Chapter Text
Tim's dad is alive and recovering. Tim just wants to go home.
Tim should be happy. So many doctors said that his dad might never wake from the coma. Waking up and being able to leave the hospital is more than most of them had ever predicted. Jack is paraplegic and working to recover muscle strength. Jack let Tim help choose their new house. Jack had liked the thought of having Bruce Wayne as a next door neighbor and Tim had thought that maybe he could have his dad and stay on as Robin. Jack does not agree.
Bruce won't go against Jack's wishes. Tim can almost hear the words Bruce doesn't say. Tim wishes that he wasn't so grateful that Bruce only keeps the unspoken words to significant looks and the occasional pause in conversation when Tim manages to visit.
Bruce wishes that he had more time with his father. Tim doesn't need anyone to explain that to him. Dick has also carefully not said a word about Tim having his father back. Tim bites his tongue every time someone mentions fathers and lets someone else change the subject.
His dad has been out of the hospital for about two months. Two months is the longest his father has been home since Tim started at boarding school. It feels like his dad wants to make up for years of delegating parenting and discipline to someone else. Tim has been grounded more often than not since his dad came home. Tim is counting the days until school starts again. School will get him out of the house for hours at a time and make harder to justify his dad taking his laptop away again.
Tim has an open calculus workbook and a pencil on his nightstand next to an alarm clock. He'd lost his cell phone between the bed and the wall an hour ago. Shoving the bed away from the wall to grab it might wake Jack up early. His phone isn't worth the trouble. Tim hadn't bothered with making a secure partition on his phone when he used his laptop for anything secret. The last time Tim had been able to check in from his laptop, Oracle and Batman and Nightwing were all preoccupied with the Red Hood and Tim still doesn't understand why. From the little Tim had been able to read before losing his laptop privileges for the third time in a month, Red Hood was setting up in Crime Alley as a strange sort of crime lord that viciously protected children.
Tim will have to get his cell phone eventually. Bruce has texted at least once a day to check in for the past week. It feels nice even if Tim isn't sure just what Bruce is getting out of the brief exchanges.
Bruce says that his father is dealing with several drastic life changes and will calm down in time. Dick says he's proud of Tim for giving his dad time to adjust. Alfred says that his father is being strict while he accustoms himself to the role and that Jack should feel more comfortable when he realizes that such measures are unnecessary. Steph says that if Jack doesn't calm down soon she'll start reminding Bruce and Dick that her dad is a theme-villain and proof that not everything a father does is reasonable.
Tim looks over at his alarm clock. He should get up soon to help his dad get ready to leave. A medical transport service with a wheelchair-accessible van will bring Jack to his doctor's appointment, repeat imaging of his spinal cord, and physical therapy session. Tim will stay home and not log onto his laptop because the combined weight of disapproving stares from Bruce, Dick, and Alfred outweighs Steph saying that his dad would never know.
Tim is still lying on his bed staring at the ceiling when his window slides open.
He starts to push himself up, wondering if it's Bruce or Dick or maybe Steph stopping by for a rare afternoon visit, but freezes when a masked stranger climbs through his window.
The man is wearing a red helmet that covers his entire head and a brown leather jacket over body armor. He has a gun in his hand.
Tim is wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The stranger's full-face mask turns toward him and so does the muzzle of the gun.
Tim doesn't move. The stranger hasn't spoken yet and Tim doesn't have anywhere to go.
“This is a little disappointing. Shirking your duties and you're not even doing anything fun? Just lazing around.” Whatever else the helmet does, it modifies the man's voice into a flat robotic drawl. The stranger's gaze drags around the room slowly. “I'm not impressed and that's a shame. If you want me to leave your dad out of this, you're going to need to impress me.”
Tim slowly sits up. “What do you want with my dad?”
“Shut up,” the man says sharply. “You only talk when I want you to talk.”
Tim looks between the mask and the gun and nods once.
