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"Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them."
—James A. Baldwin, writer and activist.
There currently isn't a single thing that Tim doesn't find dangerous. For one, the rope tightened around his wrists speaks volumes about the kind of situation he's in. But the rope per se isn't the real problemo. The legitimate reason that keeps him from squeezing his way out of the ridiculous kindergarten-level knot is a few meters away from him, hanging chained from a disgusting wall with a split lip and blood everywhere.
A nearly unconscious bird.
Also, Tim's got a collar on. Not your cute Gucci necklace, no. One that gives him a five-minute long electric shock every time he moves three inches forward or backward. Tim won't be able to get Damian out of here with trembling hands, cramped legs and a confused state of mind. (Or will he? Could he?) He had reached that conclusion after four attempts, three of which ended with him crawling to Damian with the speed of an honest to God sloth, giving his assaulters the opportunity to laugh at him, kick his ribs and tie him up again. Tim doesn't remember the fourth attempt at all. It must have been shocking.
Criminals can take his freedom away but not his humor. That's good to know.
"I will fucking beat the shit out of you all!" he shrieks. His voice is too hoarse. "Batman won't let you get away with this!"
Nobody answers. Nobody has for half an hour. To be honest, he's been doing this melodrama to confirm if the pieces of shit have truly left the building. Damian and he have been here for two days, three today, if Tim's mental clock isn't wrong. And in the past two days, the Two-Face's gang have been absent only for four hours, yesterday. They probably have lunch or something. Who the fuck knows what criminals are up to apart from poker nights and kidnapping kids in their itinerary.
Tim's making sure this is part of the four-hour break. Normally, he would've thrown caution to the wind at the first ten minutes of no reply, but Damian's been hurt pretty badly—going by the hitch in his breathing and low, delirious mumblings. Who knows what those fuckers did to him. Tim huffs a growl. In moments like this Jason's methods seem logical. It would be easy to track the fuckers down and just break their necks but…
Tim takes a deep breath. And another one. He needs to think objectively. The first day they got here they had been drugged and stripped from their comms and utility belts. Tim has a vague memory of seeing one of the goons crunch their comms with his military boots. He also remembers Damian's voice very faintly, ordering him to not fall asleep. Tim had failed him, of course. He reckons Damian had fallen unconscious immediately after him.
That first day—after waking up from his drug-induced sleep—consisted of his four attempts at freeing them and, as you know, Tim had failed in each one of them. He had been tired, seizing and feeling a kind of pain that somehow ricocheted through his bones and muscles, and by the time he had woken up again, he calculated that a day had passed.
Damian had been fine beside him, and then the goons had taken him, seemingly out of nowhere and without a fucking reason, threat or demand, and had returned him all bloody and unconscious. After that Tim had started counting, and shouting, and receiving insults in reply—sometimes kicks and punches too—until he didn't. Until no one bothered to answer. Until he discovered the four-hour window of opportunity to escape.
But he had known that if he made a move without being totally sure that they were alone was dangerous. Tim could fall unconscious again for hours if the shocks were still at the level they had been in his fourth attempt, more so with the injuries he currently had. And then they could take Damian, without Tim being able to fight for him once again, and kill him.
There were things—people—Red Robin couldn't risk, and this was one of them. Robin couldn't get killed. Damian couldn't. Not again. Not on Tim's watch.
So yesterday, with his aching bones and cloudy mind, Tim had decided to wait—to regain energy and to let his body and mind rest. He had waited and waited and waited. Tim kept talking to Damian the whole time, who mumbled and grunted in reply until he didn't. Tim had almost shat his pants right there, thinking that Damian had died, until he heard him snore. And by the time the goons returned, four hours had passed. With that information in mind, Tim had decided to act the next day.
Today is that day.
Half an hour has gone by. Tim bites his lip. He could wait another ten minutes just to be sure. But Damian… Damian's still mumbling. That's good. That means he still has fight in him. Mumbling means alive.
"Did you fuckers hear me?!" Tim pretends his voice didn't crack mid-question. "I will-- I will kill you!"
That last thing… He didn't mean that.
He bites his lip again. Goddamn does he hate electric shocks. He always has. It's a pretty fucked up form of torture. But he thinks it could be worse. He could have seven fingers in total by now.
His mind is reeling. The things he would do for Damian. This is insane but it's also the only way. Just five minutes. They'd be just five minutes where Tim will feel like he's dying (he refuses to acknowledge the very possible aftershocks and he thinks "feel like" because he will also refuse to die if his body starts to betray him). Tim has been trained to endure pain. He can do this. He can.
