Title: To Dream, perchance to Sleep?

Fandom: DCU- Batman.

Rating: R for blood and sexual situations.

Genre: Romance, Angst, Suspense, perhaps?

Wordcount: 4948 (I scare myself sometimes).

Characters/Pairings: Jason Todd/Tim Drake, Alfred, Nightwing, Batman.

Warnings: Self-betaed, Jason ( ), slash, mentions of blood, sexual situations (something very soft, though), subtext like woah.

Summary: Too Damn Early o' clock in the morning, he was fresh from a nightmare, and the Batman was in his bedroom, prowling.

Notes: Takes place in the "(love) Until We Bleed" 'verse. This implies that Tim's on the prowl for his very own Jaybird, but Jay's got a very bad cause of the denial.

The one to come to him, predictably, was Alfred.

Bruce and Dick had approached Tim several times, together and on their own, every other night since "the fact" (that's how Tim referred to it, if only in the privacy of his own mind. Calling it "The break up" sounded juvenile and... entirely too heartbreaking, so he eagerly skipped it).

But something – be it Tim's own acting skill, be it the shortage that affected their clan when it came to Discuss Those Dreaded Things Known As Feelings – had convinced them that Tim was affected by no other plight but the obvious. Being caught unawares by low-class crooks, drugged and subsequently saved by his evil step-brother seemed like a good enough reason for Tim's constant brooding, for the nausea and lack of appetite that were already translating into hollowness on his pinched face.

Dick harboured no suspicion on what had really come to be in the warehouse. He knew his little brother deeply and intimately, and as such was justified in his belief that Tim wasn't holing himself up in his room to nurse his broken heart, but rather devising ways to make himself a better Robin.

Bruce, on the other hand, seemed to have an inkling that something other than failure was troubling his Robin. If asked, he would divulge nothing, and he himself would not press for details. But he had changed Tim's patrolling route so that it didn't reach either the harbour district or the area were Jay lived. He had, also, gone to Blackgate to visit the crooks who'd manhandled Robin, and had come back home with his gauntlets bloody all around the knuckles, and a grim satisfaction settled around his mouth.

Last but not least, he'd also been mentioning every so often that Tim ought to stop by his study for a "talk". However, this particular endeavour had been rather fruitless, and had been met with nothing but stubborn silence.

If Batman needed his counsel (Tim reasoned), he would summon Robin to the Batcave, and not Tim to the study. Which left a 95,6% chance that the offer was nothing but a ruse, a trap wherein Tim would be forced to sit down and open up.

And he didn't want to.

He didn't want to.

As far as he was concerned, the worse thing that had happened that night was-

the break up

(don't call it that)

-was the fight he'd had with Jason-

the break up

(DON'T CALL IT THAT!)

If he could say so to himself, Tim was good at coping (or pretending to cope) with loss. He'd acquired enough experience in the department to know that no, talking about it would not help. Not when the grief was still so powerful.

What he needed right now was time and space to rationalize the-

Break. Up.

(No, no, don't call it THAT, Tim.)

-events that had taken place in the warehouse.

Talking about Jason – the loss of Jason – and with their father of all people – it was too much. Just... too much.

So far, (two weeks, three days and seven hours from The Fact, but who's counting?) his quest for space and privacy had been rather successful.

That was about to change.

Tim had just returned from patrol (no harbour district, no Blackgate, no Crime Alley and no Jason – Red Hood – Jason, for him), and was fighting his insomnia with the aid of a worn-out copy of "Pravdopodobnie Nebylitsi", when the door to his room slid open and then close in a matter of seconds.

Whomever had intruded upon his privacy, they hadn't knocked; and one can only imagine Tim's surprise when, lowering his book, he saw Alfred standing by the feet of his bed, carrying a steaming teapot on a silver tray.

Four A.M. wasn't an uncommon hour for tea (not in Batman's house, anyway). But Alfred was unerringly proper at all times, and it was unlike him to come in a room unannounced. Not unless someone's life depended on it.

If his arched eyebrow was anything to go by, there were no doubt in Alfred's mind that the present occurrence fell precisely under that category.

For a few, precious seconds, Tim nursed the hope he could dodge The Talk. But it came crumbling down the moment he noticed there were two cups on the tray, flanking the teapot like little guard-dogs.

Sighing, he dropped his book, gesturing for Alfred to put the tray on the dresser. He even scooted further up the bed, wordlessly offering a seat, but Alfred didn't concede, instead looming over Tim much like a grandfather would loom over a child who'd caused him grief.

