#timdrakeweek2017

[iphoenixrising]

Tim Drake Week, Day 7: Injury/Healing

This is so laaaate and I’m sorry. But it’s cute, so enjoy.

**

Day 7: Healing/Injury

The warning is all there to read:

“Timmy.”

Oh.

Oh shit.

The brief flash, building a contingency, is short and bittersweet because the only thing that can deflect Dick Grayson’s mother-hen instinct is literally the wrath of God.

Maybe an alien invasion.

Or not.

The point is, once Dick’s got a hint of hurt vigilante, the man is an unstoppable tank, tearing through cities, bad guys, good guys, unimaginable boxes of cereal, any and all Party Cities and obscure comic book shops to find the culprit.

B couldn’t escape him in outer-fucking-space.

So, there’s that.

Take into account he’d been dodging the Titans also, and it’s just a hodgepodge of fuckery from there because this game thing they’ve got going on? The “Where’s Red?” game. It’s seriously balls, and is severely cramping his style.

Even Ra’s is refusing to pick up his phone calls, so you know shit has apparently gotten real on the good guy side of things.

Welp, he did his utmost best this time.

“Hi Big Wing,” he says over the comm in his ear and taps it to mute before kicking the thug out of his path and continuing on.

“What is this I hear about a really bad fight with the Fatal Five?”

Dammit.

“That about sums it up, really. A bad fight. A bad fight we totally won, by the way, thanks for asking.” He doesn’t make a sound as his left side twinges anyway, still raw under the bandages because he might have broken a few stitches or something.

Just not a big deal. Not enough to warrant

Dick’s Sixth Sense

“I hear the Persuader nailed you pretty good,” all easy, just big brother Dick. He’s not fooled for a second, oh hell no.

He huffs and climbs up into the vents, ignoring the pain of the aforementioned injury (and yes, an atomic axe is a weapon no one should try taking on without a serious enjoyment for pain) taps the comm back on and talks low enough to still listen for the usual signals of main bad guy HQ --->This way.

“I deflected his axe with repurposed Luthor tech. The calibrations weren’t that hard.” Which is completely, totally, unequivocally true. After the first hit took out a good piece of him because he’s good, but no one is that good.

Dick hums, fake and telling, making him freeze right in the middle of the vent. “Oh? Well, that’s fine. Knew you could do it, Timmy, but you’ve got to be taking it easy after a fight like that, right?”

“Sure am,” behind the whiteouts, he gets a load of very carefully stacked canisters in a storage room, which is just exactly what he’d been looking for. Almost. Bad guys too. He really liked wrapping up all the loose ends in a case before he puts it to bed. “Doing a little maintenance to the mainframe, cleaning up my old notes, doing some data analysis. All pretty tame.”

HA! ALSO TRUE.

He’s got this. It’s in the bag.

Mutes the comm and gingerly removes the vent cover, swinging in easy but the damn side pulls anyway. His wrist computer scans the labels, computes the explosive power in the room (there’s an app for that) while voices pass by, talking about the deal going down in a few hours.

(Yeah, bad news for you.)

“Good, good,” Dick is saying absently as the keypad case comes off and he works a little magic to change the access codes. “I’m glad you’re resting up, Tim. Taking care of yourself like you should since infections are terrible for you.”

Well, the thing about that is--

He was running out of time here. Yes, he took his antibiotics, but maybe he might be just, you know, feeling it a little.

Wisely, he taps the comm on just enough to “mmhmm,” his way through it.

“I mean, I would really hate it if you were working a case right now like that. Just, that would upset me so much, Tim.”

He pauses as the door slides open softly, thinking for a second he might not be able to bullshit his way out of this one.

His vigilante sense is tingling.

Not in any good kind of way.

But, the clock is ticking, and he strafes out of the weapons room to the door shutting behind him. Cracks his knuckles and his neck before it’s time to take to the shadows, do this as quickly and quietly as possible.

“You’d be out there. All alone. Without your team since they’re all taking a well-deserved vacay, Tim. They’re not out doing anything strenuous.”

He sucks in a breath, presses flat into the shadows until the first with a very nice AK-47 come right up on him--

And is down for the count.

“Hey, I just got a really good ping,” he zip ties the guy and keeps moving, “let me call you back when I get something--”

“And you’d just be making is worse, Tim,” Dick goes on, “because you don’t know your limitations sometimes--”

Shit. Here we go.

Second and third armed mercenary go down seamlessly. All kinds of winning right here.

By the time Dick has gotten somewhere around the, “and with what we do, Timmy, you have to understand the lines you can cross with your body and your health,” he has put down twelve, maybe fifteen, ready to come up on the big boss for the night so he can just get this over with and head back to the safe house for a nice long soak in a hot tub.

When the main doors open, however--

He sighs because he really hates when it’s twenty to one. Not that he doesn’t like those odds, but it’s still not his preferred ending of the night.

There’s a whole lot of guns cocking, shiny barrels pointed at him, and a sharp flash of white is his teeth in the glow because he’s smiling at how cute that is.

His gauntlet spits out a whirly bird, other hand full of pellets, and it’s time to rock.

“...but the best thing to keeping yourself on the up-and-up, Timmy? Something you taught all of us?”

The room explodes in a cacophonous mess of shit just breaking. Everywhere. Shit is breaking all over the place, and he didn’t even move.

His mouth drops open a little as the Outlaws and a dozen members of the Justice League form a half circle around the busted out wall and face his bad guys with a whole lot of yes please, I’ll have this dance.

