Chapter Text
Tim stared up at the clock’s face. Its figure loomed above him by no more than three inches, but they were plenty enough to exacerbate his current mood. Tim clicked his tongue, his foot twitched with the sudden urge to kick the offending object. Tim of course did not do this as it would have set off an innumerable amount of alarms. He sighed, Tim was in no mood to deal with this yet here he was, angry with a clock.
Tim had forgotten the code to open the clock’s hidden passage. The code he typed in daily for years after the entrance under Drake manor was sealed. It hadn’t even been that long since his last visit to the manor, sure he hadn’t actually gone upstairs but he was meant to have an eidetic memory, and an even stronger recall when it came to dates and numbers.
Tim had briefly considered going to Bruce and asking just so he would be able to get into the cave and do some work, then he realised shoving his own foot in his mouth elicited a more positive reaction and thought better of it. ‘Oh yeah Bruce, what time did your parents die?’ Tim shuddered, as he imagined himself saying those words. Bruce would tell him, but not without that pinched expression Tim hates so much. Besides, they weren’t not on speaking terms, but Tim was still doing his best to avoid the man outside of missions.
So, Tim continued to stare at the clock, and he all but audibly snarled as he imagined the clock’s smug expression as it stared back.
Maybe he hit his head harder than he thought yesterday.
It was a classic story, a routine patrol gone wrong.
Tim had found himself in the shipping crates of Port Adams, following a hot lead delivered straight from the oven. As in Lonnie had forwarded Tim a backdoor link from a seemingly legitimate Lexcorp website that held an encrypted CADMUS chat log between your expected disgruntled, underpaid employee with some crime tycoon about a weapons deal while he was squeezing into his Kevlar pants.
He had about thirty minutes total to finish getting dressed, prepare his equipment, get on his motorbike and speed the distance between his nest and the docks. He can’t exactly remember why but he took a detour through Robinson Park instead of just going the direct route. Whatever the reason, it ate through his time, and he didn't get to the warehouse until the tail end of the deal.
Tim no longer had had any time to organise backup in the event something went wrong. But he weighed the pros and cons of his drop in, and decided it was a necessary risk. He didn’t know what gangs were affiliated, or what the weapons even were. Not to mention the streets were suspiciously quiet lately. To others that would have been cause to hold back and gather intel. To Tim, who had claimed an equal share of ownership to the Gotham streets as Batman, and had seen the state of the underworld post Neon Knights program, it was reason to get the tech while he could before this deal retreated back underground and the trail died.
Besides, Batman was back in Gotham from Batman Inc.™ and his patrol should have had him passing through Old Gotham towards the GCPD for his and Gordon’s nightly gossip session at that time. “Should have” being the key words in that sentence.
As all quiet nights in Gotham go, a riot broke out at Arkham. Batman was called away from Tim to the opposite side of Gotham where he would be of no help. Then to make matters worse, a series of small fires went off around the Upper East Side up to the Bowery, so their already thin crew was spread out further. In that chaos Scarecrow, Mad Hatter, Poison Ivy, and (seriously, out of every criminal in that place) Kite Man had all managed to escape. It was an all hands on deck event.
Except Tim’s hands, because when the alarm sounded for the Arkham breakout Tim had already dove head first into the warehouse.
When Tim had glanced over the chat logs he found himself under the impression that it was a CADMUS rookie intern looking to make a quick buck, trading with the first incompetent goons who responded to his advertisements. Instead, he found himself outside of a warehouse surrounded by over two dozen meatheads who all packed enough muscle to make a venomed up Bane look small.
Tim would have typically planned a situation out like this better, taken his binoculars out, scoped the situation from the mildewy rafters. However, between the time crunch and the added stress of an already unstable Gotham underbelly he felt a tad reckless. Tim had dove straight onto a man in a lab coat, and popped open his retractable bo staff to knock out a man in a tailored suit, who both held onto a suitcase that no doubt held the tech Tim was after.
It took everything in him to not swear out loud when his eyes met the faces of a room full of men more steroid than flesh.
