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Nothing good has ever come of a mass Arkham breakout.
Well, nothing good usually comes from normal breakouts either, but dealing with one or two villains is pretty straightforward when you have enough practice. Every villain has a protocol attached to them, making it relatively easy to predict what they're going to do. Joker will kidnap and torture random people he finds on the street and/or try to blow up a public building, all while doing his best to get Batman's attention because he is the worst possible type of obsessive gay. The Riddler is quite similar, but he likes trying to outsmart the Bats with elaborate traps and puzzles instead of just causing chaos. Ivy will hole up in Robinson Park, Harley will probably be with her, Two-Face will either band his henchmen together and try to start up drug shipments again (if he flips heads) or gang up with Riddler to make the Bats’ lives hell (if he flips tails).
(Honestly, Dent and Nygma have been teaming up often over the past few years, like they've built up some sort of friendship. Tim doesn't know much about personal relationships between the Rogues — beyond Ivy and Harley, and Harley and Joker in the past — but those two seem to get along pretty well.)
Case in point: the villains, solo or in duos, are not that difficult. Still psychotic and disgusting, but predictable. Having five villains break out in one night, however, is an absolute royal clusterfuck. And that's why Tim is stuck in one of the most unlikely situations of his life.
It's become a regular thing, somehow, for Red Robin to be the one dealing with Killer Croc. Tim has no idea why, and is frankly tired of it, but he's the one the Bats look to when Croc causes an incident. He's the one who has to traipse down to the sewers and do his best to beat a giant crocodile man into submission. It's always gross, and exhausting, and leaves him sore for weeks every time even if Croc doesn't give him a major injury. So when Croc is spotted fleeing Arkham along with Ivy, Harley, Professor Pyg and Victor Zsasz — a hellish combination if there ever was one — Tim doesn’t even wait for Bruce to give him the order. He just suppresses a sigh and heads to where Croc was caught on a traffic camera.
He ends up tracking Croc to a butchery, where he finds the display window smashed and a trail of chaos through the store to the giant freezers in the back. Looks like breaking out of Arkham is hungry work. Tim creeps toward the first freezer, which has had its door ripped off the hinges. He can hear the grisly sounds of frozen flesh tearing and bone cracking from inside. He sticks to the shadows, hoping Croc is too busy eating to notice him skulking around, and sneaks a peek inside the freezer.
When he sees the gory scene within, he winces. It's not the worst thing he's caught Croc doing — that dubious honor goes to the time Tim caught him gnawing at a spine he'd just ripped out of a fresh corpse — but seeing a whole sheep carcass get ripped apart by those fearsome teeth is far from pleasant. He makes sure Croc will be occupied for the next few minutes, then retreats to hide behind one of the overturned shelves in the main area of the butchery and come up with a plan.
He could try to trap Croc. His grapple line might be able to hold him, at least long enough for Tim to use the custom super-taser he recently designed for this exact purpose. He hasn't tested it yet, but it's made to knock even someone as massive as Croc out for a good few hours. That would be enough time for him to be put back in Arkham.
Alternatively, he could try fighting hand-to-hand. He would really rather not, though, especially in an enclosed space like this butchery. If he gets cornered, he might be dead. So experimental taser it is.
Tim is hearing more crunching from the freezer than he was before, as if Croc is finishing up with his meal and getting the last bit of flesh off the bones. He quickly disables his grappling gun, pulling the steel cable out and wrapping it loosely around his gloved hand. He's practiced this a few times before, with runaway zoo animals and, on one memorable occasion, Damian. He can throw the cable in a loop around Croc, like a lasso, hopefully restraining him long enough that Tim can get in with the taser before he frees himself. He waits until he hears heavy footsteps walking past his hiding spot, then strikes.
It starts off surprisingly well, actually. Not only does the grapple-lasso trick work, it sends Croc stumbling backwards into a wall, subsequently bringing it crashing down and partially burying him. Tim is about to step in with the taser when he feels something grab his ankle and pull sharply, making him fall to the floor, wedging one arm awkwardly beneath him and almost dropping the taser. When he twists to check, there's a thick vine coiling around his calf, with more quickly approaching.
Ivy has the worst timing.
Tim reaches for his utility belt—he doesn't quite know why, either for a knife to try cutting the vines or a preemptive antidote—but another tendril lashes out and pins his free arm to the floor. He tries pulling his other arm out from under his torso, but another vine creeps over his back and pushes him tightly to the hard floor. Now he's completely hog-tied, more vines piling on by the second, with Killer fucking Croc probably about to dig his way out of the collapsed wall and rip Tim apart. Awesome. Another Robin is going to die, Bruce is going to lose his mind, Jason is probably going to get himself killed a second time trying to kill Croc, everyone is going to be crazy—
His panicked train of thought is abruptly derailed by a roar and the sudden removal of the vines piled on top of him. Croc has indeed freed himself, and Tim is sure he's going to be dessert in the next few seconds, but instead of attacking Croc roars again, glaring at something behind Tim.
