#anyway polls out now on tim's next attempt the raising the dead since bruce shot down the laz pits

[thirdrootwriting]

Brother of my Brother (Infinite Crisis - Bad End) pt2

Tim Pov, and Prodigal flashback this chapter, because I love Prodigal Tim and Dick.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

Dick's body is still, cold and perfect on the autopsy table of the Batcave.

It looks so horribly wrong, like a puzzle piece crammed into the wrong place or an egregious bit of nonsense code in a command string. A blip of the universe.

Tim still remembers how Mary and John Grayson had looked as corpses. It had been a horrific, gory nightmare with hot blood pumping from their shattered bodies and their white bones visible in the air. Their son, warm and kind Dick Grayson, who just an hour or so earlier had pulled Tim into a hug that smelled of stage makeup and chalk dust and promised to do a quadruple somersault just for him, looking down at the sight that would haunt Tim's nightmares for years to come with empty, disbelieving eyes.

The first coherent thought Tim ever remembers having is, 'He was supposed to fall too', and a close second was this, "I won't let him fall too."

Staring at the near perfect corpse on the table, that used to be his- well, there wasn't really a word for it. Brother, hero, idol, and mentor all seemed trite and underwhelming for the person that was Tim's first memory, his reason for becoming a vigilante, his safety net; the person who had taught him how to fold laundry and talked Tim through everything from his teenage relationship drama to his struggles with being Robin.

Staring the corpse of a person who had made up so much of him, Tim feels hollowed out and unable to bear the heavy weight of his failure.

His mother, his father, Stephanie, and now Connor,

 . . . and now Dick.

. . .

. . .

No. No, Tim has to think. He's not a civilian, Dick's not a civilian. He's Nightwing, leader of the Titans and protector of Bludhaven, the prince regent of Gotham's night as the only other person who has done justice to Batman's cowl. He's been fighting crime longer than more than half the JLA, been to different dimensions and space and …

He's Robin. Dick's Robin, he can't be dead for good. What type of world would it be if fucking Jason Todd can come back, but Dick Grayson would stay dead?

Tim bites his tongue and steps closer to the table holding Nightwing's corpse and closer to Batman, still cowled and staring at his first son's cold body. The darkness of the cave and Batman's stillness make him even more inhuman appearing than usual, like he's a natural feature of the dank cave, a demon of shadows only visible out of the corner of your eye.

Neither of them, nor Alfred, have worked themselves up to removing Nightwing's mask.

Tim clears his throat, forces his voice to come out above a whisper, "The Lazarus Pits." He swallows, "I'm sure there are a couple the League of Assassins doesn't have control over that we can search out."

Nightwing in an unthinking rage would be terrifying, but between Crane's fear gas, Joker's venom, Ivy's pollen, and occasionally Bane's stuff they'd all been dosed up and compromised before. Not to mention, Nightwing's always been best out of all of them at staying calm and rational when dosed or altered like that.

A trained acrobat since birth, his fear response is to assess and rationally respond, and luckily his anger response to curl up and only lash out if prodded, it takes lot to get him to really attack.

(Not the heads in a duffel bag and midnight ambushes to write messages in blood type, unlike some people).

Tim looks down, more critically now. Nightwing's suit is torn and dusty and there is some faint visible bruising, but no large gaping wounds or grossly deformed bony structures. He mentally catalogues the damage, reaching out a hand to remove Dick's mask, "We should put him in one of the cryo freezers till then to prevent decomp-"

Batman's hand shoots out, grabbing Tim's wrist with a bruising strength, "The ray Alexander Luthor shot him with was a type of modified sonar. All his hollow internal organs and many of his blood vessels burst when he was hit. Despite the lack of outside damage, he's completely broken inside."

The grip on Tim's wrist gets harder and harder as Batman continues to speak, toneless, his face inhuman and unreadable behind the cowl.

"A Lazarus Pit can only revive someone from death with a near intact corpse, and whether it brings back the soul is still a matter of debate."

