5 Times Tim Drake Didn't Wear His Glasses + 1 Time He Was Forced To

by gniwn

Summary:

Tim Drake needed glasses ever since mandatory testing declared so when he was six. But what hero wears glasses?

Notes:

EDIT 7/19 i drew how i imagined tim in this story for his birthday! https://x.com/gniwni/status/1946490614255935606?s=46

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i got this idea a while ago and wrote it while quarantining with covid. enjoy.

whole thing is written i'll upload chapters daily when i get the chance

ALSO!!!! i have to note that while this is largely canon compliant i do change one major thing! rather than growing up in boarding schools before his parents kidnapping, he and his parents have lived in drake manor all along. this is important to note because in chapter two tim is friends with ives but not yet robin!

Chapter 1: Testing

They were ordered by last name, six long parallel lines of students standing in the corridor of one of Gotham's finest. Tim was near the front of the fourth, one of the many privileges which came with bearing the Drake name. Four vacant classrooms had become inhabited by vision specialists and their projectors and equipments, Tim had yet to see fully inside any of the rooms but he had captured glimpses of the dim areas when the doors opened for the classmates before him. He wasn't entirely sure what they were doing, much less how it could possibly be any more important than his studies (he was very close to proving himself worthy of moving up a grade, and he knew that would make his parents increase his allowance.)

"Next!" A voice called out from within the room as Melissa Cox stepped out of the room (Tim tried to make a habit of knowing who he went to school with.

The person in front of him (first name: Unknown, last name: Doyle) stepped into the room, allowing Tim the best look inside so far. There was a strange machine that resembled goggles and smudges of various density projected against the wall. Tim supposed those smudges would make sense as he drew nearer, a phenomenon which occurred often in class and prompted him to sit closer to the chalkboard and teacher's desk than the back of the class.

He then figured that this occurance may be linked to the testing last month, when the corralled groups of students by the half dozen into portable rooms and had them don headphones and indicate when they heard beeping. The whole thing confused Tim then (especially when he was the only one who rose his hand for beeps he was positive were there.)

Nevertheless, nothing ever came out of the hearing test so he determined it superlative or otherwise a waste of time and premptively considered this test to be the same. He was pretty sure there was nothing that machine could tell him that he didn't already know or have handled.

"Next!" Something Doyle exited the room, and Tim stepped in after him. One of the employees (doctors? nurses? volunteers? The name tag just said 'VISITOR') was wiping down the strange goggles with an alcohol wipe, his shirt tucked loosely into a pair of khakis.

"Timothy Drake?" A middle-aged woman asked from her seat. She had stringy brunette hair pulled into a ponytail that sat low on her head and bangs that covered her forehead and half of her eyebrows. A clipboard with a thick stack of papers clamped down sat in her hands

"Yes ma'am," he nodded, fidgeting with his cuticles.

"Perfect, my name is Mel, and we're going to be testing your vision today. If you could just have a seat right here," she gestured to the plastic chair sitting before the goggles, "we can get started."

Tim nodded once again and moved to take a seat as the male employee began fiddling with the projector.

"When you're ready, you can put your chin on the rest there," she pointed, "and press your forehead against that bar up there," she motioned once more. "If we need to adjust it to fit we can."

Continuing his streak, Tim nodded for the third time. He was really beginning to feel like a bobblehead.

"Comfortable?"

Realizing he couldn't nod against the contraption, Tim simply said "yes."

"Alright, my friend Jesse is getting set up in front of you. Your left eye is going to be covered, could you please read out the letters on the screen?"

"T Z C O L D P O F Z L P E D T C," Tim began confidently, then the letters began getting a little more difficult to determine. Mel must've sensed his growing difficulty, because she soon spoke up.

"If you can't read any more, just let me know," she said kindly.

With hands balled into fists on his lap, Tim admitted defeat, "they're too blurry."

"Okay," Mel jotted something down on her notepad, "we're going to try something else now, Jesse is going to show you some new letters and I'll mess around with the machine here. I'll give you two options and I want you to let me know which one you see better out of. If they look the same, let me know that as well."

Tim chewed a little on the inside of his cheek, unable to shake the prickly feeling of failure despite not truly knowing why or in what way he came up short. He dully wondered if the Doyle kid was able to read the whole chart.

Suddenly there was movement in the goggles.

"One," Mel asked, "or two," the lens switched again.

"Uhm, can I see one again?"

"Sure, one," the lens switched and stayed for a second, "or two."

"Two," Tim said confidently, hoping that was the end of it.

"Okay now two," the lens switched, "or three."

He bit back the disappointment and refocused on the chart, trying his hardest to determine which one made the letters more legible.

The process dragged on long enough for his bottom to grow sore in the chair and boredom to weigh heavily down on him. In the end, the only thing he had to show for the monumental waste of time was a piece of paper with numbers and letters filling a chart. Up top it was labeled as a prescription, Mel instructed him to hand the paper to his parents.

By the next month, large square glasses decorated Tim's young face.

Chapter 2: Accidents Happen

Seven years had passed since Tim first began wearing vision aides. He changed frames a few times, first switching from the durable pair small enough for a six-year-old's face to a more stylish pair then to metal frames that got him picked on for dorkiness, and finally back to plastic since he thought they were more comfortable anyway.

He owned up to the look better at this point, accepting the aides into his life and acclimating them into his style. It had come to the point where putting on the glasses in the morning became a habit rather than a reminder one of his parents gave him (or a housekeeper in their absence) before school.

Style was never something he took to heart, but hell if he didn't look a little fresh with them on. That was a sequence of words he would sooner be tortured and killed than ever speak into existence. He was introspective enough to know that was some corny ass shit, but it boosted his confidence nonetheless.

The only place he really ever got picked on for wearing them was at the skatepark, and he didn't take those words to heart really. None of the good skaters picked on him. Just overcompensating losers.

"Watch out!"

Tim's head jerked to the side just in time to see a fellow skateboarder careen into him, knocking him to the ground. Instict braced his fall well enough, curving to the side so that his double sleeved shoulder could take the brunt of the impact. Unfortunately, the residual force knocked his glasses right off his nose. The bounced once on the concrete before an inoppurtune scooter-rider sailed by. The frames snapped instantly beneath the first wheel.

"Shit," Tim cursed, looking at the corpse of his oculars with mournful eyes.

"Fuck little man, I'm so sorry," the other skateboarder, a guy in his twenties if Tim were to guess, apologized and with his board under arm extended his hand to help the younger up, "anything really hurt?"

Hands brushing off the smaller pebbles that stuck stubbornly to his jeans, Tim shook his head. A dull pain radiated in his shoulder, but it was likely just bruising. Still might make his nightly hobby a hell of a chore. Climbing buildings was hard enough in peak condition.

"My glasses, I guess," he mumbled, allowing the resentment to seep into his tone. The guy didn't really deserve the attitude, but his parents left for Peru only two days ago and wouldn't be back for weeks. Ergo, headaches and no vision for probably over a month. And he needed something to let his frustrations out on.

"I can pay for new ones bro, no biggie," grown ass man bent down to pick up the remains and hand them to Tim, "or tape would work to just like," he pushed together the severed pieces, "y'know?"

