cave for the zeta tubes.

The first sight he had to the tower was of Kon and Bart, in what looked like deep conversation, strain woven into their stances. Immediately, Robin felt himself tense.

"Superboy? Impulse?"

Their attention snaps to him, and it feels like in an instant, the worry has dissipated, a warmth moving in to take it's place.

"Rob!" Impulse cheers, leaping into his arms, and Tim welcomes the contact with a wide smile. "We almost thought you weren't coming!" he cries.

"You weren't answering your phone, or your comms." Kon says as he puts Bart down to embrace the other man, who's clearly trying for dismissal in his tone, but he says the words the same way he would announce a  league alert. Tim frowns, pulling out his most recent encrypted cellphone to find 47 new texts in the group chat, and several one on one messages from Kon, Bart- and on a lighter note, Bernard, who he makes a mental note to catch up with later- and thats not even mentioning the several missed calls from his teammates in his history. He winces apologetically.

"I'm sorry. None of my tech alerted me," He says, frowning, as he pulls open a port to work on the tech inside, "It shows I received the messages, but it didn't give me any indication when it came in-"

"Cool it with the computer talk, dude, you're safe here," Bart says, in a way that sounds like it was supposed to be a joke but came out as more of a promise. Even though he knew it was always implied, the confirmation in words makes his stomach fill with a feeling he still can't place, heating the tips of his ears to the apples of his cheeks. He considers it a blessing that neither of the other boys mention it- instead, they're finally pulling him from the room and into the greater tower, hand in hand in hand.

~

Things are great for the better part of a week. There's no major disasters or slip-ups, the time passing by in a comforting blur of movement and safe interaction, with the injury highlight of the week being a surprise fall from a kitchen stool, courtesy of Bart West-Allen. It's a week where, for once, Tim has spare time.

The problem is, he doesn't know what to do with it. He knows he doesn't want to add more work to his plate- if there was anything he was taking from the therapy he had to do with Dinah to be cleared for each league mission, it was that he needs to take more time away from case files before he inevitably becomes gun batman. But spending the moments he found for himself doing nothing had the opposite of a calming effect; he felt caged, high strung. He felt like he needed to accomplish something with his time or he would inevitably get worse.

The first thing he does is take a page out of Damian's book, surprisingly. Dick stops by the tower with some food from Alfred, and a few notes from the others in Gotham. Recently, Damian had taken to writing letters to each of the bats, and each one he sent Tim's way still had him happily surprised. The first letter he had sent had been an apology. The next, a death threat. many letters later brought him to the one currently in his hands, and he grinned. This time, it seemed, he was ranting about his frustration about incorrect information in his history textbook, and it made Tim appreciate the growth their relationship had been going through as of late. Yet it isn't the story that catches Tim's attention. No, what holds Tim's eye is the little doodle of Alfred the cat that the younger had drawn an inch from the bottom of the page. He thinks back to when Dinah had explained the different types of therapy available to him, and the way art therapy had been printed in neat times new roman on the list of choices. 'I like art enough,' Tim decides, 'I can make this work.'

Tim does not make it work. Instead, he finds himself getting frustrated at every turn. His lines are too shaky, his proportions never look the way he's imagining them, and after working on several projects of varying mediums through the next week, he finds himself sneaking all the unused supplies he's gathered into Damian's own stash at the manor when he finally returns to Gotham. It's easy to do when the boy had carved out a studio space from some unused room in the north wing. It's when he's wallowing in the misery of his latest failed project, a large canvas painted in what should have been a nature scene, but looked more like the canvas of a toddler who got into several colors that should have never gone together. He's laying on the floor of the library, face planted into the hardwood floors, when he hears the light steps of Dick Grayson approaching.

"Go away," Tim pouts, miserably, glaring at the other's shoes like they've personally offended him. They honestly might, he thought seriously. He didn't even know neon existed for those colors, much less that anyone would put them all into a shoe. It looked like a sensory nightmare given form. Shoe-form.

"No can do," Dick says, cheshire cat smile on his lips, "big brother privileges." The thought of them being brothers doesn't really fit Tim's perspective, but he's not about to send Dick off on a tangent about what family means, so he keeps his tongue to himself.

"What do you want?" he tries for, instead.

"I was just curious," the vigilante says, tone innocent, "Damian mentioned extra art supplies in his stock, and you've been awfully quiet this past week."