Tim wasn’t gonna sell himself short, but he also wasn’t one to overestimate his ability. When he leapt into the warehouse, expecting to have to beat up a max of five guys and instead jumped down into what felt like a packed frat house he kind of knew he was screwed. But it wasn’t his first time in a 1 v. too many, and he knew to prioritise escape over victory.
Tim got about three seconds to compose himself before he was rushed. The first to reach him was a goliath, whose face was more scar than, well, face. Tim swung out with his staff and knocked him down in one blow.
Tim maintained his stance as he rushed himself out. Too many opponents to grapple out safely, he had to aim for the warehouse doors. Luckily, he had the foresight to at least scout the doors and they didn’t have cover on the East or West sides. Tim swung, thrashed and knocked out the knees of anyone who stood in his way.
He had to double back and cross over the original deal site to evade, which left him open to the scarred man who was apparently not knocked out.
The scarred man grabbed Tim’s cape and pulled hard, it constricted the fabric against his neck and caused Tim to choke. The man got a grip on Tim’s neck, and held it firmly while the guy in the lab coat stood to the side doing something with the suitcase just outside of Tim’s peripheral vision and giving instructions.
Tim snapped the wrist of his assailant and used the momentum of himself being dropped to throw the scarred man over his shoulder into the lab coat guy. He jumped away, out of arm’s reach, ducked, slammed his Bo into any unlucky stomachs, all while his brain screamed at him to run.
Need to escape, his brain supplemented, I’m trying Tim’s thoughts yelled back.
“Red Robin, I need cover!” A voice called out. They sounded scared, so he stopped. And that was his mistake.
One goon got in a lucky swing while Tim dove towards the noise. Tim didn’t get a look at the weapon, but it was a white hot flash of pain that took out his left knee. Tim was knocked to his ass, where he proceeded to get his, pardon the French, shit rocked.
The next thing Tim remembered was being on top of a shipping crate with Jason standing over him. Somehow, Tim had managed to break away from the combat and activate his emergency beacon before he passed out.
They went back into the warehouse, while Jason supported Tim. He had hoped to find something of worth, but as expected the thugs had cleared out the space, rescued their fallen comrades, and made off with the smuggled technology. Essentially, Tim’s sidequest had all been for naught.
Then to make matters worse, a poorly timed series of events, including three explosions from the fires in the Bowery, led to all of the Arkham escapees evading capture (except Kite Man, who due to an unfortunate gust of wind flew straight into Batman during his and Gordon’s debrief at the end of the night).
The worst part of Tim’s night was just about to start. He wasn’t even allowed to rest or write his report up as he had to go through the tedious process of a post patrol tox screen and body scan. The one they all have to go through if they do something stupid like pass out from grievous bodily harm.
Tim’s diagnosis ended up being as simple as a mild concussion, bruising, a temporary limp in his left leg, and a damaged ego. Not even a broken rib to garner sympathy from the family. He went to his old bedroom after eating his fill of cucumber sandwiches, and fell asleep in his teenage sanctuary surrounded by poorly tacked up band posters.
Tim sighed, the memory of last night did nothing to help his current situation. His hands continued to fidget. Tim debated between texting Dick for the code, and attempting it himself. He clicked his tongue and decided to try his luck with breaking and entering. It was Robin 101 after all.
It was not unlike cracking a typical safe, if a typical safe had a series of micro transmitters and sensory threads that could detect ‘suspicious clock activities’ and set off a dozen silent alarms. These alarms could be set off by taking too long moving a hand, overspinning and correcting, taking too long of a pause between the two hands, and even failing to reset the clock.
Tim held his ear up against the machine, and prayed to a God he had never believed in that no one would walk into the study while he broke into the cave.
Click. Click. Click. Shunk.
Click. Click. Click. Sha-shunk.
Success! The clock didn't start to buzz or make any ding to let you know it had worked, it was too well designed for that. Instead, there is a faint hum and whirr as the mechanisms inside moved around to detach the clock from the wall. The sound so quiet, you would only hear it if you knew to listen for it. The clock didn’t even open itself, it had to be slightly lifted from the base, pushed, then once the latch undoes pulled.
