A/N: So I'm just kind of telling the story of Stray in this fic, and I just want to say THIS IS VERY AU. I know the real stories, I read a lot of comics, but since it is AU (and maybe I've gotten in some other inaccuracies?) please don't hate me! Also, I have another fic "That's the Way It Is" which I wrote for fun and it kind of inspired me to keep on going and do a Stray story. So this is more of an elaboration on that one. Anways, reviews just make my life so if you like it, please review! 3 3
He dared to look back at Batman's eyes and say, "No."
Such a small and simple word and it made the muscles in his adoptive father's jaw work, his gloved fist to clench harder to something that wasn't even attainable.
The dark of the cave closes in on Tim. As if his heart wasn't heavy enough, now the walls will come closer and closer. Something like he saw in a movie once only now it was the glare Batman gave him. Hard. Unyielding.
Tim doesn't know why he's using the vigilante name in his head. It's not even...Bruce anymore. It's a shadow and a stranger.
"You believed in me," the stranger growls now, turning away from the computer screen. Tim swallows, feels the pump of adrenaline in his neck. "You believed I was still alive."
Yes.
"You truly believed I was out there," Batman steps closer and then he shouts it, the hideous sound reverberating across every water-gleamed rock in the cave, "Why don't you believe it for Damian?!"
Tim's eyes instinctively close, as if he's refusing the image of Batman screaming at Red Robin to enter his head, to capture itself but it's too late. There's sweat gathering on the back of his neck, trickling down his back, escaping the cloth of his suit.
The wings are heavy.
And Batman straightens and his eyes narrow. "...you don't want to believe it."
Tim looks back up at him, stops breathing.
You hated him.
I screamed his name until I lost my voice.
You told him he wasn't your brother.
I saw him in my dreams.
"N-no," Red Robin gasps out, "no that's not true, it's just that-"
"What, Tim?!"
The shout keeps on playing itself in Tim's mind, and his hands rush to his hair, pull and tangle irrationally. The words are aching to get out and before Tim's logic can arrest them, they all come racing and unfair.
"It's that I could barely live without you!" he shouts back. "And you can't - won't - live without him and I… I can't lose you again!"
It's empty and almost unheard because Batman's eyes stare right through him. Tim tries to make amends by whispering, "I've lost too much already."
"So you can't stand to see this," Batman replies with a hiss. "You're running away from him. From me. Just like the rest."
"Bruce-" a plea for the real Batman to come back.
"Then get out!" Batman cries, throwing a hard arm pointing to the cave staircase, eyes flaring and teeth gnashed like a monster, a demon of city lights. "Get out."
Tim shivers but the sweat is still building. Batman turns with the whirl of his cape back to the computer where there are files, evidences that he's been compiling. They say there's still a chance, there's still a way to find...Robin.
So Tim turns, blindly walking away. He's got patrol tonight, he has work to do and a long night ahead. Focus point is on 42nd and Ninth, sounds like there might be a cartel to break up. Maybe more evidence from the incident a few nights ago can be gathered.
And there's a whisper that drives Tim like a whip in the back of his mind: Immerse yourself in your work and it won't hurt.
Isn't that what Batman - no – it was Bruce that time, had said? As Bruce held him close, away from his father's dead body, whispered, "No, it won't go away, but you can focus on something else. You've got to focus on something else."
It meant survival.
So Tim would always turn his eyes away from the devil under that Gotham sky and pretend it didn't exist and he'd mount his motorcycle and ride away into the dark just like tonight. He'd dance, oh yeah, he'd keep it up, but there was always that thought that maybe….just maybe there was another voice.
One that said no.
But Bruce- Batman said so.
Orange streetlights and wet concrete and open garbage cans, half-drunk teenagers and cars driving by too slowly. Hot humid air rushing through Red Robin's wings, but harsh enough to penetrate the mask and make his eyes water.
It's just the effect of wind on the eyes. The eyes get dry and the lacrimal glands become active and tears wash over the eyes to moisturize them, it's perfectly natural. Nothing to worry about.
But there's no evidence tonight. 42nd is dead. Red Robin head over to Ninth, pressing the pull line too hard, wishing for his favorite part. The part when he and Batman stand on the pedestal and there's no edge to Batman's voice as he whispers, "Are you ready?"
No, Bruce, I'm not ready.
Just give me a moment.
I'll be ready.
Everything will be okay.
I'll figure it out for you.
Reminiscent of the boy in the old movie who whispered, "What, do you want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down."
Tim's eyes jerk toward the moon.
Ninth is dead too.
Red Robin stands on the roof and wishes for the good part.
There's wings on his back but they flap almost useless and brittle.
But he stops breathing. Stops moving. Stops wishing.
There's someone just behind him.