"Right. Thanks," Tim grabbed them and shoved them in his pocket before getting back onto his board. He was done with the skatepark today, may as well get something to eat.

Later that day, well into Gotham's desolate night, Tim discovered just how much he relied on his glasses. The blurriness was disorienting, he relied more on the colors of Robin and his knowledge of their patrol route to get his photos. Not a single one turned out any good, if he were to guess, and he packed it up hours earlier than usual. Which sucked, especially since recently he'd been noticing a strange tenseness between the Dynamic Duo. A progression he desperately wished to observe closely.

He fell asleep with disgruntled frustrations swirling in his mind, a mood which only inspired stressful dreams that proved utterly unrestful.

"Get contacts?" Ive nudged Tim's shoulder the next day at school.

Sighing with exasperation, Tim slammed his locker shut and leaned against it, "some guy knocked me off my board. Broke my glasses."

Ives let out a sound of sympathy, "have you ordered new ones yet?"

Tim exhaled sharply through his nose, "can't, my parents are in Peru for a little while."

"That sucks," Ives threw his arm over Tim's shoulder, "if you need to share notes let me know-- I've been told mine are very comprehensive."

"Thanks, Ives."

It was an offer Tim wound up taking his friend up on. He could hear well enough, but in the more technical classes, that wasn’t enough. There was a plethora of valuable information illustrating the chalkboard that was erased before he could make sense of more than an eighth of it.

Frankly, it was frustrating.

And what only made it worse was a phone call from his mother, who apologetically revealed their trip had been extended due to running into old college friends.

Cool. Whatever, wasn’t like he missed them or anything.

Finally, two months after they had left, Jack and Janet returned to their estate. It was late in the night when they returned (Tim was only glad he had access to their flight itinerary and could avoid his nightly adventures being figured out). And so, driven by weariness and jet lag, the elder Drakes did not notice their sons missing glasses until two days later.

“Timmy, aren’t you supposed to be wearing your glasses?” Janet had asked over breakfast.

Jack raised an eyebrow over where he was reading the daily news on his tablet.

“Oh, uh,” Tim scratched the back of his neck, “they kinda broke.”

“What?!” Jack set down his tablet on the table, “don’t tell me you got in a fight?”

“No! Someone just ran into me on their skateboard,” he was quick to amend, not revealing any more information than absolutely necessary.

“Damn teenagers,” Jack frowned deeply, an attitude which made Tim fortunate that he didn’t disclose the fact that he was also a skateboarder and the whole thing occurred at the skatepark.

“Are you okay,” Janet fretted, checking over Tim as if his injuries didn’t already have weeks to heal.

“I’m fine,” he sighed, “can you just order new ones before you leave again?” If he was chagrined, he let his voice show it.

Chapter 3: First Meetings

Notes:

this one is essentially a rewrite of the first few issues of a lonely place of dying but in tim's pov, even stealing most of the dialogue from the comics (tweaked a bit for modern times, since in the comics dick still used a typewriter)

Tim had new glasses for about a week before Robin became benched and the Joker escaped Arkham. At the time of their final patrol, Tim harbored no small clue that the photo he caught of Batman and Robin in animated discussion would be the last one ever depicting the latter.

Batman's absence in Gotham for the few weeks were he was on the Joker's tail were brutal. His parents were home and filled their house with petty arguments (a feat considering the daunting square footage of their manor) and without the ability to decompress via sneaking out and taking vigilante photographs, he grew irritated and mournful.

Such negative emotions were only exaserbated when Batman returned to Gotham without his Robin. The Joker was MIA and the Batman was a force to be feared by anyone.

His fights became gory and dangerous, and Tim felt fear unlike any he had known before. Once a splatter of blood even got on his glasses, despite his distance from combat. At his age, Tim knew he shouldn't be seeing such gruesome sights. Hell, a person of any age deserved to be spared from the intensity of an unwithheld Batman.

Without a Robin, Batman was unhinged and spiraling downhill. Tim, knowing what he did, couldn't bear to sit idly by and watch this spectacular trainwreck. Gotham needed Batman as Batman needed Robin.

So, he packed a small bag and scribbled down a bus route and directions to the Titans Tower, the apartment he shared with Kory Anders', and Grayson's city apartment (order of where Tim thought he'd most likely be). The trip would likely take more than one day. Luckily, his parents were in the Caribbean for the time being, and he had the freedom to do as he pleased so long as his grades reflected attendance and a perfect student. (Though, lately Tim wondered if his parents even checked his report cards anymore or if straight A's were a standard he held himself to in hopes of pleasing the backs of his parents.)

He swallowed down such an unfortunate train of thought and shoved a travel pack of deodorant in his bag before slinging it over his shoulder. To blend in with the crowd, he wore an inconspicuous outfit, hair gelled normally and shoes that wouldn't suggest his parents’ wealth. He caught his reflection in the mirror in the mudroom before leaving, and as a second thought, dropped his bag to replace his prescription glasses with a pair of his father's sunglasses. The layer of dust caked on top of them hinted that they wouldn't be sorely missed.

With the new accessory, he checked himself out in the mirror. They definitely made him look older than his regular glasses, hopefully this look would garner him more luck with re-recruiting Dick as Robin.

On that note, he picked up his bag and the skateboard beside the door then left the house without glancing back. He had a bus to catch.

By the time he arrived at the Titan's Tower location in New York City (following a very arduous bus route with layovers long enough for his body to ache in the uncomfortable stations) the sun was low in the sky and dusk was a soon promise. Which was good timing, the Titans should be debriefing around this time.

So, finding himself a good bush to occupy, Tim fished out his binoculars and began the search for Nightwing. The glass walls made this to be a promising endeavor, he could see Wonder Girl, Cyborg, Starfire, Jericho-- everyone except Nightwing.

Still, Tim decided to stake out the location until anyone who didn't reside full-time at the tower began to take the barge to mainland.

Nightwing never made an appearance.

Ansty, Tim pulled out the notepad with scribbled directions to Kory and Dicks' apartment. At this point, he was more than grateful for his decision to bring along his skateboard. The New York City sidewalks were well paved, though he did have a bit of trouble weaving through people. At one point, an angry man threw his coffee at Tim. Missing, of course, only wasting his money and littering the dirty city floor.

Undeterred, Tim rode all the way up to the glass door of Kory's building. He disembarked the board without missing a beat and easily tucked the board beneath his arm, walking into the building without any proffer that he might not belong there. The building was easy enough to navigate, and Tim had no trouble finding the elevators and deducing what floor the apartment he was looking for would be on.

The worst part was the growing impatience at the slow pace of the elevator, he nearly sprinted out as soon as the doors were wide enough for him to shimmy through. Tim pressed the doorbell outside of the apartment number he knew to be theirs.

"Hold on. I'll be right there," a feminine voice came from within. It took no detective to deduce who the voice belonged to.

Soon after, the door cracked open, revealing a woman with golden skin and hair wrapped up in a towel. Her sclera were a bright green with no iris or pupil discernible.

"Yes-?"

