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Dick finds him atop the Clocktower. Tim is sitting on the balustrade, legs dangling over 754 feet of empty air. His feet are bare and stained with the filth of Gotham streets. He's wearing gym shorts and a sleeveless compression top, like he just stepped off the mats in the Cave. He doesn't shiver in the cold, even when the biting wind ruffles his sweaty hair. He doesn't look upset or afraid. He doesn't look like he's one twitch away from slipping off of the narrow strip of stone straight to his death.
“Hey, Timmy,” Dick says carefully, as casually as he can with his voice shaking and his heart hammering against his ribs. It's been doing that since Barbara called him when her proximity alarms went off and she saw Tim on the cameras. She isn't home and Dick's apartment is closest. Bruce is on his way. Dick hopes he gets here soon. He's talked down jumpers a thousand times as Nightwing, but he doesn't feel emotionally equipped for this. Not when it's Tim. Not when it's his baby brother.
“Hi Dick.” Tim doesn't turn. He sounds like he may as well be sitting on a park bench feeding the birds.
“Kind of a weird place to stargaze, bud.” As if there have ever been stars visible in Gotham's coal-clouded skies. “Looks like you forgot your grapple, huh?”
“I don't know how to fix it.” He doesn't sound like he's even really addressing Dick. It seems more like he's talking to the Gotham smog hovering at his feet and Dick just happens to be there. “I've tried everything. I don't even know if this will stick, but I'm tired. Maybe this will stop any of it from even happening. Maybe I'm the problem.
“I've died once already, you know,” he continues, louder, tilting his back and to the side a little like he's actually talking to Dick now. Ice flushes through Dick's veins and his heart stutters in its pounding. Tim died? When?
“But it wasn’t on purpose, so maybe this will be different.”
Dick's stomach drops like a stone. Tim really is planning to jump.
“Timmy, whatever this is, let me help. Please.”
Tim sighs. “I've already tried that, Dick. So many times. It never works.”
“Wh—” Dick's phone cuts him off. He ignores it, shoving his hand in his pocket and thumbing the volume button to stop the ringer instead of just letting it ring and ring. He needs as few distractions as possible. He has to do this right. He has to time this right.
“No, you should answer it,” Tim tells him. “It's Bruce. It's important.”
He doesn't even care right now how Tim knows that. “Nothing is more important than you right now, Tim.”
“It is. But you can’t help him, anyway. Remember that later—that Cass isn’t your fault. It never is.” He still hasn't turned back fully to look at Dick. He's gazing down at the streets far, far below, filtered through the polluted haze. At the hard asphalt that will be the only thing to catch his fall. The cars and people milling about below are tiny.
“You’re not making any sense, bud. Come on, loop me in, here. What’s going on?”
Tim laughs. It’s a jaded sound, bitter and flat, but it morphs at the end into something closer to delirious. It doesn't sound anything like him. Something is wrong with Tim. “Loop. That’s the problem. Over and over and over and over and over and. There’s. No. POINT!” He screams it into the night, clenching his fists and swaying forward a little, curling in on himself. There are no buildings for the words to echo off of here. They're higher than everything around them. Dick sucks in a sharp breath, but he can't risk trying to grab Tim yet, he has to time this perfectly. He isn't shaking. He can feel the trembling held tight and still beneath his skin, but he can't let it sweep over him yet. He has to be steady. “Why am I even here if I can’t help?” Tim moans.
“Let me help. Whatever it is, I’m right here.”
“Stop. Just—just stop, Dick. Turn around and go back inside. You don’t need to see this. Especially if it sticks.” He runs a hand through his hair. It’s left sticking up, already wild from the wind, gusting stiffly at this height. His hands are shaking. He's falling apart in the way Dick wants to right now. “Fuck, I’m an asshole. It's shitty of me to do this to you, to do it this way, but—I don’t think I can make myself do it any other way. This is—I don’t have to think about it. All I have to do is just…” He lifts the single hand he’s been gripping the balustrade with and Dick stops breathing. He takes an aborted step forward but Tim stops him with a look thrown over his shoulder, finally giving Dick his full attention. “I’m sorry,” he says, thin and anguished. He sounds like he's desperate for Dick to understand but he isn't trying to make him because he knows there's no way he ever could. “I should wait. I should try again and keep you from coming up here next time, but I can’t. I can’t come back to Damian’s fucking fist in my face one more time. I’m going insane. I can feel it. I’m unraveling. Everything is just numbers now.” He laughs and it's hollow but also somehow manic at the same time. It's followed by another delirious giggle. The anguish crumbles out of his tone as he sings, “Numbers numbers numbers!” The pain is still there underneath. The exhaustion.
