Before I Hit the Road

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It's strange to think of, looking back on it now.

Tim remembers being three and getting a hug from a young gymnast. He remembers Batman swinging across the skyline with the city lights twinkling in the background, smog crowding out the stars. He remembers Robin's laughter, Robin making mistakes, Robin learning, Robin being all the things Tim never was, back then.

Back then, Tim wasn't much.

Back then, Tim wasn't anything.

Tim isn't much now.

Tim isn't anything.

He stands next to the kitchen counter of all things. He's in Wayne Manor, in the goddamn kitchen, and that's not a place anyone really imagines when they think of their last moments. At least, not anyone he knows. There are a hundred other places he probably could have ended up, what with all the traveling he's done over the years. He could have gone to Paris, or Kansas, or even just his childhood home.

But.

Wayne Manor.

Of course.

Alfred stands in front of him, gathering ingredients together for oatmeal cookies. Tim stares at the elderly man for a long time, or maybe it just feels long, but finally he clears his throat.

Surprisingly, Alfred turns around.

"Master Timothy," he says, and there's warmth in his eyes. There are more lines around it now than there used to be when he was a kid, but age won't beat out Alfred Pennyworth for a long time yet. "You did not say you were coming to visit today."

"Hi, Alfred," he says with that lopsided, sheepish smile he forgot how to do after Dad died. It comes back to him easily now, though, and he wonders if it's like this for everyone. If it's this … peaceful. "Sorry. I just thought I'd drop by today, take some time off the office."

That's a lie, of course. Somewhere in the real world, Tim's body is lying broken in a wrecked car, shoved off to a corner of an intersection on the way to work. He can hear sirens in the air; he can smell his blood. In a way, he can even feel the pain.

It's a stupid way to die.

Tim gestures to the baking items on the kitchen island. "Mind if I help?"

Alfred moves aside and hands him a measuring cup. "Not in the least, Master Timothy."

He only has a few moments left on Earth. And Tim does think that if he'd like it enough, he can go anywhere, do anything he wants with this time. But he's here, in the house where he first felt at home. He's here and it's warm and it's bright and he bakes cookies with one of the men who raised him. They preheat the oven, measure and mix ingredients. Talk is sparse, but that's the way things have always been.

It's not a bad way to go. Maybe Tim should have gone to Dick, or Bruce, or – hell, Steph or Cass. But he's here, sharing time with Alfred, and he can't say he'd rather be anywhere else.

Even if he can feel himself slipping away.

The phone rings.

Alfred excuses himself, and it's a struggle for Tim not to simply fade into the background. He listens to Alfred answer the phone, listens to the sound of his voice. Tim knows who it is – they've finally identified him, after all. Probably found his ID in his wallet, or just recognized him by face if it wasn't too mangled by the crash.

At least Damian or Jason will get a laugh out of it. Third Robin, Red Robin, Replacement, rival (or however Damian sees him nowadays) taken down by a car crash, of all things.

There's a pull inside Tim, growing stronger and stronger, like the ocean current.

He closes his eyes.

Cool marble under his hands.

The smell of oatmeal cookies in the air.

Alfred's voice in the next room – quickly growing frantic with denial.

Growing up, Tim always wanted a family – a real family, the kind that was always there. The kind that loves you unconditionally, forever, no matter what. He never got it, not really, but as he stands in the coziness of the kitchen, leaning against the counter, with the smell of freshly baked goods filling the air, he realizes that it wasn't all bad if he can have something like this in the last moments.

Not bad at all.

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"I'm afraid you must have identified the wrong person," Alfred says tartly into the phone's receiver, "But Master Timothy cannot have gotten into an accident as he is here with me."

Of course he is, they were both just baking in the kitchen. The boy is fine, not an overly long strand of hair out of place on that head of his.

It must be a mistake.

It is a mistake.

He simply fails to see how anyone could have made it. Who would ever think that Master Timothy had gotten into a car crash? It might be something worth looking into later, but not now.

When he returns to the kitchen, Master Timothy is nowhere to be found.

Unease ripples through Alfred. Strange things are known to happen – very strange things are known to happen, and maybe–

He shakes his head. There's no use leaping to conclusions, not now, not about this. Calming the wild beat of his heart, he makes a call to Master Bruce and prays it isn't true.

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Author's Note: For my parents, who are mourning the loss of a friend.