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Gotham has always had a fairly impressive rogue gallery.
You have limited knowledge of the other cities and their various rogues but you think Central City and Keystone City, the Gem Cities of the midwest of which the Flash is in charge of, are some who can match up to it.
But in the end, Gotham’s will always beat them out.
You have the Joker, indiscriminate in his havoc, truly, truly unpredictable and for no reason other than he simply wants to. You have Two-Face, fates decided upon the coin toss. You have Mr. Freeze, Black Mask, Poison Ivy, Mad Hatter, and so many more.
The Joker is the worst of them, though. That is the general consensus in the city.
But for you?
You have always found Scarecrow particularly unnerving.
Sure, the Joker has his clown thing going on but…
When you were a kid, during the fall, the town over from your own would host a Halloween festival. You could come down and pick pumpkins straight from the patches, take hay rides, drink apple cider, gorge on candy apples, and roam their corn maze.
At the shy age of seven, you ended up getting lost in the corn maze. Separated from your parents, from any other parents or remotely responsible figure, you wandered for some time, crying, terrified, thinking, in typical seven-year-old fashion, that you would be lost forever as the sun set, plunging you into darkness.
You remember accidentally stumbling into a Scarecrow, just a decoration for the maze, but it had seemed so lifelike with its hay-stuffed limbs and mean face scowling down on you.
That would be your boogeyman for a long while.
Eventually, the fear faded and you forgot about it.
Moving to Gotham gave it a little more life.
But it’s never been an issue.
Still isn’t. Not technically.
After all, you think, perched on your couch, anxiously watching the news, it’s not you currently barricaded in the water treatment plant with Scarecrow and a new batch of fear toxin, fighting to make sure he doesn’t release it into Gotham’s waters.
No, it’s Tim. The others.
But the fight is over. Cameras showing police officers with gas masks emerging from the warehouse with Scarecrow tucked between them, hands cuffed. His scarecrow mask is creepy as ever, scowl etched permanently in the rough material of the mask.
“Still no word on whether Scarecrow was able to contaminate Gotham’s water supply but we do see the few workers he had hostage are now being escorted out. Little is known about this new strand of fear toxin but tips to the GCPD say that it is able to be dispersed either as a liquid or a gas. Previously, the toxin was dispersed only as a gas, but it seems Scarecrow has upgraded to another venture of chaos.”
You drum your fingers on your thigh, eyes intent on the flatscreen. Trying to pick them out in the background. But Bruce does his best to keep Batman and the others out of media eye. At least here in Gotham. When it comes to the Justice League and the Titans, they have little choice. They’re officially sanctioned teams by the UN. Batman can’t be an urban legend there. None of them can.
Pictures here are blurry, though. Nothing more than grainy, shadow figures in the night. No stopping for interviews, no stepping into the light.
Outside? Well, you’ve seen literal Getty Image photos of Batman at a UN hearing with Wonder Woman and Superman, looking none too pleased about it all.
You’re not going to find them, is what you’re saying. But you try anyway. Amidst the sea of police cars, blue and red lights flashing in the night, reporters perched several feet away, debriefing their audiences.
Just another night in Gotham.
But not for you.
Your fingers itch to grab your phone. Tim assured you it would be fine as he unlocked the hidden room in your walk-in closet, the room reinforced by multiple layers of lead (Bruce insisted; Tim, annoyed, relented) and only accessible by fingerprint and retinal scans from him and you, as it is the room that holds his Red Robin gear, private servers, and other confidential items. The room you could hide away in if enemies ever managed to breach your stiff security protocols (installed and programmed by Tim this time) and the thick walls and bulletproof, bomb-proof, and heat vision proof windows of the apartment.
You’re safe as can be.
You don’t think the same can be said for Tim.
Even if he told you he would be fine. That Bruce and Damian are constantly mixing antidotes to the new strands of fear toxin and Joker venom that pop up. That Duke and Steph, both of whom have slowed in their vigilante duties like he has, are coming back on for this one. In addition to Cass and Bruce and Damian and Kate and more. The Birds were on standby, too.
You can’t help but worry anyway.