“I heard you were smart.” The man's distorted voice sounds disappointed. Tim tries not to think about why. “Bit of a pushover, though. You really think you're a worthwhile replacement?”
Tim counts to three before he answers. If it was a rhetorical question... well, better to find out before the man gets even more worked up. Tim can only guess that the masked man is waiting for an answer. “No. I'm trying to help.”
The red mask is only broken up by the white lenses over the man's eyes. He still looks unimpressed as he slowly walks around the perimeter of Tim's room. He stops in front of the door. “You just shoved your way in like you'd be any help when you have no idea what you're doing, huh? It's not like you're good at this.”
“I'm working on that,” Tim says quietly, eyes on the man's featureless helmet. It's hard to help take care of his dad. The therapists and home nurse come for hours every day but they don't have someone staying through the nights. Jack takes a break from therapy on the weekends and it feels like they stretch on forever now with no one else in the house. Tim likes helping his dad but he also misses Bruce just as much as he misses being Robin.
Tim doesn't want to hear his doubts listed out by a stranger training a gun on his heart. It doesn't matter that the man's index finger is off the trigger, held flat against the side of the gun. Tim's only escape route takes him out the open window and he will not leave his dad at the gunman's mercy.
“I should finish what I started. It seems like your dad didn't get the message the first time we talked.”
“Please.” Tim stays as still as he can. If the stranger is an ally of Obeah Man... his dad still can't transfer to his wheelchair on his own. Jack can't defend himself against a man who moves like he was born to fight. “You don't have to bring him into this. You can talk to me.”
The distorted laugh that rings out is just as intimidating as the gun. Most of Gotham's masked villains start with riddles and clues and a theme. This man let himself in through Tim's window and started with personal threats. Tim had liked how easy it was to climb the tree outside and pick the lock and sneak right into his room. Maybe he shouldn't have been so desperate for company that his dad didn't know about. “So <i>noble</i>,” the man jeers. “What a prince of Gotham. You think that you're better off dealing with me?”
Tim doesn't know how to call for help. His Robin gear is gone and his cell phone is under the bed. Even if he could make a phone call, help won't get here faster than the man can shoot Tim and find Jack.
All Tim can do is delay and keep the man's gaze fixed on him. “You're the one that came here,” he says finally. “I don't know what you want but you came to find me.”
The man scoffs. “You weren't around when I was spending quality time with your dad, brat, and there isn't much I want from you. I'm probably wasting my time.” He turns and reaches for the doorknob.
“Wait! Please.” Tim doesn't dare scramble off the bed, not when the man's gun is still drawn.
Tim ignores the way his hands shake when he slides off his bed and onto his knees. All he knows is that if the stranger goes down the hall, Jack Drake can't defend himself.
“Please don't hurt him,” Tim begs.
The man freezes and Tim presses the first advantage he's had.
“Please let me get him ready for his doctor's appointment.” Tim keeps his eyes fixed on the helmet. He can pretend that there's a sympathetic face underneath the mask. “I just need to help him get ready. Someone else will drive him to the office.”
The gun's muzzle slowly trails down to point at the floor. “Aren't you in the wrong spot to help him get ready?”
Tim had tried, he had wanted to get his dad dressed and downstairs for breakfast, but Tim should have known better than to push after a rough night. Jack had eaten breakfast in bed. Tim had offered a few times that they could get someone who knew what they were doing and his father kept accusing him of caring more about Bruce Wayne than his own father.
“He's just down the hall,” Tim admits quietly. He can't hope to keep that secret for much longer. He's surprised his dad hasn't yelled for help getting dressed already.
The man takes a step back. “The fuck is he doing here?”
Tim bites his tongue against what he wants to say. His dad is right, backtalk will keep getting him in trouble until he learns how to control himself. “He lives here,” Tim says as mildly as he can. He slowly turns to look at his alarm clock and the gun doesn't move. “The transport company will be here in twenty minutes.”
