Chapter Text
tim @redrobinstream • October 8
you guys know I can… see the things you post about me, right? like, I can see *all* of it.
tim @redrobinstream • October 8
i'm not shaming any of you but—actually, no. no i am. you deserve it. please stop posting gifsets of my ass on tumblr
Red Hood @redhoodreads • October 8
ignore op
tim @redrobinstream • October 8
you especially stay away from my ass
Red Hood @redhoodreads • October 8
@redrobinstream come on, babybird. don't be like that. sharing is caring :)
tim @redrobinstream • October 8
you're right! when the judge asks why I requested a restraining order, I'll share these tweets :)
Red Hood @redhoodreads • October 8
Damn, take a guy to dinner first. I can't say I mind the enthusiasm, though ;)
"What about 'I'll tell you where to stick your enthusiasm,' or maybe, 'I'd rather skip to the part where we never talk again,' or maybe just 'I do'?" Tim asks, voice rumbling through the blanket of quiet that's fallen over the living room of his downtown apartment. Steph's hands carding through his hair don't arrest in their motion, but even from where Tim lays, head in her lap and legs dangling over the sofa's edge opposite to Steph, he can picture the look of mock decision on her face.
"Well," she answers, "the way you keep arguing like a married couple, I'd say you just skip to the last one and call it a day."
Tim scowls, lowering his phone into his lap and peering up to properly glare at Steph. His hair scrunches up, and Steph lightly bats his temple.
"Quit moving: you're messing up the braid."
"I didn't ask for the braid."
"Well, you're gettin' one." Steph pushes her bottom lip outward, blowing air upward to clear her own baby hairs from her eyes. "'Sides, this is the nicest french braid I've done since middle school, and I'm not letting you ruin this for me."
Tim rolls his eyes but abstains from moving any further. It's true that he hadn't requested for Steph to plait his hair into any elaborate sort of style, but he isn't complaining, either. The repetitive drag of her fingers through his hair is comforting, and his scalp is rarely shown any kind of detailed attention. The last time anything beyond his own brush had run through similarly was at the hair salon, and from the length of his current style, that had been months ago. So, for now, he'll take what he can get and bite down on any weak complaints.
Steph's fingers brush a few loose strands from his cheek and he sighs quietly with the motion, exhaling while she tucks in the hair that will definitely not remain where she secures it.
"I just feel bad that you're giving me your best braid effort when the rest of me is going to be wholly underwhelming," Tim comments after a minute, carefully walking the line between playfulness, praise, and acceptable self deprecation. It's a tenuous relationship of speech, especially considering his friends don't seem to enjoy any level of self deprecation from him.
From Steph's slight tug on his hair, he's pushed it, but not tread too far astray. He'll take it.
"You think I'm gonna let you be underwhelming tonight wearing my braid?" she retorts. "Repping my brand? French Braids by Stephanie?" Even with the joking lilt in her voice, Tim knows she's dead set on steering him away from his typical bland wardrobe for these things.
Luckily, his stubbornness serves him well, and he refuses to go down without a fight. "It's just a client. Probably just some old, shitty, white guy looking for me to take under-exposed photos of his 'immersive live music venue,'" he mutters, quoting over multiples of the emails he's received in the past year. It's an arduous slog nowadays to even trudge past the second paragraph.
Steph's nose crinkles. "Fuck, why do you even consider these gigs?"
Tim pauses. There's not really a good answer—or at least one he's willing to give without drawing the worry of others.
Why has he met with numerous members of Gotham's sleaziest? Why does he subject himself to subject line after subject line of "Inquiry for Photographer," followed by promises of payment in "experience," or dubious links to addresses with a warning to "disregard the reviews," like he's supposed to ignore the urgent insistence of former patrons not to attend this establishment PLEASE for the love of GOD.
Why does he even bother offering a free consult, or with the whole affair at all? If streaming is lucrative and he likes it well enough, why slum it in the Bowery, answering underpaid requests for someone who'll look the other way just enough to take photos of what's definitely a shabby front for a gang? It's not like he needs the money (sparse as it is), and it shouldn't be worth it to put himself in vulnerable positions just to make what's proportionate to pocket change when compared to his current income. So why bother?
Tim asks himself as much—thinks about it during the quiet sanctity of the night while staring at his darkened bedroom walls. He knows why, and he holds onto it, because sometimes it's all he has. In his brain, mouthed to himself, he can present his mapped out reasons as if they've been instilled like an old prayer—partially because they have.