Tim lunges forward and. Pain. Absolute, heart-stopping pain. Maybe he was too ambitious. Maybe he is indeed fucked up in the head if he thought that this could be easy peasy. This is awful. His hand is barely moving, undoing the knot. This is worse than being beaten by Bane. This is totally horrible. He doesn't know if he undid the knot. He doesn't know if he still has fingers. Tim is probably dying. Tim is probably in hell by now, for all he knows. He doesn't even know how is he thinking through this unbearable and dizzying pain.
And yet the thing that worries him the most is that, if he dies, Damian will be dead too. Damian will die again and this time Tim isn't sure that Bruce will have the reckless energy or the enough peace of mind to go all the way to hell and bring his youngest son back.
If Tim dies, Damian dies. It's simple.
It's unforgivable.
The worst thing is that Tim isn't quiet sure what the fuck is happening. He doesn't know if he's still alive or if he bit the dust already. Probably both. Maybe he's in limbo. Which would be unacceptable because his little brother is in danger. And because he is a vigilante. Tim has gone through worse, a few bzz bzz can't kill him. If he dies in such a simplistic way it would only confirm what a fucking waste of space he was. Dick would laugh—maniacally, and whilst sobbing, but he would.
Dying is unacceptable. Red Robin doesn't die. Tim Drake doesn't die. He mourns. Red Robin grieves. Tim Drake always lives. Is his thing. His blessing, his curse. But this time he'll not only make sure to not die but also to not mourn.
He blinks. The things he would do for Damian. Robin is difficult. Robin is a little kid. Sometimes Tim forgets how young they really are. It's easy to do it—forget. Their lives are so out of the ordinary, the ordinary becomes ridiculous. The ordinary doesn't make sense. Damian being eleven doesn't make sense. But Damian is eleven. Damian is a kid. And Damian has gone through shit that Tim will probably never understand.
And he will never understand because of two reasons: 1) Tim was never trained to assassinate people since the moment he could walk and 2) Tim was never able to act like a kid or to be treated like a kid, so he truly has no idea how do kids behave or how a kid should be treated.
In his pain-consuming haze, Tim remembers Dick's gentleness. He remembers Dick's quick solutions, his practicality and efficiency. Dick isn't perfect in any way but he knows how to handle Damian. He always knew how to talk to him, how to make him listen, how to make him think differently. Tim couldn't even fathom himself interacting with Wayne's heir.
Tim was like his dad when it came to dealing with Damian. His dad wasn't the exact definition of bad father, but he had his flaws. Everyone has flaws. He knows. He's past it. But Tim acted like him. It was as if he just pressed Ctrl+V on his keyboard. Tim was quick to get angry when Damian was concerned. He jumped to conclusions. He was closed-minded. He had no tact with the kid. He had no idea how to behave in front of Damian.
And yes, Damian has his flaws too. Yes, he was a killer. Yes, Damian tried to kill him on an occasion or two. But Damian was a kid. He is a kid. Kids aren't at fault for being taught or educated in a fucked-up way by their grandfathers. Kids are, sadly, the victims.
Tim would never call Damian a victim. Not out-loud. Not with the intent to label him. Never to humiliate him. But Damian was a kid when all kinds of shit happened to him. He's still a kid. And it turns out that Damian is also his little brother and there's little Tim wouldn't do for him. Less than little. There's nothing Tim wouldn't do for Damian.
And it doesn't matter if the brotherly self-sacrifice isn't reciprocated. Things are just the way they are. At the end of the day, it only matters what he would do for Damian. Everything else is just extra incentive.
Tim blinks again.
And again.
And then he shudders and lets out a preoccupying wheeze, and he knows he's alive. Fuck yes. He's alive. (He can't believe it.) Tim doesn't waste time thanking God or whatever, because he has—probably—already lost fifteen good minutes going through shock after shock and then seizure after seizure. He simply can't waste more time.
Tim starts to crawl through the dirty, ugly floor, wincing, ignoring the nausea, and the spit hanging from his lips and his cramped calves. He also ignores the torturous tump tump sound that's making his brain and the yellowish way the world's presenting itself for him.
By the time he reaches Damian's booted legs, Tim gives himself ten exact seconds to get himself together and catch a breath and give his thanks to Whatever, before standing up. Or more like, trying to stand up. It feels like dying again. But Tim reckons that feeling like dying means that he's doing his job right. So he clasps his teeth together, and it hurts like hell goddammit, so he closes his eyes tightly, and it gets him more dizzy, so he shuts his brain off.
