Wounded
Title: Wounded
Fandom: Batman
Verse: Beloved
Characters: Tim Drake
Summary: “He loses track of time.”
Notes: Follows Beloved, Unloved, Confused, Lost, Alone
Warning: Includes oblique and not so oblique references to non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor, parent-child incest, underage, screwed up ideas of love and intimacy. Read at your own risk. Seriously.
***
He loses track of time.
Days and weeks bleed together and he bleeds with them. A gaping wound slowly bleeding out until there’s nothing left. Just an empty corpse.
There is nothing. He is nothing. Not Robin. Not Beloved. Not anyone.
The only thing he has, the only hope he has lies motionless in a hospital bed.
He sits and stares at the slack face he remembers best shrouded in shadow.
The wound pulses. Blood pools up to the surface and he aches.
He knows it is bad. Knows he will get into trouble. But he can no longer stop himself.
He climbs into the bed and curls around the unmoving statue that lies there. He clings to flimsy hospital pajamas. Puts pressure on the wound. Just a little. Not enough. Because -
Because it is strange to lie this way.
He feels like a thief. Stealing this touch without payment. Without giving his due.
It isn’t real. He knows that.
It isn’t enough, but it’s all that he has.
***
The prick comes more and more often now. And when he wakes in the kind house, the doors and windows are barred.
He picks the locks. He breaks the glass. Later he also escapes from the restraints.
He always goes back to the hospital bed. He has to. If he’s good -
If he’s good and obedient and -
Maybe then he will be allowed to be Beloved again.
***
The woman sits across from him. Her eyes are dark and warm and so very intelligent.
“Good morning, Tim,” she says gently. “What would you like to talk about today?”
He shrugs. He cannot look her in the eyes.
He studies the carpet with studious interest. He likes the carpet. It has s a nice design with interlocking geometric shapes. He traces the predictable, repeating pattern with his eyes. It’s soothing.
The woman talks at him.
Her lips form words. Her vocal chords produce sounds. But nothing she says makes sense.
Her voice is gentle. Always kind. She never raises her voice. No matter how bad he is. Even though he’s been so rude to her. To everyone.
It’s terrifying.
He doesn’t answer her. He can’t. No matter how many times they set him before this woman he always sits mute in front of her. He doesn’t know what to say. What she wants him to say.
When the hour is up, Bruce comes and takes him away from the strange woman.
“Any progress?” Bruce asks the woman before they leave.
He closes his eyes and tries not to cry. Why do they insist on playing these games with him? Why won’t they just tell him what they want? He wants to tear at his hair and scream at them until the world starts making sense again. But he can’t. He can’t. Bad. So bad. He deserves this. He does.
“These things take time, Bruce,” the woman says, her voice is distressingly free of judgment. “Nothing is going to happen overnight. We’ll try again in a few days, okay?”
As they leave the too-welcoming office he knows he has failed Bruce yet again.
And he still doesn’t understand why.
***
***
Something is wrong.
Something other than him, for once.
It takes him embarrassingly long to notice, but once he does he hates himself for his negligence. His uselessness.
He should have seen. Should have noticed.
The doors are no longer locked. The windows are no longer barred. When he wants to go to the hospital either Alfred or the First Beloved escorts him. They hover closer than ever; pretending to be calm, but he can see the tension in their shoulders, the strange look in their eyes.
Bruce, when he is there, is worse. His eyes are shadowed, his back bowed. But Bruce is not around much.
He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know what he’s done to cause this behavior. He doesn’t know what he’d done wrong this time.
But, no. He’s being selfish, he finally realizes. This isn’t about him. Of course it isn’t. He isn’t that important.
He’s so unbearably self-centered. So negligent. Why didn’t he see?
Something is happening.
Something is happening in Gotham. Something big.
He feels sick at the thought.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed since he heard that the gods had fallen. He doesn’t know how many weeks or months he’s missed. He doesn’t know who is in jail and who is walking free. He doesn’t know what gangs are on the rise and which are losing their hold.
He doesn’t know anything.
The panic builds, rising like the tide, faster and faster. His heart pounds, louder and louder.
Then he remembers.
Of course he doesn’t know.
Why should he?
He isn’t Robin.
Not anymore.
Not Robin.
Unwanted.
Unloved.
It isn’t any of his business.
Bruce said so.
But he is bad. Selfish. He can’t stop himself now that he knows. His mind whirls all on its own, loud and insistent. He can’t let go of the knowledge that someone has Batman on edge. Something is happening and he suddenly, desperately needs to know what.