He scrambles upright, turning to find the source of Croc's rage, and sees Poison Ivy peering through the smashed window at the front of the butchery. Strangely, she seems torn between amusement and guilt. “Hey,” she calls, “I didn't know it was you in there, I promise. I'd give you the antidote but, uh,” she glances at the buildings behind her, “I'm kind of in a situation of my own, so I guess you should try to wait it out? Really, I wouldn't have used that pollen if I knew it was you two.” Ivy darts away, and Tim is left to figure out what she meant.
It takes him an embarrassingly long time to look around and see the reddish dust scattered around the room, covering everything from the torn and dead vines to Killer Croc's scales and Tim's own suit. “Fuck,” he says, then remembers that he's still technically engaged in combat and snaps his gaze back to Croc. He is absolutely fucked. He doesn't know which pollen Ivy's dosed them with, so he doesn't know what antidote to use, and fighting Croc is hard enough without the possible effects of Ivy's concoctions.
But Croc doesn't attack, despite his clear advantage. He simply appraises Tim, watching him back away. Tim isn't sure why he isn't being devoured right now, but he takes the opportunity to appraise the situation more carefully. Croc is between him and the door, and while Tim could try to escape through the new hole in the wall, it's definitely far enough away that Croc could get there before him, thus blocking both possible escape routes. Combat isn't going to work, Tim can already feel his brain getting foggy and his skin heating up. He has a dreadful suspicion about exactly which pollen Ivy subjected them to, but he desperately hopes he's wrong, because dealing with that is embarrassing enough without being stuck in an enclosed space with a villain.
Tim only sees one possible way of getting out of this, slim as the chances may be: diplomacy. He needs to reason with a hungry nine-foot crocodile man. Lovely.
“Hey,” he rasps. He tries to clear his throat, but it feels like it's clogged with dust, or maybe pollen. Not great. “Could I convince you not to kill me right now? I know I've been a pain in your ass, but—”
“Wasn't gon’ kill you anyway,” Croc rumbles. “You ain't done nothin’ wrong. It's your job to be a pain in my ass, I ain't gon’ blame you for following orders.”
“Oh,” Tim says. “Uh, okay. So, um, are you just going to leave? I'm not in any condition to fight you right now, and we both know Arkham couldn't hold you anyway. If you want to get out of Gotham, this is as good a time as any.” He doesn't know why he's giving escape advice to someone he's supposed to be taking into custody, but everything he says is true. With how fuzzy his mind is and how fast his heart is pounding, he doubts he could capture a comatose ten-year-old, never mind a full-strength Killer Croc.
“I ain't leavin’ either,” Croc says, which confuses Tim even more. “I don't know what Ivy got you with, but you shouldn't deal with it alone. I gotta get you somewhere the other Bats can find you.”
“No!” Tim blurts, suddenly panicking. “No, they can't—I'll be fine, you don't need to—”
Croc's face is hard to read, even for someone with Bat training, but he seems to narrow his eyes. He kneels down, scales making a soft scraping sound against the floor. “Kid, what'd she hit you with?”
“Both of us,” Tim answers. “It's all over you, too. And I'm pretty sure it's, uh. Well, I think it's the sexual one.” He winces as a sharp hot pain flares in his belly. “Yeah, definitely. I don't know what it'll do to you, but you really should leave. This won't kill me, or at least I don't think it will, but it'll last a good few hours and it won't be pretty.”
Croc makes a low rumbling noise in the back of his throat, like a cross between a growl and a purr. “You think I'd leave you alone and fuckin’ roofied durin’ a mass Arkham breakout? I know I'm one of your so-called villains, boy, but I ain't that kinda monster.” And before Tim could form a protest, Croc picked him up. Tim may or may not have squeaked in surprise as he was lifted bodily and cradled in massive scaly arms, his cheek pressed against a wide, rough chest. “What the fuck,” he whispers to himself, “what the actual fuck, I'm so dead—”
“I'm takin’ you someplace safe,” Croc interrupted. “It ain't perfect, but it's hidden. Ain't no one gon’ wander in off the street and find you drugged outta your mind.” He sets off in a smooth, steady gait, barely jostling Tim at all, and Tim would try to argue against the craziest offer he's ever been made but he's losing strength by the second and he feels like talking would take way too much energy.
