Work Text:
Okay, so answering Penguin’s distress call alone hadn’t been a good idea. Tim could admit to that. But he was the only one that hadn’t made it back to the Belfry yet, and he was fairly close to the Iceberg Lounge. Plus, all things considered, the Court of Owls didn’t seem that threatening; from what Babs had said, the League had wiped the floor with them at the Orchard Hotel, and not to toot his own horn, but he’d watched footage of how the assassins fought, and was pretty confident that he could beat them in a fight.
And yeah, in hindsight, insisting that he could handle it on his own even when Jason insisted that he should wait for him and it’d be stupid not to (because Jason was the only person who could make him feel like crap and assure him that he’d take a bullet for him in the same breath and okay that’s a lie the others can do that too sometimes) wasn’t a good idea either, but Tim didn’t have time to wait, he’d heard a lot of emotions out of Penguin and terrified had never been one of them, he had to get there now, he didn’t deserve to die the way the Court would kill him.
The Lounge was silent and littered with the bodies of Penguin’s security, and Tim was so sure that he’d been too late, that those precious few seconds he’d wasted arguing with Jason had cost Cobblepot his life, when he heard the man weakly pleading for help.
As relieved as he was, there were also red flags appearing in Tim’s head as he slowly approached Cobblepot, who was suspended by the Court’s signature knives…but, other than being only half-conscious, he didn’t seem injured.
But Tim got him down anyway. And he got a lungful of some kind of gas for his troubles.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, as Penguin muttered out the kind of half-assed apology that only he could say and sound sincere about it, he wondered if Jason would get there in time. If any of them would.
If they were on their way at all.
He’d probably been drugged with something. That much was clear. His vision was blurry, he could barely walk in a straight line (which was kind of embarrassing since this stupid maze was mostly straight, narrow paths), and when Jacob Kane’s voice echoed through the walls of the labyrinth, it sounded really loud and really distorted. Tim started to tune it out after the second time the guy spoke, partially because it was giving Tim a headache and partially because he only noticed the very conspicuous holes in the walls of a corridor a split-second before spikes shot out of them, and he didn’t duck so much as flop down onto the cold stone floor (which kind of hurt).
He found out pretty quickly that he couldn’t communicate with the Belfry, and that his AR device was either jammed or completely fried. He’d figure it out later, his main focus was on the fact that he turned back from a dead-end and ended up in a whole new room somehow, this one with massive flames spewing out of machines that reminded Tim vaguely of bunsen burners. Not all of them were lit, though, and he carefully stumbled his way beneath those ones, finding the right path into the next room much slower than he would’ve liked, because he was sweating a lot by the time he finally made it through.
He wondered if he’d have gotten a tan if he wasn’t wearing his costume, and that was really funny to his most-definitely-high-on-something brain because he let out an embarrassing giggle and kept walking.
“How are they doing this…?” He asked himself in a moment of clarity, his usual thought process for figuring these kinds of things out moving much slower than usual. It felt a lot less like a train of thought and more like a rowboat of thought. But without a paddle. That idea was a little funny, too.
If he got out of here alive, maybe he should try to get his hands on a sample of whatever it is they’re giving him. For research purposes.
It wasn’t fun anymore once he started hearing Bruce’s voice.
When he saw the open, empty grave.
“Where were you, Robin? You were supposed to be at my side!”
“I was on patrol,” he whispered, hardly even realizing that he was doing it. “You…you told me to go without you. You said you’d be okay…”
He hadn’t said that he’d be okay. Tim hadn’t asked. He was pretty sure that Bruce was just working on a case, or that he wanted to be alone for a while. Or even, God forbid, he was finally listening to their suggestions that he take a break, just for one night. Tim thought that he’d be okay.
He stared at the grave for nearly a minute before finally tearing his gaze away and walking down another path. He didn’t look back. He was afraid to.
The next trapped room was full of rotating saws and blades, but seeing the pattern in their movements was easy. He slid and rolled beneath them to the other side, trying to will himself to stay calm, to ignore whatever the Voice (or Bruce) said next.
But the next room was full of monitors, the Belfry’s monitors, each of them cycling through images of masked Court of Owls members staring through the screen.
Tim couldn’t hold in the grief-stricken cry that ripped itself from his throat when the chair in front of the monitors spun around, and there was Alfred, his eyes opened wide as they stared lifelessly at the ceiling.
“No, no, no!” He ran, nearly tripping in his panic and from the stupid damn drug and then Alfred’s corpse vanished. Like it had never been there.
And it hadn’t been. It wasn’t real. Alfred was okay. Alfred was alive. Alfred had to be alive.
