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talesoferyngalen · 10 months

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A Soft Place to Fall

Vamp!Tim, my submission for the 2023 Batfam Big Bang. Enjoy!

tw: a sort-of eating disorder, blood

...

Gotham after sundown was unforgiving. Even the wind was bitter-cold and dangerous, at least this time of year. Tim was used to it by now, though.

He laid low against the roof he'd found, peering through the lens of his camera. He had a good view of Batman and Robin, several buildings over, as they breezed past on their nightly patrol. They moved quickly, and within moments they were too far to be seen clearly. Tim had a few good pictures, but he would never settle for a few.

In a world like his, where parents left their child to fend for himself in the most dangerous city in the country, Batman and Robin were a light in the darkness. Tim had followed them out of curiosity, at first. Barely more than nine years old, following along at street level with stars in his eyes and a banged-up digital camera that held nothing but some rough shots of Pokémon cards and a sunset.

It was still curiosity the next couple of times, and maybe some amount of sheer awe. He got a few shaky pictures. None of them were really recognizable as the city's defenders to anyone but him.

It grew into a coping mechanism, a grab for comfort, a way to challenge himself—and an obsession.

Nearly four years down the line, and Tim was good. Not as good as his heroes, not as good as Batman and Robin, but still fairly skilled, in his opinion. It wasn't like a normal civilian could keep up with the heroes across the city's rooftops, or remain unnoticed, or find good places for clear shots of them in action. They certainly wouldn't be able to do it while hauling all of his camera equipment. It wasn't anywhere near a professional set-up, but it wasn't light, either.

When the pair of them were far enough away, Tim sprang out of his hiding spot and gave chase. The well-beaten tennis shoes he wore barely made a sound on the roof. Certainly not any sound that could be heard over the rumble of traffic on the street below. When the roof ended, Tim sprang to the next one with well-practiced ease, landing in a crouch before taking off again.

Another reason he was still doing this after so long was how alive he felt, flying across the city in the dead of night.

He didn’t have a grapple like Batman and Robin, which eventually forced him to leave the rooftops and follow them from the street. They were going into the upper city tonight, which was a notable deviation from their typical patterns. Today they should’ve spent the majority of the night in the lower city. Something had to be going on if they were beelining in the complete opposite direction.

Tim wove through crowds on the sidewalks, only ducking into alleys he knew were safe. He could no longer see Batman or Robins on the rooftops, but if they were headed into the upper city, he knew the most direct path there. He was confident he would find them again. He usually could. Once you knew Batman’s patterns, he was surprisingly easy to predict.

The next time he saw Batman’s cape whipping around a corner, it was by the gates of an old, upper-class cemetery. Tim paused at the gates, peering up at the wrought iron sign above them. The words were too hard to read in the dark, and he was unable to make out anything other than a vowel or two.

A horrible screeching sound came from somewhere within the maze of graves and mausoleums. Tim froze, eyes snapping away from the sign. The sound came again, accompanied by the typical noises of a fight.

A smart person would turn and leave, and maybe tip off the police that something was happening. Tim started to do just that when he became vividly aware of the camera around his neck, its weight resting against his chest. He chewed on his lip as he looked between the cemetery and the road. It would be smart to leave, but…he would probably actually kill someone for the chance to photograph Batman fighting in a cemetery. It was just too perfect.

Without further hesitation, he slipped through the gates.

There weren’t many lights in the cemetery. The majority of them were installed on specific mausoleums, and were a mish-mash of warm and cool light, in different designs and strengths. He steered clear of them, weaving through the old graves in as much darkness as he could find. There was a reason he hadn’t been caught by Batman yet.

It wasn’t long before he found the fight. A collection of damaged gravestones surrounded Batman and some sort of creature that raced around him at alarming speeds. The creature lunged at Batman, who kicked it away with brutal strength and stepped backwards to put space between them. He threw a pair of batarangs with one motion. At least one of them struck its mark, judging by the creature’s pained shrieks.

Batman had a hand to his ear, talking to someone on comms. Tim crept as close as he dared, eyes wide at he nervously glanced at the creature every now and then. It was preoccupied with stalking Batman, thankfully. It was a human-like creature, but the proportions were all off, and its back bowed painfully, allowing it to lope on all fours.

“Dealing with a vampire,” Tim managed to catch Batman saying. “Be advised—” His next words were drowned out by a roar from the creature—a real vampire.

It flew through the air, arms outstretched and jaw gaping as it flung itself at Batman. Before it could find any kind of purpose, Batman grabbed it by one arm, spun hard, and threw it…straight towards Tim.

Tim had less than a second to move. He scrambled from one headstone to the next, staying low to the ground and out of sight without getting close enough to be involved in the fight. He brought the camera up and snapped a handful of pictures, ignoring how fast his heart beat in his chest. The click of the shutter was unexpectedly loud, and Tim nearly dropped the camera as the vampire's gaze snapped to him—hungry.

There were no words. Its baleful, dimly glowing eyes locked onto him, and its thin mouth warped into an ugly snarl. Tim could hear his own heart pounding in his ears like a war drum, and felt the rhythm in his teeth.

The split second before the attack stretched into a small eternity.

Tim clearly saw each little movement leading up to the vampire's lunge: the way it shifted its weight onto its hands, getting its feet under it one at a time, Batman just a bit too far away to help. Had he even noticed someone else was there yet? It didn’t seem like it. Where was Robin? Why had Tim followed them into the cemetery?!

Pure, unadulterated fear, unlike anything Tim had felt in years, struck him like lightning. He dropped his camera, turning to run with a scream on his lips. The vampire sprang, leaping like an animal, with sharp, unnatural movements.

There was a yell behind him, but in his panic he couldn’t make heads or tails of what was said. Were there words? Or was it just anger and fear that refused to stay bottled up?

A heavy weight—so heavy, unnaturally heavy—slammed into him, and Tim hit the ground, face-down. Pain shot through him—ribs, shoulders, head, from no particular source he could discern. Dirt got in his eyes, in his mouth, graveyard dirt that he spat out, the taste of decay on his tongue. He tried to lift his head, tried to get his arms under him, but couldn’t. The weight on top of him refused to move, and in fact pressed down harder. Tim felt more than heard several small pops and snaps under his skin.

His heart beat faster and faster still. He felt as though he were being strangled. Was he? Was the vampire keeping him from breathing? His world narrowed down to nothing but that moment, the pain that radiated through him, the metallic taste of fear on his tongue and, somehow, a small part of him that wished he could’ve done better…

No. No, this couldn't be how he went. Not at two-something in the morning, in a poorly kept cemetery, with the only witnesses being his killer and his hero. Not pinned to the ground by a monster, nothing more than another civilian caught in the crossfire. Another death for Batman to feel he could’ve prevented, more baggage for his hero to lug around. What he needed was a plan—any plan at all, anything other than just dying.

The vampire was too heavy to throw off, at least for a twelve year old who'd focused more on agility than strength. So, instead of fighting more, Tim let himself go limp, paying close attention to the points of contact the vampire had on him. A hand on his shoulder, one knee on his back, another on his legs. The second hand must've been braced on the ground. There was so much pressure on each one. So heavy. Painful.

As soon as the vampire moved enough, Tim could try to slip out of its grasp. He just had to stay calm. Stay focused.

Cold, clammy breath gusted across his neck, and his resolve was put to the test. It was a sickly feeling, somehow worse than just cold air. It was the feeling of standing in a dirty room, breathing air he knew wasn’t clean. It was moist, if just barely, and Tim felt it on his skin. It didn’t smell…bad. Not good, but not outright bad. Like old coins in a musty cup, gathering residue from who-knows-what.

Just a little longer. If it thought he was dead, knocked out, or just not invested in the fight, it would go back to fighting Batman. That was what you were supposed to do with animal attacks, right? He just had to stay still. Just a little longer. Just a little—

Pain.

Tim screamed, uncaring for the graveyard dirt his face was still pressed into. He tried to thrash, tried to fight back, to escape, but the weight on his back was still too much, the absolute pain in his neck nearly too much to think through.

Had he even been hurt before? He’d thought he was already in agony, but clearly the creature had just been toying with him.

All at once, the monster’s weight was ripped from his back. Even as Tim was flooded with sheer relief at the lack of weight pressing down on him, the pain in his neck flared—badly. The mud his face was pressed into was beginning to feel thinner. Thinner and warmer, and it smelled strange, almost like the monster’s breath.

His breath stuttered as he realized the red in his vision was real. The dark mud was taking on a red tint. Red pooled under his face, clinging to it, spreading outwards. Agony lanced through his neck again—the wound on his neck, because he was in a puddle of blood. His own blood, most likely. Blood didn’t come without a wound, and it hurt. The vampire—thing—whatever it was, had been positioned correctly for a...bite. It had bitten him.

Another stab of pain hit. His stomach turned unpleasantly, threatening to spill the meager dinner he'd eaten before taking off into the city.

Tim's heart pounded in his ears, drowning all else out as he heaved himself up to his elbows. Even though the night was cold, the mud that seeped through his hoodie's sleeves was sickly warm. He tried not to look, but the red was so alarmingly bright that it drew his eye regardless.

There was so much.