“Transport... why do you need to hire a transport company?” the stranger demands.
Because the last time someone tried to kill Jack Drake, it hadn't worked. “It's easier for him to travel in his wheelchair right now.”
The man stares at him through the mask. Tim doesn't know what he sees but the man flicks the safety on his gun and drops it into a holster. “Go get him ready.” He takes another step back, leaving even more room for Tim to slip through the door.
Tim stands up slowly. “Um. The loud noise will be the wheelchair lift.” He walks out of his room and closes the door behind himself out of pure reflex. The corridor looks exactly the same and the hardwood floor feels strange beneath his feet. He associates adrenaline with Robin and the weight of body armor but he's wearing socks and his clothes feel paper-thin. His face feels naked without a mask.
For once, his dad's comments wash right past him and he's not tempted to make a single smart comment. Tim works quickly and has no time to get into an argument. He's listening for a footfall or a noise out of place when he sets up the wheelchair lift to carry his dad down the stairs. The door to his room is still closed and he can't hear anything.
The two usual men from the transport company are waiting in the driveway. Tim doesn't know their names and he's never been along for the ride. Jack says there is only so much hovering he can take. Tim knows these men, though, and if they were bribed recently, neither of them are showing any signs of nervousness or satisfaction when they greet Jack and roll his wheelchair into the van. They wave and don't look at all concerned when they drive off without Tim.
Tim's cell phone is upstairs and so is the window that overlooks the land between his house and Bruce. Running straight to Bruce might be asking to get shot. Running to a neighbor's house would get him puzzled questions at best and possibly get the neighbor shot. Saying anything out loud might not work but if he calls Bruce and leaves the line quiet, Bruce will come himself or send someone.
Tim is moving toward the kitchen landline when he sees a glint of light on a red helmet and freezes.
“I'm confused,” the man says from the middle of the open-plan kitchen and dining room. The man's guns are holstered and his gloved hands are relaxed against his sides but that doesn't mean Tim has time to run. “I thought your parents were killed.”
“My mother died.” The phone is so close but Tim's not faster than a bullet. “My father was in a coma for a long time before he woke up paralyzed.”
“You're leaving out the part where Batman looked after you while your dad was in that coma.”
Tim should have found a way to go with his dad. He should have called Bruce on the way to the doctor's office. Nothing would stop the man from following them to Jack's appointment, though, and it would have left two civilians and his father in danger.
Tim blinks at the blank features of the helmet and puts on the innocent act that fooled Bruce once and most of the Teen Titans the first few times he tried it. “I'm sorry. Did you say Batman?” he asks, eyes wide and expression earnest but a touch doubtful. “I don't know what you mean.”
The masked man sighs. “Fine. Bruce Wayne also known as Batman took you in. Where you took over someone else's colors, <i>Robin</i>.”
Tim's puzzled expression doesn't waver. “I'm not Robin and I think you're in the wrong house. If you leave now, I won't call the cops.”
“I'm not going anywhere until we see if you were ever worthy of the colors, kid.”
Tim is standing in his kitchen. His father won't be back for hours between the two appointments and the scheduled MRI. Bruce won't be suspicious if Tim doesn't respond to a text message right away. Robin had a panic beacon built into the costume but Tim isn't Robin anymore.
The man sighs. It comes through the voice synthesizer as a hiss of air. “You, Tim Drake, are Robin. Bruce Wayne otherwise known as Batman trained you and so did Dick Grayson otherwise known as Nightwing. Grab your staff. I'll even let you change into the uniform.”
“I don't even know who you are,” Tim protests.
“Sloppy, Robin. Big B didn't tell you to look out for Red Hood?” Even with the mask and distorted voice, the man seems more amused than angry.
Tim had expected Red Hood's outfit to resemble a hood, not a closely-fitted motorcycle helmet, and doesn't know why a Crime Alley drug lord would come to Bristol to fight an ex-Robin.
