Fic: Lost
Title: Lost
Fandom: Batman
Verse: Beloved
Characters: Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson
Summary: “His meal sits heavy in his stomach like dread as he walks slowly down the hall.”
Notes: Follows Beloved, Unloved, and Confused.
Warning: Includes oblique and not so oblique references non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor, parent-child incest, underage, screwed up ideas of love and intimacy. Read at your own risk. Seriously.
His meal sits heavy in his stomach like dread as he walks slowly down the hall.
Alfred told him to go to Bruce’s study.
He doesn’t want to go. But that is not his choice to make. If he runs Alfred will just come find him again. And then he will be in even more trouble. So instead he walks as slowly as he can.
Even though it is disrespectful and rude not to be prompt to a summons.
Anything to put this off a moment longer.
He doesn’t think he can take any more of this. Any more of the back and forth, the smiles and lies. The kindness. The rejection.
He can only dawdle for so long, though, before someone comes looking for him. Unless they forget. But he can’t count on being forgotten. Not here. In this kind house where all of the rules have been turned on their heads.
As he grows slowly closer to the study door he hears muffled sounds. The closer he gets the clearer they become until he knows for sure what he is hearing.
Voices. Loud voices.
“-amn it, Bruce!”
That is the First Beloved. He didn’t know the First Beloved was still here.
He hovers silently at the closed door. Listening.
“You’re not thinking clearly.” That is Bruce speaking. No, not speaking. Growling. Bruce is angry.
“Take a look in the mirror, B!” The First Beloved is yelling.
He feels sick to his stomach. Bruce and the First Beloved are fighting. They always fight, but he’d thought it was getting better. Bruce loves the First Beloved. Why are they so upset?
“Do you honestly think this is going to solve anything?” the First Beloved continues loudly.
Bruce grunts. He can’t tell if Bruce says anything else in response, but he hears the First Beloved’s reply loud and clear.
“No. No. Don’t you dare brush me off. You ran away from him, Bruce. What do you think is going to happen if you do this?”
“I wasn’t running away,” Bruce snarls.
“Oh, and what would you call what you did? Because from my end it sure as hell looked a lot like running away,” the First Beloved spits venomously. “God only knows what it looked like from his.”
“My presence was clearly hurting him,” Bruce snaps. “You weren’t there, Dick. You didn’t see it. He honestly thought I - ”
“No, I wasn’t there,” the First Beloved returns sharply. “I just had to deal with the aftermath. He was devastated, Bruce. “
He freezes, his hands clenched into fists, his nails digging red crescents into the palms of his hands. Him. They’re talking about him. They’re fighting about him. Worthless, stupid him.
He feels nauseous. He can feel Alfred’s soup churn warningly in his stomach.
He’s coming between them. He’s going to ruin everything.
This is all his fault.
He’s so focused on the disturbing realization that two of the only people to ever openly acknowledge him are fighting about him that he barely even registers the rest of the fight. The words fade in and out of the background of his mind like the quiet murmur of voices on an old radio playing in another room.
“Which is exactly why I’m doing this.”
“You’re just going to end up driving him away. Like you drove me away. Just like Ja- Shit, I’m sorry Bruce, I didn’t - ”
“You did, though.”
“Bruce.”
“If he thinks I would do that to him, then how can he trust me to protect him on the street?”
“So that’s it? You’re going to dump him, just like that?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I let this go on long enough.”
“You - you didn’t know.”
“That’s no excuse. My…my son has suffered and I did nothing. I’ve begun taking steps.”
“What kind of steps?”
“I’m going to -”
A burst of static blinds him, deafens him, a screaming litany of curses and accusations in his mind. Perhaps he is the radio, his overworked circuits shorting out, drowning him in white noise. He wants to bang his head against the wall, knock the noise out of himself -
The First Beloved laughs. An ugly, angry sound that cuts through all the other noise, if only for a moment.
“His parents are still alive, you know. I’m sure you remember them. Him especially. They’re not going to give up without a fight.”
“Yes, I do know. They’re currently abroad in Haiti. By the time they return things will have progressed far enough that they won’t be able to stop it.”
“Are you su- B, what are you doing?”
The door he hadn’t realized he was leaning against swung open, sending him crashing to the floor. He doesn’t know how long he crouched there, hearing, but not listening, not understanding, and it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s been caught. It’s over. Over.
He scrambles to his feet, keeping his head down. He cannot look them in the eyes. Cannot not let them see him. Unless they order him to. Then it’s bad. Disrespectful . Why won’t you look at me you ungrateful brat?
“Timmy…”
That is the First Beloved.
He cannot bring himself to look at the First Beloved.
“How much did you hear?” Bruce growls.
He has to answer. “You’re angry at me,” he responds automatically, voice hollow.
