Chapter Text
“How many variables are involved? So many that I couldn’t blame myself for what was about to happen. How could it be my fault when it was his choice?”
–
The cut isn’t deep, but it's bleeding a lot. A mildly worrisome amount. The sticky liquid has stained more than just the site of the wound. Tim watches detachedly as it dribbles down his torso and drips onto his boots. He isn’t sure if it's the rain or his blood that is soaking into the insole. All he knows is that his toes can’t register anything other than cold. Lately, he’s started to notice: he’s always cold. He can’t get warm in his apartment. He lays in his bed at night, curled in on himself, trying to keep the shaking at bay. Maybe it’s low iron.
Focusing back on the task at hand–right, blood loss–Tim analyzes the situation. The mugger is below, ground level, with a hemoglobin-soaked karambit. The bastard’s mocking him, cajoling him. Tim watches from above on the fire-escape. “Come on out, little bird” he says, “I won’t hurt you” he says. The diminutive makes his stomach twist. Still softly dribbling onto his toes, the pitter-patter of Tim’s blood is disguised by the plink of falling rain against the railing.
Calling for help is probably the best choice. He deftly keys his comm; in rapid succession, he thinks to call Bruce, and a frightening moment passes where his mind supplies, you can’t call Bruce. Bruce is dead. But that isn’t true anymore. However, if he calls Bruce, he’s not going to be able to escape the Riot Act. He’ll tell Tim that he is too smart and too well-trained to be done in by street thugs. It’s because he didn’t listen to Bruce that tonight even happened, and he’s been off his game ever since Boomerang, and that none of this would have happened if Tim had taken serious stock of Bruce’s concerns. Tim can hear it in Bruce’s voice; he can see Bruce’s pinched, dismissive face as he’s saying it.
So Tim thinks of his other options. Even wounded, he should be able to kick this guy's ass, no problem. The fluid part of the operation is getting back to his subbasement alive. And conscious enough to stitch himself up.
Dying might be preferable to dealing with Batman.
Choice made, he stands, steeling himself for a very uncomfortable cat fight. He deploys his bo staff, but his vision spots out and he falls to his hands. The staff clatters loudly next to Tim’s shaking arms. He just gave away his location. His last coherent thought is that, no, universe, he wasn't being serious when he said he'd rather die than talk to Bruce. His head spins a final time and weak arms beneath him give way. He isn’t sure how long he stays like that, dizzy and heaving. He can take a guess when his smushed face looks through the slats on the floor and sees the thug splayed out and tied up, though.
“Red Robin,” His name is called from behind in a low, familiar timbre. Well, fuck. A hand slams down hard against his carotid. He must’ve taken too long to answer.
Unsteadily pushing the ground beside him in an effort to roll over, a sudden change in momentum indicates that Bruce is assisting him. Blinking upwards, he comes face to face with the cowl. “What happened?” it demands of him.
“Nothing. I-” Searing pain steals his ability to speak; all he can do is helplessly attempt to paw Bruce’s hands off of him as he releases a strangled scream. “What are you-”
“Calm down. I need to get the bleeding under control.” Calm down, like Tim is being dramatic. Woefully overreacting to the gaping hole in his side. What a hypochondriac he is. “Did you hit your head?”
As soon as he remembered where he was, he too remembered his anger. “What are you doing here?” Tim sputters, struggling to find the words. Bruce looks concerned, but again, Tim shouts, “what are you even doing here!?”
“Oracle-” He starts, but Tim is too angry and cuts him off.
“Goddamnit!” He reaches down and yanks off his utility belt. The action breaks a few wires, severing his suit’s biometrics system from contact with his body. He briefly feels vindicated, though he's not really sure what he accomplished. The effort of removing his belt exhausts him. Plus, he made more work for Barbara. Who was probably just worried. But Bruce? “You don’t trust me at all anymore, do you? After everything…”
“Enough! I'm not going to argue with you, Ro-" He stops himself, and a beat passes. "You need treatment; we need to get back to the Cave.” The dizziness is back, despite the fact that Tim is laying down. Bruce is still talking, but Tim can’t hear what he’s saying anymore.
“‘-ed Robin. Tim!” He blacks out.