(no subject)
He sat on the cliff's edge, hair fluttering in the breeze off the ocean below. His eyes were fixed miles out, where the burning blue of the sky met the deep blue of the water and his thoughts were further gone still. Today he was nineteen but he had no reason to celebrate. Tim's first birthday on the island had been heralded by a jaunty announcement by Chris on the radio show. He'd been told by Bart who hadn't quite understood why Tim was less than thrilled about the news getting out. Now both Chris and Bart were gone and it was his birthday again. One last year to be a teenager but childhood had long since been put behind him anyway.
His fingers made shallow furrows in the dirt as he brooded, tracing patterns that meant nothing. He was counting milestones now. At five, his present had been a trip to the circus. Not actually on his birthday but near enough to count. He'd been eleven when his Robin went away and a new Robin took his place. He'd been twelve when that Robin fell. Thirteen when he'd suggested--insisted--that Batman needed a Robin and found himself in that role. His sixteenth birthday had been a test--could he, would he save the world? Did he trust too much? Think too shallowly? Miss too many clues? He'd passed, only Batman knew how well.
Two years, nine months and eleven days ago, his reality had been altered in every way. One moment, Gotham's streets in the dead of winter and the creeping light of dawn just beginning to fight the light pollution and gloom; the next, a starlit beach in what he'd learn was tropical autumn. Two years, ten months and seventeen days ago, he'd been screaming for his father. Two years, ten months and twenty-one days ago, Spoiler had escaped Black Mask and dragged herself to Leslie's clinic.
Tim was very tired of losing the people he loved. His chest heavy with the pressure of hard fought tears, he rested his head on his knees and kept breathing.
His fingers made shallow furrows in the dirt as he brooded, tracing patterns that meant nothing. He was counting milestones now. At five, his present had been a trip to the circus. Not actually on his birthday but near enough to count. He'd been eleven when his Robin went away and a new Robin took his place. He'd been twelve when that Robin fell. Thirteen when he'd suggested--insisted--that Batman needed a Robin and found himself in that role. His sixteenth birthday had been a test--could he, would he save the world? Did he trust too much? Think too shallowly? Miss too many clues? He'd passed, only Batman knew how well.
Two years, nine months and eleven days ago, his reality had been altered in every way. One moment, Gotham's streets in the dead of winter and the creeping light of dawn just beginning to fight the light pollution and gloom; the next, a starlit beach in what he'd learn was tropical autumn. Two years, ten months and seventeen days ago, he'd been screaming for his father. Two years, ten months and twenty-one days ago, Spoiler had escaped Black Mask and dragged herself to Leslie's clinic.
Tim was very tired of losing the people he loved. His chest heavy with the pressure of hard fought tears, he rested his head on his knees and kept breathing.