Tim zips his brain's mouth, presses Esc and stands up because his little brother is right there. And he is a kid. And he is hurt. And Tim needs to do something right fucking now because he doesn't know how much time has passed by. Maybe it's been more than an hour, maybe it's been three hours. Maybe the goons are about to enter through that stupid door that desperately needs maintenance and it's over for the two of them.
Red Robin needs to get things done. Red Robin gets things done.
Tim stands up and, shit, he could cry because Damian's still mumbling nonsense. Alive. His little brother is alive, counting on him to not fuck things up and do something. So Tim does something.
Chains. Damian is chained. Tim's brain is barely registering things at this point, barely counting the seconds and the minutes, but it's almost second-nature to search for a weapon, a hammer, a knife, a fucking spoon, anything to cut the chains. And Tim thinks, Maybe God is real, because there's a big-ass plier at the end of the room. What the fuck? Their captors are idiots. There's no other explanation. (There indeed are other explanations, perhaps they used them to cut Damian's chains off every time they took him, or maybe there were more prisoners before them that were tortured the I-will-pull-your-nails-off kind of way. Honestly, who cares. Maybe it's only God's work. Tim doesn't know.)
He moves to walk toward the pliers and then there's a familiar sound. His brain is slow, that's why he reacts seconds later, when his body is already going through an awful series of shocks—once again. See, no matter how much prep you do, life always find a way to surprise you. Or to fuck you over, depends on your likings. Good thing Tim's used to life's odd parkour. He knows he's not gonna die. It will be idiotic at this point. Also, a part of his brain is telling him that he, indeed, won't die because that's the point of torture. And their captors were torturing him. So he won't die. Everything's fine.
Tim goes through the motions once again. Five-minute shock, then who-knows-how-many minutes aftershocks. Then pain. More pain. Awful pain. Teeth-clattering pain. Seizure. Seizure. Shit, more pain. Spit. Spit. More pain. Tim bites his tongue accidentally and finally he's blinking bearily again and crawling his way through the floor again, ignoring the taste of blood. He's sick to his stomach. He's starting to get restless, his anxiety clutching his whole sternum, and he doesn't know if it's because of his definitely jittery nervous system or because he's running out of time.
He doesn't know exactly how many minutes does it take for the next five-minute shock to come through, so he clatters his teeth together again, reaches for the pliers, actually grabs them and no, Tim doesn't give himself a moment to recover this time. He doesn't think twice about it and stands up, and he staggers, and he throws up for like ten seconds and then he's reaching for Damian's wrists.
The difficult part is coming. He's got maybe an hour and a half left—maybe less. At this point timing is unpredictable. The goons could be back sooner. Two-Face can appear out of nowhere if he feels like it too. It's the adrenaline and those awfully-good brain chemicals the ones that allow him to gather enough strength to open and close the pliers, and press, and press, and press, until there's a clank—which means the chain just hit the floor. Tim, again, doesn't let himself catch a single breath and does the same with the chain circling Damian's right wrist.
When Damian's both arms are free, his body falls forward and Tim catches it. Tim catches his little brother and at the same time he realizes that he's crying. There are tears rolling down his cheeks when he makes the split-second decision to disentangle Damian's body from his, crouching slowly to leave him sitting in the floor. Damian can't stay upright thus Tim lays him this time.
He doesn't know how but he's going to find some comms, or a radio, or even a fucking phone, and he's going to dial Batman. (Hell, he could go out and yell for Superboy at this point. He won't.) Right now. Right now. Now. Tim stands up, staggers, and then squats down once again because his brain just reminded him to check Damian's pulse. There are a lot of thump thump's, and Tim isn't a hundred percent sure they're Damian's thump thump's, but hopefulness is another thing that's always in Red Robin's repertoire. So Tim hopes they are.
One moment he is squatting beside Dami, and the next he's standing in yet another dirty room that smells horrible (he isn't quite sure how he managed to get here), and Tim sees a desk, and a notebook, and a rotten sandwich and apple, and a couple of guns, and a broken window, and a peeling-off wall, and an old-ass telephone, and another window, and another peeling-off wall, and who the fuck decorated this place? Wait. Tim blinks.
A phone!
Shit. Fuck. Crap. How much time does he has left? How much time has he been standing in the middle of this horrible room? What if Damian's--?
No. No.
Tim moves his left leg, then his right, and soon enough the hopeful side of him turns into the terrified side damn quickly because the third five-minute shock of the day is probably coming. Tim needs to call Batman right now. Tim is crying. Damian is hurt badly. And it's his fault. It will be his fault if Damian dies. Tim sobs spasm through his whole chest. He can't see through all the tears, and he doesn't know if the phone even has a landline, but he presses the numbers nonetheless and it rings.