Tim interrupted her before he could get lost in her plentiful features, keeping his eyes sternly above the teal bathrobe she donned. Maybe he should have waited until the next day rather than interrupting her nightly routine.

"Kory Anders?" He choked out, "Starfire? You're one of the Titans." Okay Captain Obvious, get a hold of yourself, "I'd like to ask you about something," he managed to redirect after clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry but I really can't-"

"I'm looking for Di-" Shit, secret identity, "Nightwing," smooth, "I really need to find him." Then, since he was seeing that he was losing her, he tacked on, "it's urgent."

"Nightwing?" Her eyes widened in shock, eyebrows lifting, "why do you-"

"Is he here?" Tim interrupted yet again, "er- do you know where he is? I know he wasn't at your meeting today."

Kory withdrew, the hand that was planted on the door hovering over her in defense, "I'm sorry, I really shouldn't be discussing his personal matters." Damn. Dead end.

But then she continued,

"Nightwing left the Titans several weeks ago," that was new information, "but if you need our help-"

"No." Tim shook his head, he didn't need all the Titans in on Batmans emotional baggage, he didn't deserve an audience, "I need him," only Nightwing, who had lived under Batmans wing for so many years should be allowed to bear witness to his present display of incompetence, "nobody else."

And with that, he took off down the corridor, leaving Kory calling to his back.

"Wait! How did you know where I live?" He could hear her step out into the hall, "Who are you?"

He took the stairs this time, not wanting to waste any more time with that damned elevator, not while he was so close. Experience going down stairs on his board at home came in handy, cutting off precious seconds from the commute to Grayson's old apartment.

It was properly dusk by the time he arrived there, the city was beginning to wake up, and street lights dazzled the old infrastructure. If Tim were any less devoted to the detrimental task at hand he might've taken some time to take in the sights, maybe detour around Broadway or otherwise make the most of his impromptu trip.

But alas, he was there on a mission.

Breathing heavily through the exertion of skating at his maximum speed, Tim entered Grayson's building. He knew, through research prior to leaving Gotham, the apartment hadn't been lived in for months. There was no expectation of anyone answering the door when he knocked. Still, he waited 5 minutes with on-and-off knocking before picking the lock and entering for himself.

Inside the place was a mess, papers crumpled on the ground and desk, an overflowing trash bin, and a long-dead laptop. Tim was only grateful that there didn't appear to be any food waste within and the smell was only of stale wood rather than rot.

Gently, he closed the door behind him and kept his senses keen for any alarm systems. First things first-- check the desk. Grayson was a detective, he had to keep notes on his endeavors. Something, anything to hint at what his current objective was. The first stacks of paper proved fruitless. Nothing articles that probably even bored Grayson as he saw them. Rather than information, they gave Tim only a headache as he strained his eyes to make sense of the letters. Damned vision issues.

But he couldn't leave yet, not without looking a little harder.

Standing at the desk, Tim surveyed the apartment, scrutinizing everything. If he knew anything about Batman, he knew Grayson had to be keeping more secrets.

Eventually, his eye landed on exactly what he was looking for. On the floor before an unassuming stretch of wall was a path carved in the dust.

Smiling, Tim stepped towards it and searched the wall for purchase. It gave way quickly and opened to reveal a secret safe.

"Sick," Tim said to no one, but unable to keep himself together. He made quick work of approaching the safe, leaving the door half ajar.

He had two ways to approach this, one was to crack it (which he had never done before and was sure would be more difficult than the movies made seem) and the other was to guess the code. The latter seemed easier, Grayson was a sentimental man, and the code no doubt correlated to a date important to him.

It took Tim three tries before the date that Robin made his first appearance on the street elicited a click from the safe. Within was a scrapbook, probably the best thing Tim had stumbled across ever. The pages were filled with excerpts from Dick's life, before, during, and after Robin. With trembling hands, Tim took a few photos that he thought might help him in the coming days (absolutely no other selfish reason).

Then, he put the scrapbook back, closed the secret door, and exited the apartment as if he were never there.

Dismayed, Tim decided to find a hotel to stay at while he considered his next course of action.

It was easy enough to find somewhere to stay the night, pros of staying in a tourism-rich location.

Settled in a firm bed, Tim pulled out his phone and began idly scrolling.

Something on the news page caught his eye.

A headline which read:

END OF AMERICANA IN SIGHT?
LOCAL CIRCUS TO CLOSE AFTER SIXTY YEARS

Haly's!

Disappointment and excitement flourished within Tim in equal measures. The former at the loss of something which was so impactful on his childhood and so important to thousands across the country— but at least he now knew where to find Grayson.

Plan of action now: attend the next Haly's Circus performance.

The next day (following a near sleepless night in anticipation), Tim was sat in the audience of the big-top-tent with binoculars in hand. (He had arrived earlier in the day but was unable to find his person of interest).

The circus was alight with life, the smell of peanuts and popcorn permeated the grounds. It was an aroma that elicited a distinct sense of nostalgia even in those who didn’t grow up in the circus (or who had visited the circus only once and was sorely traumatized by that experience). Almost as frequent as the sound of clowns honking was children’s laughter and adults' wonder. It was a bitter pill to swallow to accept this source of escapism for so many was soon to be going out of business. But Tim had to have confidence in Grayson, knowing his passion and veracity the place would survive. One way or another.

In any case, he knew Grayson had to be there, somewhere in the audience. But none of the faces sparked recognition. There were people who matched Grayson's age and general build, but their varied disinterest in the show at hand betrayed their true identities. Still, he slowly scanned every last person, scrutinizing their features and still coming up blank. Dejected and massaging away a headache at his temples, Tim slumped down in his seat and decided he might as well watch the excitement before him.

Then, as two clowns began a bit on cycles, it struck him.

Grayson was experienced to hell at disguising himself. Whereas Tim was looking for "Dick Grayson", he could have been any person in there, most definitely not even in the audience at all. He wouldn’t have to hide his civilian identity here, so he was certainly dressed as something that belonged in the circus rather than anything inconspicuous.

With renewed vigor, Tim returned the binoculars to his eyes.

The roustabouts along the edge of the cirque were too tall, the vendors didn't betray any of Grayson's features-- and besides, after so many years away from Haly's, Grayson would probably want to be right in the thick of it.

So... the clowns?

As soon as Tim moved his newly focused attention to the clowns, a commotion began across the rink.

Horrified, Tim watched as the lion tamer was jumped by the magnificent creature, its muscles rippling with aggression as he made exceptionally light work of the well-built tamer. Nausea twisted in Tim’s stomach as Wilhelm's (his name was on the program) body was discarded in an utterly mangled position. The crowd gasped in disbelief, children’s confusion already pressing their parents for answers. A few screams of grief for the man they only ever watched cried out.

Even escaped from Gotham, Tim bore witness to tragedy.

Men with large tranquilizer guns missed their shot on the instantly rabid animal, Gurbel the lion was on the loose and it seemed no one could stop her. Not as she stalked above Wilhelm’s twitching body and moved without prediction. As confident as Tim was in his safety tucked so far away, his calves traitorously trembled with fear.