Just a feeling. A bad, bad feeling in the pit of your stomach.
The phone call you get in the next minute affirms it.
Caught up just as Scarecrow unleashed the toxin… Had given his own mask to another worker trapped there… Didn’t yet have an antidote… Only received one a few minutes later… in very fragile condition…
Your name jars you from the cold, petrifying fear inside you.
“Are you alright?”
“Sorry, Alf,” you mumble, standing and shutting off the TV. Your hands shake as you do it. You feel jittery and restless. “I’ll leave now, I don’t know how fast I’ll be able to get to the manor, though, I’m sure traffic is just crazy right now —”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“But —”
“Master Tim has insisted on returning to you. Miss Stephanie agreed and so, it is next to impossible to get them to change their minds.”
“Right,” you say, sitting back down, flexing your fingers, which have gone cold, despite the apartment being well-heated for December in Gotham. A little voice like Tim’s matter-of-factly says, You’re stressed. Blood doesn’t flow as well to the hands and extremities because of it.
You try to regroup. “Are the others okay, then?”
“They all had their masks, so yes, they’re alright. A few scrapes and bruises but nothing we aren’t used to. Master Tim and Miss Stephanie are on their way now and I imagine you’d like to prepare for his arrival.”
“Right, right, yeah, thanks, Alfred.”
“I should thank you for taking care of him. There is a reason he wants to be with you there rather than with us. It is most likely self-explanatory, but it should still be said.”
Of course.
After so many years, he is your home. The harbor to your tempest. And it is the same for him.
“Thank you, Alfred. I appreciate that.”
“Of course.”
You bid your goodbyes and hurry to prepare for their arrival.
A hot meal sounds in order but you don’t think he’ll be up for it immediately, so you grab a pack of crackers. You ensure you have water, as well as some Sprite. You don’t know if he showered there, he probably didn’t, so you grab a fresh change of clothes for him, leaving it on the counter in the bathroom and grabbing him a new towel, too.
You go back to the living room to turn the TV back on, changing it to Ice Age, then lighting a candle you like to turn on every now and then, lavender and vanilla scented. Something familiar, something to ease him. You don’t know if it’ll work but you have to try.
After that, it is simply a waiting game.
You keep a close eye on your phone, where you get notifications from your security system.
Fifteen minutes later, you get an alert — not about movement on the balcony, but at the front door, camera feed showing you Tim and Steph’s figures in heavy thick coats — appropriate for the weather and to hide their suits, since their usual masks are gone. You guess he wasn’t in good enough condition to grapple with her. The thought makes your heart clench. Dismissing the message, you hurry over to open the door.
“Yeah, there you go, sweetie, you’re home now,” she’s murmuring to him, voice softer and gentler than you’ve ever heard.
She glances up at you as the door opens, shooting you a sad smile, then nudging Tim gently.
Your throat tightens painfully as you see his face, paler than usual, eyes glassy, gaze far, far away from here.
“Timmy?”
His eyes shoot to you.
Then he’s moving, strength and vigor seemingly renewed at the sight of you, and his arms are wrapping around you, tight, like steel, painful, hurting, cutting off your breathing, but you don’t care, don’t say anything, you just hold him back, as tightly as you can.
The pain is just a reminder that he’s here, with you, once again. Like it should be.
Steph leaves silently, mouthing Thank you.
You mouth back Be safe.
She shoots you a thumbs-up, then slips out, door clicking closed behind her.
Tim is shaking, you realize, body trembling against yours.
“You’re okay,” you whisper and his hold tightens painfully again but you push through it. “We’re okay, honey. We’re okay. You’re okay.”
What must he have seen?
Fear. Jonathan Crane’s greatest motivation — to master fear itself and to push those boundaries by using his fear toxins on others.
Your greatest fears, convincing you that they have become reality.
For you?
Losing your family. Losing your friends. Losing Tim.
For him?
He has already lost so much.
Been through so much.
You can surmise that you must’ve been part of it. Of course. Of course.
“We’re okay,” you whisper again, squeezing him.
