Worth it
A/N: I wrote this as like a sequel or continuation to this original fic by jcolney. What happens after Tim died. I will let you know that this hurt like a physical wound to write. Thanks a bunch. Enjoy anyways.
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WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH, LANGUAGE, MILD VIOLENCE, AND NOT REALLY GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF WOUNDS
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The human body is a funny little thing. Funny and inconvenient little frail thing. It farts and creates urine and tears and carries out various other functions with or without the owner’s consent. This time, it was more or less without, but seeing as the owner was dead Slade supposed it could be counted as a bit of a gray area. However, Timothy Jackson Drake certainly wasn’t the one in control of the small, bloody cough that escaped his chest. And if he was, that would be quite a trick, controlling your body from beyond the grave would. Slade was almost tempted to believe it. If anyone were smart enough to figure out how to perform some kind of self necromancy, Slade supposed it would be Drake.
Coincidentally, the cough occured right as the Bats were leaving. Just a few decibels above “too quiet to be heard”. All three turned around immediately.
Slade cursed his luck and applauded Drake all in one breath. Trust that kid to screw up his escape even in death. The hits the kid had managed to get in during their fight weren’t even close to lethal, but they were close enough to be damaging. Also, no more weapons to use, just a sword and that was hardly much good with only one operational arm. And there were three of them out there. Shit.
But Slade figured he always had been a resourceful fucker. He really was sorry about what he was about to do. Slade was well beyond morals, but one code he had always tried (tried being the operative word) to not mess with was to not screw the bodies of respectable (relatively respectable, okay?) enemies. But sometimes things didn’t pan out. Slade figured Drake would get it though, better than his big brother would anyways; the kid was always the most resourceful one out of all those spandex wearing weirdos.
All three members of the “Batfamily” immediately turned at the sound of the little cough, weapons at the ready. All three flung their batarangs at the projectile body that flew out of nowhere, and it jolted as each one hit. None hit anywhere remotely vital, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyways. That was a dead body, clear as day.
“Body?” Dick thought, “whose body?”
Dick recognized that it was too small to be Slade, but he couldn’t make a face behind the cloth that said body was wrapped in. Couldn’t have been more than 18 though.
"Poor kid," Dick murmered.
Bruce nodded to Damian, who immediately stepped closer and nudged the body with his foot.
Silence filled the air around them, suffocating the three of them as they stared at the face of the now flipped over body.
Damian backed away until he was next to his father again and a small disbelieving squawk left his throat.
"I thought you said he wasn’t here," Damian whispered, looking straight at Dick.
Silence again.
Dick was the first to react.
He ran forward and gathered the broken body into his arms, desperately checking for a sign of life. Any sign of life; even though it was clear that there was none the second he saw the body hit the ground. Naturally, he found nothing.
The batarangs still were stuck in the dead flesh. One in the thigh, one in the foot, one in the arm. Dick ripped all of them out with a roar and flung them angrily against a cement wall, where one stuck and the orher two bounced off.
"Tim," Dick whispered as tears began to form and Dick curled himself around the body.
Tim Drake did not reply.
Slade watched as the rest of the family rushed to Drake’s side. His distraction worked. None of them ever heard him crawl to the emergency exit. It was far enough that none of them could catch them if they tried now, not with their wounds. Slade figured he could just go, no need to add to their agony…
But let it never be said that Slade Wilson ever claimed to be a good man.
"Snuck up on him as he was disarming the last of my bombs. Managed to get three bullets into him. Gotta give the kid credit, didn’t stop disarming that bomb even as he was dodging. Gave me a helluva struggle too, my shoulder is wrecked for the next month at least. Not bad for a brat who was losing pints by the minute. I mean, he managed to hold me off as Wingster there pulled his valiant rescue in any case, and not to brag or nothing but I’m no lightweight. The slash I finally got on his abdomen did him in though. Gotta hand it to you Bats, you know how to pick ‘em. Kid’s a fighter. Well, was a fighter. He sat thereforever just to make sure he heard you fine folks get out before he turned in himself. But you know something? I murdered an underaged hero today, and you guys still manage to walk away with the Oscar for biggest asshole performance of the year. Man, I can’t even win with you people can I? Especially you, Wingster. I’m almost impressed. Always knew you had a temper on you but damn…”
All three pairs of eyes honed in onto Slade. Murderous intent growing with every word he spoke.