He couldn’t tune it out when he heard Bruce–no, Batman –speak again, in that even tone he always did when reporting the events of a patrol.
“Four weeks with the new Robin. No improvement.”
“I was getting better,” he said, hating himself for falling for this, for listening, for responding, but he missed Bruce and, God help him, there was a part of his mind that just wanted to hear his voice again, no matter what the words being said were.
“Lacks Dick’s leadership. Jason’s boldness. An unworthy successor.”
“I was trying, Bruce…you needed Robin…”
“Tim was right. Batman needs a Robin. But that Robin needs to be someone–anyone–other than Tim Drake.”
That’s what it always boiled down to, wasn’t it? Tim Drake wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t good enough.
There was a display with the Robin costume–the one he made, the one he was wearing, how did that get there–set up, and the walls were plastered with advertisements asking for a new Robin, one that wasn’t a stupid kid, one that was like Dick or Jason, one that was…that was a better friend.
He couldn’t look at the costume anymore. He wanted to rip the one he was wearing off. It didn’t feel right on him. Didn’t belong on him.
No, no, focus! Focus, this isn’t real, you have to get out of here.
He shook his head violently and picked a path at random. He was running now.
“When Babs said there was a new Robin, I thought it was some sick joke. Especially when she told me it was you. The little brat that we couldn’t leave alone because his dad didn’t want him.”
That was Dick’s voice. Tim fixed his gaze squarely on the floor, not looking at whatever was in this room, feeling along the wall to help him get out of it. He tried to remember that this wasn’t real. Tried so hard to remember when Dick told him that he was doing a good job, that he was a good Robin.
…he couldn’t. He remembered calling Dick, calling the one person left in his life that could always make him feel better when he felt that he wasn’t good enough, that he wasn’t getting better, because Jason was gone and Bruce was still grieving and he hadn’t even known that Conner existed yet, and asking when he was coming to visit. Dick would always give a vague answer that was as close to a ‘never’ as the guy could ever will himself to say.
Tim kept running. He couldn’t handle this, he had to get out, if he was hearing Bruce and Dick then it was only a matter of time until–
“I’ve never met someone so obnoxiously smart, yet so incredibly stupid. Could never take a hint that we wanted you to leave. That we wanted you to do everyone a favor and quit. That I didn’t want your help with my dad’s cases. I’ve done more as Oracle and as Batgirl than you’ve ever done as Robin.”
Babs. He tried to keep his breathing under control, kept his eyes on the floor but just far enough ahead that he’d see any traps he stumbled into.
“I know,” he mumbled, the words slurring together but his tone desperate as he tried to run faster, tried to stay on his feet, tried to remember that whatever this place was, it wasn’t real. “I know, Babs, I’m sorry, I just wanted to help, please…this can’t be real…”
Maybe this is Hell.
He ran faster.
“Please,” he whispered, knowing what would inevitably come next. “Please, don’t show me him. Please.”
But when did things ever go the way that Tim Drake wanted them to?
He guessed it was a small favor that Jason didn’t speak. But, unlike the others, he physically appeared, dressed up in the gear he’d been wearing when he first became the Red Hood.
Tim froze in place, knowing that this hallucination ( just a hallucination ) would vanish once he got close but unable to move any closer.
He wasn’t afraid of Red Hood. He wasn’t afraid of Jason. Jason was loud and aggressive and he’d been so angry for so long and Tim had been sure that, no matter what he said, that some of it had to be directed at him, some part of Jason had to hate him for trying to live up to him, trying to replace him, because that had to be what it looked like when he came back to life and saw Batman with the scrawny, annoying kid he could barely stand dressed in his colors.
But Jason was a good person. The best person that Tim had ever met, so he wasn’t afraid of the Red Hood once they found out he was Jason Todd. No matter how intense the glow around Jason became, no matter how much he yelled and how many things he destroyed when he still lost that inner-war with the Lazarus Pit, Tim was never afraid of him, because he’d idolized Jason even before he knew he was Robin, and maybe he was different now but he was still Jason.
Then the hallucination reached up and slowly removed the helmet.
Disgust.
That was the only word to describe the expression on Jason’s face as he stared down at Tim.
That hurt more than anything he could’ve possibly said. But with it came a kind of clarity, because no matter how much Jason teased him, no matter how much Tim got on his nerves, Jason didn’t hate him. He…he didn’t, right? Neither did Babs. Neither did Dick.
“Not real…” Tim whispered, swallowing down the sob that threatened to bubble up from his chest. He moved forward, gaining speed, and the sadness was becoming something else, something that burned in his chest and his gut, something that stamped down the fear and the grief and the anguish and told him to get out of here.