Nightwing is in the center, celly held up to his ear, and the expression on his face under the domino is downright murderous.

“You need to know when to call in some friends.”

The ensuing fight is just absolutely bullshit.

Every time. Every. Time. he jumps in somewhere to take someone down, another superhero catches him and throws him out of the way.

He understood Hood doing it. He understood B. He understood Flash. He even understood Superman and Wonder Woman, but when it’s fucking Booster Gold?

That is beyond insulting.

He got here first for fuck’s sake and already called goddamned dibs!

“Stay out of this or Batman is going to kick my ass,” Booster just lays it out, “and I would much rather not do that.”

His utter frustration is compounded when Cyborg is downloading all their data and sending it to the Watchtower for analysis, the baddies in charge are already being questioned and a team sent out to meet the buyers, the weapons are being safely transported away, and just!

Dibs!

But instead, he’s got to contend with the stalking Nightwing, growling low and dangerous under his breath. He doesn’t even get enough time to fight being pretty much thrown over one of the older vigilante’s shoulders.

“Dammit! Put me down.”

“Oh? You think that’s going to happen?” Nightwing growls in that tone and send shivers, just all the shivers.

“I’m fine, I swear. I was on a time limit, I didn’t--!”

One powerful kick and the door is banging open, reinforced locks breaking apart. The Batplane is waiting, warmed up and ready to go.

“C’mon! I don’t need all this! There were only twenty of them, dammit.”

And nope. He sees a week full of bed rest and cuddles with his name written all over it apparently because even the most minute movement had Nightwing’s hand clamping down hard on the back of his thighs, very, very close to a pressure point that will put him out for hours.

Shit. Just, shit.

“I should warn you in advance, though,” as the leap up puts them in the cockpit, course already set for Gotham, “Alfred? Is even more pissed than I am, Timmy.”

His eyes go wide behind the whiteout, and his scramble to run is thwarted as the plane starts to rise.

[kageuncaged]

Day 7: Batman/Robin

Batman-----

You dare not let your nerves show as you stare up at the most intimidating man in Gotham--and your childhood hero--as you stand your ground.

You know that you have no place doing this, that you’re just an outsider who doesn’t belong here--but you know you’re right.  Someone needs to do this, and you’re the only one who can.

So you stand your ground when the Batman stares down at you with a disapproving, angry glare while you wear the stolen costume of his dead son and tell him,

“Batman needs a Robin.”

And words can’t begin to describe how you feel when he reluctantly allows you to tag along--even if just this one time.  Batman and Robin, the dynamic duo--even if it hadn’t been you, you’d be happy.  Because it’s more than just a name, or a costume...it’s a legacy, a legend.

And you can’t just let legends die.

Robin-----

You’ve had your share of nightmares, but this...this is the worst.

You never wanted to wear this cowl.  Even if it wasn’t Bruce, there had always been someone else, someone to bear the weight and responsibility of bearing the title of the Batman.  You always had the reassurance that you wouldn’t have to bear the darkness, the risk of taking the legend and turning it into something awful because someone else could wear it.  Someone else would be there.  Someone else could keep you in check.

Now there is no one--it’s just you, this costume, and a ruined city.  And as easy as it would be to give up hope, you know you have to keep fighting because someone has to.

It’s the same sense of responsibility that drove you to the crazy idea of telling the Batman what he needed to do all those years ago. 

It’s with great dread that you slip on the cowl--it’s stiffer and heavier than the one you wore as Red Robin, and you can easily tell why Dick complained about the cape so much.  You look down on the city from the roof’s edge and push out the distractions from your mind--you need to slip into that place of cold, determined focus.  It’s not what you want, but it’s what the city needs.  Gotham needs a Batman.  And by process of elimination, it has to be you.

You’re about to shoot a line when you hear a high pitched “wait!” come from behind you.  You already know who it is before you turn around--her name is Randy Kaile, and her adoptive parents were killed in an accident just over a month ago.  You met when she confronted you a week after that.

You’d met her before that, too--fifteen years ago, when you held her in your arms at the hospital.  You never told Steph that you’d gotten the chance to hold her baby when she never did.

The girl had apparently learned who her birth mother had been, and had confronted you in broad daylight demanding to know if you were her father.  You told her you weren’t, but she still asked you several questions about what kind of person her mother had been, and leaving out the vigilante parts, you told her everything.

And now she’s wearing a Robin costume that looks an awful lot like Steph’s, and the resemblance is so uncanny it hurts.

“Mr. Drake, I--I know!  I know everything, and I want to help!”  You’re more than a little surprised to hear this, but you hear her out before confirming her suspicions that it’s you under the cowl.  “I was looking through my mom’s place, and I found this locked box, and there was this...war journal, and some costumes, and I--”  She looks you in the eye and it’s filled with that reckless determination that only a teenager could possess, and it reminds you painfully of Steph at that age.  “--I want to help people.  Like my mom did.”

You already knew your answer before she even started to ask.  “No.”

She looks downfallen, but she’s not giving up.  “I can be useful!  I’ve taken gymnastics and aikido since I was a kid, I’m not hopeless!”

“No,” you say, turning away such that your cape flares behind you.  “Go home, Randy.”

She follows you insistent.  “Why are you being such a jerk about this?  I’m not just some kid playing dress-up for kicks--in case you haven’t noticed, this city needs all the help it can get!  And what happens if you die, huh?  You need me--

“Batman needs Robin!”