He'd seen blood before, even large quantities of blood—he was from Gotham, and his favorite hobby was shadowing/photographing/stalking the city's vigilantes, of course he'd seen blood—but it had never been his. It was always a nameless, faceless enemy; his heroes, who he knew could take it; or some poor bystander he didn't have to look too closely at. Tim himself? He'd never drawn much more blood than scraping his knees when he misjudged a jump, or when he sliced a finger trying to cook. It was always manageable, and it always stopped soon after he got hurt.

This time, the bleeding wasn't stopping. He stared in shock and muted horror as red continued to drip from his undoubtedly mangled neck. It hit his hoodie instead of the ground, only just visible against the dark gray fabric. It never stopped. It wasn't slowing.

He wasn't Robin. He wasn't Batman. He was just…Tim. There was no way that Tim could lose that much blood. It just kept coming. He needed help. He needed help.

His heart still pounded in his ears, the sound feeling as though it was pressing in on his brain, becoming more unbearable with each passing second. His own breathing was too loud, quick, and raspy, and he couldn't get it back under control. There were other sounds beyond that, though. He couldn't pinpoint any direction or source, absolute chaos unfolding around him. He couldn't tell where Batman was, or how he fared in the fight, by sound alone, not like this.

So, he pushed off the ground and knelt in the rapidly cooling mud. His head spun, and his neck throbbed—was it better or worse that the pain was subsiding?—but he stayed up. The fight became easier to track, if only slightly. Two dark shapes flitted between the headstones and mausoleums, each trying to gain the upper hand. One moved like an animal, frequently dropping to all fours in unnatural contortions, far too quickly for the larger shadow to easily corner them. It didn't help that the smaller shadow seemed capable of clearing impossibly high jumps, fairly flying up and over the mausoleum it had been chased up to.

The larger shadow—Batman, it had to be—followed with impressive speed and agility. Several times, he managed to seemingly predict where the monster would go and dropped down in front of it, close enough to swing a fist at it. The grappling gun never went off, that Tim could see. He was just that good.

Tim needed help. He needed to call out for help. Bruce—Batman was busy, though. He in no way had the upper hand in this fight. Tim didn't want to be the reason Batman died. So, he stayed quiet. It would probably all be over soon enough. No one ever stood a chance against Batman, with or without Robin.

Where was Robin?

The two of them ran in dizzying circles, and after a moment Tim closed his eyes. It was hard to focus with the way everything spun. His head hurt…or was that still just his neck? Had the bleeding ever stopped? Judging by the warm, tacky feeling spreading across the shoulder of his hoodie, no. Maybe it had slowed. The wet patch on his shoulder was nowhere near the size of the puddle he'd made.

The sounds of the fight were fading. Were they moving farther away? Was it nearly over? Tim tried to open his eyes, but they remained firmly shut. His heart sped up, fear spiking in his veins as, no matter how hard he willed himself, his eyes still wouldn't open.

The sound of his own heartbeat was getting fainter, as well. A wretched sound that may have been his own cry felt as though it was filtered through water, distorted and indistinct.

Hands grabbed his shoulders, and Tim tried to yank away. It was the vampire again. It was back. It would finish him off, and there was nothing he could do, blind and weak as he was. The pain had nearly gone, now. He didn't want it back. In no world did he want to feel that pain again. He didn't want it to be the last thing he felt.

He didn't want to die. Not like this. He would take anything but this.

He wouldn't even make it to the holidays this year, to see whether his parents lived up to their promise to come home. He wouldn't get to print out the really cool picture of Robin he'd snapped tonight. He'd never race across the rooftops, playing his own private game, ever again.

The hands on his shoulders didn't become any more gentle, but they moved down his arms, gripping him tightly and shaking him a little. Tim still couldn't open his eyes, couldn't make himself move, couldn't get up and run like he so badly wanted to. Was it playing with him? Did it want him to suffer even more?

There was yelling, very close to Tim's ears. It wasn't any sound the vampire had made the entire encounter, but it wasn't Batman's growling voice, either. It was higher pitched, frantic. Familiar, just like Batman's voice was.

Robin was here. Robin had him.

Tim let himself tip forward into the vigilante's arms, and fell into oblivion.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The instant he woke up, Tim expected pain.

The stress of the fight—well, the attack, more accurately—was still present. For a brief moment, he wasn’t certain he’d left the graveyard at all. He stiffened, expecting the chaotic noise and the pain to return…but there was none.

There wasn't silence, not by any means, but the sounds he could hear were a far cry from a fight. There was the gentle hum of electricity all around him, interspersed with quiet, electronic beeping at a steady rhythm. A tapping noise…someone on a keyboard? There was a bit of an echo, too. Not much, but it was there.

How had he gotten from the graveyard to here? Where was here? Who—?

Well. Who was a bit obvious, wasn't it? There had only been two people present when he was attacked. He highly doubted that the heroes had left him for some unlucky bystander to find, which meant they'd gotten him to safety.

The beeping made more sense, then. He was in a hospital and hooked up to something. The absence of pain made more sense considering that, as well. A hospital would've given him painkillers, like morphine or something. Right?

In any case, he was awake now, so…

Tim lifted a fist to rub at his eyes, and there was a new sound: a loud, insistent tone, drowning out the beeping from whatever machines Tim was hooked to. The tapping ceased, and Tim had the uncomfortable feeling he was being watched.

Did he need to be uncomfortable? Batman and Robin obviously rescued him. They wouldn't have left him somewhere unsafe.

With that determination made, Tim forced himself to relax, ignoring the alarm that continued to flash on and off. He pried his eyes open, blinking sluggishly against the dry, gummy feeling of them. He must've been out for a while, then. The only times his eyes felt like that were when he'd been asleep too long, or when he was very thirsty.

Now that he thought about it, he was thirsty. Hadn't they hooked him up to an IV, if he was out for so long? Or did IVs not help with a dry mouth and throat? He'd read about some medical stuff, once, but he didn't think that had been included. Or maybe it was, and he was just too out of it to remember.

Once his vision cleared, Tim found himself staring at a sterile white ceiling. Not that unexpected, since he was clearly in a medical setting. It didn't look quite right, though. It wasn't the segmented, paneled ceiling he'd expect to see in a hospital. In fact, it looked very smooth and solid, like the ceiling in his bedroom. Maybe Batman had put him in a fancy hospital that put a lot of weight on appearances?

There was no change for several seconds. The droning of whatever alarm he'd set off ended abruptly, though the steady beeping of the monitors remained. There were no approaching footsteps or chatter, and the tapping of the keyboard didn't resume. So, Tim slowly, carefully sat up, mindful of whatever stitches he might have.

He stopped when he was halfway sitting up, frozen as he leaned back on his elbows. He wasn't facing a solid wall. He was facing a row of floor-to-ceiling windows, and they didn't have a view of a garden, or a parking lot, or even just a hallway in the hospital.

Currently, they provided a view of Batman, standing tall, still, and silent just on the other side. Watching him.

"Uh..." Tim hurriedly sat the rest of the way up. "Mister—"

His voice scratched in his throat, and he had to stop and cough, trying to clear the uncomfortable itch.

"Mr. Batman...sir?" Tim was anxious, so what? He may have followed Batman and Robin for years, but that was different than actually talking to his heroes. "Where am I? What...?"

Batman just watched him. After a long moment, he tilted his head just slightly. "How do you feel?"

Tim's brow furrowed. How did he feel? For starters, he was very confused. He wasn't in a hospital. There was no one anywhere near him except for Batman, and even he was on the other side of a wall. Tim had a sneaking suspicion he was in the BatCave, which was both exciting and concerning.

Physically? He had no pain. His neck felt great, like he'd never been hurt. The aches and sharp pains that had covered every inch of his body were nowhere to be seen, which was a relief. Maybe the monster hadn't done as much damage as he’d thought.

"I'm fine...sir," Tim replied. "Nothing hurts, but I'm...very confused, and I feel like I need water."

Batman hummed thoughtfully—critically, if Tim was reading him right. Like he did when he was considering a difficult problem, or information he thought was untruthful.

He thought Tim was lying.

Maybe Tim wasn't here because he needed help.

"You're thirsty?" Batman probed. Tim shrugged, trying not to show how his mind was running in frantic circles.

"I…yes, I am."

“You’ve been on a saline IV since you arrived. Hydration shouldn’t be an issue.”

“Maybe there’s something wrong with it?” Tim looked at his arm, peering at the IV needle like he knew what he was looking at. “I…my throat is really dry, and I really need water.”

Acknowledging his thirst wasn’t exactly helping. The more he thought about it, and the more he talked, the more his throat ached. He grimaced, putting a hand to his throat.

Batman turned and walked away, only to return a moment later with a glass of water. He gestured for Tim to stay put, and then opened a small panel in the window to place the glass on a small shelf just inside. Once he'd closed the panel and stepped back, he indicated that Tim should take it.

Tim looked dubiously at the IV needle still stuck in his arm, but Batman spoke before Tim had a chance to ask what to do.

"The IV stand can be moved. Get up carefully, and bring it with you."

Tim did, determinedly ignoring the strange pinch of the needle in his arm. It was a bit awkward dragging the IV stand with him, but he made it to the wall. By then, he was desperate for a drink. It was a level of thirst he only knew from long runs, or waking up at two in the morning and blindly grasping for a water bottle. He grabbed the glass and drained it, gulping down the blessedly cool water.

