Chapter Text
Red Robin paces the edge of the rooftop, keeping an eye on the warehouse below. Everything feels like it’s happening to him right now. The bullshit with the shareholders. Handling the whining from the board members. Seven of his twelve active cases have blown up in his face.
All of that, he can’t do shit about. He can’t fix anything. He just has to deal.
A scream from the warehouse gives Tim the excuse he needs. He drops down to ground level, rolling when he hits the pavement. Crouching, he edges up to the large metal rolling door.
Another scream echoes out. Red Robin picks the lock and rolls the door up just a crack, tossing in several smoke bombs. He waits until they go off before slipping under the door and charging inside.
A woman, bloodied and beaten, is strapped to a metal table. She groans. Her captors, two large grisly men working for Penguin, are rubbing their eyes and trying to locate whoever interrupted their night of ‘fun’.
The woman, whose eyes are covered, struggles against her bindings. She’s blindfolded probably to increase her fear, not to hide her captors’ identities, since they’ll definitely kill her after they get their fill. Red Robin inches close, pulling a sharp knife from his gauntlet.
A few knicks in the straps, and the stitches holding them together give way. The woman pulls herself free after Tim undoes two of the five. She flees into the darkness, ripping off her blindfold and stumbling towards the door Tim used to enter.
Red Robin extends his collapsible bo staff with a soft click. He swings, hitting one of the men in the back of the head. Swinging around, he tags the other man. Both stumble, groaning. Tim keeps hitting. He keeps hitting and hitting.
“Red Robin!” A voice calls through his comms. Oracle. “Stop! They’re down!”
Tim freezes in place. His hands are clutched so tightly around his staff that his knuckles are white. Blood splatter litters the floor. The men are down, and out. Noses, jaws, and many ribs broken.
Tim pants, still feeling wild. Like a trapped and threatened animal, even though he has no reason to. Adrenaline thrums through his veins.
“Ambulances are on their way to your location.” Oracle informs him. Her tone is cold. Tim doesn’t care. He doesn’t.
Red Robin steps over the crumpled bodies in front of him. He stalks out of the warehouse, cleaning the blood off his staff. Without a word, he grapples back up to the rooftops, ready to move on with patrol.
He stalks his route around Gotham with a fervor. Taking out threats left and right, using reasonable force. He looks up the woman that escaped, just to cover his bases in case this situation runs deeper than it looks. Her record is clean. Tim heads back to the cave for the night, ready to file away his reports and go home.
Unfortunately, when he arrives at the batcave, it is far from empty. Dick is sitting at the batcomputer. Better him than Bruce, Tim reasons. He is pissed at Bruce for some stupid stunt he pulled to maintain his cover with the shareholders at the last company event, and doesn’t feel like talking to him yet. A part of him wonders how long it’ll take for Bruce to notice that Tim is ignoring him. Probably so long that Tim will forget what he is angry with Bruce for.
“What’s up?” Tim asks as he heads towards the showers.
“We need to talk.” Dick mutters quietly. Damian exits the changing rooms, dressed in his sweats. He gives Tim a tense look before heading upstairs.
“Okay.” Tim agrees, pulling up a chair. “What are we talking about?”
Dick scans him for injuries. Tim is practiced at hiding them from him, and everyone else in their paranoid little family. Dick seems satisfied with whatever he finds.
“Tim, you’ve used excessive force three times this week.” Dick begins evenly, looking a little disappointed. Tim bristles. He beat Penguin’s men, sure. But not too bad.
“I didn’t think it was too far tonight.” Tim defends, trying to sound unconcerned. Dick frowns. Tim’s stomach twists. “That’s exactly the problem, T.” Dick points out.
Heat rises to Tim’s face, shame at disappointing Dick roiling in his gut. He knows that he is in the right. He doesn’t want to give an inch of the high ground.
Those goons were torturing a woman for what? Funzies? At Penguin’s behest? She didn’t do anything, Tim did a full background check. A few parking tickets. Some speeding tickets. A small illegal business reselling discarded supplies from various office buildings across the city. No history of violence, drugs, or harassment. For your average Gothamite, the victim was practically a saint.
“Explain why it’s a problem.” Tim requests coolly. Dick grimaces and gives Tim a plaintive look.
“You broke four bones in one of the men’s faces.” Dick starts, pulling up the medical follow up report that Tim implemented during his early days as Robin. They were meant to pull Bruce back from the brink. Not to be weaponized against him.