“Of course we’re not angry you at, Tim. Why would you - ” the First Beloved says, but the words wash over him and past him. Right now the only thing that matters is what Bruce says. Bruce makes the rules. Not the First Beloved. And definitely not him.
“I’m not angry at you, Tim,” Bruce says.
Another lie. A kind one. One he wants to believe so badly it hurts.
“Did you hear anything else?” Bruce asks.
He pales and feels so stupid for not paying attention. Failure. He’s such a failure. Why can’t he do better? He frantically goes back over half remembered pieces of dialogue and tries to piece something sensible together.
It takes embarrassingly long for him figure out the gist of what Bruce and the First Beloved had been discussing, but once he does, he wishes he hadn’t.
He had been prepared for this. But they had taken him back, forced him back, only to tell him now.
“You’re getting rid of me,” he whispers.
“Weren’t you listening?” The First Beloved demands. Disbelieving. Annoyed. Angry. At him.
“I’m not getting rid of you. But I am benching you until further notice,” Bruce says.
Robin. They’re taking Robin.
His heart pounds like a drum in his chest. Loud. So loud.
He is breaking. Shattering. All of the floor. So messy.
Inconsiderate.
Stupid.
Robin is not his. He is just a placeholder. He is expendable. Robin is not his name, even if it has been nice to pretend. He’s good at pretending. Robin is loved in ways even Beloved cannot be. And even though it is the only other thing he has ever been good for, he knows Robin does not belong to him. So it shouldn’t hurt this badly. He has always known this was coming -
He is good at placating himself. Can comfort himself through any pain, any fear. He has had to. If he doesn’t take care of himself no one will.
But the platitudes are not working.
Everything is falling apart. He can’t do anything. He can’t -
He can’t -
He can’t breathe.
“No,” he gasps, desperate, choking on nothing. “No. Please. Not Robin. Please.”
Without Robin he is completely useless. If he cannot be Beloved and he cannot be Robin then he really is nothing. Who would want him then? Certainly not Bruce.
There are arms around him, a firm body against his back. He tries to struggle, tries to escape, but he can’t move. He can’t breathe. Everything is crashing down on him. Choking him. Suffocating him.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he cries between grasps breaths. “Not Robin. Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”
Words are murmured in his ear, but it’s all nonsense. Meaningless.
His vision swims, spotted black and he thinks that maybe he’s dying.
He hopes so.
Alone
Fandom: Batman
Verse: Beloved
Characters: Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson
Summary: “His meal sits heavy in his stomach like dread as he walks slowly down the hall.”
Notes: Follows Beloved, Unloved, and Confused.
Warning: Includes oblique and not so oblique references non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor, parent-child incest, underage, screwed up ideas of love and intimacy. Read at your own risk. Seriously.
His meal sits heavy in his stomach like dread as he walks slowly down the hall.
Alfred told him to go to Bruce’s study.
He doesn’t want to go. But that is not his choice to make. If he runs Alfred will just come find him again. And then he will be in even more trouble. So instead he walks as slowly as he can.
Even though it is disrespectful and rude not to be prompt to a summons.
Anything to put this off a moment longer.
He doesn’t think he can take any more of this. Any more of the back and forth, the smiles and lies. The kindness. The rejection.
He can only dawdle for so long, though, before someone comes looking for him. Unless they forget. But he can’t count on being forgotten. Not here. In this kind house where all of the rules have been turned on their heads.
As he grows slowly closer to the study door he hears muffled sounds. The closer he gets the clearer they become until he knows for sure what he is hearing.
Voices. Loud voices.
“-amn it, Bruce!”
That is the First Beloved. He didn’t know the First Beloved was still here.
He hovers silently at the closed door. Listening.
“You’re not thinking clearly.” That is Bruce speaking. No, not speaking. Growling. Bruce is angry.
“Take a look in the mirror, B!” The First Beloved is yelling.
He feels sick to his stomach. Bruce and the First Beloved are fighting. They always fight, but he’d thought it was getting better. Bruce loves the First Beloved. Why are they so upset?
“Do you honestly think this is going to solve anything?” the First Beloved continues loudly.
Bruce grunts. He can’t tell if Bruce says anything else in response, but he hears the First Beloved’s reply loud and clear.
“No. No. Don’t you dare brush me off. You ran away from him, Bruce. What do you think is going to happen if you do this?”
“I wasn’t running away,” Bruce snarls.
“Oh, and what would you call what you did? Because from my end it sure as hell looked a lot like running away,” the First Beloved spits venomously. “God only knows what it looked like from his.”