The first is simpler—less secretive. Should anyone ever truly question his motives in choosing the clientèle he does, he'd offer this up.
He likes that side of Gotham.
Something about the sketchy, skeevy buzz of neon lights, boot-worn carpeting and peeling paint calls to his lens. It's a challenge to flatter such blatant hideousness, and it's even bolder to make no attempt at hiding it, but Tim is good at what he does. He's taken the worst shit holes in the city and repurposed their image into something of novelty and charm.
In a way, that side of Gotham is all he's known, starting from his early days of sneaking around the edges of Crime Alley in hopes of capturing the real Gotham city life, and not just the touristic mirage pamphlets and travel blogs would rather have you believe.
Even if he's no longer hidden behind the imposing stone structures of Gotham and instead invited into establishments that would put even Pauli's to shame in terms of dinginess, it's still his Gotham. The city lights and underlying buzz of life below thick, layered grime immortalized reliably on his camera—a constant where he had none. And he refused to give that up.
The second he'd less than openly confess; photography is the only thing that's ever been his.
Don't get him wrong—he loves streaming. It's a dream to be able to do nothing but play games and perform the stupidest of tasks with his friends for a kind community he's built independently, but he hasn't worked for it in the way he has with his photography. Sure, he's logged more hours streaming and learning the ins and outs of a proper set-up, but he doesn't get the same rush of pride knowing how far he's come.
He's not the scrawny nine year old with a clunky, outdated family polaroid scouring Gotham's rooftops for the perfect subject anymore. He knows how to line up a shot, how to adjust lighting and focus, timer settings, proper composition and contrast. He's made progress, and it's all a result of his own desire to improve.
This isn't to say he doesn't still have the same nervous, excitable feeling towards it as that nine year old did; he's still just as much of a nerd and allegedly still twiggy if his friends' opinions are anything to go by. It's just—he's gotten to a place where he doesn't have to sneak around to do it, partially due to age and partially due to building pride and confidence in his work. He has people in his corner who trust and support him where his parents never would've. (Not that Jack and Janet would have appreciated their son's current online career either, Tim thinks bitterly).
And lastly, why does he bother with it? Why not just cast it aside like his myriad of other hobbies, or relegate it to anonymous Instagram posts?
And this, this is what he can never tell anyone. For the sake of his own privacy, for the sake of his friends and family's hearts, and for the sake of Gotham.
Recalling the look of tonight's client's...establishment, though, it's unlikely that will even be involved, so it's best not to consider it until the situation presents itself. After all, the best way to appear innocent is to be innocent. This very well might be a completely mundane night consulting with another forgettable cad. Nothing more.
Tim clears his throat. "I don't know," he shrugs diplomatically.
Steph narrows her eyes, but the interrogative edge in them clears. "Fine. Keep your secrets."
She plaits the final strands, wrapping a tie around the end with practiced movement. Her pat on his shoulder delivers a wordless permission to move, and finally he fits up, pulling his legs in from where they dangle over the sofa's arm. Leaning back into the cushion, he gingerly pats Steph's intertwined handiwork. The tucked pattern of pulled in pieces makes his head spin just thinking about it, and he just as quickly drops it. Steph looks at him expectantly.
He raises his brow. "What?"
His response doesn't seem to thrill her. "What are you gonna wear?"
He almost escaped the question, but Steph's steel-trap, stubborn memory catches up quickly. Damn it.
Preemptively, he winces. No matter how he says this, she's not going to be pleased. "I'll probably put on a hoodie. Maybe jeans?"
Just as he expects, the look he gets is less than impressed.
"A hoodie and maybe jeans? With my braid?" Steph crosses her arms, leaning back onto the sofa arm opposite his end. The line above her brow crinkles.
"Jesus, Tim, I know you're trying to blend in to avoid being recognized, but you don't need to bust out the depression hoodie to do that." Her nose crinkles too, drawn up in thought. "Actually, I think that increases the chance you'll be recognized.
"Ha, ha," he sneers, but it lacks any real heat. If anyone's aware his wardrobe lacks in style, it's him. Maybe he's not sure how to remedy it, or even the exact weaknesses, but he's heard it from many sources. Repeatedly.
Steph grins, crossing her arms behind her head with untampered joy at his irritation. The sleeves of her sweatshirt bunch up, equally as folded over as her oversized sweats.