Through the binoculars, Tim could see the blur of blood around his throat and was selfishly grateful for his lack of divisive vision.

Then a clown leaped onto the bars, yellow wig of curly hair falling off to reveal a deep black head of hair. A red clown nose adorned his face, even still Tim would recognize the jump between trapeze anywhere. Just as he recognized it on the television all those years ago

That was him-- that was Dick Grayson.

Awe-struck, Tim watched as he flew a net atop Gurbel before rolling off onto the ground and calling for people to stake the restrains.

As soon as the imminent threat dispersed, more damning news became apparent.

Wilhelm was dead.

Haly's was ruined.

And not for the last time, (also somehow not the first at Haly’s specifically) Tim had a front row seat to the horrors of reality.

Frowning, he used the excitement around him to slip out of the big tent and deeper into the circus. He needed to catch Grayson-- needed to plead his case. He was so close, he couldn't miss this opportunity.

So, Tim sought refuge in a lesser-traversed area of the grounds. Tucked between trash bins, he resigned himself to waiting until an opportunity arose to seek out Grayson.

Silent as possible, Tim hid. He barely had enough courage to poke his head out and check the legs of passersby, hoping any of them resembled Grayson’s. Conversation came and went, mainly discussing the horrors of the earlier show. Nothing notable, not until a clown mentioned something that made Tim's ear perk up. A suspicion that the lion was doped.

While Grayson was occupied with other matters (and he himself bored out of his mind), Tim may as well make himself useful. Even he doubted the lion would attack without any instigation. Call him naïve, but he considered all animals to be generally peaceful. Regardless of predator status.

With this suspicion, Tim began eavesdropping with more intent. A rivalry between a deadbeat clown and the lion tamer began to paint a gruesome picture. Assuming the worst of the drunkard clown's character, Tim began digging through the trash in search of his flask. He found it lying atop discarded makeup palettes and ribbon. Quickly, he slipped it into his bag.

"Hey, you!" Crap. Tim held his breath and made himself as small as possible, hoping perchance the callout was for something other than himself, "you don't belong here. Get out of there!"

Nope, definitely for him.

Looking up from his hiding place, Tim caught sight of two sanitation workers beginning to empty trash bins into the large dumpster. He had to time this perfectly.

In a quick motion, Tim leaped up and pushed the trash bin into the men's faces.

"Sorry, I can't leave," he amended, not expecting forgiveness for ruining the old men's nights. The greater good, he told himself, "I've got things to do." And then them as well.

"What in hell-?"

"Joey! Stop him before-"

Tim vaulted over (allegedly) Joey's back as the other man barked the order, “sorry, it's already too late."

He quickly had to find a new hiding spot, a better one if alarms were now raised of an outsider on the grounds.

"Woah there," a hand grabbed his jacket, halting him abruptly, "I don't know who you are, kid-"

Think fast.

"You're not going to find out either," using the unknown assailant's momentum, Tim flipped him over. Unfortunately, it backfired. The other person repeated the trick, and before Tim could form another thought, the wind was knocked out of him as he landed on his back.

"Okay kid- I think we should talk," the man pulled him up by the front of his shirt, fist flexed at his side. Tim blinked a few times, willing his sights to return to him. Squinting, he recognized the attacker despite his difficulty seeing.

And, damnit. He called him kid. Tim may as well have worn his glasses if his youth was going to be so quickly outed.

"Oh, thank God- it's you!" His face brightened, heart picking up with success, "Dick, I've been digging up proof," Tim spoke quickly, the aggression in Dick's face a truly frightening sight, "I think the old clown murdered the lion tamer!"

Maybe, just maybe helping Grayson save his childhood home would build enough trust for him to come back to Gotham, for him to save Batman despite their recent differences.

It was a hope Tim had to hold on to.

Chapter 4: Attacks Also Happen

Notes:

much like the last chapter this one is just a rewrite but of jasons attack on titans tower, the next two chapters are original though!

Tim never ended up revealing his visual impairment to Dick. Or Bruce, for that matter. He was thrust so quickly into the ferocious need to be Robin that anything which may have inhibited his likelihood of picking up the mantle was forced down and away.

Then his parents were kidnapped.

And his mom died.

And his dad was comatose.

And everything happened so quickly after that, his identities forged so separately that glasses became solely a Tim Drake thing. Robin didn't need glasses, and Bruce didn't need to worry about whether or not he was sending out a kid who would be able to see an ambush three feet ahead of him.

The chasm between Tim Drake and Robin only grew as he fleshed out the latter identity, forging it in his own image. Years came and went, he built relationships and lost people as both identities. Grief became a nearly insurmountable obstacle, and he surely would have succumbed to his woes if it weren't for the friends, the family he'd found along the way. Dick grew to be a good confidant. Someone who understood best the situation he was in under Batman's care. He liked visiting Blüdhaven, and Dick had good advice and anecdotes.

Eventually, he joined a team, and his responsibilities grew. But more than anything, the tower became a safe place for him. At night, when his teammates went to their own homes or retreated to their rooms, Tim took advantage of the opportunity to research and sleuth. He was comfortable enough in the high-tech building to place his old glasses over his mask. He learned quickly that reading so late into the night was impossible without either a lethal amount of painkillers or his glasses. So, he picked the lesser of two evils and conceded to allowing Tim Drake's weakness become Robin's only under the cape of night.

Martian Manhunter was missing, Robin was looking out one of the vast windows overlooking the bay. He was debriefing with Batman, an old habit he always picked up during moments of intensity and helplessness. A crutch of sorts.

"It's okay, I'll ask Cyborg for a ride home," the conversation was wrapping up, not in the way Robin would most prefer. He adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose, grateful for the pristine view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the glisten of moonshine atop choppy midnight waves, "good luck," he bid farewell to his mentor before slipping his phone into his bag.

"Hey, Tim."

Adrenaline shot through his body in an instant, he assumed defensive position and whipped himself to face the source of the unfamiliar gravelly voice.

"I was here first," Red Hood, in buckled boots snug around his calf and combat pants tucked neatly into them, stood before him. The outside moon shone through the window and illuminated him from the back, providing an intense ambience to his toned body. Tim- no- Robin clenched his gloved fists, unable to resist his jaw dropping as he took in the daunting man.

"You're the Red Hood," he steeled himself, holding his bō staff across his body, "you've been cleaning up Gotham,” Robin didn’t know why he was here; hopefully stalling would give him enough information to seize control over the confrontation, “the easy way."

"Easy? What do you know about easy, Tim?" Robin clenched his jaw, resenting the glasses on his face as his kept Red Hood in his sights, "you had a father that looked after you. You went to private school, right? You slept in a bed."

Robin wasn't sure what he was expecting when he first went toe-to-toe with the notorious man that Batman was so insistent on keeping him away from, but it certainly wasn't a lecture on all the privileges which came with the Drake name.

"I slept on the streets. I lived in the alleyways in Gotham," he pulled off the red helmet, revealing a mess of black hair atop of a domino mask. A little bit of overkill wearing a domino under a helmet, but Robin supposed he shouldn't judge the hand about to slap him. Or punch him. Or maybe beat him to a bloody pulp. (Maybe he should actually slap the hand while he still had the chance to).