Dick’s phone rings again, making him flinch.
“Answer the phone, Dick,” Tim says lightly. The sudden shift is unsettling. “I’ll wait. I promise. Maybe it’ll make it easier for you to understand.”
“I’m n—”
“Answer the phone, Dick!” He snarls, another rapid, unstable shift. “Put it on speaker.”
“Dick.” It’s Bruce on the other end when Dick gives in and accepts the call. “How is Tim? Are you handling it? I’m on the way, but Cass—”
“Go,” Tim calls to him, raising his voice so Bruce can hear. “She needs you.”
“Tim.” Bruce says, “Cass is going to be okay, Stephanie is with her, they have everything handled. If you need me more, I’m there. Whatever is going on, whatever is hurting you right now—”
“Stop! What did you just say?”
“I’m coming, kiddo. I’ll call Clark to take care of Cass—”
“No, stopstopstop—what did you say about—You’re lying. You’re lying, she’s dead, she—no one has ever implied that she—
“Oh. Oh.” He chokes off and then a wide-eyed laugh tumbles out of him and he slaps his hand up to keep it in, but then he’s doubling over, more disturbing laughter seizing him. He’s leaning forward, his arms wrapping around his middle, swaying over endless space and—
He's distracted enough that Dick uses the opportunity to dart forward and yank him back by the waist of his shorts. They both tumble backwards onto the roof, Dick taking the brunt of the fall. Tim is shaking with laughter and Dick traps him against his chest in a safety hold, but Tim isn’t trying to escape. He’s just laughing. The sound is making Dick’s speeding heart twist. Tim’s laughter is broken and hollow and hysterical.
“It was me,” he’s giggling to himself in the gasping gaps between laughs. “I was the problem. This is right. This is what I’m supposed to do, this is the solution. Why didn't I do this sooner? Did I really never even try? I can't remember. Stupid!”
Dick’s stomach twists listening to Tim justify himself. Tim is still distracted, so he takes a risk and lets go of him with one arm to snake it back and reach into his own pocket. He slides out the tiny auto-injector he grabbed out of the med kit in his car on the way here. Tim doesn’t even seem to notice when Dick jabs it against his thigh and presses the button.
It doesn’t take long to work. The laughter tapers off and Tim slowly slumps back against him with a tired hum of protest.
“B, you still there?” Dick had dropped his phone on the rooftop, but it isn’t far.
“I’m here,” Bruce’s voice is tinny through the speaker. “Almost there. Clark is already with Cass. Status?”
“I’ve got him. He’s sedated. It was a small dose, so he isn’t out all the way. It probably won’t last long.” Dick sits up more and pulls Tim further into his lap. Tim mumbles something incomprehensible, eyelids drooping. His head lolls against Dick’s chest. “He’s cold,” Dick tells Bruce. He doesn’t know why he says it. It just feels relevant. Tim’s bare arms and legs are freezing beneath Dick’s hands. He rubs his palm up and down Tim's arm, desperately trying to either comfort him or warm him up, he doesn't even know. He doesn't know anything right now. He's started shaking. He's on the brink of coming apart.
He looks down at Tim’s bare feet. They’re filthy and littered with cuts and there’s a small burn on his ankle, probably from his bike. He’ll be lucky if none of it gets infected.
“Nothing he was saying made any sense, Bruce.”
“Fear Toxin? Some kind of new Joker Venom? I heard him laughing.”
“No, I don’t think so. This feels different.” Tim's face hadn't been twisted in that disturbing rictus grin that Joker Venom induces. It had more of a…withered, beaten look. Desolate. It was similar to the look Dick had seen on victims who had been trafficked and held for a long, long time. That hopeless, vacant look.
What the hell had happened? Tim had seemed fine. Dick saw him yesterday. Tim had teased him about tripping over Alfred the Cat and almost face planting. “The world's greatest acrobat, ladies and gentlemen, bested by an itty bitty kitty!” he'd cackled, slow clapping.
And he knows, he knows that people who are planning…this often seem happy just before they do it. Care free, relieved that their pain is ending, but this didn't feel like that.
“I’m pulling up now,” Bruce says.
“Don’t bother coming up,” Dick responds. “I’ll—I’ll bring him down myself.” He doesn’t want to spend another second without solid ground beneath his feet.
He doesn’t think he’s ever felt like that before.
— —
Tim mumbles to himself the whole ride home, tucked up against Dick’s chest in the backseat of the Batmobile. Strings of numbers and phrases that Dick doesn’t understand at first.