Tangible presence, too small enough to be Red Hood. But it's different and it reminds Tim of glaring eyes and perking smiles, hands getting too close and words becoming too sweet like fifteen different pieces of candy.
It's too easy to discern and Tim has lost any incentive to turn around and stand firm for battle. There doesn't have to be a battle. Maybe more of wits, but not of bo sticks and whips and electric wires.
So Tim keeps his eyes on the ground before him, eyes only drifting to watch a zooming car, a staggering stranger. But his ears are trained on the click of heels that can stab as easily as a knife.
"Hey, kitten," a slow even almost-whisper. "Don't step too close to the edge."
Distant care, just like a mother cat you can always crawl back to and she'll lick your wounds for you.
Tim's hand clenches up. He swallows. The wind is harsh on his eyes tonight, but if he blinks hard enough, it'll fade away.
He'll be fine.
"Hello, Catwoman."
You call that a way to address a thief and a criminal?!
"Hm..." there are hands coming behind him, sliding down his arms, holding his own hands. "How're doing?"
"I'mfine." Automated, sure, but it's what needs to be heard.
"Well, I'm not so sure, because you know, all the world knows if Red Robin is flying without his Batman tonight. There's just something in the air. Like smelling MacDonald's when you walk outside." She laughs a little.
It's funny, Tim. Laugh.
Grease and burgers and just a few dollars, memories of that one time when Nightwing pulled up and ordered Robin a Happy Meal because he panicked, "Tim, don't you eat, kid?!"
"Kitten," a whisper in his ear, "where is your daddy?"
"Um, he's not out here tonight."
"Oh thanks, I didn't notice," Catwoman chuckles, her gloved hands rubbing up and down his arms.
Silence. Thunder rolls like Batman's narrowed eyes and quiet threats.
"Did he hurt you, Tim?"
Tim blinks. "Batman has never hurt me."
"Oh, I know that...he'd never touch a hair of your head." Catwoman carefully locks her hands on his shoulders, turning him around to face her. "Did he hurt you in any other way?"
Catwoman….Selina is taller than Tim. Her glasses rest on her hood, ruby lights glittering, a sweet (gentle, quiet, understanding) smile on her glossed lips. There are tufts of black hair flying out of her mask. Green eyes looking into him.
Hurt?
One time, Tim dislocated his shoulder on patrol. Though it popped right back in, his arm felt numb. It hurt later on.
Tim has heard stories of people losing limbs. They said it didn't hurt at first.
But there was blood and there were open wounds and there were bones loose and his hand shook.
Tim turns away from Catwoman's eyes and wonders what happened in the Cave, why he walked away without...hurt.
But now that he's staring at Selina's heels and finding his own boots turning in on each other and grating against pebbles…
...he can barely breathe.
He told him to get out, to run away from him, he accused him of not wanting Damian back. He shouted at him. His eyes burned into Tim's. And ever since the funeral, there's been silence, a turned back, zero radio contact, Batman speeding on ahead of Red Robin.
Does he believe I don't exist anymore?
And no, Tim hasn't slept, he hasn't eaten, he doesn't want to, it's too much trouble. He's underwater but no, stop breathing, you'll drown!
Is this the way it's got to be all the time now?
Did I ever exist to him?
Tim's mouth opens but no words come out.
Where does he even start?
So when Selina's hands slide up his shoulders, to his neck, to cup his face to turn his eyes back on her and she whispers, "Come stay with me," Tim doesn't think anymore.
"It's close by, just a little ways from here. Get away from that dusty old house. You need to get away from there, Timmy. Come away."
Tim catches his breath, but this suit is just too heavy to take any gasps.
"Come on, baby. Stay with Mama Selina."
Tim doesn't feel his feet shuffling, his hand latching on to hers. Only the constant get out in his head, the black emptiness inside but there is red on the edges of his mind's eye, the kind he would see when he got shot.
Shot.
"I'm sorry," is all he can manage to shudder.
"There's nothing to be sorry about," she whispers back, coming to the opposite edge. "You got this?"
Grappling hook. Wire and trigger.
"Check your line."
"Timmy?"
"Top speed. Straight in."
"You got this, baby?"
Her voice is firmer this time, making Tim force himself to turn and nod. Check his line. Top speed, straight in.
He follows Selina through the alleys. They swing through the air and Tim notices the way she keeps on looking back at him. They land on the apartment complex roof, and she jumps down on her balcony. The wings are stupid. Clumsy. Awkward.
But Selina's apartment smells like perfume, candles and maybe paint, and as she flicks the lights on, Tim sees that it's very different from the other apartments she's had. Everything is simpler, smaller. There's wood floors, white Christmas lights strung from ceiling corner to corner. Color flares everywhere; blue and orange and green, greys and whites. Old movie posters. Stacks of CDs.
