Chapter Text
Red Robin was tired.
Not the regular kind of tired that someone would get from staying up until the middle of the night and hopping across buildings and punching people. No, it was the tired you got from sitting along the edge of an apartment building twiddling your thumbs because there was nothing to do.
All the night-shift Bats - except Nightwing, who was in his own city - were on the field. The city was divided as evenly between them all as it could be, and they were going through routine patrols to cover all corners. All across the city, nothing was really happening. Red had already cycled through his part of Gotham 3 times. He'd paid attention to a potential break in that had just turned out to be someone struggling to unlock their own door, and that was about it.
It seemed to be the same across all the districts.
Spoiler and Black Bat had both stopped one mugging each in their zones. Robin had stopped an assault in an alley, taking the time to actually walk the victim home instead of stalking them around to make sure they were safe. Like Red Robin, Batman hadn't had anything to do either.
Hood was having a busier night, at least, but this was surprising to no one as he was patrolling the most crime infested parts of the city. What was surprising was that it was slow for even him.
"I'm just saying, if you loved me you'd swap routes with me," Red cried, throwing himself down onto the roof he decided to stop on.
"Too bad I don't," came Hood's reply. Unlike the others, he was moving across the buildings with a purpose.
"I'm about to commit some crimes myself. I could do it. I could get away with it. You guys wouldn't be able to stop me."
"You can't do that." Batman was always a buzzkill. "If nothing comes up within the next hour, we can call patrol off early."
"Thank god." There were a few chuckles echoing back into his ear at his obvious mood. "Anything popping up yet, O?"
"Nope," came the smooth reply, and he wanted to hurl himself off the building. "If I do you'll be the first to know."
"We'd all be the first to know," said Spoiler, "this is the main channel."
Red groaned loudly enough for his mic to pick up the sound. Being a bored vigilante was the worst thing that could possibly happen to you. He'd argue that it was worse than death(though never in front of Jason).
Being a vigilante was usually fun. Taxing and oh so tiring, but fun. It meant everything to him, to be out in the night and keeping his city safe. There were downsides, sure, but being a vigilante practically defined him. It almost always had, since that first night he picked Batman up from the hole he'd buried himself in to now, where he was debating on how many places he could rob before any of the others came to stop him. The answer was a lot - not that he would. But he could.
"Ah, the curse of commenting about a slow day," said Oracle, and Red Robin perked up from that rooftop like a damn puppy. "An art gallery's silent alarm just went off. I'll send everyone the location."
"Oracle, I love you," Red said, scampering to his feet like he'd just been laying on hot coals. He was moving before he even knew where he was supposed to be going.
Flying over the streets and sidewalks gave him a rush of exhilaration. Tim wasn't typically an adrenaline junkie. He much preferred the slow, calm, calculated part of his job. That's why he was the world's second greatest detective (he was this close to taking Batman's title). His need for action and thrill was small, easy to contain and easier to release when he needed to be in the fight. As he soared through the air, cape flapping silently and heart beating fast in his chest, it was let loose and wild.
He was not there first. The gallery was in Black Bat's area, so of course she was already there. Robin and Batman's areas were bordering hers, which was why they moved in together. Red Robin, who had been the farthest, had gotten there before Spoiler. Hood, who was letting them handle it in favor of staying where he was, did not arrive at all
"The gallery's cams show that the robbers are still inside," Oracle informed them. "Outside surveillance shows a moving truck outside. Five inside, only the driver outside, from what it looks like.. They look like Penguin's goons. They've got a hefty pile of valuables piled near the exit and are still taking more."
"Alright," said Batman, voice low but commanding, "move in fast and quiet. We don't need to damage anything, just incapacitate the thieves and leave them apprehended".
There was a round of affirmative hums, before the living shadows moved as one.
They did not break in through the skylights, because contrary to rather popular belief, they knew how to not be messy and obvious. They did break a window on the second floor to get in though, so maybe that idea wasn't an out of nowhere assumption.
Once inside, the bats and the birds scattered, fitting into the shadowiest shadows and the tightest crevices, lying in wait like a cluster of trapdoor spiders. When the soft sound of boots against floor and whispers in the air started back up in their direction, several muscles pulled back and tensed, ready to strike.