“Quantum mechanics?” Dick realizes aloud after hearing the phrase “Casimir nanostructures” more than once. Dick is the furthest thing from a scientist, but he recognizes some of the words from listening to Wally ramble. “Has he been stressed about—is he taking science classes somewhere? Or working on something for R&D at WE?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Bruce replies. “And I haven’t seen any mission reports relating to anything of the sort that might be putting any unusual stress on him.”
“Shh,” Tim shushes them drowsily. “Hafta concentrate. Can’t forget.”
“It’s okay, Timmy,” Dick murmurs. “Just take a little break. You’ll feel better after a nap.”
That’s apparently the wrong thing to say.
Tim jolts like Dick’s words zapped him. “Nnno,” he slurs. “Don’t—you—what’d you give me? Can’t—I can’t sleep, I’ll forget. I have to save Cass.”
“Cassandra is fine, Tim,” Bruce assures him. “Is that what had you worried? How did you know she was in trouble?”
“She’s—w-what time is it?” He’s still groggy and disoriented, trying to twist around in Dick’s gentle hold to look for a clock.
“Almost 7 AM,” Bruce tells him.
“No, she’s dead by now. She’s always dead.”
Dick and Bruce exchange a look in the rear view mirror. Fear Toxin? Bruce mouths.
It’s looking more and more like it, but things still aren’t quite adding up. Tim is in gym clothes, he hadn’t been out with Cass, and he surely would have called for help had he known she was in trouble.
Tim squeezes his eyes shut and grips Dick’s shirt with both fists.
“The result of the Feynman Path Integral is 7.2314 times 10 to the power of -3. The most stable Bridge Index is 8.98 to the power of 48 with a Chrono-Resonance Factor of…of…fuck. Fuck.” His eyes snap open. “What was the Chrono-Resonance Factor? Was it 17.87399 or 17.87389?” He squirms around in Dick’s hold, extricating an arm to smack himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand like it’ll dislodge the correct number. “Is it 99 or 89? Fuck!”
“Tim,” Bruce says as Dick grabs a hold of Tim’s hand when he tries to hit himself again. “If you would just explain to us what’s going on we can help.”
“I need to see Cass. I don’t believe you. She’s dead! She’s dead and I can’t remember the fucking number, and I can’t save her if I can’t figure it out!”
Dick’s hold goes from gentle to firm as Tim starts to wriggle more, trying to escape, aiming claw-curled fingers at Dick's face, only barely missing when Dick dodges. “Just let me go back up there. Let me go, I don’t want to do this anymore, please, please—”
Dick just holds him tighter. There’s nothing they can do but ignore his pleas.
— —
Tim grows more and more agitated and by the time they get back to the Cave even seeing Cass in the med-bay, unconscious but alive, doesn’t help. It’s for their sakes as much as Tim’s that they sedate him fully. Even in sleep he seems restless, his brow furrowed and his eyes moving too rapidly beneath his lids.
“There is nothing unusual in his system,” Alfred declares as he brings in a weighted blanket to drape over Tim’s fitful form. “He seems in otherwise good health.”
“Damian,” Dick calls to his brother eavesdropping from the shadows just outside the medbay door. “His bike’s tracker shows that he came from the Cave. Were you down here with him?”
“It wasn’t my fault!” Damian snaps, sliding into the light. He's suited up even though tonight was supposed to be his night off from patrol. He must have been planning on going after either Tim or Cass.
“No one’s blaming you for anything, bud,” Dick reassures him. “Just tell me what happened.”
Damian creeps closer. “Drake was fine. He was in a normal mood. We were sparring. I—I struck him in the face and he landed on his back. I did not use excessive force, it was an accident, but it was still a fair hit! Look, there isn’t even a bruise! And he did not hit his head. But…as soon as he hit the ground, something changed. He became…visibly upset, and he left. He did not say why. He did not even speak.”
“He said nothing at all?” Bruce demands.
“Damian,” Dick intercepts with a look thrown Bruce’s way. Damian is already in distress and Bruce's attitude isn't going to help. “You’re not in trouble. Thank you for telling the truth.”
But Damian only has eyes for Bruce. “Nothing, Father, I swear. It was as though I was no longer even there. He did not even put on shoes before he ran out.”
“What happened with Cass?” Dick asks Bruce, trying to shift the scrutiny away from Damian.
“League assassins,” Bruce answers gruffly. “Stephanie says they came out of nowhere. Neither she nor Cassandra had time to react before Cass took a hit from a poisoned shuriken. She remained stable enough to help Stephanie fight the assassins off before she lost consciousness.