It ended too soon. The water was gone well before he felt any kind of relief, and he found himself holding the cup upside-down, hoping for even one more drop to roll out of it. Of course, there was nothing, so he reluctantly placed it back on the shelf.

"Could I have some more? Please?" Tim's voice rasped again, and he coughed into his sleeve. Batman remained impassive, aside from a slight tightening around the corners of his mouth.

"Did it help?"

"...No."

Batman hummed yet again, and carefully removed the cup. He kept an eye on Tim the whole time, as though expecting...something. An attack? Why? Tim just wanted more water, and answers. In that order. And he was twelve.

Batman procured something else—not another cup, but a plastic bag. The deep red color of it had Tim thoughtlessly lifting a hand to his neck—not where the ache of thirst was, but where he'd been injured. He'd watched that same color spread over the ground as he felt himself growing weaker.

Instead of inflammation and stitches, smooth skin met his touch.

Batman slid the blood bag through the panel, placing it on the shelf with an unsettling plop. Tim stared at it as the blood sloshed inside. His stomach turned…but it only halfway felt like nausea.

The panel slid closed again. "Try this."

"What?" Tim looked between Batman and the bag. "You…you want me to drink that?"

Batman didn't respond beyond inclining his head. Tim should've felt sick. He wanted to feel sick. So why didn't he?

He thought of the vampire in the graveyard. Did Batman think they were working together, somehow? But it had attacked him, Batman and Robin had saved him—

It had attacked him.

He'd been bitten.

Tim couldn't take his eyes off of the blood bag.

It was a valid concern, right? He'd been bitten by a vampire. No matter how outlandish it sounded, they needed to be sure. Batman rarely did anything without covering all of his bases. They were testing right now, and Tim needed to do his part to help.

He slowly picked up the bag, examining it. The nozzle on the top looked like he might be able to open it and drink a little. Just a little. He wasn't going to gulp down the entire bag, just enough to see what his reaction to it was. It would all be fine. He didn't feel all that different, aside from the magically-healed injuries. Who knew, it might've even been some kind of Bat-tech that patched him up.

Nothing on the bag could be easily opened. The nozzle he'd been eyeing looked to be made for an IV. Tim looked up at Batman, questioning. The man was watching him closely, observing every move he made.

"Try biting it."

Biting it? He was really convinced Tim was…not human, anymore. Aside from how disgusting that sounded, there would be no way to only take a little of the blood. Still, if there was no other way forward…

Tim brought the bag up to his mouth, carefully setting his teeth against the thick plastic. Would he even be able to bite through it? Would Batman accept that as a test result? After a moment's hesitation, he bit down. The plastic split under his teeth like the skin of a grape, and cold blood flooded his mouth.

Tim wanted to puke. He wanted to spit it out and scrub his mouth until no trace of the taste remained. The feel of it on his tongue was thick and slimy, and the taste…

He wanted to cry, because it wasn't bad.

It wasn't good, either. It was metallic and chemical, with a pungent smell that filled his nose and nearly made his eyes water. It felt like something that shouldn't be drunk, and Tim couldn't make himself swallow it. It rested in his mouth, disgusting and enticing all at once. His teeth stayed clamped down on the blood bag - this whole situation was bad enough, he didn't want to spill blood all over one of Batman's containment cells. That would just be rude.

Still, there was a part of him that wanted the blood. It felt like a separate entity from himself, caged into a far-off corner of his mind but fighting to emerge. There was no intelligence in it—just pure, animalistic want.

It wanted the blood. Tim wanted it gone. Feeling that urge rise within himself felt like watching a monster emerge from his closet at night. It was horrifying, chilling, disgusting, and it shouldn't be there.

"Do you want to drink it?" Batman's voice sounded far away, though Tim could see that he hadn't moved. He also sounded…concerned? This wasn't going the way he thought it would, was it?

No, Tim thought, but he nodded shakily without thinking. Past the awful smell and the taste of chemicals, there was something in the blood that he wanted, badly.

"If you want to, then you can," Batman assured him. He shouldn't be saying that. He was a hero, and Tim was desperately denying the monster in his head. "It's alright."

Tim trembled, warring between spitting the blood out or admitting that, with every passing second, he was that much more willing to drink it. A steady drip, drip, drip met his ears, and without looking he knew exactly what it was. A cold trickle of blood had escaped his mouth and dripped off of his chin, splattering against the sterile concrete floor. Bright red against pristine white-gray. It might stain.

Tim closed his eyes, tried not to breathe through his nose, and drank.

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Timothy Drake was dead.

Tim stared dully at the laptop screen as Bruce angled it towards him. He was in the Batsuit again, as he'd been during each of their interactions. He spent so long sitting in the Cave with Tim. There had to be other things he needed to do. Some part of his life was surely suffering because of Tim, whether it was Wayne Enterprises or Batman. He was skipping meetings, or he was skipping patrols, all because Tim had been stupid enough to be somewhere he shouldn't have been.

And now this. Two men in smart suits on a blue backdrop, sitting behind a tall desk. A story on the evening news about a string of killings two weeks ago—only two weeks—and how poor little Timothy Drake had been the final victim before Batman stopped the killer. The massive fire that had been sparked during their fight, and how the boy's body had been devoured by it. There'd been no way to retrieve anything more than ashes for his parents to bury. Such a tragedy.

"You can't go back," Batman said quietly. "I'm sorry. It had to be done, but I can help you, if you want."

The news station showed a picture of Tim with his parents—their Christmas card from the year before, one of the rare occasions all three of them were together for pictures. The image changed, and now it was a video of his parents. The news anchor's voice droned over his mother's crying, dripping in sugary-sweet sympathy.

"Services will be held this Friday, at-"

Tim didn't respond, staying as silent as he'd been since the blood bag. He'd drained it, and the burn in his throat had instantly alleviated. He'd dutifully drank from other bags when pressed, but never before then. No matter how bad his throat burned, or how often he found himself wishing for the taste on his tongue, he wouldn't drink before he was told. Never more than one bag at a time, and always quickly and neatly, keeping the blood from dripping all over the floor.

He was a monster. There was no way around that. He was a dead body walking around on its own. He had new urges that horrified him on the deepest level, but he refused to give in to them. He was a monster, but he wouldn't be a monster. He needed to drink blood, and therefore needed to drink the blood bags that would otherwise possibly save lives, but he wouldn't be a glutton about it. He'd never bite a person if he got the chance, either. He could be good, and maybe Batman would just keep him here instead of giving him to Arkham, or burning him like he'd burned the other vampire.

Tim had been unsure about that last option, when he first thought about it. Batman didn't kill. But, the more he thought about it, he was already dead. If Batman did decide to...end him, it would just be a restoration of the natural order. A cremation more than a killing.

It wasn't reassuring. Tim knew he was dead, and that it wasn't right for him to continue existing, but he didn't want to die.

"Tim."

Tim's head snapped up, meeting Batman's gaze. The man was standing beside his usual chair, and Tim hated the soft sympathy on his face. It was just like the news anchor's—performative, and likely there just because he was a kid. Oh, look at the poor dead child. What a waste.

Batman didn't speak often when he came to sit by the cell. There were a few questions, sure—answered either with a nod, a shake of the head, or not at all—but otherwise he just watched Tim with that sad look on his face. It got worse when Tim fed.

Tim didn't blame him. The man put his life on the line for kids every day. It was only natural that seeing a kid turned into an unnatural abomination disturbed him.

"I'm sorry."

Tim stopped breathing, staring at him with wide eyes. This was it. He'd reached the end of Batman's hospitality, he'd misstepped somehow, and now he was being moved, or…

Tim fought against the urge to gulp. However bad this was, he wasn't about to make it worse.

Arkham or…death. Another death, technically. Or, if he was extremely lucky, he'd be moved to the Watchtower. It was definitely secure enough to hold him, and while the rest of the Justice League wasn't as cool as Batman, he'd still enjoy getting to see them.

Batman took a deep breath, as though steadying himself. Tim watched him closely, keyed-up and anxious. "I'm sorry that I wasn't fast enough to protect you. If I'd been faster—more aware of my surroundings—you would still be human. You wouldn't have to live with the knowledge that you can never go back to how things were. But I promise, Tim, that I won't fail again."

Tim nodded, slowly. At least Batman would make sure Tim couldn't hurt anyone. That was a good enough tradeoff, in his mind, for spending the rest of his existence locked up. If he ever gave in to the monster in his head and tried to hurt people, Batman would stop him before he ruined anyone else's life.

"I'm going to open the door now, Tim."

Tim nodded, staying obediently still despite his own misgivings. In the two weeks he'd been here, he'd seen Batman, Robin, and Agent A fairly regularly, but they'd never entered the cell with him. There was always a wall between them, a failsafe in case he snapped and tried to harm them. Now, as Batman punched in the code to the door, Tim had no idea what to expect from himself. He could control himself around blood bags, but what about a human? What about another person who was still living and breathing?

The door slid open with a quiet whoosh of air, and Tim took a small, experimental sniff. It wasn't subtle, not by the way Batman went rigid halfway into the room, wary eyes locked onto him and his stance ready.

