Chapter Text
It was a quiet night at Tim Drake’s boathouse, nestled along Gotham’s murky bay, the water slapping gently against the wooden pylons beneath. The low hum of his computer filled the silence as he sifted through intel on the latest crime syndicate activities. A cup of lukewarm coffee sat abandoned by the edge of his desk as he examined the encrypted files. His mind was sharp, always prepared for what Gotham might throw at him next.
But nothing, nothing could have prepared him for the knock at the door.
At first, Tim thought it was a figment of his overactive imagination, honed from years of constant vigilance and danger. But then it came again louder this time. Three sharp raps.
He sighed and stood up, stretching his arms. His muscles ached from the relentless night patrols and hours of non-stop analysis. Who could it be this late? An emergency? Maybe Bernard ?
Opening the door, Tim was greeted by the last person he expected: a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit, his face obscured by a fedora that shaded his eyes.
“You’re Tim Drake?” The man’s voice was low, gravelly, and carried the weight of authority. Tim studied him for a moment, his eyes narrowing.
“Yeah, that’s me. What’s this about?” He wasn’t in the mood for games, especially not with Gotham’s underworld at his door.
The man didn’t speak at first. Instead, he handed over a folder not a simple manila envelope, but something weighty and official. Tim glanced at it, his curiosity piqued.
“This is about Darla Aquista,” the man said, and Tim felt his heart skip a beat. Darla… A name he hadn’t heard in months, maybe more. She’d been a former associate of the Maroni Crime Family, and their connection had been brief though never clean. Their paths had crossed in a few tense moments, but he hadn’t thought much about her since.
“Darla’s dead,” the man continued. “Caught in the crossfire of a gang war. It was quick. But it doesn’t matter now. What does matter… is what she left behind.”
the world narrowed to the folder in his hands. The hum of the computer faded. The only sound left was the water slapping against the pylons beneath the boathouse.
Tim blinked, trying to process the news, but his mind was already racing ahead. A gang war? In Gotham, that was nothing new. But the mention of Darla and what she had left behind had his heart pounding. What was he about to hear?
The man paused before pushing the remaining folders into Tim’s hands. “She left behind a daughter, four months old. And you, Drake, you’re the father.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, suspended in disbelief. Tim’s body went rigid. The folder in his hands suddenly felt much heavier than before.
“Wait… what?” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“She named her Tessa,” the man said, his tone betraying no sympathy. “Darla’s will was clear. She wanted you to raise the girl. She made it clear no one else. You’re the father. Whether you like it or not.”
Tim’s mind whirled. His heart hammered in his chest as the reality of the situation began to sink in. He had no idea. Darla hadn’t told him. He hadn’t known about a baby. The weight of it felt suffocating, yet he couldn’t look away from the cold, unflinching man standing before him.
The man continued, his expression hardening. “You’re gonna take her in, Drake. No one else. The kid’s in a foster home right now. But that won’t last long. You need to step up.”
Tim took a slow breath, trying to steady himself. He had always been prepared for any eventuality in Gotham’s war on crime. But this? This was beyond the scope of anything he’d ever been trained for.
“I… I can’t do this,” Tim muttered, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were hollow. His mind flashed to his own childhood his parents’ deaths, his adoptive father’s need for him, the loneliness he had felt. Could he really bring a child into this world? Could he keep her safe?
“You don’t get a choice,” the man said, his voice sharp. “She’s your responsibility now. You slept with Darla”
Tim swallowed hard, the implications of the man’s words like a weight pressing down on his chest. The thought of fatherhood, of taking in a child he’d never known existed, was overwhelming. He had responsibilities, duties he was already stretched thin. He wasn’t even sure how he’d juggle this new life with his other identity as Red Robin. But there was no avoiding it now. The law, the will, the fate of a child, everything had converged on him.
“Fine,” Tim said quietly, his voice steady though his mind was anything but. “I’ll take her.”
The man nodded curtly, seemingly satisfied. “You’ll find her at the foster home on Elm Street. The sooner you act, the better. People in the underworld will be looking for her.”
With that, the man turned and walked away without another word. Tim watched him disappear into the darkness of the night, his mind still spinning.
Tim looked down at the folder again. Somewhere out there, a four-month-old girl had his eyes “I’m a father..”