A/N: This story if for the Tim Drake fans everywhere. Boo on the New 52. If the Red Robin series had kept going, where would Tim be two years later? *Warning: I don't own these characters but if I did, I would do this:*
"Red. Respond."
The needle goes through flesh so easily. Blood stains in a grotesque puddle around the bathroom, brighter since his vision is starting to fuzz around the edges, whether from blood loss, lack of food, lack of sleep, he isn't sure. The end result leads to a bad patrol regardless; add to it that he's back here in Gotham and his mood is that much worse.
These days leaving the team, leaving San Francisco, makes him uncomfortable. Going back to the streets was never the problem-that's where he started as Robin. Something about the unknowing, the drug pushers, being on the low, the gangs, all of it was exercising a different part of the brain, a different strain of adrenaline. When he was antsy, when he needed that part of his past, he went to the streets in San Fran or came back to Gotham so he could work the need out of his system. Like working out a muscle when the memory starts to fade.
But, coming back has its own risks: running into one of the bats, Bruce or Dick (since he, Jason, and Dami aren't at each other's throats as much anymore: keywords as much). Other than through email, few instances of gathering to prepare for the bigger fights, listening to them on comms while his stays mute (and off O's radar), he hasn't spoken to those two, his old mentors, in almost two years. Dami and Jason…he'd come for, responded automatically when the call went out.
He hasn't been back to the Manor in as long as he'd spoke to Bruce, and he didn't need the message any clearer than that. Not a problem. It was fine.
Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Damian all back, all fighting together with Batman Inc. and tighter than ever. It was good for them; their family was finally working. So he, the Stand-In, the Replacement, just needed to stay the fuck out of it and not screw it up for them. He gets it, really he does. He's the Intel guy, the soldier, and he would keep up fighting the good fight in his own way because it was too much a part of him now. He couldn't just give it up, but he couldn't go back either. The Bats had moved on and so had he.
It is what it is.
"Red Robin, please respond." The Bat comm on the sink goes off again, not like he's answered it yet.
Since O saw him on some security feed, she hasn't let up. He should just crush the damn thing; he shouldn't keep one for the 'just in case shit goes down.' He shouldn't keep putting it in his ear when he comes back to Gotham. He should stop hacking it to keep them from tracing the signal since, well fuck, why bother?
As if O has camera in his bathroom (she doesn't, he checks constantly), she keeps at it.
"Red. I know you're in Gotham. I know the comm is on. Please respond."
She's not going away if she hasn't given up by now, but he still doesn't want to talk because he hasn't needed to. He's a better hacker. He only sends emails with data, intel when he gets it and thinks it relevant to Gotham or when she requests it from him. Other than that, he's only heard her voice talking to the bats with the wheres and whats.
He knows he's making a mistake even as he picks the damn thing up and fits it in his ear to keep his hands free. "Red Robin."
The sigh on the other end is more relieved than he's comfortable admitting.
"Red, finally. Thought we'd have to send out a search party."
He doesn't respond to that because it was just lip service anyway. A tight smile crosses his face, Dami might, Jay might, but only…
Don't go there, Drake. Moveforward.
"All right, got him. Go ahead."
Shit. He knows what's going to happen, but is too busy with gauze to turn the damn comm off.
"Red Robin. How's it hanging, Baby Bird?" That voice, the same easy familiarity, kicks up dust in Tim's brain pan.
"Nightwing," he acknowledges, followed by the usual, "what do you need?"
His past best friend, mentor seems at a loss, "oh, um, hey." Strange since Dick is normally a fountain of word vomit. "I…wanted to check on you." The voice goes rough, "it was a hard night for everyone."
"It was." Tim agrees, folding himself down on the bathroom floor; he wonders how Nightwing knew, he'd been pretty far away from them during the whole thing.
"Well, yeah. I saw you take some hard hits. You okay? Get taken care of?"
Why the fuck are you asking me this? "Yes."
"… Good. That's good. I mean you didn't stick around after the bad guys were all rounded up so…"
I haven't in over a year, Dick, but he doesn't need to point that out. He just waits until the older man spews out the real reason he's calling.
"So, uh, glad you're okay."
"Yes." He's not even trying at this point because he's had enough of it; other than "get down," "he's got a ray gun," "I'm alive," "no, a colon doesn't look like that," or "I'm sending the file you wanted," this is the most he's spoken to the man in a while. He's kept it coolly professional.