Tim did gulp this time.

People smelled so, so much better than bagged blood. Now that they were in the same room, Tim could hear Batman's heart, thudding away in his chest, and the rush of blood through his veins. Paired with the scent of it, Tim was hard-pressed not to gravitate towards him, his thirst flaring up worse than ever before. At the same time, he wanted to run away, far enough away that he wouldn't be a danger anymore.

He did neither. He forced himself to stay still, pushing the smell and sound out of his mind. Batman inched closer, waiting for any other reaction. When none was forthcoming, he carefully laid a hand on Tim's back.

"Come on. I've been informed," a small smile pulled at Batman's mouth, "that a containment cell is unsuitable for you."

Arkham, Watchtower, or death. The options spun around Tim's mind as he obediently walked with Batman. None of them sounded particularly good, though he would definitely prefer the Watchtower. After that…he wasn't sure what he hated more, the possibility of death, or the thought of being lumped in with the Rogues in Arkham.

As soon as they were clear of the cell, Tim's jaw dropped.

He'd known he was in the BatCave, but he'd been certain he was tucked away in a corner or a hallway. Instead, he found himself suddenly in the middle of it. A stone's throw away, close enough to monitor the cell but far enough to not be seen by prisoners, was a computer. The BatComputer, with dozens of monitors, several sets of keyboards, and tech hooked up to it that Tim couldn't even begin to identify. There was a wall of gear and uniforms—Nightwing had a suit here, and it made Tim incredibly happy to know that the first Robin was patching up his differences with Batman—and a large parking area that currently held only the Batmobile.

There were also trophies scattered around that Tim recognized from his—ahem—slight obsession with Batman and Robin, and their various cases. And if it weren't for his current situation, he would happily spend the rest of his life down here.

He wasn't expecting to be led in the opposite direction of the Batmobile, and up a winding staircase.

At the top of the stairs, Batman pushed open a door, and they stepped out into a completely normal study.

What?

Did he…was Tim in Wayne Manor?! In what way did bringing Tim into the Manor help with transferring him to a new prison? Surely they weren't going to load him into a civilian car and drive him to Arkham, and they definitely weren't going to do that for the Watchtower, so—

Tim ran straight into Batman's back when the man stopped walking. They were a little ways down the hall from the study—from the BatCave—and Tim still didn't have the slightest clue what they were doing.

Batman made a small huffing sound—a laugh? Was he laughing?—and carefully opened the door they'd stopped in front of. He gestured for Tim to enter, and he did. Just because he didn't know what was happening didn't mean he was going to refuse to listen.

"This is yours, for the foreseeable future. I apologize for keeping you in the Cave for so long. It was an oversight on my part, but Agent A reminded me that a cell isn't the most comfortable environment for a young boy."

It was a bedroom. A twin bed was pushed against one wall with a dresser at the foot of it. A small desk occupied the opposite wall, a desktop computer plugged in and sitting on it. On top of the bed—

"My stuff!" Tim cried, voice cracking from disuse as he darted towards the camera equipment neatly placed on top of the duvet. Perhaps a little too fast. The bed, which had previously been at least ten feet away, was suddenly smacking into his shins and sending him catapulting into the wall. He hit the plaster with a solid thump before bouncing backwards and landing on the floor.

"Tim!"

Batman started to rush forward, but Tim was already back on his feet. Really, he had the suspicion that should've hurt, but it didn't and all his stuff that he'd thought was lost forever was right here. "I'm alright! I'm alright, Mr. Wayne, thank you so much, thank y—"

Tim's brain caught up to his mouth a second too late. Batman still stood in the doorway, suit and all, face impassive as usual but he clearly wasn't happy. Tim grimaced. "I, uh. I can explain?"

Batman sighed, entering the room and sitting on the bed. "Please do."

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

Needless to say, Tim wasn't transferred to a new prison.

Living with the Waynes was as much an adjustment as becoming a vampire. That was to say, it was confusing, occasionally unpleasant, and he didn’t know if he could’ve even prepared himself for the sudden transition.

At least they were kinder to him than his new…condition.

Tim slowly drifted awake on his second day in the Manor. His ability to sleep had come as a surprise to him. He’d been under the impression that dead things couldn’t sleep, but he was more than happy to be proven wrong. Sleep was a welcome reprieve from…everything.

Tim stayed in bed for a long time—or what was probably a long time. He had no interest in tracking time anymore, nor was there any need. It wasn’t like he had school or anything. What he did have was a mild sting in his throat and a hollow feeling in his stomach. So, eventually, he rolled out of bed.

The first thing he did was draw open the curtains. The dark was comforting and all, and he had the feeling he could see better in it than a human, but he missed the sun. It didn’t even hurt that bad. In fact, he’d call it an itch at worst as he leaned up against the window. He spent a good hour like that, ignoring the uncomfortable crawling across his skin, simply admiring the midday sky. Then, he finally forced himself to get ready for the day.

A shower in the ensuite bathroom. Hair cleaned, body scrubbed, though he never went outside to get dirty and didn't seem to produce oil on his skin anymore. A too-large hoodie, borrowed from Robin himself, that he shrugged on with no undershirt. He never got cold, but there were dark veins spider-webbing across his extremities that he preferred to hide. They were unsightly, and he didn't want any more pity than he already got. Socks and shoes (even though he wouldn't be leaving the Manor), hair combed, and a last cursory glance at his near-spotless room.

When Tim was satisfied he was presentable, and his room was suitably clean, he slipped into the hallway. He closed the door a little louder than necessary—his footsteps still sounded the same to him, but he'd accidentally spooked Bruce and Alfred a few times, so he'd started taking precautions to make sure they knew when he was around. It really wasn't much trouble to walk a little heavier, or clear his throat when he could hear someone nearby. No one jumped whenever he suddenly spoke up, so it was worth it.

As always, he heard Alfred's footsteps a few seconds before the butler rounded the corner. Tim fixed a polite smile on his face, and gave a little wave in greeting. Alfred smiled back, softly.

Wayne Manor was vastly different from his parents' home. Having other people around was a novelty, but Tim thought he could maybe get used to it. As stiff-lipped as he could be, Alfred was never unwelcoming to Tim, and seemed to get warmer by the day.

Without a word, the two of them started towards the kitchen. The first day he'd spent in the Manor, Tim hadn't known he was allowed to leave his room for food, let alone anything else. Bruce had been quick to correct that assumption, and in fact gave Tim three set meal times a day to keep his thirst in check. By lunch, Tim had gotten hopelessly lost on his way to eat.

He hadn't asked Bruce or Alfred for help, but Alfred had been there at dinner to guide him through the winding halls. Since he'd shown up for breakfast, too, it seemed it would continue until Tim could find his own way.

Surely there were more important things for Alfred to do, but Tim wasn't certain his input would be welcome, so he simply trailed after him in silence.

Tim's stomach still turned unpleasantly when a blood bag was produced from the fridge. His eyes stayed locked on the dark, sickly red color, no matter how much he wanted to look away and ignore that it even existed.

Every time he fed, and especially since he'd been moved into Wayne Manor, Tim wondered if it was worth it.

It couldn't be pleasant to have him around. He wasn't human anymore. He may look the same from a distance, but when he looked in the mirror he was just slightly off. His eyes were still blue, but his sclera were darker than they should be, if only by a few shades. His skin ranged between a faint pink flush immediately after eating, and paper-white when he became hungry. Both shades were fine on the surface, but became more unsettling the longer he looked.

He'd read about the uncanny valley effect in school about a month ago. He remembered it every time he looked in the mirror, and every time Bruce or Alfred's gaze lingered on him just slightly too long.

He ate blood. Nothing but blood. No matter how much he longed for normal, human food when he smelled Alfred's cooking, he was only offered blood. Alfred had offered to try cooking the blood into things, but Tim vehemently turned him down. It was already bad enough that he had to feed blood to Tim, he shouldn't have to cook it. He shouldn't have to linger on what it was any longer than he had to. Every meal Tim had was a life that could've been saved if he wasn't like this.

Tim also never left the Manor. He wasn't sure about how permanent that arrangement would be, but he couldn't imagine Batman ever wanting to turn a monster loose. It was better if Tim stayed where Bruce could keep an eye on him. However, no one wanted a child constantly underfoot. Especially not a child who might never grow up.

It wasn't fair, not to Alfred, Bruce, or to Jason. Not even to Tim, who choked back a gag as he bit into the blood bag and drained it as quickly as possible.

He held the empty bag for a moment, just looking at it. There were wrinkles in the plastic that still held little lines of dark red. For some reason, it made him feel even more sick than the full bag did. Maybe it was that he had something in his stomach, now.

Alfred gently, carefully took the bag from his hands, and Tim also hated its absence.

The pit his thoughts had fallen into was so deep, apparently, that he missed Dick coming into the kitchen until he was too close. Entirely too close.

Bruce, Jason, and Alfred had been more or less constantly around Tim since he’d been turned. Bruce attributed Tim’s self control to that fact. Exposure to their scents—to the sounds of their hearts, their behavior, all of it—had helped desensitize him, helped him rein in his thirst, allegedly.