Red Hood shrugs casually like he hadn't expected an answer. “Maybe he's getting old. Suit up, Robin.”
“I'm not Robin.”
“You most certainly fucking are, Replacement,” Red Hood snarls, stepping closer.
Tim looks up into the mask's glowing white lenses. Red Hood probably outweighs him by sixty pounds before the body armor and combat boots. Tim is wearing a t-shirt with a joke about binary code. He'd feel braver with a mask but he doesn't have one anymore. “I used to be Robin.”
Red Hood doesn't look impressed. Tim doesn't blame him.
“Robin was on patrol with Batman last night, kid. I don't like liars,” Red Hood says flatly.
Steph.
Red Hood doesn't know that Steph is Robin now.
Steph lives in Crime Alley. Tim's dad had threatened Bruce when he found out. Stephanie's dad is Cluemaster. He could do worse than threaten Bruce after spending years trying to find out who Batman is under the cowl.
“Fine,” Tim says. Adrenaline gives his voice an edge and helps him focus on something that isn't how much this is going to hurt. “You caught me. I don't keep any gear in the house, though, so I hope that you aren't holding out for the costume.”
Red Hood chuckles. It probably sounds more threatening through the voice disguiser than it would be otherwise. “You're supposed to be prepared, Robin. Didn't Batman teach you anything?”
Tim is supposed to be Robin. Jack disagrees and Bruce... Tim knows that Bruce still needs a Robin. Stephanie wants the extra training and Gotham wants a Robin flying with Batman. Robin is much bigger than what Tim wants.
Tim has no armor and no advantage in the open lower floor. He doesn't have to win. Red Hood needs to decide that he can win a fight with Robin and leave. When it's over, Tim can call Bruce.
Tim drops into a fighting stance, bare fists against a massive armored man, and looks Hood right in the helmet's glowing white eyes. “I'm always prepared,” he says with more bravado than truth. “Let's go.”
Red Hood takes Tim at his word and lunges forward. Red Hood is alarmingly fast for such a broad-shouldered man, throwing out punches almost as quickly as Dick, and Tim knows that there's only so much dodging he can do. He should have put on shoes. When Tim ducks under a punch and snaps a kick into the side of Red Hood's knee, Tim's foot takes more damage than his target.
The kick keeps Tim still long enough for Red Hood to connect a sharp jab with Tim's right eye. It stings but it isn't enough to knock his head back. Tim can still fight but he needs to try leaving more space between them.
Staying out of reach is difficult when Red Hood is painfully fast. He fights like one of Ra's assassins but without any of the predictability that so many of Ra's fighters develop. Tim takes a hit to the left eye when he automatically tries to follow dodging a kick with a counter-move that would have put Ra's usual assassins on the ground. That punch lands hard enough that Tim feels like his head is ringing. Tim manages to slip away when Red Hood tries to grab him but can feel Hood's gloves almost catch his arm.
A couple experimental jabs prove that punching Red Hood anywhere on the chest or upper arms feels a lot like punching Batman. The armor is heavy and Tim will hurt himself if he tries to land a full-strength punch. Red Hood doesn't have that same problem against Tim's unarmored torso.
There aren't gaps in the armor large enough for a nerve strike to the neck or shoulders. When Tim tries a nerve-strike to Red Hood's right wrist, for a moment he thinks it'll work, but Red Hood twists away at the last moment in a fluid motion and slams his fist up in an uppercut that hits Tim right under the jaw. The impact of the punch leaves him dazed and Red Hood doesn't waste the chance.
Red Hood wrenches Tim's right wrist up behind his back. Red Hood follows that by tackling Tim to the ground, keeping Tim's wrist pinned against his back. Tim's left arm is free but that won't do much for him when Red Hood is leaning his weight against Tim's back.
“Pathetic,” Red Hood says, pushing his elbow just to the side of Tim's spine. “You really think that you're worth the colors, squirt? You should give them to someone better.”