He buries his face in your neck, inhaling deeply. You run your fingers through his hair, not caring about how sweaty it is, Gotham clinging to him even now. You hate it. Can’t he get a break? Can’t he be free of it for even a few hours?
But that’s why you’re here.
To help. To ease the burden. This monumental burden put on him when he was a mere fourteen-years-old.
You two stay there for a little while. You feel him toe off his boots at one point, which makes you smile.
He keeps his face in your neck, despite you knowing the angle must start to bother him. But the contact is what he needs so you’ll give it to him. Whatever he wants.
“Are you up to eat something?” you ask softly, fingers still running through his damp hair.
He shakes his head. You guessed as much.
“How about a shower?”
Quiet for a minute. You feel the rise and fall of his shoulders and the tickle of warm breath against the sensitive skin of your neck. Then he nods.
It takes longer for him to let go. You don’t rush him. And even then, he doesn’t let you go far, holding onto your hand as you lead him into your shared bedroom and then into the adjoining bathroom.
Large and ridiculously luxurious, it has a jacuzzi bathtub, a large walk-in shower with a rainfall shower head, two for the body in the wall, then one detachable head, and it’s controlled by a waterproof touchscreen. Definitely a step-up from the bathtub shower you two had at Rose Oaks.
You turn on the shower, making it hot, then turn to Tim, reaching for the coat.
Underneath it is his suit. Most likely, he and Steph rode here by motorcycle, then she put them both in coats for the walk up here. It’s a bit of a silly image, especially since his cape is longer than it, and you smile to yourself as you pull off the coat.
“What?” he asks quietly, voice raspy. The first time he’s spoken so far.
“You’re cute, that’s all,” you murmur, dropping the coat onto the floor, then reaching up to unsnap the cape.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just looks at you. By this point in your relationship, the intensity of his gaze, taking you in fully, no details missed by keen eyes, does not fluster you. It just warms you. You feel seen in the best of ways. Wanted. Loved.
You love him, too. So much more than you thought possible. Sometimes it feels like you might burst with it. You hope he knows that. You’ll show him.
You take care of the rest of his suit. Fingers finding hidden zippers, carefully unlatching his utility belt and setting it aside, slipping off his compression shirt and the rest of it.
By the time everything has been taken off, the bathroom is muggy with steam.
You step back but he grabs your wrist, saying your name, blue eyes pleading.
“Stay. Please.”
“I am,” you soothe. “Just let me get out of this, okay?”
You strip, too, much more quickly. He steps in and you follow him, gently guiding him underneath the stream of hot water. Your skin breaks out in goosebumps, a little bit chilly from the sparse water touching you, but you ignore it.
Everything seems to fall away. Tim’s eyes slide shut, head tilting back, letting the water run over his face, thick chunks of dark hair sticking to his skin, the water washing away the terrors of the night. You sigh, hand slipping to his cheek, rubbing the skin there gently.
When he pulls his head away from the stream, you reach up to comb his hair away from his face, fingers stroking over his skin idly, tenderly. He leans forward, arms coming around your waist, pulling you into him.
You go easily, hands sliding over his shoulders as he closes the distance between your bodies, dropping his head against your chest this time, right over your heart.
When you think of the reason why, your throat squeezes.
“We’re okay,” you whisper, fingers tracing odd circles on his back, running through his wet hair, gently detangling the knots that formed during his work tonight.
“I know,” he whispers. “I just…”
The fear toxin is effective in what it was conceived to do. Even for Tim, as analytical and logic-minded as he is. When you live this kind of life, the threat of loss is a real one. Janet Drake’s death was entirely accidental. Not for any rhyme or reason other than misfortune. Jack Drake’s, however, was intentional. The list goes on and it’s hardly limited to loss by death. There are so many things that can happen. Things that can happen to you. Either because of Tim Drake or because of Red Robin. Or both.
But you don’t care about that. You never have. The danger is real but what you would lose in that trade-off is not worth it.
It doesn’t help, you think. Not now. Not when he knows, vividly, how he may lose you, because saying that now is as good as saying you’re okay with dying and he doesn’t need that.
He just needs assurance that you’re here now. And you’ll give it to him.