Bruce said Tim’s struggles with his thirst, and with wanting to drain his heroes, were because he was just new to being a vampire. Bruce wasn’t Tim. He didn’t feel what Tim did. Sometimes Tim felt like there was a monster under his skin that didn’t acknowledge humanity, and the slightest lapse in control would set it loose.

The door opened around the same time a new scent hit Tim’s nose. The unfamiliar footsteps, the unknown heartbeat, a voice he didn’t know. The cold, bitter taste of the bagged blood still lingered on his tongue and sloshed sickeningly in his stomach, and he wasn’t thirsty in the slightest, but the prospect of warm, fresh blood made him feel like he hadn’t eaten in days.

In that moment, it didn’t matter that this was a living, breathing person. Tim lunged from his seat and flew across the room. They were taller than him, but that was fixable. He leapt into the air, aiming to latch onto their torso with access to their neck.

Instead, he was abruptly redirected, crashing through at least one chair and skidding across the floor. Noise surrounded him—raised voices and heartbeats that seemed to grow louder, and louder, and louder, and he needed to eat—

“-im!” Someone shook him firmly by his shoulders. Tim snarled, and that sound broke through the haze over his mind. That animalistic sound, broken and jagged, that ripped out of his throat, a sound no human would be able to make.

He was half-crouched on the kitchen floor. The first thing he saw was Bruce. He had Tim by the shoulders, held out at arms length as he knelt to be on his level. His expression was hard—his Batman face.

Tim was breathing too fast. He was still so, so thirsty, as if he’d just burned through everything he’d drunk. He gulped, making an effort to calm himself down. He didn’t need Batman angry at him. He could be nice. He could behave.

His gaze drifted off to the side and he inadvertently met Dick’s eyes.

The man was in a ready stance, more Nightwing than Dick, much like Bruce was currently more Batman. His face was calm, if tense, and his heart beat wildly in his chest. His hair was slightly messy. Tim didn’t know if he’d caused that or not.

He did, however, very much cause the long scratches on Dick’s arm that steadily dripped blood onto the floor. Tim’s eyes locked onto the steadily growing puddle of red, and he inexplicably smelled graveyard dirt.

“Tim? Can you hear me?” Bruce asked. Tim nodded shakily, unable to look away from the blood on the floor. Drip, drip, drip. “Okay. Look at me, Tim.”

Drip, drip.

“Come on, Tim. I need you to look at me.”

He’d almost—scratch that, he had—he’d hurt Nightwing. The first Robin, and he’d attacked him like he was nothing more than an animal. Tim felt sick.

Though it was in the background now, he could still feel the phantom urge to spring back at Dick. He shuddered and tore his eyes away from the blood. He was better than…that. He had to be. He would make himself better.

Bruce’s face was unreadable. Tim shook again, and Bruce’s grip tightened slightly. “Tim?”

“Yes…” Tim’s voice came out weak and wobbly. He coughed, clearing his throat. “Yes, sir. I’m…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Tim.” Bruce was still watching him closely, like he was searching, trying to piece Tim together like a puzzle. “Are you okay?”

“I…” No. Absolutely not. How could he be okay? He’d just proved that there was something wrong with him on the deepest level. He’d just eaten, and then someone walked in, and he attacked them without a thought! He tried to eat one of his heroes! How could he be okay?! “I’m so sorry, Di - Rob - Mr. Grayson, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Dick will be fine. Are you okay?” Bruce repeated, more insistently.

How did he know Dick would be fine? He hadn’t even looked at him, and he needed to. Batman needed Robin, even if Dick wasn’t Robin anymore. Maybe the sooner Bruce was sure Tim wasn’t about to snap again, the sooner Dick could get his arm looked at. “Yes sir. I…I’m fine. I’m sorry. It was a mistake.”

“Okay. Alright.” Bruce nodded, seeming relieved. He released Tim’s shoulders and gave him a small, tense smile. “We need to talk later, but I’m going to go help Dick clean his arm first, alright?”

Finally. “Yes, sir,” Tim said more confidently.

“Go back to your room, for now. Alfred?”

“I will clean up the kitchen,” Alfred replied. “Though I believe I may need a biohazard disposal bag from downstairs.”

They started discussing what exactly they were each going to do. Dick remained wary, keeping half an eye on Tim, but otherwise relaxed. Tim silently slipped out of the kitchen, hurrying back to his room. He knew very well that adults didn’t tend to want him around once there was no more use for him. Especially not when he’d just monumentally screwed up.

His door clicked closed behind him—not locked, he checked twice—and he sat on the edge of his bed to wait.

The sun slowly crept down towards the horizon as Tim waited. He watched the slowly changing light and colors in his room, quietly mourning his old life. When he’d first been turned, he’d entertained the thought that he could just go back to his old life. It wasn’t like his parents paid particularly close attention to him. They probably wouldn’t have noticed if he stopped eating, or if he looked slightly different. He could’ve still gone to school and kept his Bat-watching hobby.

Then there had been the “death” announcement, and those dreams were mercilessly crushed. His new life would be whatever Batman was willing to give him, and he was so lucky that he hadn’t simply been thrown into a cell and forgotten about.

And what did Tim do in return? He forced them to stock blood bags and attacked the man’s oldest son. Such a shining example of a charity case.

He scowled at the wall. He’d always thought that people who kept pet tigers were insane, thinking a predator like that wouldn’t turn on him. What was so different about Bruce keeping him?

The only thing that separated him from a predatory animal was his conscious thought. He’d just entirely lost control and attacked without hesitation. What could he do differently? Could he even be trusted to think for himself?

The full, sickly feeling from the blood bag had vanished so quickly in the face of an unfamiliar scent. Drinking more wouldn’t help him.

An idea began to take form in his mind.

Bruce had said that being used to their scents was what helped him control himself. Would that logic expand to anything else about his vampirism? Could he use exposure to train himself to ignore his thirst altogether? It would certainly be more feasible than training himself to each individual person’s scent for days, or weeks, before meeting them. He couldn’t imagine the burden that would put on everyone else.

They wouldn’t let him just stop feeding, though. Bruce and Alfred had both been very adamant about him needing to have a blood bag three times a day at set mealtimes, to try and keep his thirst under control. The problem was that that wasn’t working.

He could faintly hear tiny paws running across the yard outside his window. The Manor grounds did have a lot of wildlife. He had zero interest in eating a squirrel, but maybe it would be believable enough…

The instant the door opened, Tim immediately spoke. “Can I try and hunt? Not people, just…animals. It might help? I think?”

Bruce blinked a bit, clearly caught off-guard, but then he smiled slightly. He looked almost proud. “I was going to suggest something similar. There’s a chance that you need more enrichment to fully control your instincts.”

“That’s great!” Tim perked up. He hadn’t even thought of that. He had been extremely restricted ever since being turned, and regular exercise would be a good addition to his plan. “Can I start tonight?”

“Of course,” Bruce replied. “Just don’t leave the grounds, and come back after thirty minutes. Dick also wanted to talk to you.”

Nope. “I’m…not really comfortable with that, Mr. Wayne. I don’t want to risk hurting him again.”

Bruce looked as though he wanted to argue, but didn’t. Instead, he nodded. “I’ll let him know. Another day, maybe? When you’ve had time to get used to his scent.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I could try.” Tim didn’t think he’d ever recover from attacking Dick, but he’d have to get over himself at some point. He was going to get better, starting now

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim hadn’t fed in a month and a half.

The thirst was background noise by this point. It was always there, but if he didn’t focus on it, then it didn’t affect him. Talking with Bruce in his study, helping Alfred with chores, even running around with Jason and occasionally Dick, none of it caused his thirst to become unmanageable like it had been that first day. Their scents were unavoidable, and they smelled more like food than people to him, but aside from once or twice, he never even felt tempted to get a taste. That once or twice had also been very early in his self-prescribed training, which he certainly counted as a win.

His appearance had also changed drastically in that month. His irises remained the same color, but the sclera of his eyes darkened to a dark, ashy gray, and his pupils almost seemed to glow yellow at times. The dark veins on his body were even more pronounced, like drawn-on lines rather than something below his skin, which almost seemed translucent. Deep bags surrounded his eyes, and his face had gotten noticeably thinner. His canine teeth had also grown longer, jutting uncomfortably into his gums and catching on his lips at times. Bruce assumed it was a natural progression of Tim’s vampirism. Tim believed that for most of the changes, but a couple might have come from the lack of blood.

The control over his thirst wasn’t the only benefit he’d gained, either.

While occupying himself running around the grounds—not hunting anything didn’t mean he couldn’t exercise by chasing the animals—Tim noticed himself getting faster and faster. His senses were sharper, he even seemed to be stronger, and sometimes he could leap so high in the air it felt like flying.

Beyond that, he’d even managed to turn himself entirely invisible one day. That had triggered several hours of testing in the Batcave, but Tim enjoyed it. He got to see the Cave again—as a guest, not a prisoner—and he got to spend time with everyone in costume. It was a complete win, in his book.

The only downside was that he’d noticed his temper getting shorter, which was why he’d added daily meditations into his routine. It was manageable—it would have to be, because he was finally in control.