It’s those words that stop you in your tracks.  Hearing your own words, thrown right back in your face--the universe has a funny sense of irony, doesn’t it?

You take a few minutes, considering.  You really don’t like this, but…

“This is dangerous,” you say.

She stares up at you, determined.  “I know.”

“You could die.”  She wouldn’t be the first.

Her resolve doesn’t falter in the slightest.  “I’ve got nothing to lose.”  And yeah, that’s what you were afraid of.

You’re reluctant to consider it--but you do.

Finally, you say, “One night.  If you do well, you won’t go out again until you’re properly trained.  And if I tell you to go home, you follow orders, no questions asked.”

Her entire face brightens.  “Yes!  I mean, uh, yes sir!  I won’t let you down, I swear.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You take a few minutes to teach her how to use the grapple, but it’s not much longer after that before you’re both flying.  It’s not the same, and you still wish it was Bruce or Dick or Steph or even Damian out here with you--but this is what you’ve got.  And part of you thinks that this is right, that this is how it should be.  Even after the city has fallen apart, some things should never change.

Even after everything you’ve ever known is gone, Batman and Robin live on.

[cubepenguin1]

Oh no! I nearly missed Tim’s birthday

[kageuncaged]

Day 1: Firsts/Lasts

Firsts-----

The first time you call him “Robin,” he nearly slips off the rooftop edge he’s perched on in shock.

You’ve resisted using the name with him for the longest time--it was always “Tim” in the cave, and you avoided the title when he first went out into the field.  It had felt wrong.  Wrong to be using Jason’s name for someone else so soon after his death.  Wrong to refer to the boy who was so different from both of your sons in so many ways by a name that brought memories of smiling, joking partners in pixie boots.  

Wrong to be sending out another child soldier into a merciless war without end.

But as much as all of those things had weighed on you, made you distant from the child who had done nothing wrong other than worming his way into your life so soon after your son died--it wasn’t fair to him.  You’ve watched the boy push himself hard, constantly convinced that he’d never live up to his predecessors but determined to work until he made it as close as he possibly could, seen him sweat and bleed and give up sleep so he wouldn’t let you down...and seen the subtle, but persistent, yearning for approval, the need for validation that he desperately craved but never expected.  He will never be the acrobat that Dick is or the fighter Jason was, but he’s worked harder than any of them and he’s come so far.

In spite of this, you still resisted calling him by that name.  So you suppose you shouldn’t be surprised that the first time causes such a reaction--especially when preluded by a “Good work,” and a clasp on the shoulder.

He’s quick to compose himself, and unlike the nervous (but determined) boy he’d been when you met him, all he does not stutter an awkward thank you and instead says, “I was just doing what you trained me to do.”

He’s humble.  Not cocky, which is good, but it stems from the feeling that he doesn’t belong here.  And you doubt the way you’ve been dealing with him has been helping.

But problems can be resolved, and you’re still adjusting.  That’s what Robin stands for: hope--and second chances.

“Let’s go, Robin.”

This time, there is a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, but overall he remains professional.  “Yes, sir.”

Robin.  It feels right.

Lasts-----

When you return from the “dead,” you are not surprised by most of the names that have been exchanged.  You are not blindsided by Dick wearing your cowl (in spite of telling him not to,) and Stephanie wearing the Batgirl costume was by your design, and as such you knew Cassandra would have to wear something new.

You are surprised to see your blood son wearing the Robin symbol, and your son Tim wearing a costume and using a name that don’t belong to him.

Tim is almost an adult now, and Robin has never carried past teenagehood.  But it’s also the only name he’s known, and it shows in his choice of new name.

He isn’t as open with his feelings as Dick is, or Jason or Stephanie or even Damian.  But you know Tim, and you can see how having his title, his name stripped from him and given to the one who’d tried to kill him hurts him.

So you cheat.  You only do it when it’s just you and him and under the pretense of “oh, ‘Red Robin’ is a bit of a mouthful,” but you call him Robin.  Damian was never yours anyway--he’s too attached to Dick and as proud as you are of him (both of them,) you wouldn’t try to take his place.  But Tim--everyone else mourned you but for Tim, you were the only one he thought he had, in spite of everyone believing you were dead.  And you never officially fired him from Robin--it would be unfitting (and downright disrespectful toward Dick) for him to take the name again, but you hadn’t taken part in the decision.  And he was yours.

He’s definitely noticed, and understands why you do it, but never comments on it.  He even seems happier, which is good.

Until one day, he corrects you.  “It’s Red Robin--Red for short, if you want,” he says, and instead of the grimace that eerily reminds you of a mirror or his neutral (displeased) expression, he’s smiling in a way you haven’t seen in a long time--he almost looks like a boy again.  Happy.  Full of hope.

“You sure?” you ask.  You want to be certain that he’s doing this for his own sake, not to make Dick or you or Damian (more for Dick’s sake) comfortable.  You want him to be happy.

He nods, and it’s nearly impossible to place him with the same boy who’d been so unsure of himself all those years ago.  “I’m sure.  This is who I am now, and I’m happy with it.”

If there’s a lie, you don’t see it--and you have faith that he wouldn’t deceive you over something like this.  “Red Robin,” you agree.

It feels right.

[kageuncaged]

Day 5: Injury/Healing

Injury-----

“How do you do it, Dick?” he whispers, and you have a feeling you know what he means but it’s only confirmed when he continues, “How do you stop it from hurting so much?”