“She received the antidote only just in time. The cut was just a knick; the dose was small enough to give Stephanie time to analyze a sample of the poison from the blade in the field, and Clark got her to the Cave in time to administer the correct antidote.”
“And Tim somehow knew about this?” Dick muses.
“I don't know how he could have, it happened so quickly. Stephanie comm-ed me as soon as the last assassin was down and I was already on my way to you by then.”
Dick rubs a weary hand over his face.
“Timmy, what the hell was going through your head?” he wonders aloud to his sleeping brother.
— —
Tim is groggy when he wakes up. He's in a cot in the med bay. They considered restraining him, but they're holding off for now; they'll wait to see what state he's in when he wakes up.
They pushed the cot over next to Cass’s so she'll be one of the first things he sees.
Except he refuses to look at her when he opens his eyes. He notices her sleeping beside him and promptly turns away. He glares blearily at Bruce sitting in a chair pulled up next to his cot. Bruce talked Dick into going upstairs for a bit to cool down. Bruce has rarely seen him so shaken.
“I hate you,” he rasps.
Bruce sighs. “I'm sorry, Tim. We're trying to help you.”
“You drugged me without my consent.” He sounds exhausted and his words are slurring a little, still working through the effects of the sedative. “You risked ruining everything. I've been working on this for so long. You have no idea what you've done. I don't know if—if I can remember it all now. If I have to start over I swear to God I'm going to kill you in the next loop, Bruce.”
“Loop?” Bruce asks, relieved to finally be getting somewhere (despite the disturbing threat. Tim almost sounds serious about it.)
“Yes, loop,” he says, growling himself into wakefulness. “The time loop I'm stuck in. Fucking Groundhog Day, Bruce. I've told you a hundred times already. More than that—literally. I'm tired of repeating myself. There's no point anyway. If I loop again I'm just going to kill myself. I think that's the solution. I've never gotten this far into the day before. That has to be the key. I'm getting close to the answer so things are changing.”
Time loop? Kill himself?
“Son,” Bruce says calmly, “I know you say you've told me this before, but can you do it one more time for me? Start from the beginning?”
Tim snorts and leans back in the cot to stare at the ceiling. “Sure,” he says sardonically. “Why the hell not. This will be the last time anyway.”
— —
Bruce calls Dick back down to the Cave. Tim's awake and ready to explain everything. Dick rushes down at a pace that could rival a speedster.
“I’m stuck in a time loop,” Tim explains dryly. He still hasn't acknowledged Cass next to him. Pale and sleeping so deeply she doesn't wake even though Tim isn't even trying to be quiet. “Cass dies. Every time, and I can't stop it. I've tried everything, nothing works. She's attacked by the League before anyone can get to her and they overwhelm her. It's not exactly the same every time. Sometimes she's not even in the same place, and her deaths are frequently different. Sometimes she's poisoned. Like this time!” His voice is gradually taking on that disconcerting cheerfulness. “You've seen that one. Sometimes she's run through with a sword. Cut throat is a common one. Disembowelment a couple times—that smells really bad, you know? All the guts. Cass’s guts. Then there was the beheading once. That one was fun.” He says it brightly, casually, like he's telling a fun story. “Ha! I've seen Cass’s disembodied head rolled eight feet away from her body, can you believe that? That was a gnarly trail of blood, let me tell you.” He laughs as Bruce and Dick stare at him in silent horror. “Hey, you know the League uses grenades sometimes? I'd never seen that before, that was a surprise. Oh, and a rocket launcher once! What's up with that? And y’know, I never have even figured out what they’re doing in Gotham or why they target Cass. Guess now I'll never know! That's kind of a let down, actually.”
Tim sighs. “Anyway, that's the basics really. The loop starts out with me and Damian sparring. I blink in right as Damian's fist connects with my fucking face. That little shit has punched me so many goddamn times, you wouldn't believe it. It’s a cheap shot, too, I don't have time to duck and I'm distracted by the fucking spontaneous time travel.”
Tim finally goes quiet and observes Bruce and Dick's shocked faces with obvious bitter amusement.
“How—” Bruce breaks out of his stupor first. “How long has this been going on, Tim?”
“Ooh, you believe me this time!” he says with fake cheer. “Goody, that doesn't always happen. It's really fucking annoying, it's such a waste of time.
“Anyway, I’ve looped about 982 times. I think. I had to stop keeping track, too many numbers in my head.”