"Oh. Well, yeah…" Finally, the acrobat is uncomfortable too. Good. Hopefully he'll get the hell off comm and let Tim sag against the wall to hurt. "See, it's movie night tomorrow and you should-"
"Can't-" Tim interjects smoothly, "running comms for the Titans."
"Oh well, yeah. I get that. After then!"
"No, Nightwing. Thank you but no." He's firm, not rude about it, just professional. It's the job, remember?
"You haven't been over-"
"In a while," he interrupts again, "so again, no. Red Robin out."
"Hold on-!" but Tim already taps out, turning the damn thing off completely, taking it out of his ear and staring at it hard. Usually it stays in Gotham in a drawer until he comes back and like clockwork, disables the tracker, mutes it, and puts it in before he starts with patrol. He listens to the banter sometimes, respond to distress calls or reports of something breaking out while the others have their hands full.
Other than that, he's not sure why he comes back anymore…
Still, Tim looks down up at the comm and sighs. Nope. He's been moving forward, not back. He's not a bat anymore, so he's not indebted to Dick or Bruce or Damian. They'd all gotten along fine without him, so they'd just have to keep at it.
Tim picks up his discarded harness and disables the security locks; he pops open the lower compartment for his smart phone (not the Tim Drake, CEO of Wayne Enterprise phone), and checks the time. The program will run for twenty-five more minutes, crunching the numbers to give him the composition of the new drug, help him track the origins. Twenty-five minutes will give him time for a power nap without nightmares. Perfect.
He sets his alarm for time, draws up his knees to brace his forehead on an arm and breathes out slowly. A few moments of meditation to force himself to relax enough to slip into sleep.
**
"Normally, I'm an equal opportunity asshole, Big Bird, and I'm doing it because it's you that asked, but I gotta tell ya, this is not okay with me and that's saying something."
Red Hood is kneeling by the hidden garage door, carefully disabling the security system. Once he started respecting the damn kid, he'd made it a point to trying finding out all the necessaries: where the majority of his safe houses were, his new patrol routes, some of his little hidey spots, the security he used. Well, Hood had gotten as much Intel on the Replacement as possible considering the kid didn't come back to Gotham much anymore, at least as far as he knew. The only one that has any kind of bead on him is O and even she doesn't have very many deets on Red Robin's exploits (something that made her a special kind of pissed off that only Jason and Dick's dumb assery had been able to accomplish in the past).
"I mean," Hood continues, "he used to be a Bat and all, you know? Usually don't do stuff like this to our own unless someone goes ape-shit or something." Hood stills abruptly, "hold on. Before I break down his fucking door, he hasn't gone balls to the wall or anything I should know about?"
Dick, as Nightwing, just stares at the top of the helmet. "He IS a bat, not 'used to be,' Little Wing, and no. Not I'm aware of."
Now it's Hood's turn to stare, freezing mid- lock-picking motion to give Dick the weight of his eyes behind the mask. After an uncomfortable moment of not saying shit so Big Wing gets the picture, Jason goes back to it.
"What's that about?"
Jason snorted, and the sound echoing, "nothing, Big Wing."
"I know you're giving me that look."
"Yup," Jason doesn't bother to deny it. The system powered down and the garage door starts to rise. "I only give you that look when you say some ignorant shit, you know."
Red Hood starts into the garage with Nightwing at his back.
"It's true-" Dick starts, thinking he's actually defending Baby Bird or something.
Hood turns on him, one finger in his face, just almost in the fricking lens of his domino because he understood what it meant to be forgotten. "Really? Why didn't you know this is Baby Bird's nest, then?" His other hand punches the inner mechanism so the door slides down again. "Why'd you have to call me in to get past his security if the guy is still on Bat role call?"
There. The asshole draws back just a little so the zinger hit. And Hood, well, Hood knows more now about how a bunch of the shit that went down between him and the main Bats since Baby Bird became part of the Former Robins Club (and, well, since Jason hasn't actively tried to kill him in months; Tim even made him a sign for his fridge. Yeah, yeah, it's there in one of his safe houses). The more sane and less serial killer-ish he'd become around Tim, the more the other guy had started swooping in to help him out with cases and fights; hell, he'd crashed on the couch upstairs multiple times, had even gotten the guy to come clean with some of the bad vibes going on between him and Bruce, Devil Spawn, and Golden Boy. Tim didn't talk much about it, would deflect like a motherfucker when Jason put the hard questions to him, but at times when sleep dep was riding him, he would give some sparse details. Dick taking Robin instead of treating him like an equal, wanting Tim committed for thinking Bruce was alive somewhere; Bruce coming back to his son and maintaining the status quo of letting that brat push Tim out of the Bat radar; the last few times he'd reached out for help and no one even…
"Why the fuck didn't you put out a distress call on the comms? Fuck, Red, the Bat would have been here in—"
The reply had only been a quiet, not funny-ha-ha laugh while Tim's shaky hand stitched his own shit closed. Jason read the lines in his face, the hard set to his jaw andknewthat Red had tried… from then on, Hood hadn't berated him again.