Tim pulled out his phone and sighed in relief. There was no notification about the alarms being activated. No awkward conversations today.
Tim limped down the stairs, and the bruised skin rubbed painfully against his flannelette pant leg. Tim had elected not to use the elevator purely out of spite. He had walked further while more mangled before. The cool air of the cave bit into his skin as it rushed up around him. His pajama pants and well-worn band shirt doing nothing to stop the chill. The bats chirped in the ceiling, the smell of guano in the air, and Tim felt fond.
Unexpectedly and inexplicably he was filled with the urge to pull out his camera and start taking pictures. Unexpected as he theoretically could just go to the cave whenever he wanted, inexplicable because the camera was long gone. Lost in one of the several times Tim moved Between the Wayne’s Manor, the Brownstone, the Drake’s Manor, and even his short stint in Bludhaven with Cass. Even before it went missing he hadn’t used it to take a picture since he was thirteen, and certainly before he was Robin.
Quietly Tim smiled, instead of a pit of dread at the thought he felt a warm wash of nostalgia come over him. Some things never change from when you’re twelve, to when you’re eighteen. The cave was Tim’s favourite place in the world. The giant penny and the cool dinosaur certainly helped, the large joker card not so much.
Despite his newfangled optimism, Tim could feel a headache coming on. The kind that started at the top of your neck and careened upwards towards your temple. A symptom of his day-old concussion, the current bane of his existence and the reason he wasn’t on patrol. Tim resented being benched, even for only one day to monitor his condition.
It wasn’t even like Bruce could really force him, Tim was a legal adult now, not even just an emancipated minor. He had his own house and worked in R&D at Wayne Enterprise.
It was only for Bruce that Tim was staying at the manor instead of his own house. The man would worry if Tim was on his own with a concussion, even one so mild it only slightly caused his eyes to burn while looking at the monitor. And despite everything that’s happened Tim is really trying with Bruce. He’s trying with everyone, compartmentalising his hurt and cooperating on missions and staying out of the way otherwise.
When Tim made it to the computer he practically dove into Bruce’s chair. The thing was worn in all the right ways, and was objectively the comfiest seat in the whole house. Had to be, because otherwise Bruce would have major back problems from all the time spent sitting in it. Tim sighed, situated himself in the divots and grooves, and turned the computer on with his login and passwords.
Tonight Tim wanted to find out what tech the gang were smuggling, what gang it was affiliated with, and what they were gonna do with it. While Lonnie tried to hunt down the IP and host server of the backdoor site that was of course now defunct.
But first, he grabbed a drink from under the monitor, one of his private stash that Alfred hadn’t discovered yet, and got his encoded filing system ready to write up yesterday’s case file.
Tim was almost finished when he heard a familiar bike roar into the cave. He stopped typing when he felt a presence behind him.
With three of their most dangerous rogues at large there was no mystery why he was out of Bludhaven and helping in Gotham. What was strange was why Dick was hovering over his shoulder. For all the man insisted he saw Tim as an equal he certainly had a tendency to loom. A thought Tim nobly kept to himself.
Tim could see in the computer’s reflection that Dick was wiping the mask-glue residue from his face with a small damp cloth. He then threw it at Tim, who spun around on the chair and knocked it away and onto the floor. He glared at Dick. Tim wasn’t gonna pick up the towel, and if Alfred asked he was totally gonna snitch too.
Dick was probably gonna tell him off for using the screen with a concussion. But it wasn’t even making Tim nauseous, mostly.
“Surprised to see you here.” Dick said, fondly. He leaned into the bat chair, just a little too relaxed to actually be relaxed. He seemed to be favouring his left side, and knowing Dick it meant he had some kind of injury on the right.
“Case work.” Tim turned back to the computer, and he continued to write. Dick’s eyes flicked across the screen.
