Chapter Text
Gotham’s skies are overcast, but still backlit by the late afternoon sun. It’s daytime, and yet the Bats are out.
Tim can’t help but grin a little, as he follows Nightwing across the rooftop. He’s gliding through the air, cape catching the breeze. He’s Robin, and it’s never going to get old. The smile disappears as he remembers what this patrol is all about.
Right. He needs to talk to Dick. Needs to convince him to let Tim keep Robin.
Ugh, he’s exhausted, despite the 2.6 blueberry redbulls he’s had in the last twelve hours. It’s felt like everything’s been falling apart lately- he sleeps only when he accidentally nods off in English class, and Bernard’s stopped shaking him awake. He’s been admittedly obsessive, reorganizing the entire Batcomputer twice in the last month, solving four cold cases and inventing a new latch for the grapples. Look, part of him is still the same kid that thought that if he excelled just a little more, it’d make his mom look at him, love him. Tim’s aware enough to know he’s trying to apply the same principle to Bruce. Trying to show him that Tim is the better Robin. Because he is. Damian is a nightmare with the knife handling skills of a highly trained adult and the emotional regulation abilities of a particularly stunted younger child, while Tim inherited the mantle from a dead boy but still manages to lead missions as Robin.
He’s had high hopes for this patrol— jumped on it the second Dick mentioned he’d heard whispers of something going on during daylight hours. He hasn’t gotten to go out with just Dick, like they used to, for weeks- ever since Damian started going out in the costume, on a trial basis. Tim isn’t stupid, he knows Bruce wants to replace him, and maybe Dick too, even if admitting that to himself stings badly. (He’s beginning to understand a little of Jason Todd’s unhinged rambling. Usurpers and pretenders and replacements indeed.)
“You’ve been quiet.” Dick finally says when they stop on a rooftop for a breather. It’s been slow, at least compared to a normal night shift, and Tim has already mentally composed his reports on the three robberies, two assaults, and one minor (for Gotham) chemical terrorist attack they’ve dealt with so far.
“Mmm.” Tim says, turning around and typing a few notes for said reports on his wrist cuff. He’s being a little immature, but the last week has made him want to scream some choice language at Nightwing that could potentially be identity-compromising.
“I feel like we haven’t hung out in a while. We could go train surfing?” Tim’s eye twitches. Dick can’t bribe him. He’s not a child (no matter how much fun trainsurfing sounds right now). “Or skateboarding?”
“I don’t have time to skateboard.” Tim says frostily, and can’t help but add: “also, you’re terrible at it.”
Dick throws up his hands in the air theatrically in mock defeat. “I can do tricks on elephants and tightropes, and fight on the Batmobile’s roof when it’s doing 90–“
“Doesn’t change the fact that you suck at skateboarding. Actually, makes it even more sad.” Tim snorts, and doesn’t miss the little spark of victory in Dick’s eyes before Nightwing covers it up with an exaggerated pout. “Last time was the first time I ever saw you slip. Let me tell you, really kills the hero worship to see Nightwing ass over teakettle in a bush because he failed to do an easy ollie.”
“I think I was cursed or something. Klarion must have done it, that’s the only explanation.” Dick sighs and leans against the AC box. “Enough about my skateboarding shortcomings, what’s been new with you, little brother?”
Tim shuffles his feet, like he does every time Dick just casually calls him his brother. For a moment, he wants to both immediately agree to go train surfing, and also yell at stupid Dick Grayson, who gets under your skin in all the worst and best ways. He wants to scream at him about leaving Tim behind, taking everything away. Because Robin is everything to Tim, Robin was the North Star he built his life around. The thing that breathed life into his sad, lonely little childhood and all through his teen years, kept him moving through losing his mom and his dad. Jason and Dick didn’t understand Robin like Tim did. They didn’t directly see it from an outside perspective, see what good Robin did for Gotham. He sought this out even when he saw the mask kill Jason, had to follow in the footsteps of two extremely capable vigilantes under the wing of an aloof and angry Batman who was far more prone to morose silences or angry rants than kind mentorship. He didn’t have Dick’s once in a lifetime acrobatic ability or Jason’s natural athleticism. He had to work so much harder, and he had and now they were trying to take Robin away -
“C’mon, Rob—“
Tim hears it first, and elbows Nightwing in the gut, who promptly shuts his mouth.