“Tim, that's…” Dick does the math and his heart starts racing in panic for the umpteenth time tonight, “almost three years.” How—if what Tim is saying is true…how can they expect him to come back from that kind of—that kind of psychological torture?
“No, no,” Tim scoffs with an eye roll, like Dick is an idiot. “Each loop is only thirteen hours and three minutes, so it’s more like…Hm. 534 days? I don’t know, my head hurts. I’ve had a headache for 534 days. I think.”
God, Tim is blowing it off like that's so much better. “A year and a half, Tim?”
Tim shrugs. “Give or take.”
“And nothing has worked?”
Tim's eyes flash and Dick immediately realizes he's made a mistake. “No,” Tim hisses. “You think I haven't tried everything? I haven't just been—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Dick holds his hands up, cutting Tim off quickly before he can work himself up too much. “I’m sorry, that's not what I meant. If anyone is smart enough to figure things out, it's you, Tim. I didn't mean anything by it.”
Tim shakes his head with a bitter twist of his lips. “But I'm not. I'm not or I would have figured things out sooner. All I had to do was admit defeat. Admit that I'm a useless—”
“Tim, no, stop—”
Bruce interrupts him, "Timothy, listen to me. You are not useless, do you understand me?”
Tim snorts. “No, Bruce, that's what the whole point of all of this was. Some higher being or whoever wanted to make me understand that. That I'm just an insignificant little blip in the universe and all I do is just—is just get in the way. That there's no point to anything I do, that there are other people who do it better, that, thatthatthat—” Tim stutters, his sarcastic, cheery facade cracking as he begins to spiral. Dick grabs him and pulls him into a crushing hug, but he just keeps on, words melting into each other until he's just stammering incoherently. Dick can feel him shaking.
Dick doesn't try to reassure him, doesn't tell him how wrong he is. His words would just fall on deaf ears; Tim can't hear him right now.
A year and a half. 982 times of repeating the same thirteen hours over and over and over.
Dick doesn't—he doesn't know how to fix this.
He doesn't know if it can be fixed.
It takes a few hours, but eventually Tim calms down enough to continue his story. They're still in the medbay, Tim sitting up on the cot while Bruce and Dick stand around him like an honor guard. No one feels comfortable letting Tim go up to his room right now. Not when he's still so…Dick doesn't want to use the word unstable. Unstable feels more serious. More permanent. Erratic. While Tim is still so erratic. They can keep a better eye on him here. And there have been moments where Dick has been worried they might have to sedate him again.
They just—they just need to be able to keep an eye on him.
“I’ve been trying to invent time travel,” Tim continues when he's ready. "I thought that was the only way to fix things. I needed to go back far enough that I had time to warn Cass, to keep her home and find the assassins before they could attack.
“None of the speedsters answer their phones and I never have time to find them before the loop ends, so they’re useless. Rip Hunter won’t fucking help, because he doesn’t know why I’m looping or what repercussions interfering might have, and he refuses to break his stupid fucking rules. So I’m doing it myself, it’s just…hard to remember all the calculations. I have to memorize—I have to memorize everything. I’ve tried carving it into my skin, but it doesn’t stick when the loop resets. And I’m not good enough. I can do it eventually, I know I can, I’m just. I’m not strong enough to hold out for that long. I’ve tried. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
As expected, Tim doesn't listen to any consolations they try to impart, so they quickly give up until he comes back together enough to let them ask their questions.
— —
“The first day, I felt this…weird—I don't know how to explain it. Damian and I were sparring and then I felt weird. Like a—a kind of swooping sensation. I thought maybe I was just lightheaded, like I hadn't eaten enough or I was dehydrated. But after minute I felt fine. And then…everything just went so wrong from there. Cass was attacked and killed. She’d started an early patrol, we had a lead on a case and it was time sensitive, so she went out to follow it. No one else was out yet, it was a milk run, there was no reason to expect that she'd need backup. She got ambushed. League assassins. They came out of nowhere and there were too many of them, even for her. I don't know what was different this time, I don't know why Steph was with her, I don't—nothing makes sense, it was always different—”
He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. He’s started to curl in on himself as he talks, crossing his arms and raking his nails over them, leaving long red welts behind on his forearms. Dick reaches out to stop him, but Tim jerks out of his reach. He stops scratching anyway.
He shakes his head and takes a steadying breath before he continues.
“It resets just before sunrise. I thought I was dreaming at first, I don't know. It kept happening. It took a while for me to figure out what was going on. Or…or what might be going on, I was never really sure. I don't even know if I'm sure now. It might be Fear Toxin? Or maybe I've just lost it. I don't know.”