The analogy was only too fitting, and Tim found himself squirming as Alfred wordlessly dipped the infuser into the hot water, as intent on the task as if he were performing ancient alchemy.

"As loath as you might be to hear this," he began in that no-nonsense tone Tim had learned to associate with concern a long time ago. "It was proved that humankind does need a certain amount of sleep to function. As you haven't had the chance to rest in a fortnight, I do believe a spot of Chamomile tea is exactly what you need."

Tim knew better than to deny his sleeping problems. He also knew better than blurting: "Forget the tea, it's Jay I need," no matter how strong the urge was.

"I have been... preoccupied," he said slowly, trying not to divulge too much. But, as much of a mastermind as he was, he was still a fledgling, compared to Alfred.

"Indeed you have," Alfred said, turning to face him and crossing his hands primly behind his back. "Something the matter between yourself and Master Jason?"

Tim's jaw dropped, and he began to splutter a long and not-coherent string of half-words and broken sentences that had Alfred's arched eyebrow reach new and untold heights across his forehead.

"My lad," he offered as a means of explanation, "it is idle speculation at best, but the way you flinch each time his name is brought up leaves room to wonder."

Tim coloured slightly across the bridge of his nose. The topic of his flinching had been brought up once or twice before, but Tim had skilfully evaded the questions on both occasion. Let everyone think that they would; even their wildest speculation was probably more sound than the naked truth.

Besides, admitting that: "I love him, and I flinch at the mention of his name because he broke up with me", was likely to start a mess Tim wasn't ready to deal with, yet.

If ever.

"I...uh... do not," he said in what he firmly told himself wasn't a whine. "Flinch, I mean. When Ja—" flinch. "When he is mentioned."

Alfred's other eyebrow began its own climbing spree.

"Indeed," he remarked dryly.

Tim busied himself picking non-existent dust from his sheets.

"I am..."

"Preoccupied, I believed you called it, though it does seem like a bit of an understatement," Alfred finished for him. And really, Tim would have liked to glare at him, but you just don't glare at Alfred, no matter how his prim English omniscience might grate on common mortals' nerves.

"Well, I am."

Tim snapped, and it could have been patronising, if it didn't sound so tired and lost.

"Then you may find that talking about it will ease the burden," Alfred offered kindly.

Tim's eyes flickered up to Alfred, and saw that he was holding out a cup, steam curling up from within in intricate glyphs. It smelled fruity and delicate, soothing in a way that was hard to explain, but had something to do with half-forgotten childhood memories. Tim reached out tentatively, closed his hand around the cup and quickly brought it to his chest, as though he was cold inside and needed the warmth to thaw some unseen block of ice.

"I..." he began, but he wasn't sure what he meant to say, and his voice dropped into a sigh. If he were truly honest with himself, Tim was tired of pretending he was All Right. Lying to Alfred seemed low and wrong and absolutely pointless, besides. He felt an urge as strong as pain to just let go, open up and allow some of the hurt to seep away from his chest, like the infection from a wound.

Still, he was nothing but a cautious person. So: "I can't-" divulge much, he began to say; but when ever was Alfred not a step ahead, anyway?

"I am not in the habit of betraying confidences." Alfred moved back towards the dresser, pouring tea in the second cup, holding the teapot handle with a tiny cloth, and lightly grazing the tips of his fingers to the lid. "But you can be moderate with the details, if that makes you more comfortable."

Tim nodded slowly and tucked his knees up, teacup cradled carefully against his chest. His face was dry, but his eyes gleamed oddly in the low light, his bangs shadowing them just slightly. Talking through the pain in his chest wasn't easy, it hadn't been for two long weeks; but he exhaled, long and low, his breath disturbing the steam and fanning it over the cup like ghostly wings. He drank some of the tea, barely enough to wet his lips, then began:

"For years, I've been... wanting something. Not always on a conscious level, but-it was there. Always. So lately, I've... I've decided to give myself a chance and try to—to make it mine." He looked down into his tea. His throat felt tight, so he took a sip, then another. The concoction was sweet, not too hot, and pleasantly thick against his tongue, as if it had been honeyed.

"Did you succeed, Master Timothy?"

"Yes. No. I mean- I thought I was going somewhere, I really did. But suddenly, everything went down the drain, and I... I don't even know what I did wrong."

He raked his fingers through his hair, blowing out a long, shuddery breath.

Alfred waited a suitable amount of time, allowing Tim the chance to collect himself, then ventured a polite guess.

"Did Master Jason have a hand in this... failure?"