Voices, from just beyond the roof access door. He and Nightwing roll to hide behind respective AC units, flattening themselves out of sight, abd wait with bated breath. Tim would guess at least four men, even if he can’t make out the words yet.
The roof door opens, and from where he is Tim can only get a small view without compromising his secrecy. Five men, all appearing like typical Gotham goons, minus any sort of identifying allegiance like a mask or costume. All of them are at least two hundred pounds and in shape, clearly with some level of training. There’s one obvious leader, a huge sneering blond man holding a metallic briefcase. Tim’s going to call them Tattoos, Ugly, Broken Nose, Tracksuit, and Sneer. None of them match any of Tim’s files on active Gotham criminals, although he thinks Ugly and Tattoos might have been working for Penguin a few years ago.
“Keep your heads down, boys. Follow the plan and we won’t run into any bats.” The leader, Sneer, spits out, and leans against the door frame to watch the other men spread out to do his dirty work, whatever it may be. Another six men pour out of the door behind him, and make their way closer to the AC box Tim is perched behind, these ones looking like much more… entry level henchmen positions. Tim’s not even going to both with names, because they’re cannon fodder at best.
“You ready?” Nightwing whispers over the coms from his conspicuous roof heating unit. Tim spent a very long time working with Barbara to develop these new comms and he loves them. In the middle of a fight or in a crashing airplane, the other person on coms can whisper and you’ll hear them loud and clear.
Tim doesn’t deign to answer that one, just jumps out, in perfect time with Nightwing to his left. The two of them have already taken out two of the cannon-fodder grunts before Sneer even notices them, barking something into his walkie talkie as his comrades square up.
“Why da hell are da bats here!” Broken Nose whines, his voice a little stuffy. “It’s not even nighttime, they’re ‘sposed to be asleep or whatevah.”
“We heard you were coming and just had to come say hi,” Nightwing straightens from the body of one of the goons to wink at him, and Broken Nose shudders and makes the sign of the cross at him. It’s a reaction Dick used to invoke even more when he would cackle as Robin. Tim’s witnessed old henches doing it when even recounting their experience.
“Who’s your boss.” Tim barks. He doesn’t have the energy for quips, even if they’re sensational for keeping goons off guard. “We’ll give him the Gotham welcome.”
He cracks his knuckles, staring straight at Broken Nose and Tracksuit both. Broken Nose opens his mouth, but he’s cut off by Sneer.
“Not another word outta any one of yous! Get to goddamn work, that’s you’re paid for. We got nine guys and they don’t got no dark to hide in or the big bad bat lookin’ over their shoulder.” Sneer calls.
“Shame,” Dick sighs. “Guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.”
The fight starts in earnest. Tim uses a flash grenade he’s been working on to send another two of the grunts sprawling, temporarily blinded. He’ll have to work on the output more- he’d been hoping to get three. He ducks a swing from Ugly, and moves to trade blows with Tattoos back and forth, before tripping him and leaving him behind to work on Broken Nose. Elsewhere, he can hear the sound of Nightwing clocking someone with a baton.
This is going to be easy, Tim thinks as he knocks Broken Nose out cold with a well-executed strike of his bo staff. All of the enemies are bloodied, four now are unconscious, and it looks like Dick’s taken out all of the grunts.
“Excellent work, Robin!” Dick says, not even winded even through the little flips he’s executing over the head of Sneer.
It could be the uncommon light worsening his blueberry-blast induced headache, could be the boiling frustrations that had been building for months coming to a point, could be a lucky punch Tracksuit just managed to make with his jaw, but Tim is suddenly nuclear with annoyance and rage.
“Why are you calling me Robin, when you’re trying to replace me?” He hisses into the com.
“What-“ Nightwing stutters, retreating a little with a back handspring. “Where is this coming from?”
