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Tonight, the usually cool night air is frigid. The ever-present clouds have begun to snow as, slowly, the dirty streets and rooftops of Gotham are hidden beneath something more pristine.
Tim takes in a deep breath, savors the sharp sting of the nighttime air and closes his eyes. He’s tired.
Patrol has finished three hours ago. His final report is turned in, maybe a bit more meticulous than usual, but Bruce has never been the best at noticing the shifts in his behavior, so he allowed himself the indulgence.
From the rooftop overlooking the city he watches as snowflakes land on his hoodie, studies their unique pattern before they melt and soke the fabric. His Red Robin suit is water resident, but, like all his equipment, it lies neatly folded and organized in the Batcave. He wonders if Bruce will put up his suit next to the others, if it will get his own display case like Jasons. The small child with the camera hopes he will. It’s a selfish though.
Organizing his files and folders took longer than he cares to admit. But, he lies to himself, it was necessary: Whoever’s going to take over his cases should be able to 'hit the ground running'. 'Hit the ground running', as he wrote for the last time on one of those pretentious Wayne Enterprise pre-board meeting Mails just yesterday. He won’t miss that part of the job: Too many people in suits sneering and telling him what he already knows to be true.
He shakes his head.
The files are cleaned up now. The last excuse preventing him from doing what needs to be done is gone. Something in his stomach turns. Tim pushes it down, together with the last shreds of trepidation and unrequited sentimentality. He’s become very good at that.
The wind has picked up speed. The wet hoodie is beginning to freeze to his body. Probably time to leave, he thinks to himself, and does not move. The snow continues to fall.
He knew this day would come eventually, had known it the moment he forced himself into Batman’s life. My Robin will be a cast for the man’s broken soul; he had told himself back then.
Casts are there to shield, to be roughed up and show wear and tear. And Tim has done his job well. Whatever color the plaster has started as, it's yellow and stained from grime and blood now. Briddle in places it should not be and worn thin over time. And, for what it’s worth, Tim has never been a pristine white regardless. He's reminded of that each time he showers and pointedly ignores all the old scars layered beneath the new ones.
Casts are temporary, he tells himself now. The thought offers no comfort.
Maybe it would’ve hurt less if he’d accepted that his use had come to an end back when Redhood first took off his mask. Or when Damian waltzed into Bruce’s life.
Maybe he could still sleep without double checking all ten locks on the door and windows. Maybe he could stay asleep.
The clean white snow continues to pile up. Tim buries his face before his tears can disturb the perfect scenery.
He’s left a letter in the emptied-out drawer of his left bed side table. Maybe it’s selfish to force Bruce to put another goodbye letter in another ex-Robin display, or delusional to think he would. But Tim wants his father-figure to understand. Even if that desire is one-sided. Even if he’s a partner, not a son.
When Tim finally stands up, his bones ache and muscle are sluggish. His rigid fingers wrap around the straps of his backpack. Its neatly packed with cash, fake passports and IDs taken from busted criminal rings, not bat-made, an unpractical amount of mobile hard drives, a bit of food and water, not enough clothes and no laptop. He’s not naïve enough to think Oracle could not track it if she wanted to. Rip to his league skins.
He climbs down the rusty fire escape and lets the snowstorm swallow him.
He leaves behind Red Robin. He leaves behind Timothy Drake-Wayne. And, looking back one last time in the direction of the Wayn-Manor, he grants his childhood hero one last gift: Tim will not force the man to choose between his sons and finding another dead Robin. Not when he finally started to smile again.