Everyone was so much happier around him now, too. They weren’t wary, and they didn’t watch him half as closely as when he’d first been brought out of the Cave. More importantly, they no longer kept blood bags in the kitchen for his use, and Alfred didn’t need to worry about feeding him. He just walked Tim to the door sometimes, and then welcomed him back in after he “hunted.”

Things were finally looking up, which was why Tim was confused when Jason let himself into Tim’s room, shutting the door behind him, and leaned back against it.

“Uh…hi?” Tim offered from where he’d been sitting at his desk, looking through the newest pictures of the manor grounds on his camera. They weren’t Bat pictures, but they were still surprisingly fun to take, especially with Tim’s newfound ability to reach odd perspectives.

“You’re not eating,” Jason said flatly.

Tim blinked. Okay, that threw a wrench in things. He definitely wouldn’t get to continue training himself if everyone knew that he wasn’t feeding. “Yes I am,” he replied, forcing a smile onto his face. “I go hunting three times a day. Squirrels aren’t the greatest, but they beat blood bags.”

“Okay, so we’re doing this,” Jason huffed. “We have cameras in the woods, you know. I’ve been watching them for the past week, because whatever this is” — he waved a hand in Tim’s direction — “isn’t healthy. Like, at all. Something’s obviously wrong. You look…dead.”

Tim frowned. “I am dead.”

Jason ignored him, plowing on. “And I was thinking about what could’ve happened, because you stayed pretty steady in the Cave, and for the first, like, week you were in the manor, absolutely nothing changed, except for how you chose to eat. And coincidentally, that change happened pretty much immediately after you lost control and attacked Dick.”

Jason pushed off from the door, pacing from wall to wall in Tim’s room. Tim stayed at his desk, feeling a bit like a deer caught in headlights as he watched Jason pace. It was abundantly clear that Jason was more Robin right now, and Tim didn’t know why he’d given this so much thought. Tim wasn’t hurting anyone, and his control was improving. There shouldn’t have been a reason for anyone to look further than that.

“And I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s having a bad reaction to the animal blood!’ or that you weren’t catching enough, or animal blood just doesn’t work for vampires. I started looking at different sources I could go to, research I could do to try and help you, and the logical first step was seeing what you were eating, and how much.”

This was just insane. Tim shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong, Ja—”

“You aren’t fucking eating,” Jason seethed. “You know, that thing you definitely need to do, whether you’re a human or a vampire? Every day, three times a day, you go outside and don’t even try to catch anything. You run around a lot, you take a lot of pictures, you even just sit there staring into space, but you don’t eat. I kept watching, every day, because I wanted to be wrong, okay? But I wasn’t.”

Jason stopped pacing, staring beseechingly at Tim. “Why? How can I help you?”

“I—you don’t need to. Nothing’s wrong, nothing needs fixing, and I don’t need help,” Tim replied. “I’m not a danger to anyone right now, and I’m not being a burden. This is how I’m dealing with all…this, okay?” He gestured to his face. He knew it looked ghastly, with the darkened sclera, and the webs of dark veins that had crept up onto his cheeks and forehead.

“But this isn’t a healthy way to do that!” Jason was angry…sort of? He was certainly upset. He was frowning fiercely, red coloring his face, and his heartbeat was a bit faster than usual. When Tim breathed in, Jason’s scent was also slightly off, a bit sour and decidedly unpleasant. It was also stronger than usual.

“Are you alright?” Tim asked, quickly standing up.

“Am I—am I?!” Jason grabbed Tim by his shoulders. “What the hell, Tim?!”

“You smell weird!” Tim defended himself, trying to worm out of Jason’s grasp. “Are you sick? What’s wrong?”

“There are so many things wrong here, but none of them are with me. Again—you are starving yourself. That’s a problem! Let’s start with that!”

“I’m not starving. I think I’m probably incapable of starving, actually. I’ve been documenting everything, and I’m fine!”

Jason was growing redder and redder. The strange scent got stronger. “You—what the hell? Tim, you need to eat. We’re going to go to the kitchen—scratch that, there isn’t any blood there. We’re going to go to the Cave and dip into the medical supplies, okay?”

“No!” Tim absolutely was not going to drink the blood that they kept for emergency transfusions when someone was injured. He couldn’t think of anything he was less willing to do. Not only would it have that disgusting, chemical taste, but it could be a potential death sentence for any one of them.

“Then let’s go catch a squirrel for real! Or a bird, a mouse, or we could go to the mainland and get you a deer or something! This isn’t negotiable.”

“How many times do I have to say that nothing is wrong?” Tim demanded. “I’m fine! I feel fine! I’ve lost a little bit of weight, but I’m stronger, I can do more, I haven’t attacked anyone—”

Abruptly, Jason’s scent blocked out everything else in the room, and Tim reeled back from the arm suddenly held up to his face. Little scars were strewn across Jason’s skin, from cuts and scrapes, to some small, old-looking burns. Jason was nearly glaring at Tim.

“What are you doing?” Tim yelped.

“Trying to help you! Just—if you won’t hunt, and you won’t eat blood bags, you still need something, so,” Jason stepped closer, still holding up his arm. “I’ll be fine, B said he’s actually pretty sure that vampires aren’t able to turn people when they’re young, and we have a med-bay less than a minute away, so there’s no risk.”

Tim turned his head away. “I’m not going to bite you! Just stop! I’m fine!”

“Just try, and we’ll see what happens,” Jason insisted. “I’m fine with it! I really am. I just want to help you.”

“I don’t want you to,” Tim finally snapped. “Just stop, okay? If there start to be issues, I’ll tell Bruce myself, but right now, there aren’t.”

Jason scoffed, but dropped his arm. “Fine. How about a compromise, then?”

Tim stayed silent, but gestured for Jason to go on.

“I want to get my own data,” Jason said. “So, you spend an hour with me every day, and I’ll make observations. If not eating is really not affecting you, I’ll support you. If it’s hurting you, I go to Bruce. Okay?”

That…didn’t sound all that bad. More data would always be welcome, absolutely, and Tim would get to hang out with Robin. Not that they hadn’t spent time together before now, but it was less intentional hanging out, and more “in the same room at the same time.”

“Alright,” Tim said. “Deal. And we don’t tell Bruce unless you see something I don’t.”

“Awesome, so, let’s start today. Wanna show me what’s on that camera roll, there?”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

True to his word, Jason didn’t tell Bruce. However, he did tell Alfred.

All of a sudden, Alfred was always walking with him to go outside at mealtimes, making pointed comments like, “I’ve had squirrel before. It’s surprisingly palatable, even to humans,” or, “There’s an unfortunate number of birds on the grounds lately, and they’re making cleaning a nightmare. Perhaps you could help with that?”

Tim did help with that, but probably not like Alfred expected. He spent close to an hour scaring off birds and cleaning up the worst of the mess they left. He’d thought he was sneaky about it, but when he came back to the manor there was an amused expression on Alfred’s face. Tim quietly made it a habit to chase off the birds.

There had also been exactly two times that Tim had woken up to a blood bag inexplicably in his room. The first time it had been on his bedside table. The second, on his desk. Both went untouched, and there were no further attempts. Alfred still made it a point to offer “supplements to his diet” every other day, though Tim never accepted. As bad as he felt for doing it, and how guilty it made him to see the well-hidden disappointment on Alfred’s face each time, he refused to give in.

Four months into his self-imposed training, Jason and Alfred hauled him down to the Batcave for tests while Bruce was out of the house.

Tim sat patiently in the med-bay, intently watching Jason run and fetch things when Alfred asked. The both of them stayed focused on the samples they’d taken from him. Drawing blood hadn’t worked very well, only yielding an awful-smelling sludge that clogged the needle. Instead, they’d been able to pull a few hairs, and shave a bit of a fingernail off, to supplement the sludge, which was interesting on its own. Apparently, when they’d drawn blood from him while he was unconscious, shortly before he woke up, they’d actually gotten blood, though it was very diluted with some kind of clear substance.

Tim frowned, watching Alfred peer into a microscope. They’d also made the discovery that, while his hair and nails had originally continued growing, they had halted around the time Tim stopped feeding. In response, Tim had pointed out that, in some myths, purported hair or nail growth on a vampire was actually misrepresented dehydration of a corpse. As the body decomposed, there was the brief illusion of growth, and Tim firmly believed that that was why his nails stayed the same length. Jason had looked disturbed, while Alfred voiced his dissent.

“Despite appearances, you are not a corpse, Master Timothy.”

“Well, vampires aren’t exactly alive, are they?”

“You have a heartbeat and a very keen, active mind. As far as I am aware, both are typical hallmarks of life.”

And he did have a heartbeat. It was very slow, with a resting heart-rate of only seventeen beats per minute, but it was present. According to records on the Batcomputer, when he’d first been turned, it had started out incredibly high, in the neighborhood of two-hundred beats per minute, and then gradually slowed until he woke up, and it bottomed out at an average of forty-two beats per minute. That was certainly news to Tim, but now he sat on the med-bay cot holding his wrist, feeling the slow thump, thump, thump under his skin.

His heart had to be moving something through his veins, presumably the sludge Alfred had collected, but they didn’t know for sure what it was. Apparently, Batman’s databases didn’t have a whole lot of in-depth information about typical vampire health. Tim was glad to be able to help out with developing it.

After a while, Alfred put aside the samples and approached Tim again.