"Why is my hoodie so insulting, but you can wear that?" he argues, motioning over her smug posture.
Steph rolls her eyes. "Because I'm not the one going out."
"I'm not going out."
"You're not going out going out, but you're leaving your apartment, and if I learned anything about Tim Drake from our passionate five month affair, it's that, socially, you have to take what you can get," she reasons, and despite the jab at their ill-fated lavender relationship, Tim hates to admit that she might have a point. He really can't remember the last time he actually went out for non-work related purposes, or not just because a friend was in town. The closest he gets is with these side gigs, and even then, he's still technically working. But he doesn't need to let Steph have her satisfaction. She's smug as it is.
"I'm not dressing up for what'll probably be a 20 minute meeting with a dick whose offer I won't even accept," he deflects.
"I'm just trying to seize a rare opportunity; are you gonna get in the way of that?" Steph levels, chin tucked down and eyes backlit with determination.
Whatever. He's not backing down—not this time. Days of standing in as Steph's personal dress-up doll are long past. He'll his hoodie and jeans with pride, god damn it, and Steph has no power over hi—
Ten minutes finds Tim standing half naked in front of his bedroom mirror, silently cursing himself, Steph, and whatever ice-cold setting his thermostat must sit at for the apartment to feel this frigid.
Goosebumps line his exposed skin, hair stood on end and pallor just as ghostly as ever. Squinting, he can almost imagine the figure staring back is a phantom, pale and lithe, wavering with his blurred vision. Some big shot media outlet had called him a "porcelain prince" a while ago. He doesn't really know how to feel about that, considering his pasty complexion derives from a vampiric avoidance of sunlight, but at least they didn't write another sensationalized depiction of his alleged relations with fellow streamers. Being compared to royalty in this case doesn't seem all that unsavory.
"Tim!"
He blinks, vision pulling back into focus.
"What?"
Steph voice trails out from his closet. "What's the weather like?"
Turning to his bed, he plucks his phone from where it softly indents into his duvet. Unlocking it, he nearly taps on the weather app, but not before his eyes are drawn to another notification. Without thinking, he taps on it, opening up the accompanying app.
Red Hood @redhoodreads • October 8
Sorry, baby—just realized I already have plans. Rain check? xoxo
It's like the world freezes. He exhales hotly, his heart accelerating. The tips of his ears flush with anger. He stares at the screen, reading and rereading again the same message. Sent only minutes ago without a response prompting it. Disallowing him to retaliate. Not giving him the decency of even one word edgewise.
"Tim!"
His head snaps up. "What?"
"The weather !"
He blinks again, slowly closing out Twitter. It's 55 degrees. He tells Steph as much. She mutters softly, still inside the closet, and it sounds something like "I can work with that," but Tim isn't straining to hear. No, there's more important matters at hand for him.
That red hooded bastard. The maddening literature jerk that won't stay away, no matter how little Tim interacts with him. Initially, he just seemed like any low-life, small scale troll, making snide remarks and occasionally tweeting at him, but this guy is taking it farther than anticipated.
Comments on Tim's YouTube stream clips, his VOD channel, donations on stream, dms to his friends, mentions in the Red Hood's own videos, (not so) vague tweets alluding to Tim. And recently: whatever this is.
Distantly, a part of him recognizes how ill advised it would be to respond; it's not like he's blind to the concept of dismissing harassment. But with Hood, it just doesn't work . Tim could refuse to respond for a month straight, and still he might receive a cheeky comment reminding him of Hood's dedication to pissing him off. So why not just accept futility and take the opportunity to at least bite back?
He's not obsessed . He just doesn't like being made to look foolish, that's all. Everything his friends say on the matter is just lies and deceit. His case for libel is mounting at this point.
tim @redrobinstream • October 8
In your dreams, Hood.
It's weak, but he's not going to exhaust his mental resources on this guy past the degree he already has. Plus, there's not much time before Steph returns to the room and catches him hunched over his phone again. At this rate, he's going to become the field mouse to Steph's Bunny Foo Foo when she catches him giving into Hood's taunts once again.
Speaking of the devil, his ears perk upon hearing steps heading out of the closet, and he tosses his phone back on the bed. Steph comes out with a small stack of folded clothing, ignoring Tim in lieu of pushing the fabric into his arms.