Their attack was clean and precise, each vigilante descending upon a criminal of their own. The man Red ended up with was thin, barely any muscle on him. Enough to help carry heavy pieces of art, maybe, but hardly enough for a good fight. He didn't hold back anyway, letting his staff crack satisfyingly into the poor guys skin. Maybe satisfying wasn't the right word to use, but it felt perfect to him. It was just what he needed after a few hours of mindless motion and pent up energy. It was perfect.
A gun went off.
It was loud, and violent, and it made his limbs tighten and turn just enough to help him identify where this new threat was coming from. The new angle of the room showed everyone else doing the same. His armor could handle a gun shot - all of their armor could handle a gunshot, it was built for that - but that didn't make the presence of a gun any less threatening.
The gun was pointed at Robin - or at least in his general direction. He'd been able to move out of the way, and he was uninjured, but the gun was still pointed at him. Something in the back of Red's mind was pushing him to move, to help, to save him. He shoved it down fast, because Robin was capable and he could handle it on his own. Robin wasn't a civilian. He was Robin.
Red made his muscles untense, turning back to his opponent, to find... no opponent. Only empty space.
"Shit," he mumbled under his breath, and then his legs were moving again. This guy was smart, using that momentary distraction to bolt towards the exit, but smarts didn't give you the ability to outrun a vigilante who'd been on the job for years.
Outrunning a vigilante didn't matter when you also had a gun.
Red rounded the a corner with one hand gripping the edge, skidding into the hallway to see the faintest shine of another gun pointed at his face from only a few feet away. Instinct told him to duck before he could fully make out what that shape was against the only slightly less dark shadows. Another gun shot, this time accompanied with dust and plaster raining onto the back of his head as he dropped to the floor without a second thought.
Two echoing clicks told Red that a door had opened and closed, and he was still on the floor. Sucking in a deep breath, his hands found the ground, pushing his body weight up off the dirty floor. The man had escaped the building, but he wouldn't make it much further. Tim was a vigilante; a bat. That was every part of him, that was who he was, and he did it well. He always did. He had to. Who was he if he couldn't?
Five inside, the driver outside, he repeated mentally, hand bracing against the latch of the exit door. Five inside, one out, except now it's four inside and two out, and that would be fine.
Four in, two out, he repeated as the door swung open. Four in, two out, he repeated at the cold Gotham air touched the exposed skin not hidden under his costume. Four in, two out, he repeated as he turned on his heel to watch the goon load what he'd been able to grab on his own into the back of that truck.
Four in, three out, he realized as there was a woman in the back of the truck, looming over the art and the man he was chasing, a mini gun held firmly in her hands.
Instinct told him to duck. Duck, curl up on the floor and cover himself with his cape so he would be safe. Would that work? Would it keep him safe? His armor could handle a gunshot. Could it handle multiple at once?
The woman's eyes locked onto him. The large gun raised up. Tim's knees locked, disobeying his instinct to duck.
What a sad way to die. Not saving the world, not saving the city, not saving a person, not even saving any art. Shot dead in an alley behind an art gallery that he couldn't even keep from being robbed. That was kind of embarrassing. He'd never live this down. He probably wouldn't even live. He-
"Robin!"
His body didn't move. It was still stuck, limbs half tucked in a failed attempt to flee. Instead, his body was moved for him. There was a weight pressed against him, moving hard and fast and knocking him down onto the concrete.
Tim wasn't Robin. That had been his name at one point, but he had never been Robin. When Jason had been killed, Batman had needed a Robin. He had stepped up then; a placeholder, someone to be replaced when the time came. And he had, when Damian had come. Tim had stayed a vigilante - became Red Robin - and that was fine. He got to stay a vigilante and got to step out of his false role. He wasn't Robin.
The sound of rapid-fire gunshots echoed through the alley, bouncing off the walls and up into the night sky. The arms holding tightly around Tim's body squeezed tighter, pulling him up and deeper into safety. Tires squealed loudly, mixing with the gun fire before replacing it entirely and then fading down the street.
Tim felt Bruce's breathing, heavy but falling in sync with his own. They waited for a second, two, five before the older man finally pulled away.
"Oracle, the van escaped," he spoke, offering a hand down to Tim. "They weren't able to take much, but they still escaped with some work. We need to track them down."
Tim took the hand extended to him, pulling himself up. He patted down his suit, checking all over to make sure he had not been compromised. He didn't feel anything, but it could never hurt to check. When he was sure that he had not sustained any threatening damage, he did a quick once-over on Batman to make sure that he was alright too.