***
He waits until he is alone in the kind house. He is almost never alone now, so he has to watch for his opportunity with great care.
It comes in the evening after he has been dragged back from the hospital and Alfred has finished forcing unwanted food into his body. He is supposed to fall asleep because of the drugs, but once Alfred is gone he purges both food and drugs from his system.
He makes a mess of the room and lays a trail that will send them running either back to the hospital or to the (castleprisonhome?) house.
He hides, watches the frantic expressions, the hurried movements as they take up the chase. He knows they’ll be angry, knows he is being bad. But he needs to know.
The air in the Batcave is cool against his skin. Being there again after so long feels strange. There is a hole inside of him where Robin used to be and the wound aches now. He is trespassing, no longer wanted in this place. Just returning to the cave is so presumptuous. If they find him here they’ll be even angrier than before. Maybe they’ll finally leave him. Fly away like the gods and never come back.
The thought fills him with terror. But they’ve already rejected him. Already made it clear that he is Unloved. Maybe now they’ll let him wait by the hospital bed in peace. Maybe -
He blinks up at the looming screen of the Batcomputer and then down at his hands as they dance along the keyboard. He doesn’t remember sitting down at the computer. Doesn’t remember hacking into Batman’s files.
But it doesn’t matter, because the information on the screen finally penetrates his brain.
His mind races as he connects the dots. Black Mask’s rise to power in Gotham, the signs of a new drug lord in the making, the incident with Amazo, Batman’s encounters with an unknown vigilante calling himself Red Hood, the attacks on Black Mask’s territory, the Robin mask found in the batmobile…
And then everything makes sense.
***
Robin doesn’t fit him anymore.
The costume feels too large; it hangs off his frame. The mask is too big; it seems to swallow up his entire face. The boots don’t fit anymore; his feet feel dwarfed inside them.
Bruce was right to fire him. He is unfit to even pretend to play this role.
But he can do it one last time. One last chance to drape himself in fine colors and believe for a short time that he actually matters.
He may be Unloved. He may be useless and selfish and bad.
But he can do this, if nothing else.
He owes it to them. To all of them. He was never the one they wanted, but they kept him anyway. They were far kinder to him than he ever deserved.
That’s why he has to do this.
He will bring the Second Beloved home.
Or die trying.
Fandom: Batman
Verse: Beloved
Characters: Tim Drake
Summary: “He loses track of time.”
Notes: Follows Beloved, Unloved, Confused, Lost, Alone
Warning: Includes oblique and not so oblique references to non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor, parent-child incest, underage, screwed up ideas of love and intimacy. Read at your own risk. Seriously.
***
He loses track of time.
Days and weeks bleed together and he bleeds with them. A gaping wound slowly bleeding out until there’s nothing left. Just an empty corpse.
There is nothing. He is nothing. Not Robin. Not Beloved. Not anyone.
The only thing he has, the only hope he has lies motionless in a hospital bed.
He sits and stares at the slack face he remembers best shrouded in shadow.
The wound pulses. Blood pools up to the surface and he aches.
He knows it is bad. Knows he will get into trouble. But he can no longer stop himself.
He climbs into the bed and curls around the unmoving statue that lies there. He clings to flimsy hospital pajamas. Puts pressure on the wound. Just a little. Not enough. Because -
Because it is strange to lie this way.
He feels like a thief. Stealing this touch without payment. Without giving his due.
It isn’t real. He knows that.
It isn’t enough, but it’s all that he has.
***
The prick comes more and more often now. And when he wakes in the kind house, the doors and windows are barred.
He picks the locks. He breaks the glass. Later he also escapes from the restraints.
He always goes back to the hospital bed. He has to. If he’s good -
If he’s good and obedient and -
Maybe then he will be allowed to be Beloved again.
***
The woman sits across from him. Her eyes are dark and warm and so very intelligent.
“Good morning, Tim,” she says gently. “What would you like to talk about today?”
He shrugs. He cannot look her in the eyes.
He studies the carpet with studious interest. He likes the carpet. It has s a nice design with interlocking geometric shapes. He traces the predictable, repeating pattern with his eyes. It’s soothing.
The woman talks at him.
Her lips form words. Her vocal chords produce sounds. But nothing she says makes sense.
Her voice is gentle. Always kind. She never raises her voice. No matter how bad he is. Even though he’s been so rude to her. To everyone.
It’s terrifying.
He doesn’t answer her. He can’t. No matter how many times they set him before this woman he always sits mute in front of her. He doesn’t know what to say. What she wants him to say.