It fucking rings.
Tim cries louder. "Please, please, please, please--"
"Wayne Manor. Alfred Pennyworth speaking."
His breath catches. "I--" Tim sobs again. Damian is probably dead by this point, isn't he? Isn't he? "Al-fred! Alf--!"
He can't breathe. The shock is coming. He can't breathe. Damian is dying. He can't breathe. He simply can't. Red Robin can't breathe.
"--immediately, dear boy. Stay on the line, please. You are safe. You are sa--"
Oh no. Oh, shit. "Is-- Is coming! Alfred, please! Please!"
"--on his way! Listen to me. Listen to--"
There's the sound of his collar.
Red Robin doesn't fight back this time. He only wills away the fear and tries to bring back the hope. Tim thinks that he did it. He desperately convinces himself that he helped Damian. That Damian will be fine.
If he dies right now, it's fine. Batman is on his way. Alfred is by the phone.
If Tim dies, Damian won't die. So, it's fine. His eyes roll back. Red Robin doesn't fight back.
He doesn't need to anymore.
His right hand is shaking, not in a notorious way, but it is. Tim can feel it. And when he feels that, a headache starts attacking his skull, and then he's full-body trembling, and he feels sick, and at the same time he's hungry but he wants to die and at the same time he wants to stay alive, but the pain, and the trembling, and the nausea…
Tim opens his eyes. It feels as if he just ran a marathon.
He's at the Cave. What in the--? Dumbly, he tries to sit and everything worsens. He feels like a big, ugly bruise.
A hand presses over his chest. "Tt. You'll hurt yourself, Drake. Stop it."
That voice. That child-like voice.
Tim is scared of the answer, but he asks nonetheless. "Robin? Is that you?" he barely rasps. His throat is on fire. His hand's still shaking.
"Yes." Somehow, Damian sounds very alive. And also pissed off. "Drink."
He obeys the kid. Water refreshes his mouth and throat, but it also scalds them. Tim drinks a little more before speaking again. Or before trying to.
"Why mad?"
Tim knows he can talk just fine. He's just awfully tired and aching all over. He wants to know why the kid's mad though.
Damian's blurred and bandaged face is scowling. "I knew you were an idiot but I didn't think you were suicidal."
Tim's…confused. "Huh?"
That makes Dami angrier.
"You almost died," he replies, outraged. "This is the last time you pull this off. You listening, Drake? I will not let you die for me again. Never again."
Damian's chin is trembling and his eyes are watering. Tim is as confused as a cucumber.
"Did ya say…? Did you…?" Tim slurs. He can't keep up. "I died?"
His little brother doesn't answer. He only closes his eyes, and by the time he opens them again, they're crystal clear.
"Never again," he repeats with conviction. "I will fetch Pennyworth. You dare to move or even breathe faster, and I will kill you myself this time."
Tim believes him, so he closes his mouth and doesn't move an inch until he hears Alfred's soothing accent. He didn't even realize he had closed his eyes.
They don't talk about it. Damian takes on his Annoying-Robin role again and Tim goes back to his lonely life. Bruce sits him down a week later and gives him a long speech about self-care and personal safety, and then proceeds to hug him tightly, thanking him for his bravery, and Tim is left confused by the duality of Bruce's words. He literally told him: Don't kill yourself for others but also thank you. Good job. I'm proud of you.
(Okay, maybe the last sentence is wishful thinking on Tim's part.)
Dick calls him a day later after that, furious at him but also thankful, just like Bruce (each day that passes they are more and more alike but Tim saves his insights to himself to not make the first Robin angrier), and asks him if Damian had thanked him yet, and Tim tells him that no, he hasn't but he also doesn't have to, and Dick mumbles something about the importance of acknowledging a benevolent act, and Tim repeats that it's fine, that he loves Damian anyway because he's his little brother, and: He's just a kid, Dick.
And then Tim is sure that Dick's trying not to cry over the phone, so he makes an excuse to hang up the call and Dick pretends that the excuse is legitimate and yeah, Tim ends the call. (And he definitely doesn't give himself a five-minute break to cry. Nope.)
The rest of the week Red Robin works with Batman and Robin on a case, and then Red Robin and Robin do a stakeout and they apprehend a couple of criminals and alligators here and there. And everything's fine. And normal. Status-quo still on its feet. Damian's still being a little shit. Dick's miles away in 'Haven. Alfred's cooking's still delicious. Bruce's being his usual great but also irritating self, as always.