“My presence was clearly hurting him,” Bruce snaps. “You weren’t there, Dick. You didn’t see it. He honestly thought I - ”
“No, I wasn’t there,” the First Beloved returns sharply. “I just had to deal with the aftermath. He was devastated, Bruce. “
He freezes, his hands clenched into fists, his nails digging red crescents into the palms of his hands. Him. They’re talking about him. They’re fighting about him. Worthless, stupid him.
He feels nauseous. He can feel Alfred’s soup churn warningly in his stomach.
He’s coming between them. He’s going to ruin everything.
This is all his fault.
He’s so focused on the disturbing realization that two of the only people to ever openly acknowledge him are fighting about him that he barely even registers the rest of the fight. The words fade in and out of the background of his mind like the quiet murmur of voices on an old radio playing in another room.
“Which is exactly why I’m doing this.”
“You’re just going to end up driving him away. Like you drove me away. Just like Ja- Shit, I’m sorry Bruce, I didn’t - ”
“You did, though.”
“Bruce.”
“If he thinks I would do that to him, then how can he trust me to protect him on the street?”
“So that’s it? You’re going to dump him, just like that?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I let this go on long enough.”
“You - you didn’t know.”
“That’s no excuse. My…my son has suffered and I did nothing. I’ve begun taking steps.”
“What kind of steps?”
“I’m going to -”
A burst of static blinds him, deafens him, a screaming litany of curses and accusations in his mind. Perhaps he is the radio, his overworked circuits shorting out, drowning him in white noise. He wants to bang his head against the wall, knock the noise out of himself -
The First Beloved laughs. An ugly, angry sound that cuts through all the other noise, if only for a moment.
“His parents are still alive, you know. I’m sure you remember them. Him especially. They’re not going to give up without a fight.”
“Yes, I do know. They’re currently abroad in Haiti. By the time they return things will have progressed far enough that they won’t be able to stop it.”
“Are you su- B, what are you doing?”
The door he hadn’t realized he was leaning against swung open, sending him crashing to the floor. He doesn’t know how long he crouched there, hearing, but not listening, not understanding, and it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s been caught. It’s over. Over.
He scrambles to his feet, keeping his head down. He cannot look them in the eyes. Cannot not let them see him. Unless they order him to. Then it’s bad. Disrespectful . Why won’t you look at me you ungrateful brat?
“Timmy…”
That is the First Beloved.
He cannot bring himself to look at the First Beloved.
“How much did you hear?” Bruce growls.
He has to answer. “You’re angry at me,” he responds automatically, voice hollow.
“Of course we’re not angry you at, Tim. Why would you - ” the First Beloved says, but the words wash over him and past him. Right now the only thing that matters is what Bruce says. Bruce makes the rules. Not the First Beloved. And definitely not him.
“I’m not angry at you, Tim,” Bruce says.
Another lie. A kind one. One he wants to believe so badly it hurts.
“Did you hear anything else?” Bruce asks.
He pales and feels so stupid for not paying attention. Failure. He’s such a failure. Why can’t he do better? He frantically goes back over half remembered pieces of dialogue and tries to piece something sensible together.
It takes embarrassingly long for him figure out the gist of what Bruce and the First Beloved had been discussing, but once he does, he wishes he hadn’t.
He had been prepared for this. But they had taken him back, forced him back, only to tell him now.
“You’re getting rid of me,” he whispers.
“Weren’t you listening?” The First Beloved demands. Disbelieving. Annoyed. Angry. At him.
“I’m not getting rid of you. But I am benching you until further notice,” Bruce says.
Robin. They’re taking Robin.
His heart pounds like a drum in his chest. Loud. So loud.
He is breaking. Shattering. All of the floor. So messy.
Inconsiderate.
Stupid.
Robin is not his. He is just a placeholder. He is expendable. Robin is not his name, even if it has been nice to pretend. He’s good at pretending. Robin is loved in ways even Beloved cannot be. And even though it is the only other thing he has ever been good for, he knows Robin does not belong to him. So it shouldn’t hurt this badly. He has always known this was coming -
He is good at placating himself. Can comfort himself through any pain, any fear. He has had to. If he doesn’t take care of himself no one will.
But the platitudes are not working.
Everything is falling apart. He can’t do anything. He can’t -
He can’t -
He can’t breathe.
“No,” he gasps, desperate, choking on nothing. “No. Please. Not Robin. Please.”
Without Robin he is completely useless. If he cannot be Beloved and he cannot be Robin then he really is nothing. Who would want him then? Certainly not Bruce.
There are arms around him, a firm body against his back. He tries to struggle, tries to escape, but he can’t move. He can’t breathe. Everything is crashing down on him. Choking him. Suffocating him.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he cries between grasps breaths. “Not Robin. Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”
Words are murmured in his ear, but it’s all nonsense. Meaningless.
His vision swims, spotted black and he thinks that maybe he’s dying.
He hopes so.
Alone