"I may have peaked here," she says, crossing her arms as if wonderstruck. "This is my masterpiece. Versace who? Calvin Klein wishes he could. Vera Wang could never—"
Tim can't help but huff a laugh at her dramatics. "Do you know any other designers to keep this going, or am I permitted to change?"
Steph rocks back on her heels, pushing her cabin socks deep into his carpet. Briefly caught in thought, she returns with: "No, you can go."
Tim laughs again, and Steph grins. He pads over into the bathroom, examining the material in his hands. Something stiffer, almost canvas like, something soft—cotton? And something unique that's either velour or velvet. The last is somewhat alarming, but Tim swallows back any hesitation as he places the clothes on the counter, shutting the door softly.
He pulls out the cotton first because he recognizes them easily: boxer briefs. They're just plain black (the only patterned underwear he owns being a gift from Dick typically worn on laundry day). Maybe he should feel odd about his ex picking out his undergarments, but his relationship with Steph is far too lax to care about anything like that. They're too far gone for him to care what she has and hasn't seen.
He slips them on easily enough, the band comfortably snug and adherent to his hips, then moves for the velvet next. Curiosity wins him over, and he can't help but satiate his need to figure out what Steph could have possibly pulled out for him. Undoubtedly, it's one of her own items of clothing left and shoved into his closet. He doesn't own anything made of material as interesting as this.
Sure enough, when he holds it out, it's a dark green, velvet top. It hangs from two thin straps with a square neckline, short enough he'd bet it's cropped.
That's another thing (on top of Tim's many Things. They only seem to mount these days); Tim's testing out new waters. Nothing extreme, but just…testing.
He's never had much freedom in self expression, let alone dress. As a kid, his parents molded him into the perfect little heir, impeccably dressed in Bristol rich kid attire.
When his father died, leaving him to move under Bruce's care, he'd easily adopted a matured version of the same style that seemed to proceed with the name Wayne. Of course, Bruce had never set such expectations (as evidenced by Dick's rotating casual-chic wardrobe and occasional sequined, fringed eyesore), but Tim had wanted to represent the family well.
And he had. Bruce often received a multitude of comments regarding his esteemed (then) youngest, who held himself with great poise and elegance most respectable of a boy his age. A sad part of him still preened under those meaningless compliments, but mostly he just felt relieved he hadn't brought any disgrace to the Wayne name.
But Bruce was clever, and he must've seen something in the way Tim's shoulders never quite unstiffened in public, or how his grin was a little too tight, because he'd been brought into Bruce's study one night, sat before the concerned faces of Dick and Bruce, and gently interrogated into admitting he didn't want to be a liability or a disgrace to their name. He was met with a riotous response of validation and further concerns, Dick attempting an embrace so tight Tim suspected he might be trying to merge their bodies, and Bruce nearly twitching in confliction as to whether he should join or simply encourage and comfort from afar.
By the end of that night, it had been assured to Tim that he was their family and in no way a burden. He didn't have to sacrifice his own freedom and happiness just to protect some boring, stiff, traditional appearance for the rest of the world. And, besides—Dick had caused more scandals by accident than Tim could ever start consciously. Anything Tim needed to feel comfortable wouldn't harm anything, and Bruce didn't want to see his children suffering just because they think it's what will make him happy.
It started with streaming—something Tim had held off on agreeing to because he was too fearful of the public's reaction—and recently moved into other areas of life he'd never really considered. Dick and Steph mostly were the ones to encourage his fashion exploration, as mild as it was. Usually it was pretty tame—wearing graphic tees for public appearances, attending galas in anything other than the standard black suit, starting streams in his pajamas—but there were times when his family introduced items like this for him to try.
The top slips on smoothly, the velvet brushing against his skin. Even though it's clearly Steph's and designed for someone with a bust, the square neck and tighter knit of the material clings to his lean figure well enough.
Glancing over his reflection, he tugs on the pants next. A gentle cream color, baggy, and rolled up at the hem. They're comfortable and thankfully from his own closet. He'd bought them on an impulse while indulging in childhood skater boy dreams, yet had only worn them a few times since. They sit higher up on his hips, exposing only a thin line of skin below the top when he moves.
Lastly, he holds up a jacket. It's a similar cream and also oversized, made of thick denim and with an assortment of pockets. The lining's soft and warm, good for chilly Gotham Octobers like these. He pulls it on, sleeves sticking half over his palms. Considering rolling them up, he decides to leave them for now. They'll keep his hands warm.
A few steps backwards, and he can properly see the whole of what Steph chose.