Tim can't see much anymore, his eyes are watering profusely and the moisture is gathering behind the lenses of his mask. It stings sharply, and he brings the arm not squished against Croc's chest to press the invisible button on the side of the mask and bring the lenses down. He loses what little night vision they provided, but the irritating liquid is free to drip down over his mask and leave trails on his cheeks. The cool night air and now pitch-black darkness of their surroundings—seriously, Tim has no idea where they're going, and he should probably be more concerned about that—soothe his aching eyes and pounding head, and against all odds he drifts into unconsciousness.
▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎
Tim wakes slowly, his mouth dry and skin slick with sweat. I don't know where I am, he notes, and has a vague thought that he should be a lot more freaked out about that, but his head feels like it's full of gelatin. Every thought has to fight its way to the front of his mind, and he can barely register his surroundings. He sees concrete through hazy vision, bare grey walls and a metal door on the far side of the small room. He pushes himself up into a sitting position with weak arms, looks at the hard concrete floor and the pile of what looks like old blankets that he's been lying on.
Tim's still wearing his Red Robin suit, mask and all, but it feels sticky and gross. He raises a hand to release the hidden catches on the top half of the suit, wanting to rid himself of the heavy material, but he can't make his fingers move the way they should. After a few unsuccessful tries he slumps against the wall at his back, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the fact that he's a) incredibly horny and b) technically been kidnapped by Killer Croc.
Suddenly, there's a scraping noise from the opposite side of the room, and Tim's eyes snap open again. The door opens slowly, dragging against the floor with the rough screech of metal on stone, which does nothing to help his headache. Croc's massive, blurred figure stoops to get through the door. He's carrying something, a bag maybe, and he crosses the room to put it down next to Tim. It is a bag, made of rough cloth and tied with a drawstring. He looks up at Croc, nervous. He has questions, of course, but the idea of speaking seems impossible with his parched throat.
“It's water,” Croc says, answering the silent question. “Got it from a friend of mine. Figured you would need it.”
This makes perfect sense to Tim, and he goes for the drawstring, but his clumsy fingers can't quite untie it. He huffs and brings one of his gloved hands to his face, gripping the edge of the glove with his teeth and peeling it off. This time, he manages to hook his index finger in the knot and pull it loose. He reaches into the bag and comes up with a plastic bottle of water, the type you can buy for too high a price at most grocery stores. It's full, with the seal of the cap still intact. Once again, his hands fail him, so he brings the bottle to his mouth and bites down on the cap, twisting the bottle until it comes off. If he were in his right mind, he would be embarrassed about acting like this in front of a villain, but he's too focused on quenching his thirst to think about Croc watching him just a few feet away.
After chugging the entire bottle, Tim tips his head back and just breathes for a moment. His mind has cleared a little, and he's acutely aware of the hulking figure beside him. Once his heart rate calms down a little, he's had some time to think, and he speaks. “Why,” he rasps, then breaks off and clears his throat. “Why are you helping me?” he asks, turning his head to the side to look at Croc. He's just sitting there, leaning against the wall the same way Tim is, although his head nearly scrapes the ceiling. He seems relaxed, definitely not hostile, but Tim knows better than to trust that. “You could've killed me so easily,” Tim continues. “I thought you would. You have no reason not to.”
Croc does that rumbling thing he did earlier, a deep vibration that Tim can almost feel. “I don't kill people no more,” he states, which Tim knows is bullshit. “More than ten Arkham guards died in this breakout alone,” he retorts, “and you expect me to believe that you had nothing to do with that?”
“I didn't kill ‘em,” Croc replies, still calm. “Harley and Ivy orchestrated the breakout. They let Zsasz loose as a distraction. I used that distraction to get out of my cell and into the sewers. Didn't run into any guards.”
Tim considered this for a moment. “How'd Pyg get out?” he asks. “No idea,” Croc answers. “Maybe Zsasz let him out, maybe he used the distraction the same way I did. I know Harley and Ivy didn't plan for him, they hate that creep.”
“Sounds like you don't like him much, either.”
“Fucker kidnaps homeless people and turns ‘em into fuckin’ dolls for his own entertainment,” Croc growls. “If anyone likes him, they're just as bad.”
“You eat homeless people,” Tim snipes. “Can't see how that's any better.”
“I only ever ate people I knew were hurting others,” Croc refutes. “Thieves, dealers, traffickers, those types. I may be a monster, and you may think I have no fuckin’ morals, but I do. And I stick to ‘em.” He exhales slowly. “And besides, I ain't eating people no more either. Gave that shit up almost two years ago now.”
“Two years?” Tim replies incredulously. “You break out of Arkham every few months. I know because I'm the sorry bastard that has to take you back.”