"Come on in, kitten," she beckons again, with a smile over her shoulder. She takes off her glasses, tosses them on the kitchen counter top. The apartment's small and so the single light above the tiny dining room fills the entire space. And Tim can only think of the word home.
There's newspaper clippings, to-do lists on the refrigerator and cat magnets. The dorkiest little umbrella with a cat's head shaped handle rests near it.
Photos in frames of cats.
Tiny statues of cats.
And there's a cat lounging on the couch.
So many cats everywhere.
And there's another, a kitten just walking out the bedroom to say hello.
It's black and white. Like Damian's cat.
Tim exhales, keeps exhaling, refuses to gasp back.
Selina's voice, "I'm gonna go change, okay?"
"D-Dami had a cat like that." It came out of his mouth without him allowing it to, his hand gesturing tiredly toward the kitten. He gets down on his knees, wings scraping against the floor angrily, but his hands reach out to capture the kitten gently.
His fingers stroke against the kitten's head, finding that one spot just behind the ears that wins him a friend. Yeah, there's a white side, and the face is completely covered in black except for the gold eyes that open and close in relaxation. The kitten purrs like a machine.
"I...did you know I kind of wanted to name Dami's cat? At least...suggest a name?"
Click, click, Selina's heels coming toward him.
Air conditioner turning on.
Purring.
"I wanted to name him...Spock...but if I mentioned it, I knew that he'd never get named that."
He chuckles, but no, no, no, please, don't cry, but there's the world smearing around him and he's having trouble breathing again.
"Oh, no," there's a rock in his throat, and there's something crawling in his chest, threatening to strangle him, "Oh, I'm so sorry, I don't-"
"No, hey, it's okay," Selina says, getting on her knees before him, but Tim can barely see her. Just her voice, "Let it go, Tim. Don't keep it, let it all go."
No, no immerse yourself in your work don't let it go it will destroy you don't do this to yourself don't do this to Batman!
"Let it go, baby."
And he drops his hands, the kitten scampers away at the sound of his wings scratching wildly, the sound of sobbing and almost screaming and Tim can feel again.
"There you go, Timmy."
No, as he feels gravity pulling him down, as he cries and struggles to get the ache out of his heart. But yes as she pulls him into her arms, as her fingers pry the mask off. And yes as it's all falling away, all the ache and the fear that has been gnawing at him since that monster destroyed his brother.
And Bruce told him to get out.
And now Selina Kyle telling him to come out and to let it out.
Tim rests against Selina, trying to breathe again, but...relaxing. He feels every muscle lose its hold as Selina unhooks the stupid wings and pushes them away from him.
She smells like leather and lotion and wet concrete.
"Okay...you're doing just fine, kitten...you're just fine..."
"No, I'm not, I-"
"Shh, yes you are. Please, Timmy, don't be like Bruce. Don't keep it all inside like that, it'll kill you. And frankly, I like you way too much to let that happen."
Don't be like Bruce...no, I've spent all my life trying to be like him, how can I just stop now? Tim blinks, noting that Selina's suit is water resistant; the teardrops slip off easy. She's rocking him back and forth, like he's five.
"Hey," Selina whispers, "Listen to Mama Selina."
"'Kay," Tim whispers back.
"The other day I found some yoga pants."
And all the thought trains in Tim's head decide to slam the brakes.
"Yeah," she continues, "and they're guys yoga pants and they might be a bit big on you, but I've got pins. So how about you take that suit off and stuff it in a closet, any closet you like and you can push some furniture in front of it if you want. Take the yoga pants and take a shower."
Oh, wait, wait, Batman doesn't know where I am-
"And I have the guest bedroom so you take that and get some rest, okay?"
But what if-
"And name the kitten while you're at it," she stands up and takes his hands, helping him up. "And there's something else you need to know."
Tim looks up at her, lets the flicker of green in her eyes comfort him, not scare him off. "M'what?"
"This is usually a girl's place. We don't have soldiers here. No soldiers are allowed here."
No. Soldiers.
"You just be Tim."
Who's that? What good is he? What-
Then she tilts her head, smiles her one-sided sweet smile. Her hand strokes down his face and Tim leans against her touch. All those panicky questions...silent.
Her hand is cool and gentle. Tim's never felt her fingertips; they've always been covered by the sharp edges of her gloves. They're deft and perceptive, slow and careful.
"I'm afraid Spock wouldn't be a good name for that kitty," Selina murmurs, shaking her head. "She's a girl."
Tim finally smiles a little, closes his eyes, let's Selina's thumb stroke down his temple.
"Saavik, then."
Selina presses her forehead against his and chuckles. "Okay, you little geek, you."