And since he does fucking gets where Baby Bird is right now, not that it's something of his own making, Jason (as much as he's always looked up to the first Robin and wanted Bruce's approval) gets close enough that he can tilt the helmet up to look right up in Dick's grill.
"While we're at it, Big Wing, tell me how long it's been since the kid's been to the Cave for wound checks or to the Manor for dinner, huh? When was the last fucking time HE called a Bat for something?" The Hood just shakes his head at Dick's grim frown and that's fine because Dick has always had a problem recognizing when he's being an asshole.
It never hurts to remind him.
Hands planted on his hips, he takes a step back so Dick eases down and actually thinks. "You just really take a few to think about that shit, Big Wing, before you start this rigmarole."
Hood turns to start up the steps, gingerly, silently, listening for any noises that might be Baby Bird walking around upstairs because he was probably gonna be mad. He'd give it a 78% possibility, higher if Dick was right and the guy was having a shitty night. Then Hood helping to break into his place, knowing enough about the security system to be able to disarm it, would probably not be a thing he should lead in with. In the meantime, Dick must have gotten it together because he is just suddenly right fucking behind Jason when they come to the main door. He eases it open, using his senses like a true Bat before stepping inside the open floor; dim lighting in the kitchen area is the only illumination. Just as he happens to pass the low side table, the copy of Homer's The Iliad, is sitting there waiting for him. Hood pauses just long enough to glance down at the cover and take in the newness of the copy then back to moving.
Jason skirts around obstacles with knowledge; he'd been here before and more than once, Dick realizes as he follows behind, the two moving down the hallway. But he…hadn't even known where Tim's main operation center in Gotham was, and, wow, he feels like an ass.
"Know you're here Baby Bird," comes from the Hood. "Come out and visit."
"Maybe another safe house?"
But, the bedroom door is open and a light from the joining bathroom. Hood comes to the door, automatic in both hands faster than his normal prep-and-pull. He darts in the doorway and…stops.
Still taller than his brother, Nightwing peers over his shoulder and there is Tim, on the floor by the shower, knees drawn up, head on his arm, and asleep.
Tim Drake is more pale than the last time Dick saw him, more gaunt, more worn, more beaten, and the acrobat's heart stutters. Tim is more and few of those mores are good. The dark circles of exhaustion are black against his cheeks, the hollows noticeable now that he's looking without the cover of a cowl or domino. Tim's got a dusting of stubble on his cheeks and throat that looks very out-of-place for the teenager that came to Dick what seems like a lifetime ago, trying to convince him to return to Bruce as Robin because that's what Batman needed at the time.
That boy had laughed, had worked hard, had been the smartest Robin. Now, without Dick even realizing it, the boy was a man, taller, leaner, more muscular and less willowy. He'd filled out in mind and body, marked with more scars than Dick had imagined when the kid was sixteen. Shit, it had all happened while Dick's back was turned to him, and he could barely fathom how much of Tim's life he had missed.
"You were right, Big Bird," Jay interrupts Dick's thoughts softly, "looks like a bad night after all." The white gauze pad taped to his side (only specks come through from whatever injury is beneath) is the only bandage but under the harsh bathroom light, the plethora of new scars on the bare upper body is hard to miss just as is extensive bruising he can see running from shoulder down over Tim's chest where his knees around drawn up.
He's moving before he realizes it, taking a step around Jason's big shoulders, already sliding sideways to get through the doorway. He's berating himself in different languages (already filing away the observations and pounding questions in his mental rolodex) not that it'll help anything.
Just as he gets a leg through, the phone in Tim's limp hand goes off, startling both vigilantes to jump back into the shadows of the bedroom and back off near the door. At the onslaught of dubstep, the teenager on the floor to wake abruptly and without a sound. His hand twitches around the phone, thumbing the alarm off automatically while his brain boots up again, coming back online.