And Tim's…normal too. Hanging out. Catching up with old flames. Questioning his whole life, and convictions, and sexuality. Fighting with Steph over stupid things. Laughing at Cass' messages and emojis. Reading the poetry Duke sends him to review. The usual stuff.
Yet, he still feels the need to talk with Damian. But he doesn't do it because that's the way they work. They're emotionally stunted and they're a family of vigilantes, for fuck's sake. Yes, Tim flatlined for two entire minutes a month ago when Batman arrived for him and for Damian at that horrible bodega. Yes, Tim practically gave his life for Damian. No, Tim will never regret it.
Because the important thing is that Tim saved him, right?
So why is he currently powering up the Batcomputer to search for Damian's report of that night? What is he hoping to find?
Why can't he let this go? Clearly, everyone else turned the page already. It's common for them to be self-sacrificing. It's what is expected from them, and Tim is old enough to love Bruce even when he's being a hypocrite with his "self-care is important" speeches. They would've all done the same. Bruce, Dick, Alfred… Hell, even Jason would give his life for one or two of them. That's the way it works. And they also would've given the speech to whomever had sacrificed themself. That's how they do life.
Why was Damian so angry, then?
(I will not let you die for me. Never again.)
Tim finds Damian's report.
Log 19.21.30. File 292.
Type of Mission: Code Red (R and RR).
Status: Clear (R and RR).
Medical: - Mild injuries (R). - Severe injuries and Minor Chronic Damage to CNS (RR).
He reads it. And he reads it again. And again, for good measure.
And the thing is, Tim just said it. They're a bunch of overly-caring hypocrites.
So Tim powers off the computer and lets his heart guide him through the Manor. He finds Damian in the den by the left wing, painting. There's instrumental music filling the room, and Tim would've snorted if he wasn't feeling like crying.
He ignores the doubtful side of him, and also his right hand—which decided that it was a great time to start fucking trembling—, and enters the room quietly. Damian obviously knows he's here by now.
"Hey." Tim sounds shy. He clears his throat, tries again, "What're you painting?"
Damian doesn't turn to look at him. He keeps stroking the canvas with his brush. "A sunset."
Tim can't help but huff, "Basic."
This time his brother turns to look at him with an arched eyebrow. He looks just like Bruce. "Join me, then. We'll see who paints better."
Log 19.21.30. File 292.
Redacted by: Robin (R).
Mission report: The criminals didn't make their motives clear until they strapped me to the chair in a room across where they had kept us captive. They didn't take Red Robin to that room, only me. They violently asked me for highly confidential information involving Red Robin's civilian identity such as his real name, home address, age, name of work/school and blood relatives.
They did it twice—the strapping, asking and torturing. I kept reciting my Oath, as well as my vigilante name instead of complying: “I am Robin and I swear that I will fight against crime and corruption and never to swerve from the path of righteousness.”
I repeated the previous paragraph at least fifty-seven times, for what I can recall. I couldn't give them the information they requested simply because it is against my moral code and against the convictions and actions I have swore to fulfill. Nevertheless, my decision-making had also been influenced by the fact that Red Robin as a vigilante inspires me to aim for more ambitious ideals and principles, aside from the fact that, as a civilian, the criminals asked me to betray one of my very own, something I would never do.
The criminals' torturing methods included: exposure to loud noises, harsh beatings, blinding with light, kicking, oxygen deprivation, strangling…
Tim blinks, coming back to the present.
Then, he smiles softly at his little brother.
"Dare taken." He grabs another canvas from the table near the chimney, and pretends to search for the best brushes and the best kind of paint for a sunset. He doesn't know shit about acrylic art. Damian looks amused. "I'll go snap some pics later at Gotham River. We can see who's better at photography too. What do you say?"
The true meaning is right there, behind his words. I know, Dami. I know that you protected me too. And I'm thankful for it. I really am. There's a sudden spark of recognition in Damian's eyes, a silent acknowledgment. Then he rolls his eyes, but instead of looking exasperated, he looks excited. He looks his age.
"Photography, aka the most simplistic form of art. It'll be easy."
This little shit. "I can't believe you just said that."
Dami only lets out a laugh and continues to peacefully paint. Tim keeps smiling at him for a second too long, then turns to prepare his own canvas. Brotherhood don't have to be reciprocated but, man, it sure feels good when it is.
(There's little Damian wouldn't do for him. Less than little. There's nothing Damian wouldn't do for him, and now Tim knows.)