Tim knows this is no healthy way to grieve; his father had made it abundantly evident that he not only disagreed with his methods, but that he was also beginning to grow increasingly more concerned. Bruce knew this wasn’t just grief, he knew Tim hadn’t progressed beyond the denial stage of grief. If anything, it seemed as if he had been getting sucked deeper and deeper into denial.

Some nights, he’d dedicate his time into attempting to create clones of you. He’s gone through the motions countless times and fails miserably each time—it feels like an insult to his intelligence. On nights where he’d feel more practical, he’d medicate himself into a seemingly endless slumber, hoping to see you in his dreams; and of course—he always would. Dreams are manifestations of our daily worries, apprehensions, thoughts. Your passing had tormented each one, it’s expected given how close the two of you were.

He had even gone to the extent of hacking into Scarecrow’s system and finding classified information containing the recipes of his potent toxins—the hallucinatory ones, he wasn’t a fool and knew the exposure to them had to be controlled. After tweaking the ingredients to his liking with just the perfect amount of exposure—he’d see you. In front of him as if you were still alive, as if nothing had changed.

And even if the moment was fleeting, he was able to pretend everything was fine, that he hadn’t lost you. That you were still here… breathing. Alive. That he hadn’t failed you.

As the potency of the toxin hits and you materialize in front of him, he gazes up at the hallucination in awe, reaching out to touch you.

“I’ll get you another chance. I… I promise. I’ll make it permanent—I’ll figure it out. I just need more time,” he whispers, his voice trembling with emotion.

He’s talking about cloning you, because he’s relentless and hasn’t given up on the endeavor that’s becoming seemingly more and more fruitless.