Chapter Text
Gotham Harbor is full of discarded things that people would rather forget about than dispose of in a more ethical way, so it was no wonder Tim found himself crawling out of it in the middle of the night, coughing up the musty contaminated water straight at the old wooden flooring of the dock that he managed to climb onto after nearly drowning.
His right ear is ringing mercilessly making him unable to stand up. Warm blood pours out of it and onto his neck, mixing with the icy cold water. He chokes on air trying to force his body upwards from the half laying position, every part of him is shivering, from the tips of his fingers to the bottoms of his feet. He feels like he's dying, like he's back in Iraq. He lost blood, that's how he feels, but where is he hurt except for that burst ear drum?
Assess the situation; his brain screams at him, but there is nothing to assess, there is no threat just…
A silent shout leaves his mouth as he jumps away from what looks like a severed hand. There's a bracelet on it, colorful beads mock him covered in bile.
Tim tries to breathe, but his body is betraying him. It shakes refusing to stop. He's both cold, and too hot, and absolutely everything hurts. It hits him then that he has no memory of what happened.
He's wounded that's for sure, his clothing is ripped and dirty, dirty enough that even his soak in the Harbor hasn't removed the stains.
Something alive runs to him, he doesn't notice it at first because of his ear, and only when it sniffs him he realizes the presence. It's a dog. It's only a dog. Soaked just like Tim, and just as shaken by the situation. He grasps at the animal's fur desperate to hold onto something; Titus's fur, his mind supplies. Titus lets him hold him closer, but eventually he jerks away from Tim and starts barking at the water.
Tim turns towards it, and what he's greeted with are bodies floating up to the surface one by one. For some reason even though he's terrified and he has to hold his stomach to prevent himself from puking he doesn't feel surprised.
One, two… three, six, nine.. there's a lot of them, and most aren't exactly complete. He sees some without heads, he sees some that are unbelievably small. Children. They are children.
Fuck–
Why is he here alone? His communicator is gone there is no bat in the sky, no police sirens.
No one knows about this.
Are they even looking for him?… For these people?
He gets up on shaky legs, every fiber of his being protests, but he can't just sit here, he has to contact someone he has to–
Tim takes the bracelet off the severed hand and puts it on. For some reason it feels familiar. He knew these people, he feels it even though he doesn't remember them. He shouldn't just leave them like this. Titus is barking at the water, and Tim is unsure if the dog will even let him leave if they don't do something about them.
He should leave this for the police to sort out, but…
He looks around. The docks are quiet, too quiet. Two security guards lay unconscious on the floor a few metres away. Had he done this? It probably doesn't matter.
…he just can't.
As he tugs all of the carcasses to the shore with the help of Titus he tries to understand what happened.
Some of them are still bleeding, some of them are still warm. It's his fault. It must be.
Why… why did he think that?
He's in his civilian clothing. There's a wound on his leg and his left side. It's shaped like claw marks, and too big to fit any animal Tim can think of.
Who did this– what did this? When he tries to remember it's like reaching into an abyss, his fingers grasp at an edge of a memory, but it slips away like sand when he actually tries to summon it to the surface.
On top of that one of his ears is injured enough that he can't hear out of it. It makes holding balance extremely difficult, but Titus helps by walking against Tim's side. Speaking of the dog, he seems fine other than a similar gash on his back. Why is he with Tim? He shouldn't be with Tim.
Twelve bodies.
They end up with twelve bodies fished out of the water. Maybe there is more, but Tim has no strength left to look.
He stands over the last body; it's an older woman. Her flesh is ripped in a similar way to what can be found on Tim's own skin, but it's hard to tell since she looks rotten– no, she would've smelled different if she were rotten. Tim wouldn't be able to grab her if…
She died not long ago, the same as the rest of them, but… her skin looks off, especially near the wounds. It looks like acid, almost like…
Digestion.
Tim chokes on his own saliva as the image of teeth– so many teeth– assaults him. It can't be a memory. He wouldn't be able to survive something like that.
Titus pokes him with his nose. He's panting like he's about to collapse.
They walk away leaving the carnage behind. It's lucky he supposes that it happened during the night, everyone will be too worried about themselves to bother him once he walks into the town– even if they do notice him. Tim knows what alleys to pick to insure the least amount of curious glances.