It takes him less than sixty seconds to realize his perch has been compromised; less than twenty more and he has his moves planned.
With flawless acting (since he was the best out of them in any undercover scenerio), Tim stands to pseudo-stretch as if powering back on and makes like he's going to bend over the sink to wash his face, even turns on the tap. Less than a blink and he maneuvers, contorts his body low dive out the door, coming up in a handstand across the bedroom to put him right in front of the first shadowed figure right outside the doorway; flying kick to the face that hurts his foot more than flesh and bone should. Some kind of mask, so he's got to get the next down fast to come back to the first before he shakes off that blow. They aren't going to just wait around and tap each other in or out.
"Shit-!"
He ducks, comes around for the other already out in the hallway, upper cut that's dodged, kick that's blocked, so Tim's sliding between the bent legs on his back, twists his torso to bring his legs up around the planted one to keep the guy's balance so he can put this second guy the fuck down.
The move almost doesn't work, the second guy is good, knows the lock, but Tim tightened his hold and plants his heels enough to put pressure on the hip joint and force the fall. As he expects, the gasp is pain caused by his grip and the abrupt landing. His free arm goes to pin the other leg before the guy can get it together enough to kick him in the side.
"Godammit, Replacement!"
Tim freezes, his hold doesn't even slack. "Hood?"
"Fucking, ow. Yes! Jesus, who else can get into your place without tripping the alarm, motherfucker!?"
The leg in Tim's grip, the one straining against Tim's feet nudged at the hip joint to pop it out if need be, slacks a little, goes limp.
"Okay, then. Good one, Baby Bird, but let go now. Please?"
And shit. What the hell is Dick doing here? Tim rolls his eyes in the dark and takes a deeper breath. Well, that boot had felt familiar.
Gingerly, Tim calls, "lights, 50%" before he rethinks what a good idea that isn't.
However, the hall light absorbs the Nightwing costume, Dick giving him a salute from the floor, leg still trapped in Tim's hold. Like the asshole really had a good reason to be there, and just—just for a second, Tim thinks he could…
Throwing that thought away, Tim lets the leg go, straining his abdomen to slide himself away from Dick, and gets to his feet as steadily as possible. He puts his back to the wall so he can keep both vigilantes in sight.
"All right, what is it?" The weariness in his own tone almost makes him wince. Almost. He's too busy rubbing the bridge of his nose and hiding the extensive scar tissue on his back to be nice. "Fuck. At least tell me it's not aliens."
Dick rolls to his feet smoothly, not even a hitch. Jason takes a less graceful approach, triggering the lock on his helmet to give Tim an intense once-over with his own expression sour.
"You look like a pile of shit warmed over, Baby Bird."
Because Jason, he just showed he cared by being a douche sometimes.
"Yeah, I love you, too, Jason. What do you need? Intel or what?" Rote response Dick realizes belatedly, staring at the taller, leaner figure of his younger brother.
Every conversation he's had with Tim in the last God knew how long started the same way, 'what do you need?'. There was no banter, no play. No patrolling together for shits and giggles, no having each other's back unless the mass call went out from the main guy. There hadn't been phone conversations over daily life in so long. No sparring in the 'Haven or surprise visits with movie marathons and junk food. Hell, he'd never even been in this apartment before tonight. With Tim, it had started coming with a mask of one type or another; it came with, 'what do you need?' (and when the hell did that start happening? Why didn't I notice? Why didn't I do something about this sooner?).
The realization makes him a little sick inside, combined with Jason's insight, and the fact that Jason of all people knew more about Tim than he did now. Man that he is, Dick makes a small movement to the young man against the wall, wanting to do nothing more than give him a hug, something else to lean against when he realizes Jason has a point: Tim looked like shit.
Dick clenches his fists inside the Nightwing gloves, stops himself from moving since he's not really sure if Tim would punch him or not.
Hood takes a second to just stare, arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrow. "I'm making you coffee. You need it." He turns on his heel, dented helmet in one hand.
"Shit, nothing good then," Tim sighs, "I need a shirt for this at least." He walks past Dick quickly, closing the door behind him (but he hears the noise when Dick really sees).
Fuck it, is Tim's thought process while he gets a nerd T-shirt and sweats over his aching body. He takes a breath to calm himself. At least there would be coffee.
