10Before I Hit The Road
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It was idiotic.
Stupid, hare-brained, careless – the sort of thing none of them would ever do. Alertness was drilled into their core; they're trained to know their limitations.
So, Tim isn't dead.
Tim can't be dead.
Dick walks towards the morgue, because Bruce is out of contact and Damian hasn't even been informed of the incident yet. Dick has been dragged out of the office to identify the corpse of some sorry bastard who looks a little too much like Tim.
He doesn't like the way people look at him as he's guided down the corridor. It's too familiar, too close, too soon, and he suppresses a shudder.
Tim isn't dead.
The morgue isn't an unfamiliar place. The air is cool, the smell of cleaning agents strong along with the nearly irascible tinge of flesh. The coroner pulls the cloth back.
The corpse is Tim. Except it can't be Tim.
Dick is shaking. Dick is on the floor. His legs have disconnected, and he holds onto Tim's hand. It's cold, it's stiff, it smells cleaned, and the investigator has some questions, Mr. Grayson.
It has to be fake. Tim has survived so much, how could he have died from a car crash?
He needs to call Bruce. This has to be some sort of new plot or scheme, although he's not sure what it can be. Maybe Tim is finally getting back at him for faking his death. Maybe this is … some sort of fluke. Everyone has a lookalike somewhere in the world, don't they?
Dick sits on a chair and doesn't know how he got there. There's a police officer sitting in front of him, a mixture of sympathy and concern in his eyes. Dick knows this man, vaguely, knows he's good at what he does and the GCPD is all the better for his involvement.
"We discovered some curious injuries on your brother, Mr. Grayson."
Dick swallows. "That body … is not my brother."
"Pardon?" The officer – he can't remember the name now, doesn't need to, it doesn't matter – leans forward, interest igniting in his eyes. "Are you saying Mr. Drake is alive, Mr. Grayson?"
It's an effort to bring his eyes to meet the officer's but sometimes a little goes a long way. "My brother isn't dead."
"I'm afraid he is, Mr. Grayson." Sympathy clouds the man's eyes once more and if Dick wasn't already drowning under water, he would be shouting, would be screaming and hitting the desk with his fist and demanding a dental match, demanding that someone find his real brother. "The DNA results have yet to return, but his ID was found at the site of the crash, and-"
"Officer," Dick says, almost patronizingly, "My brother wouldn't get into a car crash."
Tim is so meticulous, so careful, so analytic … he would never…
The officer tells Dick a story. He weaves with simple, formal words that tell a tale in which Tim has been worked to over exhaustion. A story where Tim is bruised and bandaged and broken beneath his suit with a stomach content of coffee and not much else. A story where Tim fell asleep behind the wheel and ran into a truck piled high with metal poles. A story where Tim was speared in several places and lived for all of maybe half an agonizing minute before he died.
But Tim isn't dead.
Tim can't be dead.
The story is a lie.
Can Mr. Grayson account for his brother's undocumented injuries and scars? Why is Mr. Drake's spleen missing? Does Dick know what's been going on in Tim's life? Has Dick been in contact with Tim recently?
The last question breaks through the surface, crashing into the water with a powerful wave that ripples through the mighty depths unseen. And Dick's unbridled rage surges forth and wreaks havoc on the man.
Did he think Dick would hurt his own brother? Did he think Dick would let anyone hurt Tim if he knew? Did he think – did he think–
Is he right?
Is Tim dead?
Dick excuses himself and calls Bruce.
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There is no scheme.
Dick calls Bruce a liar and hangs up. He ignores Bruce's calls, refuses to read the text messages pinging his phone one after the other. He turns off his phone–
And finds himself face-to-face with Alfred.
"It's not him, right, Alfred?" he asks because Alfred will not lie. Alfred will tell him only the truth, and the truth is–
Alfred looks old, looks haunted, and he wraps his arms around Dick and says, "I'm so sorry, my boy."
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This is the truth.
Tim was-is-was a vigilante, head of one of the biggest companies in Gotham, and a high school dropout. Tim worked alone, for the most part, and handled his own cases; he had problems and injuries, and too many nights he didn't eat or sleep properly. Or at all.
The truth is that Tim had lost his spleen, and the only real solution was to maintain a healthy lifestyle.
The truth is that Tim's body collapsed from neglect while he was driving, and he ran into the truck in front of him.
Tim is dead, because of things that should have been manageable, things that shouldn't have been deadly, and there is no one and everyone to blame.
This is the truth.
Bruce is called back to Gotham, and he is silent and cold to approach. Damian is … trying to be the same, but Dick knows bravado when he sees it. Alfred seems older now, and there is a video from the security cameras in the kitchen area that cannot be explained.
They're being investigated. It's insulting, but inevitable, considering everything the coroner's report turned up. There are rumors and all sorts of articles in the newspapers and magazines…
It's tiring.
Dick is tired.
He's stepping down – maybe temporarily, maybe not – and he sorts Tim's things. He goes to Tim's apartment and sees how it still waits for someone who will never come home. He's packing Tim's life into cardboard boxes, trying to choose what should be kept – he has a suspicion he's putting too many things into the 'KEEP' box, but he'll leave it to the others to narrow down which things actually end up staying with them.
The funeral is tomorrow.
There are so many things he never said, that he never explained, and what will he say at the eulogy? What can he say for the brother he never fully reconciled with when he can't hear any of it?
Why did he wait?
In the closet, Dick finds a box of old photos, from the time when people still developed film. Most of it is from Tim's days ghosting after Batman and Robin, but there's an old, framed picture that catches his eye.
It's the first, the one that started it all: the photo the Drakes had requested with the Flying Graysons so long ago.
He looks down at the old photograph, his thumb rubbing tenderly over the faces frozen in time, encased in glass. Life was so much simpler then, so innocent.
Carefully, Dick places the framed picture in the correct box, and runs a hand over his face. There's a weight that settles onto his shoulders when he finally straightens up and surveys his progress so far. It's not encouraging; there's still so much to go through, he'll probably be busy for the next week and he doesn't know whether he wants to give up and ask for help, ask for someone to sort Tim's old possessions with him, more than he wants this to himself - to see what Tim left behind, and maybe have this one last thing, have one last moment between Tim and himself.
At the bottom of one of the drawers is Dick's old university sweater, and he laughs, shakily. So, that's where it went; he didn't even notice.
There's a lot he never noticed. But that's what you get from the kid who stalked Batman without ever getting close to being caught.
Dick laughs until he sobs, and it's got to be a pathetic sight: a grown-ass man sitting on the floor of an emptied apartment, crying over a worn out sweater he didn't even realize was missing until now.
"I'm sorry," he gasps in between tears. And it's so cliché and so incredibly useless because it's too fucking late. "God, Tim, I'm so sorry! I'm sorry I lied about dying, I'm sorry I didn't believe you, I'm sorry I didn't talk to you about giving Robin to Damian, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry…"
He chokes. "I love you, little brother."
A week ago, that might have meant something.
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Author's Note: So, I've had this in my folder for a while, and I wasn't entirely sure if I should post it or not: the first chapter already feels complete on its own, and this is more inspired from depression rather than an actual plan for the fic. I ended up writing this anyway, though, so I fixed it up as much as I could and I decided it was time to let it loose. Sorry if it got too OoC.
Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it.