Oh really, Nightwing, one of the greatest detectives in the world and he doesn’t notice? How does it get more infuriating? “I don’t know, the months you’ve spent training D- the demon brat?”
“You shouldn’t call him that—“ Dick says absentmindedly as he slams an escrima stick into Ugly’s gut. Of course that’s what he’s upset about.
“Or giving him the suit. Or-“ Tim spits out. He’s got a list of grievances and things that have hurt that’ll last for several fights.
“Robin, we should really focus,” Dick executes a flip and bowls over another goon. They’re sweeping this clown show. Nightwing and Robin usually keep up a running commentary during their fights, Dick is just avoiding him again . “We can talk about this later.”
Oh, rich. He’ll be too busy later, taking Damian to the arcade or whatever the hell it is they do. “Later? Later when! You’e just going to avoid me like you have been!” Dick winces, which confirms Tim’s suspicion.
“I haven’t been-“ Dick cuts himself off, staring at the leader ahead of them, who’s been joined by another figure while they were dealing with the grunts. About 5’7, wearing featureless black and a full face covering— obviously has more training than this lot, but Tim won’t be able to tell what kind until they do more than just watch.
Tim channels his rage into striking the nearest man in the head with his bo staff. Guy goes out cold, but he doesn’t feel much better.
“You’re getting to an age now, where—“ Dick starts.
“The age where historically Robins get fired or horrifically die.” Tim finishes.
Dick clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Don’t say that on patrol, but yes—“
“Robin isn’t something to move on from!” Tim hisses. “I’ve made it my own, Nightwing!”
“You have, but,” Dick says as he lays a tattooed man out flat with an undercut. “You aren’t B’s partner, or my partner. You’re our equal.”
Stupidly, Tim’s eyes prick with tears a bit behind his mask. All he can hear is “you’re not our partner”, and he has to overcorrect for his next strike with his bo staff.
I’m nothing without Robin, he wants to scream at Dick. You were a flying Grayson, an athlete, beloved. I have nothing but this. Most of Tim’s friends are his friends only in the suit, Bruce wouldn’t have adopted him if he wasn’t Robin, Dick wouldn’t be his brother if he wasn’t Robin—
He’s nothing, without Robin.
The number of conscious enemies has drastically dwindled, down to just Sneer, the new figure, and Tracksuit (who is going to have a lovely collection of bruises and at least one cracked rib for his troubles). The three of them have retreated to the other end of the roof, away from Nightwing and Robin. Sneer is grumbling, but has that cornered animal look in his eyes Tim is used to villains getting towards the end of a fight. He unlocks the briefcase at his side and passes out what seem to be some type of prototype device. Two are vaguely gun shaped (criminals have no imagination), and one seems to be a silver coin that glints in the light. Tim can’t tell anything just by looking at them— they’re not of a style he recognizes, and he’s familiar with most tech. He’s about to take a step forward to take a closer look at the coppery-blue gun (by kicking the shit out of Tracksuit, who’s holding the device) but Nightwing yanks him back at the last second.
The gun goes off with a roar, taking a huge chunk of the roof with it, like the blocks of concrete and rebar were never even there. Three feet from Tim, a good third of the roof is now gone, open to the dilapidated room underneath.
Oooookay. Maybe a little more powerful than run of the mill Gotham shit.
In his peripheral vision, Nightwing tenses, staring straight ahead. They’re within feet of each other now, facing down the three remaining soldiers, and it’s still unknown what the other two can do.
“Robin, fall back.” Nightwing throws over his shoulder, twirling his eskrima as he stares at their enemy. “They’re dangerous-“
“Oh, so one minute I’m old enough to move on from Robin, the next I’m not old enough to deal with some tech’ed up goons?” Tim can’t help but spit. He’s catching the same creeping dread that Nightwing is, but he’s tired and he can’t manage to form the words no way in hell am I leaving you behind, we can do this together like we have before .
“I don’t know, something about this doesn’t feel right—”
“But-“ Tim begins, and Dick turns to look at him, to argue, and they’re both distracted, which is the biggest mistake they’ve made all night. The figure in black pulls the trigger on their device, and one of the guns goes off.