"I've been trying to find a new hobby," Tim admits. "I still like photography, but these days.. I don't know. I want to find something that makes me feel something, you know?"

"I know exactly what you mean," Dick says, smiling. "That's why I play the guitar. Have you ever thought about trying music?"

Tim thought about it for a moment. In truth, he had never really paid it any mind. He learned what he needed to to pass basic music classes in school, and that was it. Music had been for the background of movies and shows, and hangouts at the tower, but Tim had never payed much attention to any of it. He hadn't cared to listen to other people sing about things that were irrelevant to him.

To make music, though, he thinks, would be a completely different situation.

"I'll think about it," Tim says, after a moment. He has a lot to think about.

~

Between patrols and team matters, Tim tries his hand at a few different instruments, testing out grade school skills before turning to the internet for advice. He spends the first couple weeks finding what he likes musically and what he doesn't, and then it's to finding instruments he feels comfortable with. When he settles on his choices, both an acoustic guitar and an electric, as well as a piano and a set of drums, he gets used to finding where to put his hands to get the notes he's hoping for. The repetition of it all carves the movements into his memory as easily as breathing, feeling an ease he's sure he hasn't encountered since before - everything, really. It just feels right to slip into one chord progression after another, and he feels like a man possessed when new lyrics come to the front of his mind, feelings splayed across paper in a way Tim never imagined being able to voice in therapy, much less a multitude of songs. Because that's what they became, over time. From half written sentences strung together in a semblance of a train of thought, to stories told over the course of verses.  He finds himself getting lost in music notes, plucking chords and tuning keys and at some point, he starts to record himself. Originally, it's out of a desire to find errors in his work, places he feels the need to smooth the sound, and then it's a natural curiosity to see what the different instruments he can play sound like overlaid. and it sounds really good, in his opinion. So he tries new songs, new riffs- and finally, the lyrics he's written himself. weaved into it all.

The first time Tim finishes recording his own song is a feeling he still can't name, but the emotion of it all drags out another finished song from him. And then another, and another after that. Before he knows it, Tim has written enough songs he could comfortably call it an album. and that's when everything changes.

It's pure impulse driven by sleep deprivation when he uploads a few of his songs under an alias to his music app, wanting to enjoy his own sound interwoven in playlists of other work he's come to appreciate. He hadn't realized it would be a visible upload to others on the platform. Slowly, each piece makes it onto the site, and Tim feels all the better for it; for finally having a safe way to work through all of the feelings he doesn't know what to do with.

He doesn't expect it, when months later, a popular streamer raves about the album, and overnight it goes viral. He probably should have.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Click.

The text on his computer screen doesn't change.

Click.

The page reloads, the words on the screen are the same as every other time he's seen them.

Click.

Tim stares at it all, uncomprehending. He couldn't ever think to comprehend- this. Any of what's happening. It feels like a bad dream; feels like he's just breathed in a new strain of fear toxin.

Click.

The only thing that changes is the numbers, ticking higher and higher. He thinks he might vomit. Pass out, maybe, the way he's been holding his breath. He feels like he's beaten his own personal record at this point, even though he know's it's only been minutes as he clicks through his social media on every device he owns in the vicinity of the Nest. He uses his own accounts, burners, he even hacks into the websites themselves to make sure there isn't something wrong with the numbers. There isn't.

Click.

He stares at his WeFilm subscriber count as it passes 80 million followers. When he had passed out 26 hours ago, it had been three. He had nineteen comments between fifteen videos, and he was happy with that. Now, his notification box has stopped loading numbers accurately; so many were flooding in at once it had crashed the website on every US server. Their fans were persistent people, apparently.

Click.

It's not just his WeFilm that's blowing up. 'Rook' has become the most searched for term related to music in the past year, and, well, Tim had planned for what could happen if he went viral, what he would do. He was a vigilante in Gotham; if you're not planning for every outcome, you're not lasting long. He just hadn't planned for attention this- this widespread. He's one of the most subscribed to musicians on the platform. There are BeeEats Quizzes being written on which of his songs you are. Seventy-four attempts had been made to hack his account. Comments upon comments are begging for face reveals; anything that isn't just music set to a blank black background. People are making videos on him. News reporters are mentioning him.

