it’s about time drake where klarion cursed him and everyone one forgot who he is, so he goes the greece and work at orpheus temple, and them one day krypto fings him and kon too but he doesn’t remember him
also tim becomes a witch and joins coven and constantine remembers him so yeah if anyone know this fic name pleaseee tell mee
Timfic: because everybody needs angsty Tim Drake drabbles in their lives
Tim sighs as he walks past it. And yet.
Four, Tim thinks, is the perfect number. Nobody is left alone, it’s round and soft and has a nice sound when it leaves your lips. It’s not like one. Tim’s spent his whole life with one, its sickly, pale line stark against the background, alone and sad and wasting away to nothing. Three has been his least favorite number for a long time; it was even worse than one. It was knowing they forgot you, again. It was a raise in allowance, a ruffle of your hair, and another goodbye. He was getting to know two—it was hard work, because if you didn’t work hard enough it would dwindle to one, but Tim was finding that it was worth the fight.
He thought, when he first came to the manor, that he was getting four. He thought he was getting father, brother, and grandfather in one fell swoop. He never knew that a ghost came with them; he thought he was getting four, but really he got five.
And nothing showed that better than the picture in the hall.
Sometimes at night, after a particularly difficult patrol or a long mission, Bruce would stop in front of the picture and look at it with sad eyes, the lines around his mouth setting more firmly, like stone cracking around a blow from a chisel. Then he would ruffle Tim’s hair and say goodnight, but his eyes wouldn’t quite settle on him and he couldn’t say his name.
Dick would always stop by the picture when he visited. And he’d get that soft smile that he directed at Tim on rare occasions. And he’d whisper “Hey little brother,” his voice so soft that you almost thought it was a sigh. Then he’d smile at Tim, but his eyes were far away, and they saw another boy in the same colors.
Alfred, for his part, paid careful attention to that painting. It was always immaculate, perfectly placed, and so clean it virtually repelled the dirt. And he would tell Tim to be careful when they left the cave, and Tim could tell he was talking to another Robin.
So yes, it was just a painting. But still. Tim never looked at it, not anymore. When he first got here, he spent time every day—after Bruce had trudged up the stairs, while Dick was living another life in another city, when Alfred tidied a room that wasn’t used anymore, that would never be used again—looking at that picture, trying to see what it was that made everyone forget that he was there.
It was a simple enough portrait. Four people, standing in a room. Bruce sat on a chair. He looked like he always did, his hair neat, his suit tailored, his face set in his billionaire smile. And yet. His eyes were warmer, and the edges of his lips hinted at a smile that rarely appeared around Tim. Dick stood to his left and slightly behind. He was grinning out of the canvas, one hand on Bruce’s shoulder, even though they had had plenty of problems back then. The same Dick he knew now, and yet. His eyes were just slightly to his right, his smile quirking up a bit higher than usual. Alfred was actually smiling in this family portrait, which was strange enough.
Then there was Jason. He stood on Bruce’s right, leaning slightly on the chair, his smile dashing and roguish.
Jason, the fifth family member, the boy with dead fingers that reached through the suits of his family and turned their hearts to ice. His voice whispered in Tim’s ears, informing Tim that he would never really be Robin, they would never love him the way they loved Jason.
Yes, Tim had spent hours of his life looking at that picture, wondering what that boy had that he didn’t, wondering if Bruce had ever taken off days with that Robin, if Dick had always called him little brother, if Alfred ever smiled when he cleaned up after the second Robin.
Then Jason came back, and Tim couldn’t bear to look at the picture anymore. Because now he was the fifth member, and Dick would look at him sideways and Bruce acted like maybe he regretted ever having Robins and Alfred spent too much time in forgotten rooms. And yet. They all still stopped at the picture, a shrine to a boy reborn.
Tim, though, Tim never spared it another glance. He could never understand why Jason refused to come back and fill the role that Tim desperately wanted but could never really have. Tim told himself that he was good enough, that boys that weren’t dead couldn’t whisper in his ears and harden hearts, that they loved him even though he wasn’t the same as the second, that he was good even though he was third. And yet…