“I love you so much. You know that?”
You feel his breath stutter, arms tightening, chest pressed so closely to yours you can feel the unsteady beat of his heart pounding against you, his fingers digging into the skin of your hips so hard it’ll probably leave bruises. But you don’t care.
“And I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur. “Not in a million years if I had a choice in it.”
A small sniffle. “That’s not physically possible. Unless you’re secretly Kryptonian.”
Your lips quirk . You reach for his shampoo, squeezing out a dollop, then smoothing it into his hair. He sinks further into you, letting out a small noise of pleasure.
“Not Kryptonian. Just human. And very dedicated to those I love.”
A sigh. “I know.”
“Whatever you saw tonight,” you murmur and he tenses sharply but you keep going, keep massaging shampoo into his hair, soapy bubbles spilling over your palm, “it wasn’t real. I’m here. We’re all here. And we aren’t going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere.”
He’s quiet for a long while. Enough for you to rinse out the shampoo and rub in the conditioner.
You reach for his body wash. Your body wash, really. He hasn’t used his own in a long while.
His hand wraps around your wrist, though. Stopping you. He pulls back to look at you.
“Tim?”
His eyes are on your face. Soft. But still a little hard to read.
He turns you, switching your positions. You jump at the first douse of hot water but don’t fight it, allowing him to push you under the stream. You close your eyes to keep the water out. His hands come up to your face. Stroking your cheeks. Pushing your wet hair out of your face. You lean into his touch.
“I love you,” he whispers. “More than anything.”
“More than anything,” you echo, leaning into him. He wraps his arms around you. Hugging you. Tightly but not painfully.
You think you might hear him whisper Thank you but above the sound of the shower, you aren’t sure.
Slowly, you get him cleaned up. He insists on returning the favor and you let him, even if you already showered earlier. It’s a small thing to ask, after all.
After, you step out and dry yourselves off. You help him into his clothes and he helps you into yours. Insistent on reciprocation. Wanting to do something for you. But also just wanting to be near you. Touch you. Helping you gives him assurances, you think, of your presence. The thought makes your heart ache.
His hair is wetter than you’d like it to be, so you grab a towel and lead him out into the room. He sits on the edge of the bed and you stand between his legs, taking the towel to his hair, gently drying it.
Tim holds onto you all the while.
You comb through it afterward, gently taking out the tangles.
He has a distant look in his eyes when you finish, tossing the towel and comb to the side for now, not wanting to be too far from him.
“What are you thinking?” you prompt gently, sitting next to him, taking his hand in yours.
“That I think the last person who did that was my mom.”
You pause. “Was it… I’m sorry. I didn’t ask —”
“No,” he says, looking at you. “No, it was… it was nice.” His voice is small. A little embarrassed. A little bashful. Red stains his cheeks and you smile at the sight.
“I’ll do it anytime you want,” you promise. “In the meantime…”
You leave it hanging, for him to fill.
He sighs. “Let’s just go to bed?”
“Sure. Can I get you to drink some water first maybe?”
He acquiesces, drinking a glass of water, then sliding into bed. You clear the security system — with him peering over your shoulder, making certain for himself, too — then turn out the lights, curtains automatically drawing over the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Tim keeps you close underneath the covers, settling low, laying his head on your chest like he did in the shower. You press a kiss to his head, running your fingers through his hair, feeling sleep start to tug at your senses.
By the way he relaxes into the memory foam of the bed, you know it’s not far off from him, either.
You stay awake to make sure of it.
Feeling his body go lax, his breathing even out. Hoping, praying, his dreams are peaceful tonight. To whoever will listen. The universe, some higher being, you don’t know, you simply want to give him a break. A break from all of this.
It’s just a bad day. You know that. A bad day that stands out in a sea of so many good ones. But bad days for him, for you, are something so different from others’. Unforgiving trauma. Potential loss of life.
But honestly? If changing that meant leaving him… you wouldn’t change a thing.
God, you hope that as the time goes on, he’ll fully step back.
Until then, you’ll be there to pick up the pieces. To tend to the aftermath.
Always.