Archive of Our Own ^beta

If Tim were to break his life up into different sections. It would be divided up into arcs with varying degrees of loneliness.

From early childhood he was familiar with the sorrow of loneliness. A neglected child, always yearning for the affections of apathetic parents.

When he became Robin, the company of the Wayne family became like a soothing balm on his frayed edges. Providing him with a comfort and stability that until that point had been completely alien to him. 

Yet even now, as he fondly looks back on that short period of his life with rose tinted glasses, he cannot deny it was far from idyllic. 

Bruce, the closest thing he had to a father figure in this life, always kept Tim at arm's length. 

The man was deeply scarred from the violent and premature nature of his second son's death. He refused to confront any of his traumas, and the emotional ineptitude this caused, never allowed him to fully express affection towards Tim. At least, not in the reassuring way the young teen had so desperately craved at the time.

No matter how closely they stood next to each other, there was always a chasm that existed between their hearts.

Dick was a comforting presence at that time, yet he maintained his distance. While Alfred, true friend that he was, could only do so much to alleviate the isolation that followed Tim in every waking step of his life.

With his team at least, he had felt true companionship for the first time in his life.

Then it all went wrong.

He should have known that nothing good could never last for that long. At least not for Timothy Drake.  

He must have been born under a combination of unlucky stars.

Jason's return, the death of his mother, Bruce's lapse in the time stream, the death of his father, and finally the arrival of Damian.

The exact details of how Timothy Drake's life spiraled so completely and utterly out of control, in just under three years, was often too depressing for him to let his mind linger on for too long.

So. He didn’t. 

Tim stared at his face in the reflection of the heavy glass whiskey bottle, straight from the top shelf of Jack Drake's prized liquor collection. 

He had just turned 18 less than a month ago, but he didn’t think even this new emancipated age could properly show the outside world the truth of all the horror’s he had experienced in his short life.

Inside he was a weary old soldier who had seen the bloodshed of battle hundreds of times. A man who lost countless comrades, and everything else he held dear in the process. Instead of showing all of this, his reflection just peered back at him with the sleep-deprived appearance of a despondent adolescent that desperately needed a shower and a shave.

In the back of his mind he heard an echo of Steph’s voice singing that one song from Mulan, and gave a humorless chuckle to himself. 

He ripped the cap off the bottle and took a large swing.

He would look like a lunatic, if anyone walked in on him now. Chuckling to himself in the dark and dreary wine cellar of an abandoned Drake Manor. 

So, what if he did? He knows nobody was coming.  It was just him, lonely old Tim, and the ghosts of his past here to witness his descent into further madness. No one around to care even if he had finally snapped.

Isolation was an old friend, always waiting for him to come back to her. So that they could wrap a blanket of misery around his shoulders to add just one more burden onto the load already there.

Tim struggled to find any sort of purpose in his life anymore. Where other 18 year olds worried about summer jobs, or finding a prom date(at least he thinks that’s what they worried about, Tim wasn’t exactly in touch with his peer group) Tim worried about the end of the world, and stopping villains from taking over Gotham.

At least he used to.

Nowadays, he mostly just sat around contemplating the meaning of life, and feeding the resentment building up inside of him. 

Tim did not want to die. Death sounded painful, and he was so very tired of hurting.

Yet he also couldn't find the will to live, every next breath felt like a struggle. 

He never sleeps anymore these days. Instead choosing to push his body to the absolute limit, before it forcefully shuts itself down. If he did willingly go to sleep, he found it impossible to find the motivation to get up again, and would spend entire days laying listlessly in bed.

Tim understood what was happening to him, saw his body deteriorating before his eyes, yet he felt helpless to stop it.

He was stuck in a weird sense of limbo. Had been ever since Bruce quietly returned back to his rightful role as Batman, without so much as a word of gratitude towards Tim.

Had remained so as all the other caped crusaders of Gotham seemed to settle perfectly into a routine, everyone slotting back into their roles like missing pieces of a puzzle.

Everyone except Tim.

Red Robin hadn't been sighted flying across the rooftops of Gotham in over two months now.

His phone vibrated on the cold concrete floor he was sitting on. A notification on the lock screen showed a cheerful message from Dick inviting Tim out to lunch tomorrow and carefully not mentioning any of the hundred skeletons and broken promises that lay between the two of them. Between two people that had once called each other brother. 

It was the sign he didn't realize he had been waiting for, sitting alone in the dark for the last 7 hours merely staring into the endless void of the cellar. 

Tim stood up and turned on his cell phone flashlight. 

He was suddenly animated in a way he hadn't been in days, months if he was being honest with himself. 

He kept a strong grasp on the liquor bottle in his hand that he had emptied nearly a quarter off, as he took the stair up from the cellar two at a time. He made a mad dash too his upstairs bedroom like a man possessed.

When he finally made it to his bedroom he flung the closet door open and started tearing through the contents inside.

There, all the way in the back behind a carefully constructed false wall, was his Red Robin costume.

He pulled the dusty fabric out so fast it might have ripped if the material wasn't so sturdy. Even if it had he wouldn't have cared.

He threw the offending piece of cloth down onto his bedroom floor with a vengeance, then upturned his deceased father's expensive whiskey all over the material until every inch of it was thoroughly soaked.

Jack must be rolling in his grave at the sight of his prized vintage liquor being thoroughly. A fact, Tim took no small amount of glee in considering as he emptied the bottle. 

Then, he turned towards his desk drawer and dialed for his mother's lighter. It was thrown haphazardly all the way to the back, just where he remembered chucking it after the funeral.

After a few inexperienced clicks, Tim had the red hot fire blazing to life in his hands. He didn’t hesitate even for a second before turning back around and throwing it onto his alcohol doused suit.

Predictably, the thing immediately exploded into an inferno. Taking a piece of each of the remnants of Tim's life along with it.

As Tim watched the fire slowly work its way through the impenetrable, flame retardant material of what used to be his vigilante suit he finally felt it again.

A spark of purpose.

The feeling was so overwhelming, he could only trace it back to one other instance in his life. Standing before Bruce Wayne in the Batcave for the first time, demanding that he make his twelve year old self Robin.

Tim smiled.

~

When a new vigilante hit the streets of Gotham a week later, he did so with the grace of a bird landing back on its perch. 

Draped in a maroon so deep it looked like black in certain lightings, and accented with hints of whiskey orange. 

His weapon of choice was a staff, like the third robin’s had been, but his style of fighting was atypical to the others. 

He moved with an assuredness, and confidence that made him seem almost supernatural. Every single movement was fluid, yet calculated. A terrifying combination.

It was clear the new vigilante was actually a seasoned veteran, but one big thing in particular about him stuck out to the citizens of Gotham.

He did not have a bat on his chest.