When he looks up at you from his nest of blankets pulled around him, your heart aches.  You’ve seen Tim cry before, but it’s always jarring and awful to see such someone who’s always so collected finally break down.  Tear tracks mark his cheeks and eyes are red and puffy.  

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  Tim--little Timmy--was supposed to be different from the rest of you.  He had a dad, and a stepmom, even if she wasn’t the original.  He was supposed to be the proof that you didn’t need tragedy to be a hero, he was supposed to be the exception.

Tim wasn’t supposed to be an orphan.

“You lost everything…” he says, quiet, and you know--you know that he knows, because he’d been there, when your parents fell.  He’d only known them for moments, but his nightmares mirrored yours for years, even if you hadn’t known it.  “...but you’re so happy.”  He sniffles and shrinks into the blankets.  “I can’t even imagine being happy ever again.”

You sit down next to him and gently pull him into your arms, blankets and all.  He just leans on you.

“It’s always going to hurt, Tim,” you say.  It does.  You smile and you laugh and choose to see the best in people but that doesn’t stop it from hurting, doesn’t stop you from missing them.  “But that doesn’t mean we need to let the pain rule us.”  You squeeze him.  “I could’ve stayed hurt, and angry, and given into despair--it would have been so easy, and at times I wish I did--but I know they wouldn’t have wanted that for me.  They would have wanted to see me happy.”

He’s even quieter when he speaks again.  “I know,” he says.  “I know he’d want that for me…” he curls in on himself, “...but it still hurts.”

And you know.  You know it how it hurts--fresh wounds always take the longest to heal.  And grieving over a parent is always hard.  It’s going to take time.  You’ll try to be there in every way you can, but it will still take time.

You hug him tighter.  “I know, Tim,” you say.  “I know.”

Healing-----

“Hey Tim,” you greet cheerily, catching him as he’s walking past, “do you wanna go grab some pizza?”

He’s dressed casually, though the slacks and buttoned shirt are still a bit formal for the Timmy who you know prefers t-shirts and jeans.

“Sorry,” he says, and you notice he’s in a bit of a rush, “I have a lunch date with Tam--and I’m actually running a few minutes late.”

“Dinner?” You try.

“I’m meeting up with Ives,” he says, and he seems genuinely sorry to turn you down once again.  “We haven’t seen each other in a while, and it’s a little unfair to him.”  He gives you a rueful smile.  “Maybe some other time?”

“Sure,” you say.  You’re a little sad you won’t be able to hang out with your little brother today like you’d hoped (you really need to talk to him, even though Bruce is back and Tim seems happier it feels like there’s so much unsaid--including a lot of unintentional pain and miscommunication on your part. You hadn’t exactly been available to him when he needed you most, and you need to make things right, even if it takes one step at a time,) but it’s good that he’s seeing friends.  Healthy.

“I guess I’ll just see you on patrol, then,” you say, and he pauses and rubs the back of his neck.

“Actually...I’m supposed to be running a mission with the Titans tonight,” and ow you just got rejected three times in a row, and while you’re mature enough to understand, you still can’t help but feel unbelievably embarrassed.  Tim sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair.  “I’m really sorry, Dick,” he says, “I don’t mean to sound like I’m blowing you off, I just have a lot of plans for today.”

You smile, though it’s not as genuine as you’d like it to be, because this is...good.  Tim’s come really far since those few weeks after Bruce “died,” and you’re happy that he’s getting better.  He’s smiling and dating and seeing friends, and he’s not careless or distracted or broody when he’s in costume.  He’s healing, after spending so long swallowed up and drowning in an ocean of hurt vast enough to create a hundred Batman, and you’re happy for him.

“It’s okay,” you say, putting a hand on his shoulder.  “Some other time.”

And yet, in spite of all that, some selfish, awful piece of you deep down is a little hurt that he hadn’t needed you for any of it.

[kageuncaged]

Day 4: Enemies/Family

Enemies-----

You move with all the grace of a practiced killer.  You are swift, but your opponent is just as quick.

You expected this--he was trained by your Father after all, and you can’t think of a single reason why your Father would become so attached to a stray weakling.

The thought does not make you envious.  How could Father possibly have known that his true Son existed and was ready be taken into his home and care?  Mother had been clear that you’d been kept secret, so Father is not to blame for seeking family elsewhere.

But that is no longer needed.  Now that you are here, Drake is no longer necessary--you are ready to fulfill your place as your Father’s Son, his heir, his Robin.  The only thing you need is for Father to realize it.

That is why you must prove yourself--that is why you must kill Drake.

You tell yourself that there is no envy in your actions (though deep down you know that is a lie.)  You do acknowledge the frustration that stirs in you each time Drake retaliates--his maneuvers are decidedly nonlethal, in spite of your clear intent, and that irritates you.  It feels as if he is going easy on you, as if he doesn’t take you seriously, and you hate that.  He will suffer for his arrogance, you decide, and your fighting style becomes even more ruthless.

He is calm.  Calculating, and reminds you very much of your Father--this fact angers you and fills your determination.

You decide that you hate him.  Drake. Must. Die.

When you leave him bleeding and broken on the cave floor, you feel greater victory than you have ever known.  You are the blood Son.  Drake was just the placeholder--an obstacle.

And now he is an obstacle no more.

Family-----

You see their faces one by one, each twisted into similar looks of disgust.  

First is Father, looking down on you the same way he did when he scolded you for being the absolute brat you’d been when you first arrived.

“My son?” he says, incredulous.  “You were never my son.  You’re just another filthy murderer--a disgrace to the name of Wayne.  I never want to have to see your face again.”