…
As he walks with Titus something stops him in his track. A regular shopping display of a cheap thrift store. Three motionless mannequins put in various silly poses. One even shows off a middle finger.
That's not what made him look though.
His own reflection smiles at him even though he's pretty sure his lips are firmly stuck on a frown.
It's a crooked thing, full of bloody teeth. He sees it on the shiny glass surface of a shopping display. It is both his face and yet it isn't. It looks almost happy to see him in such a pitiful condition, and even though he knows he has his fair share of self destructive tendencies they never looked so vicious.
There's a memory on the back of his head, one he can't reach.
Titus sees it too. He starts growling at it, grabbing at Tim's trouser cuffs trying to get him away from the glass. Tim can't move; he stares at it, and it stares back. The face– his face– in the mirror loses all color. His skin becomes pale, white like a statue. Even dead bodies can't reach this shade – Tim isn't dead, is he?– then its neck breaks making the head tilt down onto its left side, and something… starts to grow on his cheek. Eyes and teeth, another face next to his own on the same head.
Titus lets out a pathetic little whine, and hides behind Tim's feet. Tim himself takes a step back as his reflection reaches towards him, one pair of hands, then two. Titus becomes distorted too, merging with the thing in the glass creating a monstrous snout as Tim's reflection takes him in.
The hands– so many hands– break the surface of the glass and then– a shriek!
It shatters.
He screams at the noise. Piercing and so painful. Tim feels it behind his eyes. Titus is whining too, he's on the ground curled into Tim's side, and they lay there for what must be at least a couple of minutes trying not to pass out from the noise. When it stops Tim hears footsteps approaching, he's not sure how he gets the strength to get up, but he does.
Unfortunately the adrenaline isn't enough to get him to run though. Titus barks at the men that appear from around the corner. Tim ignores them for now, too focused on the broken display and the glass shards embedded in his palms. His ear is bleeding again.
They say something, ask him if he's alright. There are two of them, and they don't look threatening. Even if they were Tim's too weak to fight or run anyway.
They are men in their thirties. The younger one is taller and has his hand on his belt near a gun hoister hidden underneath his jacket, he's not reaching for it, and Tim thinks that's stupid, he's covered in blood, enough of it to tell it isn't only his own and he's standing near a broken glass display with valuable items with a dog that's barking like he's going to bite someone's head off any second. Any sane person would've taken that gun out and shot him. It's Gotham.
The older man is short, and he has a children's backpack on his shoulder. He looks extremely worried.
Questions follow. Tim doesn't answer them, and when they want to come closer Tim steps back until he's almost on the other side of the street.
He says no to calling the cops, or them taking him to a hospital, or a safehouse. Whatever that means. Eventually he asks for coins to use a payphone. The taller one throws him some to the displeasure of his friend, and Tim walks away before anyone else has time to notice the commotion.
…
He briefly passes out in the telephone booth after he calls the number, he wakes up to Titus licking his face and a quiet voice coming from the handset.
He picks it up.
"I need you to get me–"
"Who's this?"
Is his voice really that weak? There's no way Dick wouldn't recognize him, he always does. A tired sob makes it's way through his throat.
"Hey! Hey it's alright, who's this? How did you get this number?"
"It's Tim."
The line goes quiet, Tim can only hear his own unsteady breathing, and the longer no one's saying anything the more time he has to look at his mud stained feet and wonder how he is going to explain this to Bruce since he himself has no clue what happened.
"I'm sorry. I think you might have gotten the numbers mixed up? I don't know any–"
Tim bursts out crying, and then he laughs.
"It's not funny Dick! I have a– a situation here. Something– something happened I don't know what–"
"Hey don't cry! I'm sorry, but I'm telling the truth. I don't know you buddy, but I can call someone if you need me to–"
Hundreds of hands holding him down.
"Are you there?"
Pulling him deeper into the–
"Tim. It's Tim, right? You're starting to freak me out–"
Into what?
Titus snuggles against him with a soft grunt.
He remembers. Not much, but enough to understand that… Dick isn't making fun of him.
"I have a question."
"You scared me! are you– okay, what's the question? Do you need me to call someone?"
"Have you ever had a family dog?"
That's how it started, and if no one remembered Titus back when he disappeared…
"No?"
then why would they remember Tim?
He hangs up.