“I thought you already wrote this?” As Dick skimmed the text and his brows pinched, “And you haven’t mentioned Damian at all?”
Tim couldn’t remember Damian being at the scene. Maybe he had arrived with Jason and no one told him. Tim pressed his hand into his forehead, he could feel his heartbeat pulsing through his temple.
“When would I have had time to write it?” Tim gestured his right hand at the screen, and continued to massage his forehead with the left, “It just happened.”
“On Tuesday." Tim doesn’t know why Dick feels the need to specify what day of the week yesterday had been. But thinking too hard about it made Tim’s eyes throb.
Dick eyed Tim’s hands. The man didn’t need to have been trained by the world’s greatest detective to tell Tim had a headache, “Is your concussion worse than we thought? Here, look into my flashlight.”
Tim swat Dick’s bothersome hands away and hissed like Alfred the cat does whenever Tim approached the feral beast. Dick laughed and playfully batted his hands back instead of shining the offending light into Tim’s eyes.
Dick stopped fighting to yawn. The man most likely hadn’t slept since coming to Gotham, and who knows how much sleep Dick had skipped out on before that.
“How long have you been awake for?” Tim teased. He rested his head on his hand, his own eyes felt tired, but unlike Dick he didn’t actually skip out on sleeping entirely. Yes, Tim stayed awake until 4am most nights, and lived off energy drinks but he had Bruce’s ability to power nap and then some. Ives had once joked that Tim must be the world’s lamest meta human for his uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere. He still hadn’t let go of that one incident with the rollercoaster and Zoanne.
Dick’s concerned face turned annoyed. Tim continued to write his report, and flicked to his encrypted chat logs with moneyspider. If only Lonnie would actually respond. It wasn’t like the guy could do much else, his day consisted of being hooked up to machine wires and his brain connected directly to a computer system.
“How long have YOU been awake for,” Dick broke Tim’s train of thought, and leaned over the chair and snatched Tim’s drink before he could react “What even is this, ‘Chug’?”
Tim stopped typing as he watched Dick look over the nutrition facts.
“Oh my God is this even legal, 350 grams of caffeine,” He held it higher so Tim couldn’t reach it, “This is why you have that headache, I’m telling Alfred.”
“Dick.” Tim said in a way that made it apparent he was not saying Dick’s name. It was an intonation everyone in the house was familiar with and used.
“Tim.” Dick said, in the same intonation. Tim wanted to hurt him bad. “C’mon Tim, if you don't get out of this chair I’m carrying you upstairs.”
Tim responded by going limp. He may not be the most muscular person, but 180 lbs of dead weight was 180 lbs of dead weight. And Dick was already handicapped by, at the very least, bruised ribs.
“I’m going to get Alfred.”
“Alfred has become complacent after dealing with Bruce and me for multiple years.”
“Yes but he can sigh very loudly, and I can tell him where you’ve been stashing your largest supply of energy drinks.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Second floor guest suite laundry hamper.”
Tim saved the report, closed the tab and started to make his way up the stairs, but not without groaning every single step. Dick laughed to himself while he trailed Tim. Despite his grumbling it was moments like this that reminded Tim why he was still trying to be part of this family.
About halfway up Tim’s knee decided to conk out and he began to trip. Dick quickly rushed up to catch him.
“Woah, Leslie told you to take it easy on this leg, actually, should you still be using crutches?” Dick moved to Tim’s side to try and support him. Tim shrugged Dick off.
“It’s fine, my knee doesn’t even hurt, just missed the step.” Tim had not missed the step.
“C’mon you don’t have to do the tough guy act with me,” Dick said, hiding what was probably broken ribs by the way he wheezed after Tim landed on him, “It’s only been a few days since you were shot.”
Tim sighed. He knew Dick was too busy to read the full debriefs for files he wasn’t actively working on, but for him to mess up such a simple bit of information was laughable. Instead of correcting his brother, or being pedantic about Dick’s word choice with “a few”, Tim took the high road and simply rolled his eyes and began to make his way up the stairs on his own again.
After all, Tim hadn’t been shot.