It looks… nice . He smooths down imaginary wrinkled on his pants, inhaling shallowly, exhaling as he continues to deliberate on a verdict.
It's...different from what he would pick, but it's nice. It's comfortable, and only pushing on the boundaries of Tim Wardrobe Plausibility slightly, so it's acceptable. Plus, the jacket provides practicality in the weather and allows him to easily cover up in the likely case of stabbing self consciousness.
Picking up his discarded sweats, he flicks off the light as he exits the room. When he re-enters the living room, Steph eagerly greets him with a gasp.
"Tim! You look great!" she exclaims brightly, eyes aglow. "How do you like it?"
The corners of his mouth tug up, and he tugs the lapels of his jacket sheepishly. "It's nice. Good job."
Steph climbs off the couch, walking over to fuss with Tim's outfit. Her hands smooth across the jacket, pulling the hem taut.
"You like it?"
He nods. "Yeah. It's a little different, but I think... it's good."
Steph's face softens—"Yeah?—before taking on a wolfish edge—"'Cause you look hot."
Tim snorts. " Sure . I don't think I've ever been that in my life."
He receives a wilting look in response. "Tim. Really."
"What?"
The manner in which Steph rolls her eyes is frankly overdramatic. "If you sold posters in your merch shop, teenagers would be kissing them nightly." She holds out her hands, motioning up his body. "You wear almost nothing but pajamas in the public eye and still get thirst edits tweeted at you hourly. People dm me to try to get you to notice them."
He frowns. "They really do that? That's so annoying. I'll tell them not to—"
Steph groans, performing what looks like a chop to the air in frustration. "That's so not the point!"
"Then what is?"
"You're hot and you should stop saying you aren't!" Still glaring, Steph pulls at her hoodie strings until only her face and a few wisps of trapped hair peek out. "Anyway, you can't argue that you aren't, because we dated, and you know that I'm not open to charity cases."
He can't help but snort, causing the corner of Steph's mouth to pull up.
"Okay, I'll surrender that point to you."
"Good." Her fingers latch around the scrunched edges of the hood, loosening it once again. "Hey, wait; what's this place you're going to? I don't think I even asked what you're gonna be wasting this look on."
Tim grabs his camera bag, picking it up from the oak side table adjacent to the armchair in the corner. "Oh, just another live music venue in the Bowery."
Steph whistles lowly. "The Bowery? You sure this isn't just an excuse to lure a skinny kid with a $5000 appliance and a fancy fucking lens to a shady little shack on the rough side of town?" Her brows furrow dubiously.
The armchair slides backward slightly, bumping the wall as he sits. He pulls open the bag, performing a cursory check of his equipment. "They looked sketchy at first, not having any pictures, but I asked around and they're legit. They just haven't been around long enough to get good shots, so they're looking to hire someone for it."
"Huh," Steph says, "is this gonna be a cool venue, or another weird, 1920s wannabe lounge environment?"
Tim shudders involuntarily at the mention of yet another past experience. He'd gotten out of that gig as soon as possible. "I don't think it'll be quite that bad, but I'm doubting it'll be all that contemporary. The guy that contacted me sounded like he's not a day over eighty." He zips the bag back up after checking off each required object, all neatly placed into separate pockets and compartments within the leather.
"Oh? Well, maybe he's a sexy octogenarian. Don't be ageist," Steph mock-scolds while simultaneously wiggling her brows.
Tim shakes his head, biting back the urge to gag. "No. He sounds more like one of the Wayne Ent. board members than anything. The way he signed off sounded just like them. First two initials, then last name. Who does that?" he questions, scrunching his nose.
Steph's disgust mirrors what he imagined his own to be. "What's this jerk's name, anyway?"
"I didn't recognize it," Tim starts, shouldering his zipped bag and pulling up his email, "so I doubt you will either."
Steph drums her lap ceremoniously. "Hit me with it so I can rip this stuffy capitalist a new one."
Tim laughs at that, because the guy's name really did sound like some robber baron if his memory serves him correctly; it's only fair to let Steph have a shot at him. He pauses, scrolling down to the bottom of the message. As expected, the name sits below an antiquated "cordially,"—part of what added to his suspicion this guy must be elevated in the age category in the first place. No one under the age of 65 closes an email with "cordially."
Finally—there it is. Initials and all. He nearly groans at the sight of it.
"J. P. Todd," he reads. "What kind of name is that?"