It's just like every other mask in his life, he notes distantly. Except this one wasn't a mask. This was him; these words were him, telling the world how he really felt about everything. This was his breakdowns, his nights spent riddled with insomnia and desperate for an outlet that wouldn't hurt him, for once. This was him facing what honesty meant, for bearing his soul, and now the world had witnessed every raw second of it. They had combed through every lyric, had read into every intonation- 

Tim closes the page. Closes his eyes and takes a long breath. Exhales. Repeats until it feels like the room stops spinning. He looks at the clock; 8:34am is too early to have a panic attack. He takes his emotions and folds them neatly into a mental folder to deal with later. He gets up out of his chair and turns towards the bathroom to get ready for the day. He has a board meeting at nine. Lucius is expecting him to talk about his proposal for the R&D Department. He wants to go lay in bed. He has three extra appointments to make today, one with Luthor of all people, and all of them in Bruce's place. He steps into the shower, and he thinks about how he had tried to hand the position of CEO back to Bruce the moment he could, but the man had denied it. The board members always listened to him far better than Brucie, so it was only logical the role stayed assigned to him. It didn't matter how badly Tim wanted to curl back up in bed and cry. It was more in character for Brucie Wayne to want to live a life of luxury, retired and partying to his heart's content, so Tim had to continue to keep his hold on the position until at the very least, he felt Damian had learned enough about the business world to take it over himself. It wasn't fair, but it was his life. He's sliding a suit jacket on, other hand already rifling through his ties for one that properly ties his outfit together. He tries thinking about something else. He has a date with Bernard this Tuesday; the owner of the restaurant he works at has a thing with Tuesdays, and that thing means the place just isn't open then, so it's his guaranteed day off of the week, and as such the one day they always make plans around. The thought of being with him is calming, soothing in a way he's only ever felt about a precious few people. He wants to sink into it; wants to sink into his arms. He walks out the door of the Nest instead. 

He really, really hopes Tam has a coffee ready for him.

Chapter Text

The first thing Tim does when he can stomach looking at his music accounts is set up a revenue stream.
Tim Drake is a lot of things, but not an idiot, at least when it comes to logic, and logic is telling him that stream numbers like that mean big money, money that people will ask why he's not taking at a dollar amount like that, so he does. He sets up the accounts under an alias, Catalina Manea, and then immediately funnels that money into whatever charities first come to mind. It's not like he needs it, anyways- and instead of laying around collecting under some fake name, it might as well do some good- and with 100% of the proceeds going to charity, it's not like the IRS has a leg to stand on if it decides to come after him for not reporting any of it properly, or something. He sets a reminder to email a lawyer about it, later, and focuses on what to do next.

He doesn't know what to do.

He closes the tab.

Despite ignoring it for another solid week, it doesn't go away. In fact, instead of following the norm and fading into obscurity as the headlines do, his silence across every platform only serves to make the album explode in popularity, people ecstatic with the idea of having a faceless figure who's only interaction with the internet at large is the sound of their voice over melody after melody, their only thoughts translated into song and nothing else. People are making headcanons about what they look like, their age, they're making fanfictions about them in high-school and coffee shop AUs- and the overwhelming majority of their fans seem to have decided that everything is canon until something is- Tim doesn't know how he feels about his identity, his life being boiled down to some sort of fictional being, but he'll manage. He decides he'll treat it the same as he treats his vigilante persona- as in, completely ignoring absolutely everything people are saying about him until it becomes advantageous or he has to put out a wildfire.

Tim puts out a lot of wildfires.

..

Perhaps saying he puts them out is a little much- more like contains the inferno to a candlelight, and hopes that it isn't worse the next time it spills over. He thinks that that's what he'll be able to do with this one- it should be fine! He still has a complete disconnect of the persona from both his night life and his civilian identity, and sure, now he has to occasionally hear people talk about his writing of his deepest traumas, thoughts and desires as he walks past the hipsters at his favorite coffee shops, but he can handle it. Or.. at least he thinks he can, until days later, he walks into the manor and hears a familiar tune coming from the main den, the one the family hangs out in during movie nights or game nights, or even just when they just don't particularly feel like being alone.

“Mile marker twenty-seven says we're on the way to heaven
And I smile from the passenger seat

Forty miles from Star City

There is snow on the windshield

And you're downtown dragging your feet”

No. No. Tim's heart drops into his stomach. He takes another step closer, another, walking towards the music, towards whoever is playing his music.