The hallucination disappeared before Tim got within three feet of it, and beyond it was a door.
He felt…strange, the entire time that he made his way through the lab, as he fought the newly-made Talons, as he did what he could to destroy the coffins containing them, as he grappled and climbed his way up to the surface, as he left the collapsing laboratory behind. Like he was watching a movie, watching his actions but not doing them himself. Speaking but not with his own voice. Hearing but not with his own ears. He didn’t really think about it. He wanted to go home.
He hadn’t believed that he was really outside for a few seconds. Even when he heard Alfred’s voice ( oh thank God Alfred’s alive he’s okay ) asking what happened, there was a part of him that was afraid that he hadn’t really made it out, that it was more smoke and mirrors and props, but then Alfred had asked if he was okay with so much worry that Tim felt something inside of himself break anyway, and he didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the tears pour out over his domino mask, and he could no longer tell if his vision was still blurry because of the remains of the gas still in his system or because of the tears.
“I…I don’t think I can make it back to the Belfry,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I can’t really…I can’t see very well.”
“I’m on my way,” Red Hood ( Jason ) replied immediately. “Where are you?”
The first thing he did when he saw Jason was hug him, not caring that his cheek was probably going to bruise from slamming into the metal armor, barely processing Jason’s questions about what happened, and then he’d tried to take a breath to reply and all he could do was start crying again.
“Robin…?” Jason had asked. Then, after a moment, he hugged back. “Tim?”
“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, falling back on his tried and true method of reporting what happened instead of thinking about those stupid things called feelings that everyone else seemed so much better at coping with than him. Another way he was failing. “Some kind of gas. Made me hallucinate. I’m…I can’t focus properly. Can’t see very well.” Jason’s grip on him tightened, and he was clearly angry, probably at him, it was his own fault for being so stupid, for rushing in alone. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m taking you home,” Jason said. “You’re gonna be fine, Tim.”
Tim shut his eyes tightly, and just for a second, even though it wasn’t fair to Jason, he pretended he was hugging Bruce instead. It wasn’t that hard; Jason was built relatively the same. Then he felt bad and opened his eyes again.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he blurted out. “I never…I can’t remember if I ever told you that. I missed you.”
“...I know, Tim.”
Jason helped him along into the elevator, and the moment they entered the Belfry, Dick and Babs were there, asking if he was okay, what happened, what was wrong with him, and Tim all but threw himself at them, hugging them both as tightly as he could.
“This is real, right…?” He asked, hating how his voice cracked at the last word. He hated sounding like a kid.
“You are a kid,” Dick muttered as he and Barbara hugged him back. He must’ve spoken out loud. “And this is real. You’re in the Belfry. You’re okay.”
Alfred had him sit at the kitchen table and began to look him over, test his reflexes, ask him questions, while Dick and Babs sat across from him, varying levels of anger and worry in their expressions. Jason was leaning against the counter, watching him, then abruptly stalked towards the training area.
“I need to hit something,” he growled.
“I’m sorry,” Tim said again, wishing there was some other thing he could say or do to let them all know that he was sorry for everything, for not listening, for not being good enough, for–
“Breathe, Tim,” Dick said, and Barbara began to mirror his breaths to make it easier for him. Jason was looking at him now, fidgeting with his wrists for a moment in that way he always did when he was ready for a fight.
“Don’t be sorry,” Jason told him, his voice low and his eyes beginning to glow green as he turned away again and made a beeline towards the sparring dummy. “They’re gonna pay for this. ”
Tim didn’t know when he fell asleep, but when he opened his eyes, he was lying on the sofa, dressed in his civvies, with the others sitting nearby and watching a show that Tim couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to, because he realized after a moment that his head was in Jason’s lap, and for some reason that was when the events of the previous night hit him fully, granted him the hindsight of realizing how stupid he’d been, how he should’ve known better than to listen to anything the hallucinations said. Embarrassment and shame flooded through him. God, what would Bruce think?
When Jason eventually looked down at him, Tim expected him to jokingly threaten to kill him if he ever mentioned this, give him a lecture about being reckless, berate him for not being a better Robin. Instead, he smiled and (gently) flicked Tim’s forehead.
“I’m glad you’re back too, Tim,” he said.
Suddenly, it was easy to remember how often everyone had told him that he was a good Robin. That Bruce had told him once that he was proud of him. That Jason had said he was ‘the best of us’.
He wasn’t sure if he believed that, but it made his chest feel warm, and he closed his eyes, holding onto that feeling.
He also decided that he hated the Court of Owls for ruining perfectly good birds for him. For the psychological torture too, obviously, but mostly for making him hate owls.