"Until Bruce took me in," he grabbed at the white blouse covering his torso, ripping it off to reveal...

Oh brother.

Robin missed the next part of the Red Hood's monologue as the (quite frankly comical) sight of a grown man in a custom-made (and designed) Robin suit met his eyes.

"Show me, Tim. Show me what you have that I don't." And with that, he leaped at Robin, who barely had the presence of mind to counter.

Quickly, he launched into defensive protocol, throwing a smokeball to hide his retaliation behind. Red Hood— Robin Sr.?— blocked his every hit, not done monologuing. In that regard, he was like any other villain Robin had faced thus far. Always something on their mind, and therefore never a threat. Not until they ran out of words.

He did have to admit, however, it was jarring for a villain to lecture him on the manners of Tim. It felt wrong mixing the two identities into one person, the faults doubled and ridicule maximized. Robin was so distracted by the frivolous discussion of secret identities while in masks, that he fully accepted a punch square to his face. His glasses shattered upon impact and fell helplessly to the ground. Red Hood stepped on them, twisting the mangled frames beneath his feet as he practically growled at Tim.

"Do you even realize how much the kids I knew would have killed for glasses?" He snarled, as if Tim's glasses had personally wronged him, "and you don't even wear them," he kicked the debris aside and resumed the attack. Robin had the courtesy to feel a little guilty at that, if not a little confused as to how Red Hood even knew that small tidbit. Christ, how obsessive was this guy? You’d think a person would be able to come back from the dead with a little more class.

"You were so pleased with yourself, I'm sure," he resumed his monologue of Tim's incompetence in vigilante matters, "that you forgot who you were really dealing with."

Robin lept away from the smoke-filled rooms, exertion weighing on his limbs and his lungs growing tired of the unclean air. He flipped down to a lower level of the tower.

"I know Bruce Wayne," Red Hood called before following Robin away from their previous point of combat, "and let me tell you, Tim."

The hallway they found themselves in now was darker, more peaceful. Robin's chest heaved as he caught his breath.

"If someone was trying to find out who Batman really was," Red Hood continued, completely unaffected by the first leg of their clash, "if someone was trailing him for weeks," he spat, saliva splattering the floor right in front of Robin, "he'd know about it."

He took a step closer, leaning his entire body into a punch, "you can't be that good."

Sensing it, Tim ducked out of the way before his fist could connect. Red Hood was strong. Robin didn't want to take any more hits; he was sure his nose was already broken.

"I am," Robin declared, returning Red Hood's advancements with a punch on his nose. A resounding krak sounded, and he considered themselves even on facial hits.

"He let you find him!" Red Hood roared, throwing Robin into a nearby vase large enough to house a tree. So much for being even, "and I bet he said the same thing to you that he said to me, didn't he?"

Pain rang in his ears, his shoulder aching from where he took the brunt of the breakage. The porcelain (or maybe stone? Something grey and painful) had shattered around him, not breaking skin but certainly leaving a stunning array of bruising for him to eye in the future. Good thing he didn’t have parents to lie to anymore.

"That you had the talent to make a difference in Gotham," the attacks still didn't cease, and despite his disorientation, Robin had to continue dodging. Fortunately, his years of fighting without glasses built up a certain skill in evading maneuvers while blind-sighted, "that he needed someone he could trust in his war on crime."

At this point Robin fully considered Red Hood delusional.

"The light to his darkness."

His moves were becoming more sporadic, dangerous and heavy hitting. Robin wouldn't be able to hold his own for long.

"Robin, the Boy Wonder."

He tried to block Red Hood's advancements with his staff, only to have it ripped from his hands and cracked against his jaw. Robin spat blood, his head spinning atop his neck.

"Now..." Red Hood continued, standing over Robin as he fell to the ground, curling over his injuries, "let me show you what the Joker did to me."

Robin coughed, spitting blood. He didn't believe Jason was going to kill him. Not really. Not fully. (Maybe a slight fear, or rather unsureness of if he would be kept alive).

"And let's find out how tough you really are."

Disregarding Robin’s weakened state, Red Hood continued his attack. Lifting Robin by the cape, he landed a kick square in his gut-- forcing him through the nearest door. Unable to counter, Robin careened past the door, breaking the hinges with his unstoppable force.

Statues now surrounded them, the ones for the fallen, a fact which Red Hood read out. A small part of Robin was grateful for the narration, he might not have guessed that was where they were located otherwise.

Robin began pushing himself back up, barely getting to his feet as Red Hood's temper broke again.

"I was a Titan, too!" he roared, smashing the statue nearest to him with Robin's bō staff. Stone Wonder Girl crumbled to bits.

"What do you want?" Robin choked, "do you want to be Robin again? Is that it?" He wiped blood from his chin, "you," he coughed, "want to take it away from me?"

Red Hood's face hardened, "why in the hell would I ever want that?" Perfect, monologing again. That was exactly what Robin needed to plan his next move, "don't you get it? When I died no one cared!" His voice quieted, "No one remembered me."

Robin pulled himself upright, running toward a statue, "are you-" he choked on his spit (well, more blood than mucous), "completely insane?" He launched himself into the air, arching over the room, "no one could forget you! I spent my career wearing the mask under your shadow."

He landed on the staff Red Hood was wielding, "I had to convince Batman to let me try this," all things considered, he kind of appreciated the oppurtunity to vent thoughts he couldn't speak to anyone else, and if Red Hood got to use him for free therapy it was only fair, "all because he'll never stop blaming himself for what happened to you," to punctuate his intent. Robin brought his knee up to Red Hood's chin.

"You ask me that's the only reason he hasn't taken you down," Robin caught a glimpse of the upper-hand, and he grasped for it, "he's holding back, but me?"

With bō staff back in his possession, Robin gripped one of Red Hood's arms to hold it in place, "no freakin' way," he swung the staff across Red Hood's cheek.

"That's the Robin I wanted to see," Red Hood smiled, throwing up dust into the air from where he was floored. Robin stepped back, hand coming up to protect his eyes. Seriously, did it always have to be vision stuff?

"Still, you do realize the whole idea of training a teenager to fight against something he'll never eradicate is a mistake."

And bye-bye upper hand.

Blinded by dust, Robin had no defense for when Red Hood surged forward and grabbed his wrist, effectively flinging him to the ground.

"It didn't surprise anyone when I died," he kicked the back of Robin's head, "when I failed."

"I failed," humor tainted his tone as he chuckled darkly at a joke Robin wasn't keyed in on, "but I'm still beating you."

Ah, so the joke was him. Bravo. If Robin didn't currently have a broken nose, bruised ribs, and a fatally wounded ego; then he might laugh alongside his predecessor.

"Do you think you're that good now?!" Red Hood threw another damning punch, "do you really, Tim?"

And Robin knew just the thing to improve Red Hood's joke.

"Yes," it was weak and his body was motionless on the ground, but the delivery mattered not. He said it and he knew he won with it.