Alfred tries to ask Tim more questions, but he seems deaf to them now. Instead he starts rambling. Dick feels sicker and sicker the more Tim speaks.
“I haven’t seen the sun since this started. The loop starts at 5:39 P.M. and ends at 6:42 A.M.” It's the dead of winter so the days are short. That's the exact perfect time of day to keep Tim in the dark. Dick wonders if that's a coincidence or if whoever or whatever is responsible for these loops did it intentionally.
“I haven’t really slept. Which is—it’s fine. Physically I don’t need to. If I’m honest, I have made my way deep enough into Bruce’s liquor cabinet that I passed out a couple of times, but I stopped that when I started working the time travel angle. I can’t afford to sleep. I can’t afford to forget anything. But I'm not…just because my body doesn’t need it—I’m so fucking tired. All I’ve wanted for so long is to sleep. The coke helped but it messed with my focus and I couldn’t—”
“Whoa, whoa, okay,” Dick stops him. Tim, thank god, hears him this time. “Let’s just—let’s take a breather here for a second.”
Cocaine. God, Dick isn't going to even think about that right now, they can revisit that later.
They can't get Tim to talk again after that. He buries himself in his blanket, turns away from them, and goes to sleep.
— —
By the time Bruce tries to contact Barry, he's obviously finished with whatever it was that kept him from being able to answer Tim's call and picks up right away.
“Whatever was happening, it wasn’t a time loop,” Barry says when he and Wally finish examining a resentful Tim in the Cave. He barely speaks to either of them and glares at the poor, confused speedsters through the whole process.
They don't seem to understand the extent of Tim's current distress. Their answers are too blunt and too casual. Dick can see Tim starting to unravel more. Dick prepares himself to intervene if necessary. He's pretty certain it will be necessary.
“The energy signatures aren’t even close to being transtemporal,” Wally adds. “This is something else.”
“Not a time loop?” Tim all but screeches. “Fuck you, you weren’t even there! You don’t know anything, you never even helped me—”
Tim launches himself at the two Flashes and Dick only barely manages to grab him around the waist and hold him back, even though he was ready for it. Tim stomps his heel on Dick’s toes and claws at his arms, but Dick just pulls him against his chest and holds him. Tim’s attacks are half-hearted and uncoordinated. He’s exhausted; his body might technically still be as rested as it was when this all started (however rested it might have been, anyway, which Dick suspects might not be very well), but his mind is beaten and frayed and it’s dragging the rest of him down.
“Dick, tell them they’re wrong,” he croaks when he finally stops struggling. “I’m not crazy.”
“Nobody thinks you’re crazy, baby bird,” Dick says into Tim’s hair, resting his forehead on the top of his head for a moment. “We’re just trying to figure this out.”
“This doesn’t mean there wasn’t something else going on, Tim,” Wally says, quickly realizing their mistake. He's trying to use a soothing tone, but it’s too late now. “Barry’s and my knowledge isn’t the be-all-end-all. There are other people we can talk to.”
“Not Rip fucking Hunter,” Tim grouses quietly. He’s leaned back into Dick and calmed down some. “Useless ass.”
“I know a guy,” Barry says. “Michael Holt. He knows more about quantum physics and time travel than anyone I know.”
“Mr. Terrific?” Tim’s tone comes off as oddly horrified, and Dick understands why when he continues. “I didn’t even—I didn’t even think about him. I combed our databases for everyone who might even—Why didn’t I—?” Tim tenses in Dick’s hold. “I’m an idiot.” Tim smacks himself on the side of the head with a balled up fist and Dick grabs his wrist and tightens his hold around Tim’s waist.
“You’re not an idiot,” Dick murmurs in his ear. “You were in a highly stressful situation with no support and you were working with what you had.”
“Stupid, stupid,” Tim mutters, his voice falling weak and his eyes starting to glaze over, going unfocused. That's been happening a lot.
Realizing that they aren’t going to get much more out of this situation (or out of Tim), Dick thanks Wally and Barry.
“I think I’m gonna take him to bed,” he tells them. Tim has slumped unresponsive in his arms and doesn’t make any objections. “Let me know when you talk to Mr. Terrific?”
The Flashes make their promises and say their goodbyes and speed out of the Cave.
Dick doesn't even bother trying to herd Tim upstairs. He just scoops him up and hugs him tightly, carrying him up to tuck him into bed.