Tim flinched, like an automatic response. It was such a sharp motion, that his chamomile tea spilled over the rim of the cup. He sucked absently on his scalded hand, watching as a couple of wet stains grew lazily across his thigh.

"Jason, he-" is "-has something I-" need "-want."

He trailed off. Alfred set his own cup down on the dresser, as if he were considering to go over, but decided to keep his distance in the end.

"Is it something important, Master Timothy?"

"Yes."

"Something you cannot do without?"

"No."

"Something you are prepared to fight against your own family to have?"

A low, bitter chuckle rasped out of Tim's mouth.

"You truly have no idea."

Alfred tsked, tongue sharp against his teeth.

"I see. May I ask why you are wasting away in this fashion, when you should be endeavouring to acquire this something?"

There was a sharp intake of a breath from Tim. Silence, for several moments. Their eyes met over the tea's moist curls of heat, and Tim blurted:

"I tried."

Alfred arched an eyebrow at that. Tim looked away, hands wrapping tighter around his cup.

"To every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction." He blew the hair from before his eyes. "The harder I pushed to get what I wanted, the harder I was pushed back. And now..." he trailed off, his voice getting small and thin, and so, so hopeless. He buried his face in his knees, and his next words came out as a mumble. "...now I pushed too hard, and I've been shut off. How can I fight when these are the odds? What can I try?"

Alfred cleared his throat, and Tim's eyes flickered up to him.

"If I may, Master Timothy... if force is not the suitable solution to your problem, I suggest you try a somewhat... ah, stealthier approach."

"Stealthier?"

"You may find that a gentle push opens some doors much more effectively than throwing yourself bodily at them."

"I tried, Alfred. I tried everything. I tried brawling, I tried talking. I tried-" his cheeks coloured, and he hastily hid his face behind his cup, under the guise of drinking more tea. "-persuading Jason. Tricking him. Bribing him. Baiting him. Beating sense into that thick skull he has. I tried and tried and tried, but it- it got me nowhere."

"I have to point out that your tactics do sound awfully forceful. And while a certain degree of stubbornness is required to tame the stubborn, the wounded won't react well to anything too extreme."

Tim sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and looked unsure of himself.

"I... I did come on to him rather strongly," Tim admitted, and if Alfred noticed the slip, he kindly gave no indication to it.

"Perhaps, changing your approach would benefit you in the long run."

"Change it how?

Tim's voice was nothing short of forlorn. Alfred leaned over, picked the cup of cold tea from his hands and found no resistance to speak of.

"I cannot presume to know much about this conundrum you are in-" he said, in a tone of voice that clearly meant 'I do, but I'm willing to let you have your secrets, young man' "-but I know this: perseverance is one of your best qualities, Sir. If there is a way for you to obtain your heart's desire, I am positive you will find it."

Tim fought a yawn, and as Alfred patiently pushed him back, pulled the cover up to his chin, and fluffed his pillow, Tim's mind flashed with recognition to the taste of mild anaesthetic in his tea. He couldn't find it in himself to begrudge Alfred – he must have been gearing up for this one for a while, Tim supposed. Fussing over Tim for days on end, and never getting the satisfaction of it doing any good.

Sleep tugged at his eyelids, and Tim settled back, grumbling softly to himself. To this day, Tim isn't sure how much of the following came from Alfred, if any; and how much from his own conscience, made hyper-aware by the drugs.

"You," said Alfred's voice, disembodied in the darkness behind Tim's eyelids. "Did something unexpected. Even worse, something uncharacteristic of you. Perhaps it would bode better to just be yourself? Master Jason is many things, and none of them are something he is particularly proud of at the time. He does, however, like Robins to act as Robins, and no one else. You seem to have been in rather close contact with him, lately. Has it ever occurred to you that any noticeable change in your behaviour might... upset him? That he might blame it upon his own bad influence on you?"

"I wasn't-" Tim mumbled. "He wasn't—he'd never—-"

"Think so lowly of himself he'd entertain the notion he might taint those he comes into contact with? Master Timothy, here is the greatest fallacy of your strategy. Thinking that Master Jason would think as highly of himself as you do. The Red Hood, he's hurt and disillusioned. He'd never allow anyone to do him any good. But Jason- Jason is still a Robin at heart, and as such, he won't allow anyone – not even himself – to wrong the ideal of Robin. Or in this case, to wrong you."

Tim tried to mumble something, something about how he wasn't Robin, he was Tim, and perhaps, if Jason learned to differentiate the two, then...

But his body didn't let him.

Between a breath and the next, he was asleep.

~*~おわり~*~