***
Dick had taken off his domino and changed into street clothes Jason pointed out in the spare room, just jeans and a t-shirt (that are a little too short becausethese are Jason's clothes in Tim's guest room). Jason's jacket is on the back of a kitchen chair, covering his holsters like he's still wearing them. The Hood is on the kitchen table, a dent from Tim's foot in the side of the forehead. It's an impressive dent, one he's going to have to bitch about later.
Tim stops at his system to check the results and inhales the data. He'd send it to the team later once it was actually a decent hour. This would give them the info they needed; from here, Tim could start tracking the drugs infiltrating San Francisco back to whatever foreign supplier was spiking them with death powder. Same thing coming into Gotham, probably being funneled through to go to the major cities, someone's own little type of chemical warfare with a much more widespread implication. He'd still need to go to the harbor tonight after he ran the team to check San Fran's warehouse district where he traced the last shipment. If he could get another sample from here in Gotham to test, then he could be sure of the theory.Fuck, maybe I should get someone else involved in this, start the thing running with some ABC institutions, but damn I hate trying to get them involved in anything and staying out of the way of their systems—
"Here, Baby Bird." Jason's voice jars him completely out of his thoughts like a punch to the kidneys. By the look on his face, it's not the first time Jason's said his name, and as tired as he is, he could have been just standing there plotting his next move for an hour. Shit, he usually tried to be more on his game in front of other people than this.
His mug has been put on the table on purpose, the spot right across from Dick, who is also looking at him with a blank expression. That's Dick's 'I'm hiding something' face. Tim just blinks and moves to pull out his own chair while Jason makes another cup in his own mug from the cabinet. Dick sips out of a plain ceramic one. Strange, at his old safe house, he'd always had a special mug for Dick. Now, he had one for Jason instead; times had indeed changed.
Tim wraps both hands around the steaming mug, letting it warm him. First drink and it's perfect (since when did Jason know how to make coffee the way he likes it…? Maybe that time with the terrible omlets?)
"So," Dick's voice is strained, not his usual jovial tone.
But, here it comes, the reason why he's here tonight.
"Still want you to come to movie night, Tim. It's good to convene when we've had a hard couple weeks… and, the Birds of Prey are going to take up the normal Bat patrol for a few nights, so it would be perfect to just hang out. It's been a long time since we got to do that." The smile doesn't reach Dick's eyes.
Keeping his expression neutral, Tim just stares blankly for a few second (it has the desired effect, making Dick uncomfortable), "already have commitments, Dick. I appreciate the gesture, but no."
Dick's brows furrow and the guy glances at the quiet Hood who isn't looking at either of them, just sipping his coffee like he wishes he was anywhere else but right here.
"Another time when I'm not in the middle of a case," Tim placates even though he doesn't mean it. Sadly, he can hear the bullshit in his own voice (once upon a time, he'd never even thought to lie to Dick).
Finally, irritated with Dick's dumb ass, Jason snipes, "goddammit. Seriously, Big Wing? Baby Bird, look okay, Dick's just figured out he's an asshole." Jason makes it sound like how could he not have realized it before. "You've been out of Bat Dad's immediate radar for almost two years and none of them noticed until now. So," with a flourish of hands, Jason shuts up, point made.
A slow blink is supposed to give him time to formulate a response, one that would mollify them both, and maybe get them the fuck out of his apartment with the least amount of fuss, but Tim is just out of bullshit at the moment. On his best day, he could convince an atheist that there's not only a God, but that God would rain down hookers and booze from heaven for the right kind of sacrifice.
But, he's been moving down a long row of working too hard, dealing with the hell his life has been for the last year, and now, he's staring down the man he once thought was his friend (not so) has come out of nowhere to try being nice-not something he wants to deal with.
"I'm 19, Jay, not a minor. I'm not anyone's responsibility. Not B's, not O's, and not yours," his eyes go to Dick's, making his point. Don't come here like you think youoweme something.
And because, well, Jason, "shit. Baby Bird…I'm sorry I missed your birthday."
That makes two of them.
Tim blinks, "that's what you took from this?" The kid sighs. "It's fine. Thanks, man." Tim's glance at Dick becomes assessing, "did he send you for this crap?"
Slightly offended, Dick's brows furrow. "No. No, I came because I wanted to, Timmy. Honest."
Dick's hand twitches on the table, an aborted move to reach out (like he realizes how long it's been all over again). "You haven't been to the manor in I don't even know how long, and hell, I haven't seen you without a domino or that cowl in months. I mean, that's a pretty good sign I've been shit at being your brother recently."