Tim feels something in wrist crack slightly, but the pain is secondary to the emptiness he feels as Batman shoots down his plans,

"Rob-, Dick Grayson is dead. He's not coming back. He's gone. We failed."

Batman lets go of him, He takes the hand that probably just cracked Tim's wrist and gently runs it through Dick's hair before carefully peeling the mask off of his son's face. Then with that same hand pulls off his own cowl. The expression on his face is . .

Tim steps back, his right wrist aching and his heart pounding with something, Maybe heartbreak, maybe fear.

He doesn't think Bruce notices. There is nothing in his eyes except the corpse, as if Batman and death are the only things in this cavern, as if Bruce wants nothing more to protectively cradle this dead body and his own grief till the very end of the world. It's the same way he stares at the bloody Robin uniform in the memorial case or his parents' portrait in the Manor, but so much worse.

Normally, Tim would try to stop him, because that's what Robin is. The light to Batman's darkness, the person that reminded him that they did this for the living as well as the dead. Normally, Tim would pull Batman back, and if he failed he'd run to Bludhaven to …

Robin is dead, there is no stopping Batman.

Tim leaves the Cave. All he can do now is search for the answer to his own grief.

---------------------------

Three years ago

Tim knows the situation, with Bruce and Alfred being gone from Gotham, and trust in Batman at an all-time low cause of all the stuff Azrael did in the cowl, is bad but there is still a sort of guilty, giddy excitement he feels in chest when Dick comes back with him to the manor to be his Batman.

Like yeah, the situation is really bad, but Dick Grayson is going to be his Batman, and Tim gets to be his Robin!

It has him near bouncing in place, even though Dick seemed gloomy, especially as he took in the state of the Alfred-less Manor all boarded up and dusty. Still he'd gotten straight to tidying the Manor up, as if Dick was determined to do the work of both Alfred and Bruce while the usual inhabitants were gone. He'd even let Tim help, tossing him a broom, and then later teaching him how to fold sheets.

Tim is concentrating, trying to get the fitted sheet he's pulled out of their latest laundry load into some sort of shape that not just a wrinkly ball when Dick strikes.

Too fast for Tim to see, he steps close and hooks his foot around Tim's right ankle. As Tim falls back, he must duck down because instead of hitting the ground Tim finds himself hoisted across Dick's back in a hold that feels like something between a fireman's carry and a pro-wrestler's move. The whole maneuver is so fast and fluid it barely even jars Tim, like this was something they'd choreographed and practiced a million times instead of an impromptu grab.

"Time for a break." Dick sing-songs, walking towards the door. "To the kitchen we go." His mood improved once they actually started working and there's a smile in his voice now that wasn’t there this morning.

Tim wiggles in the hold. It's not painful, not even uncomfortable like some of the pins he'd been subject to training with Bruce. Honestly, the gentle but firm grip (an acrobat's grip, someone who knew how to catch their flier) was far more reminiscent of the warm, chalk-dust scented hug Dick had given him during their first meeting as children. Tim is acutely aware of the feeling of being held, every spot of gentle pressure, each of his own muscles that want to relax into it.

Tim tries kicking his feet and twisting to break away, "Let me down! I can walk, you know." Both his movement and his words are ineffective, and Dick barely seems to notice as he continues on to the kitchen.

"Mmm, don’t think so. Think of it as training, just like you busting into my apartment to check on the security. I'm letting you know you need more practice guarding against sneak attacks."

From where his head is, Tim can just make out the corner of Dick's smile, a small comfortable curl of his lips, neither showy nor sharp. He looks so much happier than the bitterness and worry of this morning, and Tim fills up with a rush of pride.

He attempts kicking out again, putting more force into it, but Dick just readjusts his hold, "Not letting you go, Tim."

"I'll get you next time." Comes out of Tim's mouth, without him really meaning to say it. The warmth in his chest given vocal form. He's sorta means trying playful sneak attack of his own, but also sorta means he's not letting go in the other way, either. Never has since he was three and never will in a million years.

They finally reach the kitchen, and Dick sets him down with that same grin, "Sure, sure. Catch me if you can, Timmy."