Maybe not total victory, since Red Hood then ripped off the R of his uniform and delivered a final blow to his head, but psychologically Robin-- Tim came out on top.

Chapter 5: Oops

Notes:

okay i might've lied about having the whole thing written the last chapter isn't done yet and might not be posted for a few days. also welcome to the point in this story where dc starts sounding a little more like 'disregard canon'

"Looks like," Red Robin squinted his eyes, the whites of his cowl turning into slits in his effort to make sense of the mass of movement down on the docks, "three goons," he spoke hesitantly. It had been years since Jason attacked him at Titan's Tower. That marked the last time Robin wore his glasses. If noticed, Red Hood never mentioned it. Tim figured he wanted to forget that night as much as he did, bygones be bygones and whatnot.

Tim wasn't against Jason's redemption, he could empathize with Jason's angst and knew he wasn't fully in his right mind at the time. Besides, the actions he had taken since that ill-fated night proved himself well enough. And Tim always had warm memories of Jason's tenure as Robin to rely on. Besides, so much had happened since then, it just seemed stupid to dwell on it.

"Sounds like you need to get your eyes checked lil Red," Nightwing chided from beside him, lightly knocking his shoulder.

"It's dark," Red Robin mumbled as an excuse, looking to the side in irritation.

He, Nightwing, and Red Hood were on the docks. The co-op mission was brought on only by three simultaneous cases converging at one point-- Red Hood was following a new drug plaguing Crime Alley, Nightwing was fighting against a new gang trying to take root in Blüdhaven, and Tim had picked up word on a new-age cult beginning to take sacrifices from upper Gotham.

Who would've thunk that the new drug was produced using the byproduct of rituals harvesting the souls of the privileged to some multidimensional being for grants of power and wealth, which were being used to undermine the historical gangs of Blüdhaven despite being based in Gotham?

So there the three of them were, on the docks, since everything happened on the docks. Even cult sacrifices. And especially drug smuggling.

Shots rang out from below, jolting both men to attention.

"Red Hood, report," Nightwing spoke into his communicator, all business.

"I'll tell you what," Red Hood gritted, the sound of knuckles against solid men filling the comms, "there's a hell of a lot more than 'three goons' down here."

Nightwing glared at Red Robin for a second, "need backup?"

"If it's no biggie," sarcasm laced Red Hood's voice as he grunted from the force of a blow.

"Keep watch up here R.R," Nightwing instructed before vaulting off the roof.

Tim sighed and rubbed his betraying eyes.

As Nightwing joined the fray, there were very obviously more than just three. And they were certainly more than just goons.

Well, that sucks.

"You have to be shitting me," Jason threw his helmet off as he entered the bat cave. It chipped the stone upon initial impact before loudly clattering a few paces. He was only there upon Dick’s insistence that he should get his injuries checked and the need to debrief on the shit-show they all endured.

"Calm down, Jason," Dick placed a hand on his brother's tense shoulder.

Tim practically felt himself wince as the absolute worst thing ever to say to Jason was said. Personally, he considered Jason's outburst well-placed. Hell, Tim was pissed at himself for losing the best lead he had on the cult. Now that they knew a bat was on their tail, it was going to be at least 50 times more difficult to sniff them out. He was sure his pseudo-brothers' individual pursuits would be similarly intensified.

"Calm down?!" Jason ducked away from Dick's touch, "do you even know what that drug does? Have you seen the walking-fucking-dead it makes?"

Dick opened his mouth, but Jason refused to let him get a word in, "and how many kids are doing to lose their parents- hell, how many kids are doing to die because dipshit number three can't admit that he needs fucking glasses?!"

The air vacuumed out of the cave as four pairs of eyes landed on Tim's back as he retreated to the locker where he kept his civvies.

"What?" Batman- no, this was Bruce-'s voice vibrated. Tim slowly turned around, a sheepish expression on his face as he shrugged.

"You're kidding me, right?" Jason blinked, "how many years have you known this kid?"

Dick looked down at his fingers as he started counting, while Bruce looked upward in thought.

"Nope- no, never mind, I don't want to see that. I'm done, I'm out of here- you guys can debrief without me, use my damn helmet cams or something to fill in the blanks, but if I look at your faces for five more seconds I'm gonna hurl."

And with that vibrant declaration, Jason mounted his bike and peeled out of the cave, leaving his helmet for 'filling in the blanks' of a mission everyone was already bitterly aware of how sorely it went wrong.

"Glasses, Tim?" Dick was the first to break the silence after Jason's loud exit, "and you knew?"

Tim sighed heavily, feeling the lie almost a decade old begin to crumble around him.

"I mean-" he turned to face Dick, catching Bruce's stone face and Damian's shit-eating expression in his peripheral, "it just never came up, I guess."

"Never came up?" Dick repeated, aghast, "how long have you needed glasses?"

Tim adverted his gaze, pouting out his lips, "sinceifailedthevisiontestwheniwassix."

"SIX? YEARS OLD?" Dick cried out as if he were the one who had been dealing with migraines and blurry visions while suited up for years.

"I didn't want you to think I was a dork when I first met you!" Tim attempted to amend, but a thirteen-year-old's reasoning did not hold up to the test of time. Retrospectively, why didn't he just wear the damn spectacles and save himself from all the bullshit that came after that decision?

"I suppose you can not be trusted to set up your own optometrist appointment, Master Tim?" Alfred asked, poised at the foot of the stairs.

"Oh c'mon," he groaned, "I can handle it."

"Tim, you gave false intel tonight because of your inability to see an entire warehouse teeming with people," Dick was back in business mode, "that's dangerous, you've been putting yourself and everyone in danger everytime you go on the field less than 100."

With every word, Tim could see Damian's face grow even more amused. Little shit was probably going to dream about this confrontation for weeks. Maybe illustrate it and mail it to Tim as a ha'ha. (Admittedly, Tim was impressed by Damian's artistic endeavors and wouldn't exactly hate receiving such.)

"Very well, I will forward your appointment information to your email, Master Tim," Alfred turned to make his exit before looking over his shoulder, "and to ensure attendance, expect a chauffeur."

It was no less than a week later that he was sat in the back of an inconspicuous SUV traveling at a very safe speed toward the nearest Wayne-Industries-subsidized Optometrist.

Alfred must have been very particular with who he tasked with chauffering Tim because the man (a middle-to-upper aged gentleman with a signifant amount of muscle bulking his biceps, triceps, quadriceps, and thick enough pectorals to look like he was perpetually wearing a corset) did not leave Tim's side until he was led into a dim room by the doctor.

At which point he was only turned away by the doctor herself.

"Good afternoon Mr. Wayne-"

"Just Tim is fine," he interrupted, looking around the small location. It was unassuming enough, despite the white-ish tile in the waiting room in here the floor was carpeted in a square pattern. The color was a middle-toned grey with a few threads of color accentuating it. The same device (albeit a bit more compact and sleek) from when Tim was six sat as the focal point of the room.

"Tim," she amended with a smile, "my name is Dr. Prescott," she tapped her name tag, "what brings you in today?"