“Now I'm circling the block around Gotham Central Station

And there are bullets flying into the car

It's the same as it's always been

It's the same as it's always been.”

Every step feels harder, like he's trudging through quick dry concrete. He wishes, for once, that this was a hallucination; that he's not listening to his own voice play across the speakers of someone he knows, of someone in his own home, listening to words that mean so much that he doesn't have any other way to get them out, listening to a recount of his memories on HD speakers.

“200 miles from Bludhaven, there is blood on the windshield

And I'm reeling as you gather your things

I said I don't know what to do anymore

as if I knew what to do before

I can fuck up almost anything”

Tim remembers the memory that inspired the verse like it happened yesterday- wrote it down the second he came home, still shaking from the blood loss and the upset of his fight with Dick after a stakeout gone wrong after Damian had tried, yet again, to kill him- and Dick had defended him again, the same as he always has- he feels like throwing up, he feels like fainting, he feels like running.
He takes another step forwards.

“I don't think that I would exactly call it love

But it's dripping down my consciousness

As you're slipping down my lungs”

He turns the corner into the room- and it's like all of his worst fears have come true, because it's Dick sitting there, Dick who's listening to every word, listening to a song that's about him and he doesn't even realize it.

“Tim!” He greets warmly, smiling- he's saying something now, but all he can hear is his own voice through the speakers and the mounting ringing in his ears that signals a panic attack.

“I want to build you a protest out of sticks and rocks I find

In the backyard behind the house you grew up in

In loving memory of all our nonconformity

I want to sing you a signal that reaches only the ears

Of young disenfranchised straight white boys

Because that would feel normal and none of this does”

“Tim?” Dick asks, concerned now. There's a frown pulling at his lips, his brow knitted in worry. Tim swallows.
“Dick.” He greets. His palms are sweating, and he's sure his face is pale; he wishes it wasn't.
“Are you okay?” The older man asks- Tim wishes he could say yes like he meant it.

“I don't think that I would exactly call it love

But it's dripping down my consciousness

As you're slipping down my lungs

Save it for a rainy day and maybe then you'll see

I am like the earth, old man

There's no way around me.”

“I'm fine,” Tim says. His voice doesn't waver, so he's counting it as a win.
“You don't look fine,” Dick says, crossing his arms. “You look sick, Tim. Did you catch something? I told you, you have to start dressing for the weather.” He scolds. Dick's voice doesn't sound worried, not really. If anything he sounds a little annoyed with him. Tim wishes he would call him baby bird again, just once, like the old days- but that's all they are now. The old days, the past. There's too much of a chasm between them.

“But even in my dreams I still don't know the difference between

What it is I want and what it is I need

I wanna see you be brave

I wanna see you surviving

I wanna see both of us

Prospering and thriving separately”

“Right,” Tim says quietly. “I.. I probably should. I'll do that- thanks Dick.” He says, almost absentmindedly. Actually, he thinks, this probably absolutely counts as absentmindedly. He doesn't feel real at all to begin with.

“Are you even listening to me?” the older man asks. He's still frowning, still looking at Tim like there's something wrong with him. There is. There has been for a while.

“I want the catharsis of knowing something bad's about to happen

But also knowing that I can't do anything about it

Because your new house just don't shine

Quite like the one you grew up in used to

I wanna come and visit

I wanna see this through, but

I never will because you're just not what I need

And I am just not what you want, though you're in everyone I meet and”

“Can I come visit you in Bludhaven?” Tim asks; it feels sudden because it is.
“What?” Dick asks, confusion and annoyance bleeding into his tone.
“Can I come visit you in Bludhaven?” He says again, voice.. distant. Hesitant. Small.
“I...” He sighs, “Tim-”
"What are you listening to?" A voice comes from the doorway- they both jump, spinning towards the voice.

“We'll say fuck the banks but we'll still use them every day

And when we fight amongst ourselves

The banks will say, "Okay

Have you been spending all your capital on causes you deem just?

