When Alfred Pennyworth declares a kid at no fault for drinking at the tender age of Sixteen, there's no room for surprise when said kid, some years later, takes him at his word. Tim meets Malcolm's eyes long enough to distract- he offers a pained ghost of a smile and goes for the whiskey.

He just wants to play with it, honest. Because if there's a whiskey type of conversation then this is probably it.

"Nobody even looked for me before," he says. It's a lie but it doesn't feel like one. Tam found him on order of her father: Lucius Fox needed Tim Wayne back home for business affairs. It-- feels different. "There was a long time that I didn't believe anyone would mourn me if I... not because I didn't matter, but because there really wasn't anybody left."

He pauses, feels light and heavy as he ponders.

"For whatever it's worth, I don't think I died."

He would have probably fought harder to stay gone.

No, some rational whisper flashes in his head. No he wouldn't. He didn't mean that.

He doesn't know.

He taps his foot. "I still don't understand it. I don't think it matters anymore. Uhm. I do know it's harder to move forward when someone-- returns. Just like they left. Just like that. But. I never would've-- I don't know what happened, but I wouldn't have just left without... I don't want to hurt people like I've been hurt, y'know? But I do anyway."

Steph. Kon. Bart. Cassie, Bruce. Jeff that bastard. Tim's hand shakes. He hates... this. Feeling heavy and light all at once.