When the hour is up, Bruce comes and takes him away from the strange woman.
“Any progress?” Bruce asks the woman before they leave.
He closes his eyes and tries not to cry. Why do they insist on playing these games with him? Why won’t they just tell him what they want? He wants to tear at his hair and scream at them until the world starts making sense again. But he can’t. He can’t. Bad. So bad. He deserves this. He does.
“These things take time, Bruce,” the woman says, her voice is distressingly free of judgment. “Nothing is going to happen overnight. We’ll try again in a few days, okay?”
As they leave the too-welcoming office he knows he has failed Bruce yet again.
And he still doesn’t understand why.
***
***
Something is wrong.
Something other than him, for once.
It takes him embarrassingly long to notice, but once he does he hates himself for his negligence. His uselessness.
He should have seen. Should have noticed.
The doors are no longer locked. The windows are no longer barred. When he wants to go to the hospital either Alfred or the First Beloved escorts him. They hover closer than ever; pretending to be calm, but he can see the tension in their shoulders, the strange look in their eyes.
Bruce, when he is there, is worse. His eyes are shadowed, his back bowed. But Bruce is not around much.
He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know what he’s done to cause this behavior. He doesn’t know what he’d done wrong this time.
But, no. He’s being selfish, he finally realizes. This isn’t about him. Of course it isn’t. He isn’t that important.
He’s so unbearably self-centered. So negligent. Why didn’t he see?
Something is happening.
Something is happening in Gotham. Something big.
He feels sick at the thought.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed since he heard that the gods had fallen. He doesn’t know how many weeks or months he’s missed. He doesn’t know who is in jail and who is walking free. He doesn’t know what gangs are on the rise and which are losing their hold.
He doesn’t know anything.
The panic builds, rising like the tide, faster and faster. His heart pounds, louder and louder.
Then he remembers.
Of course he doesn’t know.
Why should he?
He isn’t Robin.
Not anymore.
Not Robin.
Unwanted.
Unloved.
It isn’t any of his business.
Bruce said so.
But he is bad. Selfish. He can’t stop himself now that he knows. His mind whirls all on its own, loud and insistent. He can’t let go of the knowledge that someone has Batman on edge. Something is happening and he suddenly, desperately needs to know what.
***
He waits until he is alone in the kind house. He is almost never alone now, so he has to watch for his opportunity with great care.
It comes in the evening after he has been dragged back from the hospital and Alfred has finished forcing unwanted food into his body. He is supposed to fall asleep because of the drugs, but once Alfred is gone he purges both food and drugs from his system.
He makes a mess of the room and lays a trail that will send them running either back to the hospital or to the (castleprisonhome?) house.
He hides, watches the frantic expressions, the hurried movements as they take up the chase. He knows they’ll be angry, knows he is being bad. But he needs to know.
The air in the Batcave is cool against his skin. Being there again after so long feels strange. There is a hole inside of him where Robin used to be and the wound aches now. He is trespassing, no longer wanted in this place. Just returning to the cave is so presumptuous. If they find him here they’ll be even angrier than before. Maybe they’ll finally leave him. Fly away like the gods and never come back.
The thought fills him with terror. But they’ve already rejected him. Already made it clear that he is Unloved. Maybe now they’ll let him wait by the hospital bed in peace. Maybe -
He blinks up at the looming screen of the Batcomputer and then down at his hands as they dance along the keyboard. He doesn’t remember sitting down at the computer. Doesn’t remember hacking into Batman’s files.
But it doesn’t matter, because the information on the screen finally penetrates his brain.
His mind races as he connects the dots. Black Mask’s rise to power in Gotham, the signs of a new drug lord in the making, the incident with Amazo, Batman’s encounters with an unknown vigilante calling himself Red Hood, the attacks on Black Mask’s territory, the Robin mask found in the batmobile…
And then everything makes sense.
***
Robin doesn’t fit him anymore.
The costume feels too large; it hangs off his frame. The mask is too big; it seems to swallow up his entire face. The boots don’t fit anymore; his feet feel dwarfed inside them.
Bruce was right to fire him. He is unfit to even pretend to play this role.
But he can do it one last time. One last chance to drape himself in fine colors and believe for a short time that he actually matters.
He may be Unloved. He may be useless and selfish and bad.
But he can do this, if nothing else.
He owes it to them. To all of them. He was never the one they wanted, but they kept him anyway. They were far kinder to him than he ever deserved.
That’s why he has to do this.
He will bring the Second Beloved home.
Or die trying.