You keep doing what you can

And we'll keep doing what we must"

So despite what you have learned

In songs for which you'd take a bullet

You won't find objective truth

In a final rhyming couplet

A couplet, a couplet, a couplet”

"Damian!" Dick greets him warmly. Maybe if Tim hadn't walked in looking like he'd seen a ghost, that same warmth would have been directed at him, too. "I'm just listening to some new artist Steph sent me," Dick smiles, like they weren't just having a conversation. Damian is here now after all, and his curiosity always comes first. Always. "They're really good-"
"Is it over?" The youngest Wayne huffs, scowling. He has the exact same annoyance in his eyes that Bruce does. Like father, like son after all.
"The song?" Dick says, confused. "Uh, yeah. It just finished-"
"Good," He says, haughty. "See to it that you don't ruin our speakers with something so.." he trails off, scrunching his nose in distaste, "Punk, again."
Dick laughs- Tim barely suppresses a flinch.
"You got it, Dami." He sighs, an amused smile on his lips. Damian always makes him smile, these days. It's not the same one he would give Tim; Tim wonders if he'll ever see that particular smile again. Tim watches as Dick pulls his phone out- pauses the album, his album , swipes the app away, leaving the room bathed in silence. The youngest in the room looks pleased. He nods once at Dick, and then leaves without even an acknowledgement to Tim. Dick laughs, following him. “Guess I won't be playing Rook's stuff in the manor again,” He says, amused.
“Guess not,” Tim agrees quietly. He watches Dick go, standing in the silence of the den, alone once again.
His wish for Dick to stop playing his music had been granted, and he hates himself for wishing now that it wasn't. He sighs, pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes, takes a breath, and tries to pretend the dismissal doesn't hurt. The pain in his chest is still there. He sighs again, feet already moving. If it hurts, he might as well use it. At least his fans will be happy.

Chapter Text

See, Tim has a problem. A big one, he thinks- because ever since he started writing these songs, he's been noticing things he usually didn't let himself think about. Things that ache more than the constant cuts and bruises that come with his night life. Things that now that Tim has started pondering, he can't stop. And maybe he's been too negative lately- he's been getting weird looks from everyone he's interacted with in the mask, which is most of the people he's been interacting with, so Tim knows he really has to put his game face back on soon. It's just been..

It's been hard. 

After what happened with Dick, he's pulled away a little. Let himself get more wrapped up in his own cases, and in his writing, and tried to ignore the demon brat, but there's only so much he can do from the penthouse before he has to come crawling back to the Batcave and deal with Damian, who seems to only get worse with every visit. Dick says it's because he looks up to Tim, and he wants to challenge himself. Tim says Damian could tell him that himself, and then they don't speak for the rest of the night.

Tim should really sleep. It's been.. He can't remember an exact hour of how long he's been awake, but more than two days. But every memory he unravels keeps his mind on, and just possibly, he's spiralling.

He opens his notebook at some point- when he blinks again, he's strumming a guitar, back in his recording closet. He really should do something about his time skips.

"All the good people are gone

Or at least the ones I know

I know that's nihilistic bullshit

And my friends have told me so," He sings, thinking of all the ways he's grown and all the ways those he looked up to have hurt him, even when they hadn't meant to. They still had.

"I feel guilty being hurt," he admits, 

"'Cause there are other people hurting," He says, thinking of Jason, who Bruce still hasn't reached out to- not the way his son needs. About Dick's stresses with Bludhaven, the Titans, with Damian, that mean he no longer has time to stress about Tim. About Damian. And it's not like he's really Bruce's son, just the kid who fills whatever space he needs him for- and Dick knows he can handle himself.

"And those people really need support right now." He sings, a reminder to himself. Because they're going through something far worse than him, right? They dismissal and pain they feel has to ache worse, because they're really Bruce's kids. Dick's brothers. They deserve to get that support first. Tim can wait.

He thinks of all the things he did while waiting.

"I cast a stone out on the water

And it came back to me," He sings, thinking of every insane feat he's ever achieved-

"And it broke the laws of physics," -about everything he's done, everywhere he's been, the life he's lived,

"But I kinda wish it sank," He says, thinking of the way he took up a mantle he never really wanted to, because he was the only one who would,

"'Cause when you break what can't be broken

There are people who get hurt," He says, thinking of all the people who have died for the mission- and those who came back, or never really died at all. All the people who died because his presence put them in the line of fire- and it aches,

"And those people really need support right now." Tim takes a breath. Recenters himself.

"Every time I see a spark

There's someone putting out the fire," He sings, louder, letting the ache guide him,

"But I will not let my last father bury one more child,

It's a struggle back and forth

And I'm learning, but it's happening by force," He glances at his phone, at the voicemail and email notifications and the time,

It's 4 a.m. and I'm fucking tired." 