You begin to plead, but he’s gone as quickly as he had appeared.  For a moment you are faced with the horrible feeling of being utterly alone, but this does not last long as Pennyworth steps up to you.

You search for the well disguised sympathy and patience that typically grace his expression, but all you see is disdain.  

“A pleasure to finally see you gone,” he says, professionally cold.  “I always believed it was a lapse in Master Bruce’s judgment to take you in.  I’m glad he’s finally come to his senses.”  

“Pennyworth…” you begin, weak in both body and spirit.  He merely turns on his heel.

“Good riddance, you little monster.”

Before you can begin to wish for him to come back, Brown is there, eyes wide with a mix of anger and repulsion.

“Ew, I can’t believe I actually hung out with you--what the hell was I thinking?  You’re such a weird little assassin freak, nice going Steph.”

“I thought you were okay with me…” you say, feeling small and weak and awful.

“That was before I found out you tried to kill Tim, you creep!” she says, and it reminds you of the rage she usually reserves for criminals and lunatics.

She stalks away like the rest of them, but at the mention of Drake you wonder where he is.  Shouldn’t he be here, gloating?  This is what he wanted, isn’t it?  He was proven right--you are nothing but an irredeemable monster, it just took everyone else this long to realize it.

As if on cue, you hear his voice, but don’t see his face.  Strangely, it does not sound proud or gleeful or even snide--it is his usual focused tone that he uses on missions or during patrol.

“Whatever you’re seeing,” it says, “it’s not real.  First time exposure to fear toxin is always the worst, but Dick is coming with an antidote.”

The mention of Grayson brings his face to mind, and his expression is...indescribably painful.  Grayson had been the one who’d been there--the one who’d believed in you, when no one else had.

His rejection makes you feel more hollow than anyone else’s ever could.

“I was such an idiot,” he seethes.  “You, the kid of Talia al Ghul?  It’s only a matter of time before you go off the deep end.”  His blue eyes cut deep into you, and you suck in a harsh breath.  “Your mom and grandpa are monsters, and so are you.  I don’t know why I even bothered.”

“I...I’m sorry,” you murmur, hugging yourself.  If he hears you, it doesn’t show--he turns and leaves, cape trailing behind him, but he doesn’t disappear.  Instead, you hear every step, see him grow farther and farther away with every second that passes.

“I’m sorry...I’m sorry…”  No...you know your apologies mean nothing.

You. Are. A. Murderer.

You are less than garbage.

Even your grandfather has abandoned you.  Your mother is already developing a clone that will be superior to you in every way.

You’re not even worth being a pet to them.

Suddenly you see all of them--Father, Pennyworth, Grandfather, Mother, Brown, Cain, Grayson.  All of them leaving you behind.

You are alone.

“No, please…” you beg, “...don’t leave me--I can still be useful, I swear--” That’s right.  Even if you aren’t loved, you can still be used.  That’s all you were made to be, anyway--a tool, a weapon.  A puppet on a string for whichever master will take you.

“I can be useful...please, don’t leave me alone…”

You curl in on yourself, overwhelmed by the suffocating grief.  None of them hear you, or perhaps they do but don’t care.  You have no one.

Suddenly, you feel strong arms pull you into a lap and hold you, if a little awkward doing it.  His cape covers you, reminding you of the security of your Batman’s hugs.

But it’s not...it’s...Drake…?

“I told you, it’s not real,” he admonishes, though his words don’t make sense to you.  Of course it’s real...it feels so real…

And even if it happens to be a dream, you know it’s only a matter of time before it comes to fruition anyway.

You can’t help but sob suddenly, and you realize that your eyes have been producing tears for quite a while.  You try to hold it back--it is a disgrace for both an al Ghul and a Wayne--but all you manage is reducing it to quiet hiccups.

There is a pause--then a slightly impatient sigh, and he begins smoothing circles into your back.  “You’re a handful, you know that?”  You feel lower than dirt for requiring assistance from the one who is supposed to be your rival.  “It’s not real, Robin,” he repeats gently.

“But it will be,” you choke.

“You’re an idiot if you believe that.”

You nod weakly, and hold onto him as if for dear life.  It’s ironic, actually--Drake is the one person who failed to appear in your nightmare...because you already know how he feels about you.  He can’t pretend to like you or suddenly decide you’re awful demon spawn because he already thinks you are.  

Strangely, this makes him the most reassuring person to be with right now.

Eventually the hallucinations go away, even if the fear and despair and sadness don’t.  You remain covered in Drake’s cape, warm and covered and safe until Grayson arrives.

[kageuncaged]

Day 3: Dream/Reality

Dream-----

In his fantasy, you leap down and greet him with a handshake and boyish smile.  You are not Dick Grayson, but you are Robin, which means that Batman must have seen something in you.

He is ecstatic to meet you, and hopes he doesn’t trip over his own feet in his excitement.  You are the emblem of his childhood, even if you’re not the original.  You don’t know it (this isn’t your dream, after all,) but he is lonely.  Your home is big and filled with life and happiness and Bruce (who you say isn’t your dad but he totally is) and Alfred, while his is big and hollow and dark and empty.  You are not just the light in Batman’s life, but his also, even though you have never met him before.

That is why this is a dream.

You shake his hand (and pretend not to notice its trembling) enthusiastically, and tell him, “Hi, I’m Robin!  Nice to meet ya!” and he stutters, “I-I’m Tim.”  