In response, Tim's smirk is brittle, worrying, and he looks back down at his coffee so he doesn't say something damaging, something he's been aware of for a while. And Dick has no idea what's going through his head at that expression. This time, he can't stop himself from reaching, laying his hand over Tim's, squeezing.
"I'm sorry. Please believe me, Timmy."
Gently, Tim pulls his hand away, rolling his eyes over without turning his head, "again, it's fine, Dick. I'm a big vigilante now, so no harm, no foul." He sips his coffee again, considering the matter closed. But, he said nothing about accepting the apology, and Dick has a moment of panic, wondering if he wasn't too late and Tim had been on his own too long…
The system behind them emits a series of beeps, and Tim's whole demeanor changes (in a move scarily similar to when Bruce just becomes the Batman without the cowl); he becomes Red Robin in mind and body, already up and moving away from the table. He touches a few panels on a blank wall in the living room, his system kicking online; the wall shifts, parts and allows four flat screens to slide out and lock in place. Tim waves a hand and the screens kick on with a live feed.
"Red here."
Superboy, Kon-El or Connor Kent, appears on screen with team mates Cassie and Bart beside him at the table in the common room of Titan Tower.
"Hey Rob—" Kon starts with a wave.
"DUDE," Bart interrupts abruptly, finger pointing at the camera. "What. The. Hell? Your stats dropped, man. I thought the team had a talk about protocol."
Kon elbows the speeder without looking away from the camera, talking right over Kid Flash without a hitch. "Just checking in. How's the city that never gets a break?"
And these guys, really. Tim smiles faintly, wondering when they'll just calm down and act normal again. Seriously, he hasn't almost died in weeks.
"I'm all good here. Running some Intel on the case that has tendrils in San Fran but nothing too exciting. Shouldn't be more than a few days." There's the inside joke, nothing too exciting, like taking out hundreds of alien invaders before Rob figured out their hive mentality.
Cassie leans forward a little, smiling softly at him and in her eyes is the knowing. She was still too raw from the team mind fuck the invaders put them through, and, unfortunately, Cassie got the brunt of memories from his torture at the hands of the White Triad. He got just pieces of her battles, of her regular life when they'd stepped on each other's mental traps. Maybe he got hit with a lesser effect because he was so focused on trying to divide his mind (with Miguel shielding him just enough for him to concentration) to formulate a way to get them all free of the hold while the others were locked deep inside the mental minefield of memories: at times, their own; others, someone else's on the team.
Of course, he's Red Robin, usually the man with the plan; this plan just took some time to work, and the team got a little emotionally roughed up in exchange. The mass of it hadn't been so bad, but for Cassie, it had been a horrific experience.
When they finally sent the insurgents packing and everyone else broke to clean-up post battle, Cassie had pretty much run to wrap her arms around him, not even holding back her tears. He hadn't known what to with her coming apart (Kon had been the only one to hang back in case she came apart as in the good ex-boyfriend mentality or something).
And Tim, Tim just sighed at the time because he felt like shit (still does) she got a dose of the worst.
"I'm sorry."
"Wh—why would youapologize?!" Even though her voice is cracking, she sounds indignant while soaking the shoulder of his suit, probably getting blood and dirt all over her face.
"Because no one should see—should go through that. I'm sorry you happened to trip over my memories, Cassie."
Her arms tighten enough that he realizes her arms are trembling slightly against his back, and it's just soabsurdbecause Cassie could literally crush him without even straining hard. She, like Kon, are powerful in ways the rest of them just weren't, so it's telling as to how much she's been affected.
"Tim," she sobs gently, "I'm sorry we didn't find you intime. Oh…goddess, I'm so sorry, Tim. I'm so, so sorry."
Tim sighs and puts effort into pulling off his domino (cowl foregone so he could wear the wing pack for the fight) so she can look him in the eye. She does, and her blue eyes are watery and red, her face blotchy, but her expression is so broken for him. For him, the one that fixes thing, there's really no way to make it better, so he bites the bullet and just holds on to her tightly, pulling her right back into the crook of his neck to cry for him.
In the here and now, Cassie is still trying to coddle the shit out of him since she experienced some of the same things (please not that, please don't say she had to go through the worst part of it all…) he had during his little vacay eight months ago because aliens are just, you know, asshats.
"Hey Rob, we just got worried, you know? Turn on the camera for us, okay?"