They scatter, both dodging the first shot, but his —stupid, stupid — distraction means that the projectile hits him. It feels like a bean bag out of a cannon, a black disc that quickly expands, before Tim can even blink, into a network of ropes that binds him in seconds, sending his body tumbling to the roof below.
He strains against it, takes inventory of the situation through his pounding heartbeat. He’s guessing some kind of polymer filament cord, as the tensile strength is far higher than regular rope. It digs into his skin, so tight he can barely breath.
His wrists are bound behind him, one rope lashing him to the roof itself. It’s an ingenious little trick, and he needs to reverse engineer this- it would make arrests so much easier. Well, if he gets out of this alive.
“Oh look, we caught a little birdy.” Sneer chuckles, and Tim glares at him— although the effect is probably ruined again by the way his cheek is mashed into the concrete below and his helpless struggling.
Nightwing steps up forward. Tim can only see his shoulders, but he can read the rage pouring off of Dick.
Sneer presses a button on the device and Tim can’t help but shriek. It’s the barest moment, a tenth of a second, but the whole wire electrifies and it burns . Lightning races down all of his nerves and he’s left panting in the aftermath. It’s at least twice the wattage of Dick’s weapons, and it wouldn’t take long for these ropes to be fatal.
“Take another step, Nightwing, and the kid gets fried.” The man’s voice is lower now, more dangerous.
Black spots are dancing in Tim’s vision but he curses to himself as Nightwing audibly grits his teeth and steps back. Why the hell is Dick— he could beat all of them— why—
“Grab the little one,” Sneer barks to Tracksuit. “Boss wanted us to bring in a hostage, he’ll do.”
The henchman rolls his shoulders a little and starts to amble towards him. Tim’s heart speeds up. He’s working on the ropes behind him with the file he hides in his gloves, but he needs more time, the ropes are so strong—
“Wait!” Nightwing blurts. “You don’t want to do that.” They all stop and turn to him, Sneer’s thumb hovering over the button. Dick visibly smooths his expression over, looking utterly blank and relaxed. “You should take me instead of him.”
Tim wants to scream if not for this gag as Nightwing puts away his escrima sticks, holds out his wrists in front of him in supplication. He’s extremely calm but Tim is too out of it to read his features, his plan.
Why is Dick doing this? Tim is way more expendable than Dick is, especially if the bats are about to face whatever extremely large operation these goons are apart of. Hell, they even have another Robin in the wings to replace him.
“I’m a more valuable hostage,” Dick says as soon as Tracksuit moves within ten feet of Tim.
“You Nightwing?” Sneer needlessly clarifies. Tim, amidst the growing bile in his throat and pounding headache, worries for the state of Gotham’s public school system.
Dick raises an eyebrow, probably thinking the same thing. “Yup.”
“Good, bwoss wanted to speak to ya anyway. Take him.” Sneer says, and Tracksuit slaps cuffs made of the same material as the ropes onto Dick’s wrists. Grabbing him by the upper arm, he yanks Dick forward to the edge of the roof where the two others have congregated.
Tim’s almost through the bindings, almost-
Like all of the pivotal moments of Tim’s life, several things happen, in quick succession.
The figure in black flips the single coin, the metal catching the light as it soars off the side of the roof.
Sneer disarms Dick of his escrima- fuck, those have his grapples in them - and pushes Dick off of the roof without another
Tim breaks loose of the binding, and starts to run forward, mind half blind with terror because— is he going to see another Grayson fall and die, see his brother’s body broken on a Gotham street like he has in nightmares for most of his life— and he doesn’t even notice as the three others jump as well, because he’s reached the edge of the roof and—
The last thing he sees, skidding to the edge, is Dick’s upturned face as he passes through a swirling vortex— a portal of some kind. He’s staring at the sky, hands straining at their bindings, and his lips move when he sees Tim. Before Tim can move, or Dick finish whatever he’s trying to say, the portal closes, disappears. Tim’s left alone on a rooftop, surrounded by unconscious bodies and a great overwhelming dread in the quiet of the afternoon.