My adopted father's butler made an appointment for me after I, a moonlight vigilante, got my dead-and-reincarnated-almost-killed-me-one-time psuedo-brother ambushed during what was supposed to be an intel gathering session with take-out and no letters home because I didn't have on my glasses.

"I need a vision test and new glasses."

"That's easy enough," she sat on an office chair and clicked through a few things on her computer, "says here you have a history of glasses, do you have your old pair with you today?"

Tim scratched the back of his head, recalling the poor fate of his previous pair of glasses.

"Ehh, they broke," he shortened.

"No problem, if you could have a seat there, we can get right to it."

The whole ordeal was no less tedious than when he sat through it the first time.

By the end of it, Tim just wanted out of there. He was a busy man, there were at least fifty far more important things he could be doing with his time were he not body-guarded to stay in the room by a Bane-esque Alfred variant. So, to make his sentence there shorter, he agreed to absolutely everything the doctor said. Every little expensive addition to his glasses. She could have asked him for 500,000 dollars right out of his pocket and he probably would have coughed it up just to leave.

But she didn't, and by the end of the whole ordeal he had a new prescription and an order placed for maxxed-out lenses inside good-enough looking frames.

Chapter 6: He Had It Handled

The new glasses were bullshit.

Tim wasn't sure why they made him so dizzy, but as soon as he first tried on the mail-delivered pair he nearly fell back.

The world was so clear. Pristine and sharp and every time he moved his head a strange sort of visual dissonance occurred. Maybe it was because he went so long without glasses? Or the lenses were warped? Tim really didn't have the time to care deeply about it. So he took them off, put them back in their case, and set them aside. Blurry vision was easier to deal with than that nauseating experience.

So, that would be the last of that.

Until later that very same night.

It was Thursday, family dinner night at the Wayne Manor. A generally sacred occurrence, and it would be Cass's first one since her gallivant overseas. Tim had missed the previous weeks one (on account of it being the day after the bust-gone-wrong and in lieu of Cass, Stephanie and Duke's absences for their respective responsibilities).

So, despite the unresolved tensions from his previous presence at the cave, Tim left his apartment no later than 3:30 to make his way toward the architectural pillar of the Bat-Family. He chose to drive his car rather than bike this time, his balance still a little off-kilter from trying on the glasses earlier. Seriously what was wrong with those things?

When he arrived he could see Jason and Dick's bikes already in the driveway, which gave no indicator on how many people where in attendance yet. Their kind had a variety of unconventional means of transport. Still, he hadn't talked to Jason since the guy stormed out of the cave, and he'd only run into Dick once when he trailed someone into Blüdhaven a few days back.

He just hoped nothing came of tonight.

As soon as he stepped up the stairs adorning the front porch, the large wooden door swung open. Standing in the way was Alfred, prim and proper as he greeted, "Master Tim," with a warm smile.

"Hey Alf," Tim returned the smile, wiping off his shoes before stepping in.

"Have you not yet received your glasses in the mail?" Alfred questioned, "I do believe they were expected to be delivered by this evening."

"Must've just missed them," Tim masterfully lied, slipping easily back into the habit, "who's all here?"

"You are the last to arrive. Masters Bruce, Dick, Jason, Stephanie, Cassandra, Duke, and Damian are already in the game room. Perhaps if you make haste, you'll arrive in time for the next dealing."

Ah, a card game. Genius way to redirect turbulence within the family by generating a harmless kind.

Giving Alfred a two-fingered salute, Tim hurried to the aforementioned room.

"About time!" Duke was the first to notice his presence, standing up and greeting him with a half-hug handshake.

"Traffic," Tim sighed his truthful excuse, walking over to the table. He took a seat between Cass and Duke, ignoring Jason (who was ignoring him).

"So, what's on the table?"

Bruce opened his mouth to respond, only for a painfully familiar alarm to begin blaring.

A collective groan sounded from the table.

A breakout.

"Everyone, cave," Batman chipped, standing up and leaving the table.

"Welcome back, Cass," he smiled wryly, nudging her. She returned the gesture as everyone got to their feet.

Although no longer working exclusively out of the cave, Tim still kept a Red Robin suit in the uniform closet at the manor, an abundance of preparation that had been hammered into him through years of training under the Bat.

So it was routine that took him to the sub-level and his particular locker while Batman briefed them on the situation.

No big names, as far as they knew, but bad guys who could definitely carry their weight.

They were to split into pairs: Bruce and Damian, Dick and Jason, Cass and Steph, and Tim and Duke. Each of them had been assigned blocks to clear. With enough luck, they should be able to wrangle all the escapees in time for pie. As a figure of speech rather than literal-- though it might be worth a shot to ask Alfred about having pie... Maybe.

With his mind occupied by thoughts of dessert and villains, Tim slipped on his cowl, only to be completely blindsided by the sudden clarity of the world.

"What the hell?" He blinked multiple times, already feeling the tight disorientation well in his chest.

Cassandra gave him a questioning glance before pulling on her own cowl.

"My lenses, something's wrong with it," Tim explained, squeezing his eyes shut before reopening them in hopes of the world suddenly deciding to right itself. As was to be expected, it did no change.

"Ah, Master Tim, that would be your proper prescription. It was made readily available on your medical documents, so Master Bruce took it upon himself to implement it into your suit, lest we have a repeat of the previous week."

Damian snorted.

Tim silently accepted his fate, cursing every decision which led to this predicament as well as every conceivable higher being. A little scapegoating never hurt anybody (lie).

So, in the spirit of continuing his mistakes, Tim told no one of his tizzy and instead discovered the dizziness could be minimized by keeping one eye closed and squinting the other. Was this the smartest move? No. Was it the best he could do in this time of direness and urgency? Well, also no.

But he really didn’t want to bring his competence into question again, not while half of them were already out the door and Duke was waiting on him expectantly.

Taking a deep breath, Tim was off.

And all things considered, he managed well enough.

With the one-eye-open trick, he and Signal fell into an easy routine to pick off the escapees in their assigned zone. It helped significantly that his partner assumed the lead, directing Red Robin so he didn't have to apply too much brain power to his already aching head.

Easy-peasy, business as usual. Was Red Robin dizzy? Yes. Was it slowly becoming more difficult to handle? Also yes. But it was soon apparent that the escape was without coordination, likely just an unplanned slip-up by one of the guards. Definitely more dangerous than putting your shoes on backwards, but Red Robin couldn't throw stones from the glasshouse he was currently residing in.

"That's the last of them," Signal's voice spoke through comms. He was slightly breathless but not overly fatigued, and no audible injury. Smooth sailing night, "we're wrapping up."

"Yup, us too."

That was Nightwing joining in on their conversation.

"Already changing out!" Steph added, and judging by the acoustics coming from her audio she was in the cave and truthful to the words she spoke. To further corroborate her story, the soft clicking of her communicator disconnecting sounded out.

And they all probably would have gotten home before the next day if Red Robin didn't just barely mess up his next swing, resulting in a brief loss of balance and a very strong rush of adrenaline.

"Red, are you good?" That was Signal again.

"Yeah, fine," Red Robin was quick to assure, swallowing against vertigo as he forced himself to look down in Signal's direction.