He takes a breath. Lets himself start another pattern on the guitar; soft, repetitive, soothing the ache just enough to harness it into what he needs.

"The holes in these socks have been there for a while," He sings, staring at an old outfit he's been reworking but never quite finishing,

"But I keep holding on, I guess they fit my style," he sings, sitting on a title he's long grown too big for,

"I've been walking this road and I'm getting pretty tired," He confesses into the dark of the room- thinking of the last few weeks. Damian's acting like he snagged some sort of victory from Tim's cold hands, and Dick's just been telling him to be more understanding, that he's at that age that he needs more grace, as if they ever gave Tim the same leeway-

"I've been walking this road and I'm getting fucking tired."

"Don't meet your idols," Tim sings, perhaps a little bitter, a hum taking the next stanza before he speaks again.

"They said that you might have your flaws, but I didn't listen," He says, unsure of if there's regret there. He knew Bruce had been... That it had been bad. He went into it knowing he would have to pull things back together, in one way or another. He didn't care then- he shouldn't now.

"And I bowed at the base of your feet like some sort of lost kitten," He says, his mind running over every day he went back, even when not everyone wanted him to. Even when he didn't want to. 

"And I watched how you treated your friends, my mouth filling with bile," he swallows, thinking of all the whispered admittances he's heard- of him backhanding Dick, or the batarang scar on Jason's neck. Of everything he's seen. Of the way he was treated.

"But karma is a double-edged sword, and you lost at your trial," He drags the notes out with his pain, takes a short breath,

"Don't meet your idols," he sings, softer again, humming as he strums away, letting it all sink in.

"Don't meet your idols."

Chapter Text

Mmm, mmm, mmm

It's not that Tim hadn't meant to keep secrets. He has plenty, and he doesn't feel the need to reveal them any time soon. That's not the problem. Bernard had held him in the early hours of the morning when he was the only person that felt real, whispering a thousand times that it wasn't a problem, that Tim could open up on his own time. No, Bernard was a sweetheart.

Flowers in hand, waiting for me

Every word in poetry

He was a chef, he wasn't anything close to medical, but even still he kissed every bruise, helped him patch up every minor scrape, caressed each scar time and time and time again. He was so fucking gentle with him. 

It made Tim feel like porcelain. 

Won't call me by name, only "baby"

That was Bernard's thing, the pet names. Bear, Baby, Sweetheart- when he spelled his name across Tim's skin, he loved him in comparisons. 

It was nice more than it wasn't. Every relationship had it's ups and downs, Tim knows that intimately. He has a string of past lovers longer than Dick does- is 16 so bad at 21? Not in their line of work, he doesn't think- but he can easily say that Bernard is probably the best partner he's ever had, in regards to understanding him. He gives him his space. Takes it back up when Tim calls. He fits himself into the pocket of Tim's life he's designed and designated as safe. He can tell its grating on the both of them, but Bernard bears it like it's all he'll ever want. 

The more that you give, the less that I need

Everyone says I look happy

When it feels right

It's nice being safe, most nights. Nice being able to crawl in at fuck all in the morning and be swept up into the comfort of someone else's arms. To be able to explain all his insane shit to nothing but acceptance, and have even more insane shit bounced back at you. Bernard matches his freak as much as he grounds him. So why the fuck does he feel like this? 

I know that you're wrong for me

Gonna wish we never met on the day I leave

He could tell, Tim knows it. Bernard always knows when something is wrong. He frowns, asks about it on a Monday morning, in the inbetween between Tim coming home and Bernard getting up for his classes. When Tim tells him he doesn't have the words for it yet, Bernard accepts it.

He never presses it again.

I brought you down to your knees

'Cause they say that misery loves company

Tim knows he's been acting agitated. He is agitated. It's so nice. It's so fucking nice coming home to him with all the shit going on at the manor that it makes him want to crash out. Nothing good has ever lasted this long, and it's making him find every little flaw in the one person who tells Tim he has none- just road bumps. He was so fucking sappy like that, Tim knew that's how he liked it. When he could, he was sappy right back, with languid kisses and long massages and I love you's whispered into the hollow of his throat.

Bernard is sweet as the sugar he bakes with and Tim is nauseous off his taste.

