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Of all the cool action shots reused in movies, hanging by your fingertips from a window ledge has got to be the most glamorized.
This shit is not exhilarating. This shit hurts. From the uncomfortable press of brick against Tim’s body, to the strain and fiery pull in his shoulders from where all his weight hangs, it’s just not something he thinks should be seen as, like, a spectacular feat of combat.
Tim didn’t really have a choice, though. He either jumped out the window and fell into whatever waited outside, or he vaulted the window and held on for dear life, trying to become one with the building facade.
This way he was out of sight from his pursuers, they’d think he chanced the fall and, hopefully, they would leave the building in search of him.
That’s what Tim was banking on, so he could um… hang out here, and replan. Maybe find an alternate escape route.
Tim wishes, not for the first time, that he wasn’t alone for this.
Usually that thought came when, say, he was watching a particularly heart-wrenching film or wanted a second pair of eyes on a project or case. That thought didn’t always pop up while in the field, if anything, because he usually wasn’t alone. Someone else was patrolling or just a comm call away.
But that’s not the case right now.
Tim is enduring one of the most precarious situations he’s been in, that he can recall, and he’s going to have to rely on himself. He should be used to it, Tim's been relying on himself for years. He got complacent when he thought there were people he could call on for help, but not this time.
Because help’s not coming. He wishes that weren’t true, he so desperately wishes he had someone he could call on. But every name that runs through his brain is shot down.
Gone.
Gone.
Wouldn’t answer.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
He shakes his head, then regrets that when the world sways sickeningly around him. Focus his mind hisses at him. He’s alone but that’s fine. He regroups and begins the workings of a strategy.
Tim’s clearly concussed, if the dizziness and nausea are anything to go by. He doesn’t exactly remember the head injury. He got thrown against a wall? Blunt object to the head? All possible. But trying to remember isn’t helping. All it does is ramp up the pain.
And the pain. The epicenter being the back of his skull, which radiates down his neck and around to his forehead. It’d be more distracting if he wasn’t used to these kinds of injuries. His right eye is swelling but he can still see marginally well through it, if his eye hurts, it melds into the general mess that is his head right now.
His ankles messed up too. It throbs, sending waves of pain up his leg and down again. He landed on it so incredibly wrong, but it’s just a glob of hot agony right now that he can’t pinpoint what actually hurts.
The ligaments, meaning it’s sprained? Or the muscles and it’s strained? It could be both, with a mild sprain and a terrible strain. Or it’s broken entirely, the bones snapped and the tendons shredded- a particularly vicious wave shoots all the way up to Tim’s hip. He cringes and grinds his forehead on the brick to ground himself. OK fine. Let’s just settle on his ankle is fucked and move on.
He can feel the bruises that cover his torso but his breathing isn’t all that terrible really, so his ribs are probably intact. Sure he’s panting and it feels like his lungs are being constricted by rubber bands, but it’s not hurting, so it’s fine.
Plus there’s the fact that he’s dangling from a dangerously high piece of window ledge, by only his hands. That doesn’t leave him in an exactly secure position, but it’s better than being a splattered mess on the ground, so he’ll take it.
Wary of his head, Tim risks a glance down and behind him. The angle is awful and with one eye working less than optimally he doesn’t get a clear view per se, but he gets a view enough. The only thing waiting if he let go is unforgiving concrete and scattered rubble.
Oh, so maybe Tim wouldn’t splatter entirely, he could possibly break his back on a boulder and then crumble to the ground.
A shaky sigh escapes him at the mental image. All that means is that the only way out is up, back through the window he was so graciously forced out of in his mad dash away from his pursuers.
Pursuers who, for all intents and purposes, should be gone from the window. He’d hoped the building itself, but he’s starting to doubt that.
For one, he hasn’t heard any noise from outside. And for two, it wouldn’t make sense for them to abandon the building. Tim doesn’t know the specifics of the hit out on him, but it’s either alive or with proof of death.
Tim takes just a few seconds to breathe and rally, before hauling himself up and over the window ledge. His stomach muscles cramp at the sudden contraction and his arms scream from having to maneuver all his dead weight, but he pushes through. He doesn’t have a choice, he has to push through. With one final heave, Tim manages to get his torso flat against the ledge, and from there it’s easy to let himself tumble the rest of the way to the ground.
Laying there, panting, sweating, and so thoroughly physically spent, Tim can’t process any thought other than I don’t wanna do this alone.
It bounces around his head, over and over, like those old school DVD screen savers. Except there’s a lot more of them and they ping off of each other and rattle around loudly, making Tim’s aching head even worse.
Eventually Tim forces the thought to change, he imagines grabbing all the words and shoving them out the window he just crawled through. Until the only words floating around his skull are: it’s fine.
It’s then that Tim notices that the sounds of his thoughts might not have been so psychosomatic as he pictured. There is noise coming from somewhere, faint but quick. Footsteps, he clocks blearily. Rationally, he knew that his pursuers wouldn’t have given up, he’d just really really wished they had.
But they didn’t.
Fine.
He’d deal with it.
Hunt or be hunted, and he still had one working ankle, one working eye, and enough spite to fuel one more front against his attackers.
It’s relatively simple, all things considered, to shove aside the pain flooding his body. He wallowed in it enough while hanging helplessly from the window, but now that he’s up and has a goal, he lets attack plans and the mission fill his mind.
Getting around with an injured ankle is awkward at first, but Tim gets a rhythm going and doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t stop until he finds the people trying to find him. It’s mildly satisfying to see them falter at his affront. They wanted the upper hand with a surprise ambush. Well too bad.
Doesn’t stop until his enemies are incapacitated and tied down for good measure. The odds of many against one wasn’t great but Tim uses their shock to his advantage and charges. No more time for thinking, just movement. If he thinks, he’ll feel the pain. Can’t have that now can he.
Doesn’t stop until he gets some more info out of the sniveling bastards. These guys definitely packed a punch, but hell hath no fury like Tim Drake when he’s fucking over something. These fools never stood a chance of actually getting to Tim, he’s just not on his absolute A-game right now. He’s busy.
But when the final lackey lets slip something about reinforcements, Tim knows it’s time to finish this up. One swift punch to the temple and the guys down and out.
There.
Finally.
Tim stands on shaky legs and tries to corral his overworked heart. New plan, next steps, another goal.
He can find a cheap hotel, one that doesn’t ask too many questions, one with a shower and a bed.
Clean up. Gather intel. Rearrange finances. Sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat.
It’s fine. He cleared the baddies, and didn’t get damaged beyond repair in the process.
See? He’s not helpless.
He’s fine.