“Oh yeah,” Slade thought, “I so do NOT regret this.”
"You did this?" Bruce said, a voice low and full of hate, but quieter than it normally would have been, considering the partially crushed trachea, "You killed him?"
"Yeah," Slade answered with a shrug, "I kill lotsa people, y’know. I’m a bit of an asshole, in case you didn’t notice before. But I must say, I’ve never been such a asshole that I talk shit about my savior as they were dying. Behind his back too. Ouch. I mean, tell us how you really feel, why don’t you?"
Dick, who had apparently had enough, made a move, escrima sticks in hand, towards Slade. His sliced up leg coupled with the grief and shock stopped him from getting any further than two feet. He fell pathetically on the floor.
"Fuck you!" Dick screamed, "Fuck you, Slade! You killed him! You did this! I’m gonna kill you! You killed my…"
"Your little brother?" Slade sneered, mocking Dick, "Not anymore though, right? He "abandoned" you guys to go off and make a plan, remember? He’s no longer a part of you."
All three of the Bats look up, shocked expressions on all their faces.
"Oh yeah. Me and Timmy there heard the whole production. We were, after all, sitting right there," Slade said, pointing to the wall where he was hiding with Tim just moments before.
"Well," he continued, "almost the whole thing. I think Timmy conked out right after little baby Robin there called him unreliable. Or was it right after Batsy there promised to have a "talk" with him? It was definitely after Nightwing’s little monologue in the beginning. Man, I could really feel that anger. Guess the feels were all too much for him and he fell asleep. Poor thing. I understand, saving the lives of Gotham’s finest must be exhausting. I wouldn’t blame him if he slept for an eternity. In any case, it was definitely before the happy ending where you all reached an epiphany full of love and acceptance for Red there."
Dick screamed as he crawled to Tim’s body curled himself around it and Bruce paled visibly as they both allowed the revelation of what the last words Tim heard were sink in. Damian stood stock still, eyes never leaving Slade.
Damian hadn’t believe Tim Drake was capable of dying until — well, now. The thought had never crossed his mind; now, it would never leave it. Damian had always known Tim was weaker than the rest of the family (except Brown). It was just a fact, a quick look at statistics. Tim was always physically behind the precedent Todd and Grayson had set, but he was always alive too. Always too smart, too wily, to die. Seventeen years old and running Wayne Enterprises, leading the Titans, bringing the dead back to life, making a name for himself as a new vigilante, bringing his enemies to their knees. No matter how small or weak, Drake always came back. Everywhere Damian turned people were talking about how reliable and cunning Tim Drake was, and how they all respected him for being —well — him. It annoyed Damian to no end, but it also made him acknowledge that Drake was around to stay. And he was alive. Drake was an ally, and he was one of the few constants in Damian’s new life. And Slade Wilson had killed him.
Slade had never been interested in the newest Robin. He had the personality and the potential of a rock. But he had to admit, the demon baby had quite an arm. And aim. The sword he threw almost hit it’s mark.
"Well, I think that’s my cue for my grand exit. Ready for my dramatic goodbye monologue?"
Dick was sobbing openly now. Bruce paled more and more every minute. And the sword throw had apparently all but drained Damian out.
Slade could feel his own energy levels dipping dangerously low. Really, he figured he ought to just go…
But when would he get another chance like this? And like he said, not a nice man.
So as he turned to leave, Slade shot one last barb over his shoulder. he cleared his throat.
“It was worth it. Everyone’s okay. Worth it.”
The three heads shot up, watching Slade as he mimicked Tim’s voice.
"It’s what he said before— well, you know. Kid was muttering it to himself real quiet. Had to lean in to catch it, but it was what he was saying. Thought I ought to pass it on, you guys being family and all. Well now, I hope we all learned a lesson in talking behind people’s backs and bad timing here. For what it’s worth, I’m not lying. Not about anything. Believe me or don’t. I’ll leave my friend there as a parting gift. Sweet, sweet sorrow and all that. Toodles."
And just like the little cough that started it all, Slade couldn’t help the yelp of laughter that wretched from his throat as he disappeared into the Gotham night, leaving the cacophony of despair behind him