“Do you need more?” Tim asked. “You could probably take a bit of skin if you need to, or a biopsy. Those are useful for research, right?”

Alfred chuckled, though there were slight worry-lines on his forehead. “There will be no need for any of that. Certainly not a biopsy. No, we just need to measure and weigh you. You’re a growing boy, after all.”

“No, I’m not?” Tim tilted his head, confused. “I mean, everything else stopped growing. Why should my height be any different?”

Tim hopped off the cot and followed Alfred to a scale along the wall, regardless. Even though he knew the answer to whether he was still growing, it would be helpful to have more thorough information for Batman to use.

“B doesn’t have much on vampires, but he does know they still age,” Jason explained. “At first it was just myths, and then he actually started talking to people outside of Gotham, and, wouldn’t you know it, there was some truth behind the myths. It seems to stop when they’ve been turned for a certain amount of time, or at the very least slows dramatically, but a vamp as young as you should still be growing.”

“I really don’t think I am, though,” Tim replied, standing as straight as he could on the scale for Alfred to measure his height. Irritation tickled at the back of his mind. Did they really have to question him at every turn? “I mean, I’ve been keeping track of everything I can. I really haven’t grown, unless I’ve been doing it wrong.”

Alfred hummed, the exact same sound he’d been making over Tim’s test results for the past hour. “No, Master Timothy, you are, unfortunately, correct. You haven’t grown at all since you were bitten.”

“See?” Tim hopped off the scale, feeling vindicated. “And I’m still completely fine, and I’m in control of myself. Nothing to worry about.”

“I would say there actually is,” Alfred replied, “but nothing is immediately wrong. I would like to request that we run these tests more often, for a more accurate assessment of your day-to-day health and the effect of your…fasting. It would be helpful if you would agree to eat again to gather counter-data, but I understand that your stance on the matter is quite firm.”

“I’m not going to feed for a little while longer,” Tim agreed. “I just want to avoid it a little while longer. I feel great, really, I do.”

Well, great might’ve been stretching it. Sometimes his thirst felt like a hand around his throat, or a constant buzz in his skull. It gave him a headache sometimes, like when he didn’t drink enough water as a human, but different. Blood wasn’t water, Tim wasn’t human anymore, and a lack of blood wasn’t going to kill him.

It was obvious that Jason and Alfred thought otherwise, though. A part of Tim just wanted to snap at them to shut up already, and that he’d handle it himself. He firmly stomped down on those thoughts, but a shadow of the feeling still remained. It was infuriating that they didn’t trust him with his own health. They didn’t even know him until a few months ago.

Still, they were Gotham’s heroes. He kept having to remind himself of that. They only wanted to help. He just wished they would back off a little.

“Would twice a month work? For tests, I mean,” Tim offered.

“Perhaps,” Alfred replied. “I would feel more comfortable were they weekly, however.”

Tim frowned, feeling his irritation rising again. “Twice a month sounds like enough to me. You just said that I’m fine.”

Alfred frowned. “I did not, Master Timothy. In fact, it was you who has repeatedly said that. I, myself, am fairly concerned.”

“You said nothing was immediate,” Tim countered. "I don't see why I should have to do weekly tests if there's nothing immediate."

A bit more venom than he'd intended seeped into his tone, and Alfred stepped away slightly, his eyes turning sharper and warier.

There was a retort on the tip of his tongue, but Tim crushed it down. He was a little irritated. So what? That didn’t mean that he had to take it out on Alfred and Jason. “I’m sorry,” he said instead. “I’m just not comfortable with weekly tests. We could always increase how often, if something starts to go wrong, but I just don’t see a reason for that right now.”

Alfred nodded slowly. “Very well, then. Twice a month. If you show a continued decline or your growth doesn’t resume, we will have to involve Master Bruce”

Tim nodded, not entirely happy, but willing to accept Alfred’s verdict. He personally thought there wasn’t a decline at all, and definitely no reason to alert Bruce, who would definitely make him resume feeding, but that was just something he’d have to prove to Alfred. To Alfred and Jason, he amended, as Jason was hovering behind Alfred, worriedly.

“It’ll be fine,” Tim tried to assure them. “Really, there’s nothing wrong.”

Alfred nodded, almost absent-mindedly. “If you’re certain, Master Timothy.”

“Tim,” Tim corrected.

“Apologies,” Alfred replied. “If you’re certain, Master Tim.”

Jason gave the two of them a strange look, glancing back and forth as though he were missing something. After a moment, he seemed to shrug it off. “Okay. Yeah. So, Tim, still wanna play scrabble?”

Tim nodded eagerly, his irritation vanishing. “Yeah, sure!”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three months later, Alfred still declared Tim’s test results unsatisfactory. He started pressuring Tim anew to resume feeding, and Jason joined in.

Not feeding was helping, though. Tim had never felt more in control, or more sure of himself. The longer he went, the more certain he was that he could do this indefinitely.

Eventually, Alfred and Jason’s complaints became infrequent, then practically non-existent. Whenever it was brought up, they always easily listened to Tim’s side of things, even if their conversations ended abruptly.

Tim happily continued his existence, ignoring the anger and gnawing pain that sometimes threatened to tear him apart.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Tim had first blinked awake in the Batcave’s containment cell, Bruce might’ve been willing to admit he was developing a problem. He’d ignored Dick’s jokes and not-so-joking barbs after taking in Jason, rationalizing that he’d just seen a child in need of help, and helped them.

However, now he had a black-haired, blue-eyed vampire child living under his roof, whom he’d taken in without a single thought spared to any alternatives. Twice was a coincidence, but three times was a pattern.

And Tim was brilliant, as well. Bruce had been slightly stunned by the boy, starting with the fact that he knew their identities. Following that little revelation, Bruce had done some light breaking and entering at Drake Manor. Tim’s parents were still unaware of Batman’s identity, but a loose floorboard in Tim’s room held hundreds of printed-out photos of Batman and Robin—both Robins. Little dates were scrawled on the backs of them that, when combined with the camera he’d found on Tim initially, painted a very clear picture of where they’d come from.

Still, Bruce held himself at a distance. It was obvious that Tim was still uncomfortable, and seemed to prefer isolation to any kind of company. On top of that, the boy still had two living parents. Not only that, he had two living parents who believed him dead and were grieving him, and Tim was left to grieve them in turn, in an unfamiliar place, with instincts he didn’t fully understand yet.

Bruce would admit that he, perhaps, spent too much time researching, digging for any information at all that could help Tim adjust to his new life, and equip them all to be a good support system for him. He felt guilty over it, but was usually able to brush it off. Tim also had Alfred and Jason to look after him and keep him company. Bruce had to do his part to make sure Tim was provided for, first, and then he could spend more time with him.

Alfred and Jason could only be there for Tim if they were healthy and uncompromised, however. Bruce still hadn’t decided if Jason—whom he’d found sitting against his bedroom door, holding his head in both hands—was sick or under the effects of some kind of attack.

“Jaylad,” he said gently, squatting down next to Jason. Jason didn’t budge an inch, but he made a small sound of recognition. “Is everything alright?”

“Tim is fine,” Jason replied immediately. He twitched and shook his head a little, groaning as he pressed further into his hands. “I…sorry, B. I don’t feel great.”

Bruce frowned. “It’s okay, Jay. We all get our wires crossed sometimes. Is something happening with Tim?”

“Tim is fine.”

Bruce was absolutely certain that Tim was not fine.

“Could you tell me where he is?” Bruce asked.

“Tim is—” Jason shook his head, cutting himself off. “His room. Should be. Outside if not.”

“Okay. Alright, Jaylad. Why don’t you go lay down and see if sleeping helps?”

Without a word, Jason stood and walked off down the hallway, his steps weaving slightly. Bruce made a mental note to check on him after seeing what was wrong with Tim.

Tim’s room was, very conveniently, right next to Jason’s, so that wouldn’t be an issue. Bruce made sure that Jason made it into his own room and onto the bed before knocking on Tim’s door.

“Tim? Can we talk?”

Several seconds passed with no answer. Bruce knocked again. “Tim, I’m coming in.”

When he cracked the door open, Bruce was met with complete darkness. He knew the layout of the room—a bed on one wall, a desk on the other, and a window opposite the door—but could barely make out the outlines of the furniture against the dark. The room smelled like fresh linens—predictable, as Alfred was meticulous—but there was an undercurrent of something rotten.

“Tim?”

“Get out.”

Tim’s voice came from within the room, somewhere in the vicinity of the desk. Bruce stepped back, starting to pull the door closed, when he caught himself. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to talk to Tim, because something was wrong. “I can’t do that. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“No. I’m fine. Get out.”

Again, Bruce caught himself moving without his conscious decision. He had a feeling he knew what had happened to Jason. He set his shoulders and stepped fully into the room. The hall light cast an illuminated square in the room, with Bruce’s shadow in the middle, but he still couldn’t see Tim.

“Can I turn on the light, Tim?”

“No,” Tim snapped. He was definitely beside his desk.

“Can you tell me why?”

“It hurts my eyes. Leave it off.”

“Alright. Do you want me to close the door?” There was no response, so Bruce closed the door behind himself, leaving them both shrouded in darkness. He blinked rapidly, willing his eyes to adjust. “I’m going to sit over here, and we can talk, okay?”