There were a few stretches in the fabric of his cape, some tighter than others but nothing pierced, so he seemed generally unharmed. Good. If Bruce had gotten hurt because Tim couldn't keep himself safe, that would've been another issue that Tim didn't feel like unpacking any time soon.
"Alright, I've pinpointed where their headed," Oracle chimed over the tense silence. "I'm sending over their approximate locations, and I'll keep you updated in real time."
"Thank you Oracle. Following up now." Batman stalked through the alley, pulling out his grapple. "C'mon, Red. Here's your busy night."
Red Robin hummed softly, pulling out his own grapple and following the bat into the rooftops. Almost getting Swiss cheesed is still better than a slow night, he didn't vocalize.
The night had ended soon after they had apprehended all of the criminals. The night was slow for another half hour, so all the crime fighters who weren't doing much fighting retreated back to the cave to write out a report for the night's events.
And then they had scattered. They undressed from their uniforms, did a routine inspection just to make sure that no one had gotten injured - even during a slow night - and then they had dispersed. All except for Bruce and Damian, who still lived there, and Tim who had hung back.
After a nice shower and a comfortable change of clothes, Damian had run upstairs to pass out in the safety of his own bed. After his own shower and change of clothes, Tim exited the changing rooms to find Bruce typing away at the computer. He was likely polishing the reports of the night, as he so often did.
Tim padded up behind him, watching as his father's fingers flowed across that keyboard with a passion. Tim often had a similar passion, sometimes getting so deep into a report that he would mess up his routines. He hated those ruts, but that was just life sometimes.
He watched for another minute or so before Bruce tilted his head in his direction, acknowledging the presence of the other.
"I figured you'd be gone by now. Did you plan to stay the night?"
Tim shrugged. "Nah, not tonight. Just wanted to stick behind and, uh, ask about something from earlier."
"Oh?"
"You called me Robin earlier."
The fingers on the keys stuttered. It was hardly noticeable. Tim didn't get where he was by not noticing things.
"Yes, well, it is part of your name, if I recall correctly."
"Yeah, sure." Tim walked around to the other side, throwing one arm up to brace his weight against the chair. "But you guys call me the full thing - Red Robin. Or, sometimes you guys shorten it to just Red. You don't call me Robin." There was another stutter. "Especially not you, Bruce. You don't make mistakes like that."
Another stutter. Except this one was longer. A pause. No, a stop. Tim's eyes rested where the stilled fingers were for a moment, then another, before they flicked up to meet the eyes of the other. They were piercing right back into him.
"Yes, that's correct. I don't make mistakes."
Tim let out a noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "We both know that's not true. Actually, not even just the both of us; if I asked anyone in the world they'd all disagree too."
"Hm, okay. You might be right there." Tim let out a soft snort. "But I don't make mistakes like that."
"Okay... then why did you call me that?" Tim's gaze magnetized to the floor while his thumb fidgeted with his index finger. "I'm not your Robin."
Bruce turned back to the screen, the sounds of typing filling the air once more. "Yeah, alright. You're not wrong. But you were."
"Yeah, well- no, I mean... That didn't really count though, did it?"
The sounds of typing stopped abruptly, and Tim was suddenly aware of the silence.
"Tim." He didn't look up. "Tim." His eyes darted up slightly, before dropping back down. "Tim," Bruce said, with a firmness that was distinctly Dad and not Batman. It made him look up entirely. "Tim," he started softly, "of course it counted."
"Well, yeah, I know, but it just-"
"Tim," he stated again, his hand reaching out and landing firmly on Tim's shoulder, "it counted. And it mattered. It mattered so much." Tim's breath caught in his throat. "You were Robin. You were my Robin. And more importantly, you are my son."
"Yeah I- I know, Dad."
"Good." The hand rested where it was for a few more seconds before it went to a keyboard. "It's important to me that you know that."
Tim knew it. Objectively he did. Knowing something is true and feeling like it is are two different things. One little conversation couldn't fix the years of issues that Tim knew he had but refused to address. If that were the case, therapists wouldn't have much of a business. He knew this, and he was sure Bruce knew this too. He did not voice these thoughts. Instead, he held on to the feeling that the little reassurance gave him.
He was Robin. That phrase, though he didn't entirely believe it to be true, meant enough to him. It meant he was enough to someone. And for now, that would have to work.