You say, “Well Tim, it was nice to have your help dealing with those guys.”  You nod to the unconscious thugs, who are here because yes this is a dream.  Tim was very collected in helping you take them down.

“I, uh, take karate lessons sometimes,” he mumbles, and you continue to smile as he internally berates himself for comparing such a simple thing to the skill and finesse of Robin, the Boy Wonder.  He is nowhere near your level, and he didn’t mean to imply such.  He’s sorry.

You don’t notice, though.  Instead you tell him, “You’re not half bad--keep at it and one day you might just be able to kick my butt!”  Oh, you’re so wrong.  He’s just some kid and you’re--you’re Robin.

This is too indulgent for a dream.  Man, he’s so embarrassed.

You wave at him one last time as you turn to leave when he stops you.  “Wait!  Um--” You pause patiently as he falters.  “I--I’ve been a big fan for a long time and--man, you’re so awesome...Uh, you don’t have to say yes, but--” He pulls out a camera sheepishly.  “...would you mind if I take a picture?”

When you tell him you don’t mind, his entire face lights up and his heart soars.  He raises the camera, and flash.

Reality-----

You seethe as you collect yourself--the kid can hit hard, but you’ve had worse.  You don’t waste precious seconds waiting for the dizziness to wane, leaping forward instantly to clear the distance.

He’s wearing your costume, your symbol, he’s stolen your name and you want him to feel it.  The twist of rage and bitterness and betrayal in knowing that you were just a tool to be replaced.  You want him to feel the abandonment, the disappointment, the sorrow and isolation and anger pumping through your heart like venom--into your blood and veins and weighing down your lungs with every uneven breath.

He doesn’t know how expendable he is--or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.  And maybe that’s worse--that this new kid sees through Bruce for what he really is, while you were deluded enough to believe that you’d been loved.

You punch his face, and it feels good.  You don’t hit the nose like you aimed for (the pretender moved just fast enough for you to miss your original target,) but you hear a grunt and see blood and the kid stumbles back, and that’s good enough for you.  He starts to swing his bo (really, you never needed any weapon other than your fists when you were Robin, but maybe that’s why he’s alive and you weren’t,) but you grip his wrist and twist it enough to make him drop it from that hand--the additional clink of the rest of the staff hitting the ground isn’t fast enough to warn you before the hard jab strikes your solar plexus.  You gasp and curse, releasing his wrist.

“Not bad, kid,” you say, grinning with bitter amusement.  You notice that he’s regained his staff and looks ready, in spite of the sweat dripping down his face and the blood seeping through the tears in his uniform.  He’s so serious it looks stupid, and you can tell he isn’t a talker, so you fill in for him.  “You know,” you say, planning your next move (and you can tell he’s already planned his,) “a little birdy told me you were quite the fanboy.”

He does speak, finally, and the look on his face is absolutely venomous.  “Not to psychopathic mass-murderers.”

Hey, fair enough.  You don’t move immediately (because as fucked up as you are, you still understand the value of planning ahead,) and the conversation seems to be over.

Once you think you’ve got him figured out, you throw a feint--and the fight resumes.

[kageuncaged]

Made this before Tim Drake week, but seems fitting to share it now

[kageuncaged]

A birthday bird in his original Robin costume l̶e̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶g̶e̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶a̶c̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶i̶'̶m̶ ̶p̶o̶s̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶a̶ ̶c̶r̶a̶p̶p̶y̶ ̶s̶k̶e̶t̶c̶h̶ ̶i̶n̶s̶t̶e̶a̶d̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶a̶ ̶c̶r̶a̶p̶p̶y̶ ̶f̶i̶c̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶i̶n̶s̶t̶e̶a̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶ ̶a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶g̶o̶t̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶o̶w̶n̶ ̶b̶i̶r̶t̶h̶d̶a̶y̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶b̶r̶u̶c̶e̶ ̶g̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶w̶e̶e̶k̶s̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶c̶r̶i̶p̶p̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶p̶a̶r̶a̶n̶o̶i̶a̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶a̶n̶x̶i̶e̶t̶y̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶a̶ ̶b̶i̶r̶t̶h̶d̶a̶y̶ ̶p̶r̶e̶s̶e̶n̶t̶

[kageuncaged]

Day 6: Alternate Universe/Crossover

Alternate Universe-----

When you first met Tim Drake, he recognized you as the daughter of Lady Shiva almost immediately--which was a little surprising, considering that you’d been kept secret among even much of the League.

You could tell right away that something had been off, that he’d been burdened with something that he refused to share with anyone.  As it turned out, he had been the adoptive son of the Batman...and had known it the entire time.  And you thought you had mommy issues, but this boy had been pretending not to notice lies and excuses and alibis from those he considered family for years.

The concept is unthinkable to you--you could never get away with lying to your mom, and vice versa.  You both read each other too well, and though you disagree on many things, both of you share a disdain for deceit.

It had taken some time, but you had eventually assured him that you bore no malicious intent.  When questioned on why you were there, you told him you wanted him to show you where to find the best ice cream in Gotham.

Convincing him of this took even longer.

But eventually, you found yourselves sitting on the edge of a rooftop of one of the city’s many buildings, ice cream cones in hand.  Somehow, you became fast friends, both finally able to vent your frustrations and stories about your respective families.  He’s surprised to learn that renowned assassin Lady Shiva enjoys scented bubble baths, just as you are shocked to hear that the Batman has a guilty pleasure in cheap junk food--but only when his father isn’t looking.