"You're not hiding an injury or something, right?"

"What's happening?" Nightwing interrupted. Curse family lines.

"Noth-"

"Red nearly just ate shit from fifty miles up."

Okay, not true.

"Tim?"

"God, what's even the point of-" having a secret identity would have been the next words out of his mouth if a solid stone building didn't steal them from his lips.

A colossal SMACK rang out in Tim's ears as the impact ricocheted throughout his entire body. Every muscle in his body tensed at the sudden shock, his air stolen from his lungs.

He could hear mumbled voices, panic-stricken and confused, but nothing was louder than the ringing and certainly not the wind.

Which, right. Building. Smack. Side of. More than a few stories up. Falling.

There was a certain weightlessness that came with falling once you forgot to fear it. The gentle lift of your insides as you went down. With both eyes stuck wide open, Tim could see the city in a rush around him. Lights a blur from speed, people like insects, all the overused cliches.

He was about halfway down (and nearly fully in acceptance of his untimely demise) when a body collided with his, knocking out any wind that remained in him and slowing his descent to the ground.

"You're okay, Tim," the voice sounded more afraid than he felt.

The horrible treatment of his body didn't go unpunished; a multitude of symptoms presented themselves without the imminent fear of death and Red Robin quickly desired nothing more than getting away from whoever was holding him.

Upon reaching where Signal was anxiously waiting on the ground, Red Robin learned that it was Nightwing who had come to his rescue. Once he was released from the desperate arms which held him, Red Robin stumbled. The floor was untrustworthy beneath his feet, the collision and fall combining with his glasses made depth perception a constantly wavering thing that weakened his knees and twisted his stomach.

Quickly, Signal stepped forward to steady him, hands grasping his arms to keep him still.

"Breathe," that was Nightwing, his head appearing above Signal's shoulders. There were six heads, then four, then eight, then all the duplicates slid back together into only Signal and Nightwing.

Red Robin squeezed his eyes shut and kept them that way, trying his best to swallow down the knot of nausea in his throat. Instead, he focused his mind on indexing any possible injuries. Instinct had braced himself well enough, but once again his shoulder had taken the brunt of the force. There was a dull pain radiating from the joint, almost palpable in his fingers.

"Are you okay?" Signal asked, still steadying Red Robin.

"Back up," Red gasped breathlessly. He had a very meagre semblance of control over his body (which was scarier than free-falling over Gotham), and he didn't want anyone around when he lost hold of that.

"What?" That was Signal again, who, contrary to Tim's desires, was now taking a closer look at him.

They weren't leaving, he should have known that they weren't going to leave him alone like this.

Red opened one eye and immediately the disorientation of the entire night returned to him in full force. With the last of his energy reserves, he pressed his palms against Signal's chest and pushed; creating space between them just in time for Red to double over and gag once before vomiting onto the ground.

"Shit," Nightwing cursed, catching Signal and righting him before quickly making his way closer to Red. He pressed his finger to his ear to reactivate his communicator, "prepare the med-bay for head injury," he ordered while Red pretended to not notice the tears around his eyes.

"Not a concussion," Red spoke, gasping as he braced his hands on his knees. Despite having his eyes closed again, the nausea refused to cease. But he hadn't hit his head on the building-- or at all, for that matter.

"Right, so you just threw up because-?"

"Because of these stupid fucking," frustration welled within Tim's chest, tight and gnarly as it lanced out from his heart to thrash his throat and gut. Unable to peel his cowl for identity purposes, he gripped at his head and clenched. A sound of anguish rolled in his throat as he resisted showing the world that Red Robin at his best was nothing more than Tim Drake at his worst.

"Okay, okay," Nightwing recalibrated for the situation, gently reaching up to guide Red's hands down. He didn't let go of them once they were no longer grabbing at Red's head,

Tim wanted to cry.

He wanted to clench his fists and punch Nightwing a million times.

He wanted to go back in time and never go to Haly's with his parents.

He wanted to ask his parents for contacts when he was 7.

He wished, very strongly, that he had never taken it upon himself to save the unsalvagable Batman.

That everything which happened after that never did.

But he didn't do any of that (except for the first one, admittedly). Not for lack of ability, he had made acquaintances with more than one person who harnessed the ability to time travel. Rather, his attentions were stolen instead by Nightwing pulling him close. Warmth surrounded him as breaths shuddered in his lungs. He was too weak to fight against it, to kick and thrash as impulse told him to. So he slumped. Gave in to the comfort as a second pair of arms showed up behind him.

It was claustrophobia-inducing, but Tim didn't have the heart to care anymore. Not when his mind was a raging ocean of emotions tossing around his sailboat consciousness among waves of tumultuous memories and instances.

"Let's go home," Nightwing eventually broke the silence as Red's breathing tapered into a normal pace.

The sincerity in his voice quelled the flicker of desire Tim had to dismantle that sentence. To argue that Wayne Manor wasn't home to either of them, and hadn't been for a very long time.

So, again, he didn't.

"Report," that was Batman's voice in their ears, evidently having wrapped up with the police and also beginning to migrate back home.

"Minor setback," Red croaked, his throat strangling his words from the recent bout of acid, "no injuries sustained. Signal, Nightwing, and I are heading back to the cave now."

The ensuing silence was filled by Batman’s scrutiny of thought as he played with the information he had within the dimensions of his mind. After a few seconds of what was likely extensive decision-making, Batman spoke up.

"You boys want a ride?" A genius, noncommittal way of expressing concern and care without outwardly doing such. Batman was a king of his emotionally unavailable craft.

Red knew that there was an entrance to the cave a block or so down, also that within the tinted windows of the Batmobile he would be able to safely remove his cowl and finally be free from the treacherous grasp of his poisonous prescription.

"Please," Red spoke for them all, craving that quick release from the day. Granted, they still had the responsibilities of family dinner to attend to-- a laborious affair given the brash and often conflicting personalities in their macrame family-- but Tim found himself not dreading it as arduously as he was used to. Maybe on account of the emotional exhaustion already wringing his being, but he wasn't one to look gift horses in the mouth (except he very much was in any other case-scenario).

It was barely five minutes later that the Batmobile squealed to a stop on the nearest street to them. Damian, as expected, refused to give up the passenger seat, so Tim sat in the middle with Duke and Dick on either side.

As soon as the doors were shut, he peeled back the cowl and blinked in the sights of a steady world. Strain ached behind his eyes, and it was with dismay that he realized he was still a bit dizzy, but God if it wasn't an improvement.

Tired and wholeheartedly not caring anymore, Tim exhaled deeply and allowed his head to lean against Dick's shoulder. His suit wasn't comfortable; it was designed to protect against slashes and shots, not tired brothers. But Tim truly didn't mind. Comfort was something he was used to going without.

From vision problems to bruised shoulders to the stiffness of the Red Robin uniform, he was no stranger to discomfort.

Dick shifted, adjusted Tim's head so it rested on muscle rather than bone.

And even though Tim could endure pain, he sure appreciated it when others let him know that he didn't have to.

Notes:

aaaand that's a wrap! thank you everyone who made it this far and please leave your thoughts!