“Not if you're going to attack them, too,” he says into the carpet.
Hood laughs. “Find someone else stupid enough to follow Batman around with a target on their chest and I won't touch them. You're the only Robin I'll come after.”
Tim shouldn't trust that promise. Red Hood broke into his room looking for a fight. Red Hood threatened Bruce and knows far too many names. Theme villains, though... they usually keep their bargains.
Red Hood leans his body weight against Tim's back. “Understood?”
“Got it,” Tim forces out. Red Hood is heavy and has enough of his weight pressed against Tim that it's hard to draw in a breath.
His dad is going to be furious. Bruce is going to be furious. Steph will be pissed. It will be worth it if Red Hood doesn't follow Steph home. Steph deserves time to learn how to capture the magic that Tim had never quite managed.
Red Hood leans back slowly and releases Tim's arm. “Heard you were brainy,” Red Hood jeers, but something in his posture looks less confident. “No one else wants that gig, kid. You should stay home.”
Tim doesn't protest that he's still home. He wants Red Hood to go away and not come back. His jaw is painful enough that there might be a tooth loose and his head throbs. His right wrist is circled in vivid red finger-marks.
Tim doesn't get up. He turns his head just enough to see Red Hood. The man looks gigantic from the floor and doesn't have a single dent in his armor. Red Hood turns on his heel and walks out Tim's front door.
Tim hears the door click shut behind Red Hood and scrambles for the kitchen landline. He punches in Bruce's cell phone number and hopes that Bruce will know Tim wouldn't call unless it matters. Tim hasn't called before, all the times he just wanted to hear Bruce's voice, so maybe this time—
“Bruce Wayne.”
“Bruce, Red Hood was here,” Tim says, eyes on the front door. His breath hitches when he catches a glimpse of his face in the stainless-steel refrigerator. Jack won't believe that Tim was in his room with his calculus book when this all started. Maybe Jack will believe Bruce. “He knows a few names.”
Bruce is silent until Tim hears the quiet chime that means the phone call is secure. “When you say a few...”
“Yours, mine, and Dick's, in and out of costume. Red Hood wanted to fight Robin and wouldn't believe that isn't me. He came in through my window, Bruce, and he...” Tim hasn't talked to Bruce in over a week. He is not going to cry about some bruises. Red Hood hadn't done any real damage and he could have. “My dad's going to be so mad.”
“Tim. Are you hurt?”
“Bruises.” Red Hood could have broken bones. Red Hood hadn't drawn his guns or his knife. When the fight was over, Red Hood had walked away. “I took a few hits to the head, though.”
“I'm on my way,” Bruce says firmly. “Alfred will be taking the phone and I want you to stay on the line, Tim.”
Tim stays on the line. Bruce handles everything.
Maybe it would have been easier to do something, if Tim was still Robin, but it's not Batman calling the police and reporting a home invasion gone wrong. It's Bruce telling Tim to pack his suitcase for at least a week before driving him home.
Dick is already there, waiting impatiently on the front steps. Tim goes straight from Bruce's fussing to Dick lifting both of Tim's feet off the ground with the force of his hug.
Bruce drives off in the wheelchair-accessible van he keeps in one of the garages to tell Jack what happened and to bring him back to the Manor. The police don't want either of them to go home until the investigation is over.
The handicap-accessible guest suites are on the first floor. Alfred mentions that he has already looked over several companies for a daytime health aide. Nobody wins against Alfred and Tim doesn't want to win that fight. Tim will even be polite enough to not watch his dad lose if he tries to fight Alfred. Tim's hastily-packed suitcase is already in his second-floor bedroom.
Maybe Red Hood had done him a favor. Tim doesn't have anything worse than bruises. He gets to stay with Bruce for at least a week. Tim didn't lose anything by telling Red Hood that he won't take up Robin's colors again. Bruce already replaced Tim.