You make fun of your parents, with him mimicking the deep growly “I am the Night” voice and you stiffening your posture and tilting your nose up to declare your intent to fight ridiculous imaginary foes for silly reasons.  Talking to him makes you feel like a kid, and you know your presence is more than therapeutic for him.

Neither of you bring it up, but there’s this lingering feeling that your friendship will inevitably be short-lived--whether it’s his dad who finds out and forbids him from seeing you, or your mom who insists that he must die.  But you live in the moment, intent to make this as worthwhile as possible.

Sometimes you wonder what things would be like if your lives had played out differently--what would have happened if Shiva hadn’t discovered a sudden motherly streak and taken you from Cain, or if Tim hadn’t held off on revealing that he’d known Batman’s identity for so long.  It’s a big “what if,” but you’d like to think that you’d both be best friends in that life, too.

Crossover-----

You hear him approach before he ever speaks, but you don’t say anything.  “Here’s what I found out,” he whispers, crouching next to your perch.  “The metahumans in this world are called ‘contractors,’ and unlike back home, they have a tendency toward sociopathy.  They’re each given designations using a combination of letters and numbers...and their activity can be tracked using the stars, somehow.”

You and Tim aren’t sure how you ended up here, but you’ve been adjusting.  You’re grateful that you hadn’t ended up here alone because you can’t speak a word of Japanese, let alone read it (learning to write in English had been hard enough), but your adoptive brother thankfully knows enough to get by.

He managed to secure an apartment somehow, and your new fake ID’s identify you as half siblings from America, Alvin and Kasumi Draper.  During the night, you find as much information about this world as you can--particularly regarding how you can return home.

Sometimes you also hit some bad guys along the way, in spite of Tim’s wishes.  He says “keep a low profile.”  You say you need to stretch your legs.

“The contractor likely responsible for bringing us here goes by the designation DM-179,” he continues.  “The government doesn’t have much useful intel on him, but after throwing some guys around I think I have an idea of where he’s going to be tonight.”

This is the first big lead you’ve had since you both arrived here.  You let him lead the way--until his line is suddenly snapped by a flying knife.

You catch him and you both land on the ground with little injury, but your attention immediately snaps to the direction where the knife came from.  It’s dark, but you see the man--tall and thin, moving with predatory grace.  You can tell he’s exceptionally trained, but so are you, and you’re more than ready for a good fight.

“BK-201,” Tim whispers, sliding out his bo staff.  “Aside from being highly competent in martial arts, he also controls electricity.  Be careful.”

You nod, and this--facing up an opponent side-by-side with Tim--makes you almost feel at home again.  It’s not that you’re stupid or that he’s a bad fighter, but your respective specialties complement each other well.  You can outmatch the world’s deadliest martial artists and he can outwit the leader of the League of Assassins--but together?

You’re undefeatable.

[kageuncaged]

Day 2: Childhood/Adulthood

Childhood-----

The wind rushes against your face and the city lights fly underneath you as you leap from one building to the next.  It’s not your typical game of tag, but it’s still tag, and you can’t help but laugh when he finally tackles you to the rooftop.  Giggles fill the night air as you both roll together like kids.  For a blissful moment you forget how serious he can be--Robin, the Boy Wonder, protege to Batman.  Right now he’s smiling and laughing and your stomach fills with butterflies.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything prettier than his smile.

(Secretly you wish you could see it without his mask.)

“I got you!” he says, and you sincerely hope he doesn’t snap out of it, realize how childish this all is, and once again turn into the mini-Batman he likes to try to be sometimes.  You grin under your Spoiler mask and boop his nose.

“Only because I let you, birdbrain.”  

You both roll over and stare up at the sky--no stars, but you can see the moon sometimes when it’s not cloudy.  It’s nice, knowing that even in a place like Gotham there can be moments like this, when everything is right in the world, even if only for a few minutes.

You’re suddenly pulled by random desire to know something more about this boy that you know so well and at the same so little about.  You know what martial arts styles he likes and which gargoyle is his favorite but you don’t know his name or his favorite subject in school or even what color his eyes are.  On a whim, you ask:

“What do you want to be?  When you’re older, I mean.”  You can picture him as Batman, or a head police detective, or a secret agent.  Something mysterious and bat-like.  

You don’t at all predict him responding with “I--I don’t know.  I know for sure that I don’t want to be doing this superhero thing forever.”  You turn your head toward him and try to imagine what expression his eyes are making behind his mask.  “I think I’d like to be a photographer, maybe for a newspaper or something.”

You stare for a moment, trying to discern whether or not he’s trying to deceive you.  But he seems genuine.  You try to wrap your head around it--you’ve always thought of him as Robin, Batman’s overly serious (but also seriously cute) protege--but you realize that behind all that, he’s just a boy.

For a childish second, you think to yourself that you wouldn’t mind marrying a photographer.

Looking up at the stars, laying on a rooftop next to him...you can’t think of a more perfect moment.  You know it won’t last forever, that he’ll have to go back to fighting off bad guys and you’ll have to climb back into your bedroom window and pretend that you don’t nightlight as a vigilante for your mom--and all of the awful things happening in each of your lives will come rushing back.

But right now, this moment--it’s yours.  And a thousand Jokers or Two-Faces or Cluemasters or Batmen couldn’t take it away.

Adulthood-----

You resist the urge to groan aloud when you walk into the Batcave and see him standing there--this is supposed to be Oracle and Batgirl’s HQ now, and you don’t need your day ruined by super ex-boyfriend over there.