He chuffs a little, hands on his hips, "and here I thought we agreed, no more sensors in my suit." Sure he knew they were still there because, well, the team worried (not that Kon had removed the tracker in the hem of his jeans either or well…Bart was problematic, but Tim was nothing if not resourceful. The rest of them had been laughably easier—not that he'd ever point out how often Raven was in Gar's room or when Miguel was off on one of his 'adventures').
Bart gives him a patient look and just crosses his arms over his chest. But Tim already reaches forward and flicks the main switch for the webcam so they can see him standing there in his t-shirt and sweats, bare-faced, and actually in one piece. Their gazes move to where another monitor is located and scrutinize. Tim doesn't even look at himself because he knows there no blood for them to see.
"Perfectly fine," he assures with a more gentle voice, fond, "you would have seen me later anyway. We've got some headway in the suspicious ODs. I'm still tracking, but you guys can check some leads for me."
"Hey, can't help it," Kon replies with a shrug, "you are the king of getting messed up juuuust enough not to die."
Good-natured ribbing with an undercurrent of truth, Cassie and Bart are chuckling. In the background, he can hear Gar and Miguel laughing their asses off; Raven is probably trying not to (and failing) look amused. Why do I go back to them again? Because they would die without me…right.
"Not all of us are invulnerable, you know," Tim jokes back.
"You're supposed to be taking time off," Bart points out with a finger pointed at the camera. "The last-"
"I'm taking it easier than I normally do, okay? Promise. I'm going to sleep soon." Tim interrupts, cutting off that train before Dick or Jason get too much. They already have enough to jump to conclusions.
Kon's eyes narrow and Cassie isn't smiling anymore; their eyes go back to the other screen, obviously looking for someone in the shadows of his Gotham perch, maybe an assassin or two lurking behind him because Ras just really has to take offense when his installations are bombarded with translated episodes of The Real Housewives of New Jersey on repeat—for days. Days.
"Okay, then. Glad you're all right, Rob. We'll talk to you tonight then."
"Of course. Everyone get some sleep before we go hunting, and stop worrying. I'm fine."
The three wave and bid him good-bye; other voices chime in from the kitchen away from the monitors. Tim just shakes his head and presses the right series of panels for the flat screens to slide back into the wall.
"Hm," Jason's eyes are pensive when he comes back to the table, and Tim can pretty much see the wheels turning. Added bonus, his coffee mug is refilled, and Tim takes it gratefully. "Those guys got a leash on you, Baby Bird."
Tim's eyes dart away from Jason's gaze and not because the guy had tried to kill him multiple times (the scar on his throat has faded enough that it doesn't bother Jason to see it anymore, Tim usually covers it with concealer anyway, just by habit). But, really, he and Jason were actually on a more even playing field. In the last year, the Red Hood has been getting his shit together (i.e. not killing, not all about hating the bats, taking on certain aspects of vigilantism the correlated with his old Robin persona). It wasn't easy for the guy, and Tim had always understood that, more so now because he knew how it felt to be displaced in the family not to mention the whole come back from the dead, being thrown into the Lazarus Pit, and the mental torture at the hand of Talia and Ras. All an equation that Tim added up to being fucked in the head.
When Jason started changing up his pattern, had stopped fighting him so fucking hard after the Battle for the Cowl, Tim just took it as finally the right time. Something in him breathed when Jason as the Red Hood faltered for a kill shot, easing his trigger back instead of putting a few rounds through Tim's chest. When Jason had been on the losing side of any random fight in the usual alleyways and accepted Tim's hand, Tim's help in getting him back to a safe house and cleaned up, it was like he was finally on the road to being forgiven for taking something that never really should have been his in the first place. Something that should have gone straight from Jason to Damian.
After that first clean-up, the Red Robin has been there for him (silently at times, other times as a partner) to help when he can, sometimes coming back to Gotham only when Jason finally picked up the phone to call him for insight. One year had become two, and he can actually say they've run together, pulled each other out of the fire. It's a good working relationship (similar to the one he has with Dami now, just with a hell of a lot more smart ass commentary and patching Jason up on the regular).
So, it's Jason he feels the need to answer, "They…worry. I'm the main non-meta of the team, so-"
"Horseshit, Tim." The face takes on a knowing look over the rim of his coffee mug, and Jason's eyes are more scrutinizing. "That clone kid called me, you know, after they realized you'd been snatched."