“Arkham is hell, man, you bats know it is. I want to leave because I'm sick of being treated like a fuckin’ zoo animal and I'm really fuckin’ sick of listening to the Joker laugh at the voices in his head or whatever the fuck.” Croc seems pissed now, and Tim tries to scoot a little further away, but his legs feel like cooked spaghetti. And not good, hot spaghetti with sauce and meatballs either, but the pathetic gross bits that slip through the strainer and stick in the drain. “And when I’ve broken out over the past couple years, I ain't killed no one. I ain't eaten no one. I only come out of the sewers to get food from butchers, the way I did earlier.”
Now that Tim thinks about it, Croc really hasn't done much the last few times he's broken out. He's just kind of hung out in the sewers and, yeah, stolen from butchers. Huh. “Okay,” he says. “Uh, congrats, I guess? On quitting cannibalism, I mean.”
Croc huffs air out through his nose in what might be a laugh. “Thanks, kid.” He looks Tim up and down. “Has that stuff Ivy hit you with worn off yet? The Bats are runnin’ around like headless chickens.”
“Oh, fuck, yeah,” Tim exclaims, sitting up straighter and taking stock of his body. “Yeah, I think it's done,” he continues after a moment. The headache is still there, but he no longer feels feverish, and he doesn't have the urge to shove his hand down his pants anymore. Huzzah. “So, uh, what now? Do I just leave?” Are you going to let me leave? he adds silently.
Croc inclines his head. “Once you get outta this room, turn left and follow the hallway ‘til the end. There's a ladder that'll take you to one of the warehouses near Crime Alley.”
“Okay,” Tim replies, pushing himself up onto his feet. His legs are stiff, and he stumbles, but he's caught by a thick arm around his waist. He freezes, but the arm withdraws as soon as he's stable. “You sure you're okay?” Croc rumbles. “If you get killed on your way outta here, the other bats gon’ be on my ass for the rest of time.”
Tim laughs, then cuts himself off when he realizes what he's doing. “Yeah, no, I think I'm good,” he confirms, “I was just a little stiff. I'll, uh, I'll be going then.” He heads toward the door, Croc making no move to follow him. Pausing in the doorway, he looks back. “Thanks,” he said. “For helping me, I mean. There aren't a lot of people who would do that for someone who's supposed to be their enemy.”
“You ain't my enemy, kid,” Croc answers from where he's half-hidden in shadow. “You're just followin’ orders. Can't blame you.”
“Oh,” Tim says eloquently. “Okay. Uh, thanks anyway.” He's ashamed to admit it, but as he makes his way down the hall — which seems to be part of a larger tunnel system, he'll have to look into that once he has access to his computer — it's not so much exiting in a dignified manner as it is fleeing. As he climbs the ladder to the surface, right where Croc said it would be, he reflects on what he's learned.
Killer Croc could have very easily killed Tim when he was hit by the pollen. He could've just left him, too. But he took him somewhere safe, gave him water, made sure he was okay before letting him leave. Apparently, he isn't killing or eating people anymore, which used to be the only thing he really did, and despite their years spent fighting every time they met, he doesn't see Tim as an enemy.
All of this leaves Tim with more questions than answers, most prominently: Why? Why help him? Why let him leave? Why did he say Tim was “just following orders” and not really an enemy? Why does he think Tim fights him?
Why is someone Tim thought was more beast than human showing more decency than most of the people Tim has met?
As Tim hastens up a fire escape and onto a rooftop, he hears a deep, mechanized voice. “Hey, baby bird. Finally out of the croc's den?” He spins to see Jason, helmet on, leaning against an AC unit like he's been waiting for Tim. Maybe he has.
“You knew where I was?”
“Sure did,” Jason replies. “Who do you think gave Croc the water?”
“You're friends with Killer Croc? Since when?” Tim asks disbelievingly.
“He's a friend of a friend, and I owed him a favor. It isn't that big a deal, really.”
“Do you know why he helped me?”
Jason shrugs. “He likes you. Fuck knows why.” He straightens. “We gotta get you home, Timbit. B's been having kittens.”
Tim groans. “Fuck. Do they know where I was?”
“Well, I told them you were okay after Croc came to me, but they started bugging me like hell so I decided to mute my comms and do something less annoying. Didn't tell them who you were with, if that's what you're worried about.” He gestures down toward the street. “I've got a bike down there, I don't trust your ability to grapple right now. Ivy doesn't fuck around.”
Tim sighs. “Yeah, okay. Really not looking forward to this.”
“None of us ever have,” Jason sympathizes, starting back down the fire escape. “Now come on, baby bird, the sooner we get there the sooner I get to go to bed.” Tim snorts and follows him, still thinking about the way Croc carried him out of the butchery; the way he'd cradled him, almost like Tim was something precious. No one's ever treated Tim like that before. So why would Killer Croc?