It's not your fault I ruin everything

And it's not your fault I can't be what you need

He starts staying at the nest more often than the house boat and he tells his boyfriend it's for missions. They both know he's full of shit, and neither of them mentions it. When Tim finally crawls home, Bernard holds him a little tighter. Tim stays pliant for three days before he leaves again.

Baby, angels like you can't fly down hell with me

He knows what their friends are thinking- Tim is treating him like shit and he doesn't deserve it. Even Damian raised an eyebrow as he watched Tim wait out his call until it hit voicemail.

I'm everything they said I would be

La-la-la

"I see you're lacking in more than scientific and physical intelligence," the youngest Wayne says with his nose tipped toward the sky, eyes narrowed like he's trying to figure him out. The normalcy of the insult is almost relaxing now.. almost.

"I don't take love life opinions from middle schoolers," He tells him, enjoying the way Damian's face scrunches in outrage. He's not wrong though, Tim really is terrible in the feelings department. He doesn't really know a bat that isn't; he's half convinced it's a prerequisite for the title.

I'm everything they said I would be

He ends up back at the houseboat. Maybe to apologize, maybe to see him one last time. He texts Bernard to come by and gets a thumbs up with a screenshot from his taxi app, complete with heart, bear and bird emojis pasted all over it. It still makes him smile. When he meets him at the door, his kiss is enough to make him rethink everything.

I'll put you down slow, love you goodbye

The kiss continues into the apartment, full of more emotion than it's had in months, hot and heavy and passionate, desperate and relieved and Tim doesn't say no. Once or twice he opens his mouth to speak, and Bernard smothers it with another kiss. He lets him. 

Before you let go, just one more time

Take off your clothes, pretend that it's fine

Bernard loves him like he's a god- kisses down every piece of him, worships him with his mouth and his hands and swallows him down like it's an honor. When he presses into him, Tim arches into his touch like he needs him. 

A little more hurt won't kill you

They stay tangled in the sheets until Bernard has to leave for Baking and Pastry Arts. Tim finally tells him they have to talk, and Bernard says they will later. He kisses him goodbye. When he leaves, Tim curls up under a steady drip of water and throws up on the shower grate.

Tonight, brother says, "You don't look happy"

"What crawled up your ass and died?" Jason asks, hands folded infront of him like he's leaning on a table, clearly wanting nothing more than to rile him up- he knows Jason is playing, but he doesn't need this tonight.

Close your eyes 

Tim takes a breath, long, slow. He wonders if he should tell Jason- he knows he loves being nosy, and Tim needs to tell someone before he does something stupid.

He doesn't tell Jason, he writes it down for later.

I know that you're wrong for me

Gonna wish we never met on the day I leave

I brought you down to your knees

'Cause they say that misery loves company

Tim knows he fucks up when he doesn't answer Bernard's texts that night, or the calls or the facetimes. He's a coward for holing up in a safehouse instead of the houseboat- he said they needed to talk. Tim doesn't even give him a proper goodbye, and he knows it hurts him, and he does it anyways.

It's not your fault I ruin everything

And it's not your fault I can't be what you need

It's too much. Everything was too good, everything was going way too perfectly and he knows if he didn't make it hurt for now it would hurt worse for them both later, so Tim had to. He doesn't want to hurt Bernard, he loves him.

He's just not in love with him. He needs to say that, but he can't even click the button to answer. Procrastinator.

Baby, angels like you can't fly down hell with me 

Even Steph texts him. He ignores her. She calls him an asshole, and he agrees. That doesn't make it any better. 

I'm everything they said I would be

He drafts a text like a coward, a long, poetic one that he knows is too much and not enough. Tim knew he was a shitty partner, but he's really taking the cake on this breakup. Atleast with the others he usually had the decency to tell them in person, but Tim can't see his face right now. Out of everyone who's loved him, Bernard really changed his life in one of the best ways, and he had the worst reason to end things like this. 

I know that you're wrong for me

Gonna wish we never met on the day I leave

I brought you down to your knees

'Cause they say that misery loves company

He deserves to know it wasn't on him. Bernard is one of Tim's favorite people, and it's not by any fault of his that Tim's not in love with him.

It's not your fault I ruin everything (everything)

And it's not your fault I can't be what you need

Tim's just going through a lot right now. And he needs to do it alone. It's safer that way, predictable. He's always been on his own.

Baby, angels like you can't fly down hell with me, oh

Angels like you can't fly down hell with me