Dick freezes, mug almost to his mouth, and Tim's muscles tighten reflexively.
Andfucking Jason knows the rest of the Bats are in the dark about it; probably knew that Tim didn't want any of them asking questions. He wasn't their fucking responsibility anymore.
"He let me know you'd gone missing between there and Gotham. Called again to tell me they'd picked you up almost two weeks later, said you were pretty fucked up, Baby Bird."
Very carefully, Tim wasn't looking at either of them, "no one told me."
Jason hums again, brow arched.
"I survived," he drinks his own coffee, trying not to give anything away, but he has the nightmares. They all had nightmares, but his had electroshock, waterboarding, his body breaking apart, and—and… Stop, stop it. Don't go there. Just stay away from that. He's stronger than this.
"Who took you?" Dick asks quietly, a new light making his eyes more intent. He wants to draw out the answers, but Tim can't, he just can't do this with Dick, not anymore.
"I don't talk about it." The admission is gritted out between his teeth. "At all. They took the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, not Red Robin."
Both vigilantes just stare.
"Holy shit, Tim," Hood's face is…fucked with that expression because all the implications are a little closer to the surface and he hadn't wanted to give any of it away. Fucking sleep dep messing with his brain, so now Dick is going to go to Bruce or Tam and he should have kept his mouth shut. The ordeal was supposed to stay buried, and there's Dick Grayson with his angry face on.
"This was a fun chat," as dry as he can make it, Tim stands to put his mug in the sink. "I'm going to bed. I've got meetings tomorrow. Lock up before you leave."
"Tim!" Dick's on his feet too, one hand stretched out in the gap between them.
"Nope! Not your responsibility, Dick. Good night."
He waves over his shoulder and goes back down the hall to the bedroom, not bothering to even look at the guy that used to be his brother.
Jason's face is grim, but he chugs the rest of his coffee and gets up from the table after Tim closes his bedroom door with finality, and the familiar anger wells up in his chest as he sets the mug in the sink, taking out his pack of cigarettes. The drawer by the dish drainer has his ash tray in it and clinks when he sets it on the table. Quick cig and then they're getting out of Baby Bird's space. Doesn't matter if he has to knock Dick the fuck out and fireman carry him out; that motherfucker is leaving.
Lighter flares to life and the tip of his cig burns while Dick just stands, staring down the hallway with something dark and ferocious in his expression. Jason blinks up at him while he huffs in, taking in the fisted hands, the very Bruce-like tilt to his chin when someone fucked with his stuff, and oh shit. Jason's eyes go from Dick to the dark hallway and back.
"Big Bird," those blue eyes slide over, but the acrobat hasn't moved. "C'mon, Big Bird, sit down for a second while I smoke, then we'll go." Very carefully, Jason keeps his hands above the table where Dick can see them, not wanting to trigger aura of 'shit is going to get fucked' that Dick Grayson is capable of. . His natural acrobat ability made him a shitty opponent when he put his mind to it (because, see, who won the cowl in the end, right?).
Moving like his whole body is wound tight, so carefully controlled, Dick finally takes his seat, obviously thinking hard about what he'd learned tonight. The apartment is still, silent except for the sound of breathing, the computer in the corner humming gently, of Jason taking it easy with his cigarette (since he's gotta put the helmet back on when they go outside and he's not getting one after that), and the earlier reproach.
Now, the daft bastard is getting the picture and really, he's only got himself and Bruce to blame for it, really. Shit, even that little demon spawn hit Tim up once and a while just to make sure the guy wasn't dead in a fucking ditch somewhere. Him and Dami just didn't, you know, make the guy talk about whatever like Dick and even Bruce used to make him do sometimes. Nope, they just joined him to beat the ever-loving shit out of some run-of-the-mill criminals (and even the ape-shit crazier criminals) and let him mother hen over them when they got hurt. He knew for a fact Damian had been here more than once with Tim digging glass and metal out of his stubborn ass before sending him home or taking the kid back to the Manor himself, just dropping him off at the front door.
Dick and Bruce, though, different story. Maybe they both knew Tim was still doing the night patrol thing while he was in town; maybe they figured he was too busy with the Titans now, so they didn't bother to pay him a visit. There could be a lot of reasons behind it (considering what an epic pain in his ass all three are) but none of it mattered in the long run because the end result is what it is. Baby Bird grew up too much in the last two years, and now, he just didn't need the Bats anymore.
As much as it sucks, Jason knows exactly how it feels.