— —
“Dimension travel,” Bruce says flatly. He's sitting at the Batcomputer, the screens spread out before him filled with the image of a man with a black mask shaped like a T covering most of his face. Barry Allen stands behind Bruce, arms crossed, listening carefully to Mr. Terrific. The man himself hadn't been available to travel to Gotham, so Barry had sped back over with the testing equipment Holt had sent him with and they'd quietly scanned Tim as he slept. As much as Bruce knew Tim would want to be here for this discussion, he needed his rest more, and Holt was only free right now, and only for a few moments. Tim could contact Holt when the man had the free time to go over the results more in depth, but Bruce didn't want to wait for that time to run the tests.
“Best I can tell,” Holt says, “is that at the end of each ‘loop,’ Red Robin was likely actually jumping to an alternate dimension where the same event was occuring. I had Barry check his signature and it matches the frequencies of this dimension, so we can be sure that this is at least his home universe. My guess is that the first time the event occurred, it was actually in the first alternate dimension he traveled to, not this one. Given the lack of physical changes he experienced, I believe it's likely that his consciousness was transferring to the bodies of the Red Robins that belonged in each universe. Once he made it back around to this dimension, it just happened to somehow be the first one he visited where the events had a different outcome. Whether that's a happy coincidence or intentional, I can’t say. It also explains why some of the days unfolded differently. The report you sent over notes that not every day was exactly the same, even when Red Robin's actions remained consistent with the first day, when he experimented with following the exact events and didn't attempt to make any changes.”
Bruce nods thoughtfully. It makes…a strange sort of sense. A sick and twisted sort of sense.
“And you don't have any theories as to what caused this?”
Holt shakes his head. “Not at this time. I can brainstorm when my current mission is taken care of. I'll send over my hypotheses and we can talk more later.”
“Thank you for squeezing us in, Mr. Terrific,” Bruce says, biting back the urge to demand that the man stick around and answer the thousand questions still buzzing in his throat. “We appreciate your assistance.”
“Always happy to help, Batman.”
They end the call and Bruce leans wearily back into his chair, sliding off the cowl and rubbing his face.
“How the hell did this happen, Barry?” he confides quietly in a rare moment of vulnerability in the presence of one of his colleagues. “What if it happens again?”
Barry claps a hand on Bruce's shoulder. “It seems like it's stopped, Bruce. And Michael’s readings showed that the energy around Tim is actively diminishing. He seems optimistic. If he thought there was any more risk he would have said so.”
Bruce sighs. “I suppose. Thank you for your help, Barry.”
Barry claps his hand on Bruce's shoulder again. “Anything for Tim. You raised a good kid, Batman.”
— —
Tim is sitting on the floor next to Bruce's chair at the Batcomputer with his knees tucked against his chest and his head in his hands. “Alternate dimensions.” His voice, though muffled against his knees, is audibly strained.
He'd come straight to the Cave the second he woke up, hair still mussed from sleep. He'd refused to go to the kitchen and eat the food Alfred prepared for him, despite Alfred's stern insistence.
And…knowing Tim, Dick is pretty sure that he probably hasn't eaten a bite of food since this whole thing started, since his body didn't technically need it.
Which is a massive concern because that means it might have been over a year since Tim has eaten. They're going to have to really work to get him back into the habit of it. They're going to have to get him back into the habit of a lot of things.
Again, Dick’s heart twists at the thought of how hard it's going to be for Tim to recover from all of this.
Bruce had broken the news about Mr. Terrific’s findings to Tim as soon as he'd come down to the Cave, and Tim had sunk to the floor right then and there.
Dick is pissed that Bruce didn't consult the rest of them when he spoke to Mr. Terrific, but he begrudgingly understands the time constraints they were under and he doesn't blame him for letting Tim rest. Tim doesn't seem upset with Bruce for it, but Dick doesn't think he's in the headspace to process it anyway.
Dick kneels down next to Tim and pulls him into a side hug. Tim doesn't flinch away. “Hey, at least we got some answers, yeah? This is a good thing.”
“But—fuck!” Tim practically wails, lifting his head back up. “I—oh, God, I got one of them killed. And, oh fuck, oh my god, I carved equations into my arms.”
Yikes. Dick shares a subtle look with Bruce over Tim's head. He hadn't even thought about that. It's…admittedly not good, but it's not Tim's fault. The death was an accident, obviously, and the, uh…alternate-self mutilation was just supposed to be self mutilation, as sick as that still makes Dick feel—it wasn't intentional alternate-self mutilation.
Jesus, all of those Tims lost their Cassandras. No matter what Dick's Tim did to try to stop it. 982 Tims. 982 Casses.