“I don’t want to talk. Get out.”

Bruce’s steps wavered on his way to sit on Tim’s bed. For a moment, he was fully convinced he needed to be anywhere but that room. He reminded himself of Jason’s behavior in the hallway, and Tim’s gentle, if sad, manner after he was turned, and forced himself to walk until he could feel the mattress against his legs. He gingerly sat down and offered a reassuring smile to the darkness.

“It wasn’t a request, Tim. This is important.” Bruce patted the spot next to him. “Could you please come here?”

“I don’t want to.”

“I’d feel better if you did.” It wasn’t a lie. Not only did Bruce want Tim close to make sure nothing was physically wrong, it would reassure him greatly to know exactly where he was. Bruce was, admittedly, a little tense at the moment. “Please? Jason was feeling sick, and I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine,” Tim said immediately. Then, more hesitantly, “Jason’s sick?”

“He’s resting right now. He mentioned you,” Bruce said slowly.

“He said he wouldn’t!” Tim suddenly yelled. “Just…I keep telling them I’m fine, I don’t need to feed, and this is all ridiculous. All the tests, and the conversations they think I don’t hear, and how they’re always pushing me to give up! I’m fine!”

The words rattled around in Bruce’s head dizzyingly, putting him off balance with what was definitely some sort of ability Tim had manifested. The anger, the hurt, and fear of…something.

Bruce closed his eyes, putting his thoughts back in order. One thing stuck out to him. “Tim. Are you not eating?”

“No!” The desperation in Tim’s voice tugged at Bruce’s heart, urging him to find wherever he was in the room and hold him tight until everything was better. He couldn’t be sure whether that was his own mind or a reaction to Tim’s powers. “I don’t need to! I get thirsty, but I can control myself better like this, and…and I don’t have to drink blood bags that someone else could use. It just makes sense!”

“Could you explain it to me?” Bruce asked. “That was a lot, Tim. I want to understand.”

The room was silent for a long time. Then, slowly, with a creak of springs, Tim sat next to Bruce.

“...You do?”

Bruce latched onto the opening. “Yes, Tim. I’m a little confused. Could you tell me why you’re not eating?”

“I—it…I’m not safe when I eat,” Tim started, voice shaking. “I hurt Dick just after I fed, and the blood bags weren’t good, anyway, and if I eat them, I’m taking them away from someone who needs them more. I don’t want to do that. I’m not doing that.”

“That’s alright, Tim. It’s alright,” Bruce reassured him. “That’s very selfless of you. But why did you decide to stop eating altogether?”

“You said that me being used to scents helped me control myself,” Tim said matter-of-factly. “I thought that exposure could help me with my thirst, too. So, I tried it, and it worked. It wasn’t that big of a deal, and I didn’t like the blood bags anyway, so I kept doing it.”

“What about hunting?” Bruce asked. “The day there was the incident with Dick, you said you wanted to try and hunt instead. You started going outside at mealtimes.”

“I didn’t hunt,” Tim confessed. “That was just a cover, so you wouldn’t find out before I had proof that it helped.”

Bruce dropped his head into his hands. “I wish you’d have come to me with that idea first, Tim. You’re saying you haven’t eaten in months?”

“No,” Tim said. “I haven’t needed to. I can control it.”

“It sounds to me like you’d be able to control yourself without starvation.” Bruce spoke carefully, very aware he was treading on eggshells from Tim’s earlier outburst, and treasuring the trust he’d earned. A plan began to form in his mind. “What if I helped you go back to eating? I’ll help you be careful, so no one gets hurt. No blood bags.”

“...you think that would work?”

“I’m absolutely certain,” Bruce replied confidently. “Do you trust me?”

“You’re Batman,” Tim said softly. “Yeah.”

“Alright. So, if you trust me, you’ll trust that it’s alright to do what I say? Follow my plan?”

Tim hesitated slightly, but still quietly voiced his agreement.

Bruce rolled back his sleeve to his elbow and held his arm out. “We’ll figure out something better, but for now you can drink from me. It’s alright, it won’t hurt me.” That was a blatant lie. Bruce was very aware of how much being bitten hurt, by a human or not. However, being able to help Tim far, far outweighed that pain.

“It won’t?” Tim asked dubiously.

“Nope,” Bruce lied. “I’ve gotten so used to being hit that I barely feel it anymore, and I’ve got a lot of blood. You won’t be able to take enough to hurt me.”

Breath ghosted across Bruce’s arm in the darkness. If he hadn’t already braced himself, he would’ve flinched. “You’re sure…?”

“Absolute-ly,” Bruce gritted his teeth against the sudden pain. Tim must’ve been thirstier than he presented, because the instant Bruce had given him the green flag, he’d dug in. Bruce took a moment to breathe through the pain, slowly and evenly in and out, to avoid clueing Tim into his distress. When he’d grown more used to the sharp pain in his forearm, he raised his free arm and settled a hand on Tim’s head. His hair felt like it was in bad condition, oily and unkempt.

“Try to drink slowly,” Bruce advised. “We don’t want you to throw up.”

Tim made a noise of agreement without pulling away, and the pain in Bruce’s arm lessened as Tim stopped pulling blood from him as quickly.

“There you go. Do you want me to stop you, or can you stop yourself?” Bruce didn’t know why he expected a response. If Tim lifted his head to talk, he’d remove his teeth from the wound and might not be able to latch back on without biting again. Nevertheless, he got a response.

“I can stop myself—oh no…”

Bruce turned his head, tensing as the second bite came and he felt blood running freely down his arm, trickling onto the duvet. Alfred was going to kill him.

Still…maybe he was insane, but it was nice to be able to sort-of hold Tim, regardless of the blood-drinking aspect. It was awkward, with Tim drinking from the arm closest to him and Bruce needing to reach across to pet his hair, but that just made him think of nights with his boys when someone was in a cast and they would take a night off patrol to watch a movie together. It was a fiercely familial feeling, love and protectiveness rolled up into one.

Could he adopt someone who was legally dead? He’d have to look into that, or some kind of alternative, if Tim agreed.

After a couple of minutes, Bruce felt himself becoming lightheaded and tapped Tim on the shoulder. “Chum, time to stop.”

Tim pulled away from Bruce’s arm and scooted away slightly. “Did I take too much? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“No, I’m still okay,” Bruce reassured him. His arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat, still sharply painful. He could always go down to the Cave and bandage it after putting Tim to bed. “We’ll look at some other ways to feed you tomorrow, okay? We can’t do this every day.”

Preferably, Tim would get attached to a method of feeding that didn’t involve biting Bruce and taking a considerable chunk of his blood. Today he was fairly certain it would be alright, but on patrol days he couldn’t afford to be recovering from feeding Tim.

“I’m going to go get Alfred and see about getting you a new duvet. Blood isn’t coming out of that easily, trust me.” Bruce stood up, steeling himself to avoid wobbling. The room spun dangerously around him, but he thankfully stayed upright. He crossed to the door and when he opened it, turned back to see Tim in the light from the hallway.

There was definitely something wrong with Bruce when he saw an undead thirteen-year-old with blood smeared across his face and felt nothing but protective love.

He smiled and gently closed the door.

“Master Bruce, what have you done to your arm?”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim placed his mask over his face, patting it to make sure it laid flat and flush to his skin. He double and triple-checked his costume and gear, running through his mental checklist. Cape properly attached, check. Boots secure, check. Grappling hook, batarangs, bo staff, check, check, check. Emergency vitamins…not check.

“Hey,” he called, “Has anyone—?”

“Got ‘em right here, baby bird,” Dick said, tossing the packet of pills at Tim. “I noticed you left them at the computer, again.”

“Thanks, Dick.” Tim tucked the pills into his belt. They were an invention of his and Bruce’s, mostly vitamin D and iron, which would allow Tim to stave off his thirst for a few hours in bad situations. A lifesaver, really. “So, you’re actually joining us today?”

“Thought I might as well,” Dick agreed, stretching his arms above his head. “Since B’s down for the count and all.”

“We could definitely use the help,” Tim said. “We’ve got a lot of big names on the loose, and they’re all being quiet. I don’t trust them in the slightest.”

“Yeah, hell of a time for B to break his leg,” Jason chimed in from near their vehicles. The Batmobile was, sadly, firmly off limits to all of them, following an incident a couple years ago, but they each still had their bikes. “Falcone’s gone to ground, Croc’s back in the sewers, Penguin’s being Penguin, and that’s not even the end of it. Joker also decided to make his first appearance since me and Tim kicked his ass in Ethiopia, and I can’t wait to show him this.” Jason tapped a finger on his helmet, the staple of the new costume he’d made for himself after he and Tim narrowly escaped one of the Joker’s traps overseas. “Cass is still abroad, but Steph’s going to meet us out there, so we might actually get something done tonight.”

“Here’s hoping,” Tim muttered, slinging a leg over his bike.

“Hey, you can’t drive without a license, Timmers.”

“I’m dead,” Tim said drolly, starting up the bike. “I can’t get a license, but I’m still not riding with you, Mr. Road Rage.”

Tim sped out of the Cave as Jason yelled, “Corpses shouldn’t drive, either!”

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