Okay, maybe that’s an overstatement.  He apologized for being a condescending, moody jerk (heck, he even called you Batgirl,) but it’s still going to take a while to forget.  So his unexpected presence probably isn’t the end of the world (then again, it’s not entirely impossible in your line of work,) but it’s still a little awkward.  Especially now that he’s dating his “fiancee” Tam Fox--a pretty civilian girl who also happens to know his secret identity (you tell yourself that you’re not jealous that all the cards are on the table with right off the bat when they definitely hadn’t been with you.)  Worse than that, Babs isn’t here, so it’s just you and the ex-Boy Wonder.

He’s at the Batcomputer, so technically you could get away with pretending he isn’t there, but you can’t help but quip, “Uh, Red?  Are you sure you didn’t fly into the wrong nest?  I thought you had your own place now.”

You expect him to respond with an impatient retort like “not now, Steph,” or “I’m working a case right now, Steph,” or “can’t you see I’m busy so please stop annoying me so I can pretend to be Batman, Steph”--but he doesn’t.  You take a glance at the screen to figure out what he���s working on, certain that you’ll find pages worth of data on suspects and criminals or lines of code indicating the tedious process of hacking or autopsy reports.  You are not at all expecting to see the window filled with small gray boxes and colored numbers.

He’s playing freaking Minesweeper on the Batcomputer.

He pauses, before swiveling around in the chair to face you.  “I needed to discuss something with Oracle about a case.  I’m just waiting for her to arrive,” he explains patiently, as if he wasn’t just playing a 90’s computer game.

“Uh huh,” you say.  Aaaaand now you have nothing to talk about, when you could’ve just left him alone and not had to talk at all.  Great going, Steph.

“I hear you’ve been working on a case involving the Penguin,” he says.  “How has that been coming along?”  

A flash of annoyance hits you--of course he’s asking about a case and not something like, oh, you don’t know, how you’ve been, whether you’ve been adjusting to college or making friends, how your mom is doing.  He can be so Batmanlike sometimes it’s not even funny--and it’s definitely gotten worse over the years.

Though maybe your “death” may have played a part in that.  You feel a little guilty.

“You know, the usual,” you say, and no he probably doesn’t know because Spoiler didn’t work cases nearly as much as she just went around punching bad guys in the face, but you don’t care.  “How are things at WE?”

He shrugs.  “I’m handling it.”  And now you’re both speaking to each other without really saying anything.  You almost kind of prefer when he was angry with you.  Now it’s just...awkward.

When did things get like this?

After a few minutes of him turning back to his game and both of you sharing the cave in silence, you decide that you can’t take it anymore and vocalize your annoyance.

“Arghhh, this is so--stupid!”  There are so many things you wish you could say and things you both haven’t talked about but should--you remember when it used to be so easy to confide in Tim but now it always feels like you’re dancing around each other.  And Tim was always better at the whole subtlety thing than you were--you prefer to get things out in the open because ignoring them or pretending they didn’t happen is dizzying and awful.

He blinks slowly.  “I--excuse me?”

You frown at him, waving your hand as if it’ll convey your meaning to him.  “This--why don’t we ever talk anymore, Tim?  And I don’t mean the games we’ve been playing; I mean really talk.”  You begin to pace.  “I know we’re not dating anymore, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be your friend.  Tell me how your life is--how you’ve really been feeling.  Tell me about the last time you hung out with friends or about whichever new video game you’re into that I won’t understand.”

He takes off his cowl (finally) and runs his fingers through his hair.  “You know I’ve had a lot on my plate lately--”

“You’re right, I do know,” you say, crossing your arms.  “All the more reason why you shouldn’t keep it all to yourself.”

He’s silent, and you interpret that as ‘I dislike the sound of that but I can’t come up with a logical argument to counter you with...because I just want to keep all of my feelings to myself and be a brooding loner’--and ‘I'm not Batman’ your ass.

“What are you doing tonight?” you say and almost immediately rephrase, “I mean--what are your plans for patrol?”  (You don’t slap yourself on the outside, but you do internally.)   

“I’m planning a stakeout,” he says, and in such a way to suggest “I’m busy.”  

“Great,” you say with a wide smile.  “A stakeout won’t take all night, and you could use some exercise.”  He opens his mouth, and before he can question you or protest you tell him, “We’re going to play rooftop tag.  Right at sundown so you won’t be late for your little stakeout.  And I swear to Bruce that if you say no I’ll call Batman and Robin and have them join.”  You don’t really know if that’ll work--Robin has some kind of phobia of things he deems childish, and you don’t know the new Batman very well.  But you do know that he’s Tim’s big brother and would probably be more than happy to do anything to help him lighten up.

“Steph, I really don’t have time for--”

“Batman. And. Robin.”

He sighs, and then--yes!  The hints of a begrudging smile tug at his lips.  “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“Nope,” you chirp.  He’s trying his best to look annoyed, but you know better.

He’s not your boyfriend, and you don’t want him to be, but the thought of rebuilding the trust and companionship you used to have with him fills you with happiness.  You don’t know if he’ll flake out on your game tonight or if he’ll suddenly remember how much he hates you or if you’ll both realize how many differences you have with each other.  You don’t know if he’ll fall into a coma tomorrow or if you’ll both end up arguing or just decide that you’re simply not compatible friends and go your separate ways--but right now none of those things matter.  In this moment, you saw a glimpse of the boy he used to be, and you know you can help.  You can still be a friend to him.  

Even if tomorrow everything falls apart, in this moment you chose to hope.