“It wasn't your fault, Timmy,” Dick soothes, rubbing his hand up and down Tim's shoulder, his arm still wrapped around him. “He'll heal. And he's you—he’d understand. You would, right?”
Tim sucks in a deep breath and sighs. “I—I guess. Yeah. I would. That doesn't mean I won't regret it for the rest of my life.”
“No,” Dick agrees reluctantly. He doesn't say it, but…god, that Tim probably has no idea what even happened, where the wounds even came from. “but it will get better,” he continues, banishing that thought before it can dig deeper. “You're the victim here, bud. The only one at fault is whoever is responsible for this.” If there even is anyone. There are too many coincidences here for it to be a freak accident, though, Dick thinks. They're still waiting to talk to Mr. Terrific again. But honestly? Dick isn't really hopeful that they'll ever figure it out.
Tim doesn't respond, he just turns his head into Dick’s shoulder and leans further into him.
“You didn't deserve any of this. You know that, right?” Dick urges. “You deserve to be here, alive, safe with us. You're so, so good, Timmy. You've saved so many lives, including mine and Bruce's, countless times. You deserve to be here.”
Tim just huffs.
“Hey, no.” Dick gives him a squeeze. “I want to hear you say it. You didn't deserve this. You deserve to be here.”
Tim shakes his head.
“Tim.”
Tim swallows, and then, quietly, almost too quietly for Dick to hear: “I didn't deserve this. I deserve to be here.”
Dick smiles brightly. It was a weak effort on Tim's part, but Dick is ecstatic that he even got him to say it.
And it's okay. It's all okay, because he's going to do everything he can to make sure Tim eventually realizes that it's true.
They all are.
Epilogue
Tim crawls into the cot with Cass. She's already woken up once, but she wasn't really all that aware at the time. Alfred and Bruce and Dick swear that she'll be okay, but Tim doesn't think he'll ever believe that. He's going to be watching her like a hawk for the rest of his life if things stick this time. He's seen her die so, so many times. He knows what every one of her bones looks like. Her guts, her brains, her spine, her face blue and swollen, her eyes torn from their sockets—
He's startled from his thoughts when someone nudges him and he would have fallen from the bed if it weren't for a strong arm reaching out to catch him.
“Cass,” he breathes. Her tired, golden-hazel eyes bore into him, bloodshot but sharp.
“Timmy,” she rasps. Tim should—she needs water—he should—
“No,” Cass’s grip tightens on his arm. She should be weak, but her hold is strong. It always is. “Stay.”
“Cass,” he says again. He doesn't think his mouth can form any other words right now. Things are starting to go hazy. Things have been hazy a lot lately. Most of the numbers in his head are locked tightly away because of it. He can't lose them, but neither can he access them right now, not even to write them down. If he tries, he knows they'll melt away into the fog that cloaks his brain and they’ll be gone if when if when if if if he loops jumps dimensions loops loops loops again. Behind the wall he's built, they're safe for now. He hopes.
He's just…this has all—everything, all of it, it's all too much for his head. It's been too much, but now that he's had a chance to get a little rest it's just…it's just—
He doesn't notice that Cass has tucked him into a tight, full-body hug until she's murmuring comforting words in his ear. She's the one who just woke up from being poisoned, this should be the other way around.
“Hey,” Cass says firmly, giving him a light shake. “Come back. Everything is okay.”
It's not. She doesn't know yet, she's been unconscious, she has no idea.
She's frowning at him and he can see her trying to read him.
“You're spiraling. What happened? What do you need?”
Tim laughs. “Me? You. You need. You're sick, hurt. You.”
She frowns harder. He knows he's—a little off now. He rambles and floats and fights and laughs and he doesn't know how to stop it, he doesn't care to try. It doesn't matter. Nothing really matters anymore.
Right?
Except Cass. She matters. She's all that matters. She's here, and she's whole.
For now.
“I missed you,” he says, pressing his face into her shoulder. “I missed you so much.”
“Why—” Cass says. “You're hurt. Really hurt. I've never seen you this hurt before. Sorrow, grief. Agony. Tim, what's wrong?”
“I can’t—I don't think I can—” He's too foggy. He doesn't think he can come up with the right words to explain. He feels like he's going to float away.
Cass is speaking again, but the words don't make it into his ears. He just burrows deeper and hums. He isn't trying to ignore her, but he's floating too far away. He hears her sigh and she settles back into the cot, pulling him with her.
He feels her kiss his hair and he closes his eyes. She lays her cheek on top of his head.
“Everything is okay, Timmy. We can figure this out later.
“Just rest.”