Snow
Had this concept in my head for a while-finally wrote it out. Takes place during the year before One Year Later.
Title: Snow
Fandom: Batman
Characters: Tim/(Kon), Bruce, Dick
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,460
Summary: The cold is a needless reminder.
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Bruce appears in the doorway, swaddling a mound of beddings.
“Alfred sent up some extra blankets.”
He doesn't wait for a formal invitation to come in. It's unlike him to take such a liberty, and his foot slows for just an instant's hesitation before entering. He's trying to force a sense of intimacy. It works a little, even if they're both conscious of the effort.
It takes longer than it should for Bruce to walk across the room. He doesn't move any slower than usual. It's like the space of the bedroom has stretched. The entire manor seems wider, emptier in that way. Alfred had always kept everything impeccably tidy, but certain residues of life would still fill out the gaps. Dick's sweater dangling over the back of the couch. A dining room chair that someone sat in and hadn't pushed back in all the way. The smell of flour and butter hovering in the air after Alfred had been baking.
All those traces had been purged before they left. Now that they've returned, they have found a house that has grown cold without them. Everything seeming static and untouchable, permanently affixed to the furniture and the walls, like a museum dedicated to their past. All the artifacts laid out, but their context is gone. No buzz in the air, nothing but the slow dance of dust particles and a slightly musty smell that makes Tim's throat itch.
He sits up, comforter rustling with the movement. Waits for Bruce to talk.
“It's going to be cold tonight,” the man says. “There's a front coming down from the mountains.”
Tim nods. It's already chilly in the room. The back of his neck misses the warm spot on the pillow, goosebumps rising with a prickle.
Bruce drops the blankets at the foot of the bed. His shoulders give a tiny jerk, as though he's about to turn away to leave, but he doesn't. He furrows his brow, taking the corner of the top blanket, pulling it open. Pulling the next open, and the next, until they're all unfolded on top of one another. Wool-knitted and microplush and fleece, the variety and number is a little excessive. But their weight is reassuring.
Bruce lifts the layered warmth, and signals for Tim to peel back the comforter. He frowns when he sees Tim's bare feet.
“Why aren't you wearing socks? You should be wearing socks.”
Tim lets Bruce set the blankets down over his legs, flexing his toes beneath them. Speaks his answer to Bruce's shoulder, and chest, and the space just beside his head, but not his face. “I think I'll be okay. Thank you for the blankets.”
Bruce responds with a simple hum, rumbling from his chest. Sits at the edge of the bed and smooths a hand over the comforter when Tim pulls it back over top.
“Do you have your present ready for tomorrow? We'll be driving to the clinic first thing in the morning.”
Tim twists toward the nightstand where a stuffed animal sits, a ribbon tied around its neck. Pokes the dog plush in the face, just beside the mouth. It tips over on its side, revealing the accompanying card sitting underneath it. 'To Dana'. The greeting looks messy and off-center on the front of the envelope, and Tim stands the toy upright again to cover his chicken scratch.
“She wanted us to get a real dog. Before.”
He doesn't have to talk about this. No one asked for an explanation. Bruce understands what Tim's trying to offer. Pats his knee awkwardly through the covers. Tim still doesn't look the man in the eye.
“Get some rest,” Bruce says. His voice is heavy with all the things he wishes he could say. Tim lets them settle on top of him, with the warmth of the extra blankets.
Bruce's weight lifts off the bed and he crosses back to the doorway. His eyes linger with worry as he flicks off the lights. Tim wriggles, burrowing himself down into the fluffy mass. Turns on his side to face the window. Closes his eyes and listens as the door clicks shut, footsteps slowly fading away.
***
He wakes up because he hears crying. But there is no one else in the room. And now that he's awake, there is no more noise. It's the middle of the night and his chest is pounding.
He sits up. Ears open. The manor is strangely silent. His rustling among the blankets sounds more muffled than it should. He turns to look out the window and freezes in position, like a doll with broken joints.
The world outside has been smoothed over by a thin layer of white. The first snow of winter.
A shiver runs through him that has only a little to do with the temperature. He's been waiting for this, dreading it. He watches as flakes fall, lazy blurs cutting diagonal across the dark.
The blankets are warm and thick. He could block out the night and the snow completely from beneath them. He places a hand at the edge of the hem, waits for his resolve to decide one way or another, and eventually bunches them aside.
He slides out of bed and into a pair of slippers. Shrugs on his heaviest coat over his pajamas. Races through the space of this dead museum-house, but it takes so long. The rooms are a series of yawning caverns in the silence, dark hallways and staircases stretching on for ages. All the lights in the building have been extinguished leaving nothing but the half-moon through the windows to light his path.
Passes the old grandfather clock and the paintings of the Wayne generations, passes the guest wings and the double doors of the library. Down the steps with one hand sliding over the polished banister. He takes care to make no disturbance, even though the cold air seems to neutralize all the noise.
He finally arrives at the heavy oak doors at the front of the manor. Puts all his weight behind him to throw them open. The frigid shock is like a burn. Wind peppered with snowflakes rushes inside, blowing back his hair as the air pressure equalizes.
A tingle sparks through his nerves. From behind the glass panes of the manor's windows, the outside weather had seemed abstract, even fantastical. But the landscape in front of him is the same that he'd seen from his bedroom, but now closer. Real and physical. His nose twitches at the smell of the snow, crisp but thick.
He holds the edge of the door as he takes the first step. Then the second step. His slippers sink down into the fresh powder. He releases his grip on the door and continues walking out onto the manor grounds.
The freezing air attacks his eyes. Makes them ache, bites the skin at the outer corners and at the rims of his eyelids. His lashes are still damp from nightmares and he tries to dry them on his coat before they freeze. When he bows down his head over his arm, he keeps it there, face buried in his sleeve. Holds still like that for some time. Still, except for his jaw, which won't stop shaking.
The cold is what his dreams remember most. No crumbling tower, no battle. Just so much snow and ice. Choking the sky, clouding his vision. A place where running gets you nowhere, no matter how hard your legs will fight. And a body, tumbling forever through white air.
He exhales long and deliberate as he pulls his arm away from his eyes. The vapor of his breath billows out, rising quickly into the night. He curls his toes in his slippers, numb but for a dull ache. Wonders if it's really this weather that gives him bad dreams, or if that's just an excuse his brain has invented. His brain likes to do that for him, rearrange his reality to make things more bearable. Devise patterns where there are none, because he needs something to trust, something to understand.
He tilts his head back, regards the sky. Spreads out his arms and turns in slow circles, same direction as the constellations. The snowflakes melt against his face.
Winter came too soon.
*****
Inside the manor, in a room that seems larger and emptier than it had once been, Dick wakes without knowing why. He walks to his window, looking out onto the grounds down below. Mind still blurred from sleep, his eyes settle on the shape of a sad person, and he realizes it is his little brother. Sees a boy who spins alone in the snow, waiting for a star that has already fallen.
.end
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(A/N): Been a while since I wrote proper Tim angst. Also drew some fanart with a similar theme.
Snow by ~stagparty on deviantART