“The other guy?” Tim asks quietly. Dick takes a deep breath before responding.
“He had an underlying medical condition.” Dick says. “He died about an hour ago.”
This isn’t the first time Tim has taken a life. It isn’t even the first time this year. But it is the first time, as far as Tim can remember, that Tim has unintentionally done so without it being a direct threat on his life.
“I wasn’t trying to…” Tim responds softly, his voice sounding gutted to even his own ears. Dick nods tightly. “I know kiddo. But I still need to bench you.” He informs Tim.
Tim’s world swims, feeling like it's being pulled out from under him. Dick looks apologetic. A lot of good that sympathy does Tim now.
He’s being benched. Tim hasn’t been benched since he was Robin. Since he personally found a not-dead Bruce Wayne lost in time. Since he came into his own. Benching him? For an accidental death due to medical complication? They didn’t bench Jason for the whole killing thing. They still don’t. They’ve all killed before. Just because Tim isn’t a formerly-raised-by-assassins child doesn’t mean he is any different than the rest of the family.
“You’re benching me?” Tim repeats, confused. Dick hums affirmatively. Not even deigning Tim with a verbal response. Fine. If Tim’s way of doing things is so unwanted, then he’ll just do it elsewhere. He isn’t one to impose where he isn’t wanted.
Dick is still looking at Tim, waiting for a reaction. Well, he isn’t going to get one. Tim won’t be proving his bullshit theory. Dick probably thinks that the pressure is getting to Tim. It isn’t. Tim can handle all of this. He hasn’t slipped. He didn’t fuck up. They’re overreacting.
Keeping silent, and his face blank, Tim turns on his heel and heads back to his bike. She’s still warm. Tim revs her engine and peels out, heading back to his nest.
The drive is nice. The wind in his hair. The tilt and thrum of his bike beneath him is familiar and comforting. It grounds him, helping him hold in his anger until he can feel it without being observed. Oracle has eyes everywhere. The bats have eyes in most places too.
Tim pulls his bike into the street level garage and cuts the engine. He swings himself off and punches the button to the elevator. On the ride up, he rips off portions of his costume. Sweeping it all into his apartment once the doors open, Tim kicks one of gauntlets across the room. It crashes into a lamp, which careens to the floor. It shatters upon impact and Tim groans.
Grabbing a broom and dust pan, Tim goes to clean up the mess. The ceramic shards of the body are splayed out on the hardwood floors. Reaching to pick up the metal head, and place it in the trash, something catches his hand. Multiple stinging sensations zip up his arm.
Great, now Tim has managed to cut up his dominant hand on the night before a board meeting. Swallowing a scream in frustration, Tim grinds his teeth together as he sweeps the pieces into the trash. He slams the bin down, back in its place. Stomping over to his bathroom, Tim rips open his first aid kit.
Thankfully, the bandages open easily and the ointment applies without issue. Tim has almost finished wrapping his hand up when his phone starts ringing. One hand has ointment on it. The other has bandages partially applied. Tim wipes the ointment laden one on his pants, which only dirties his hand worse. He’s still wearing his pants from patrol. Cursing under his breath, Tim bites the edge of the bandages to hold them in place. He tries to fish his phone out of the pocket of the jeans he left on his bedroom floor before patrol.
The phone continues ringing. Tim just needs to reach it. Then he can at least help with whatever the person on the other end of the line wants. At least he can do that right, probably.
Finally, he snags the phone between his pinky and ring finger, pulling it free from the pants. It stops ringing. Then the screen goes dark. Tim tries to open it, but the thumbprint needed is on his bandages hand. Slapping his dirtied hand over the bandages as they slip from between his teeth, Tim switches the phone to his bandaged hand. Just as he gets his thumb into place, it dies.
Tim has no idea who has been calling him. How many times they’ve tried. What they need. And now, he has to charge the phone and wait for it to turn on before he can find out. It’s stupid, but Tim’s frustration boils over.
“ARGGGHHH” Tim screams. He owns the whole floor. The only neighbors he can wake up are below him, and they should be out of town. At least he can scream without fucking that up.
Tim allows himself three deep breaths to get his feelings under control. Then he packages up his emotions in a tidy little box in his head, stuffing them deep into the recesses of his brain. Tears run down his cheeks, unbidden. He wipes away what he can, getting ointment and dirt from patrol on his face.
Sighing, Tim leevers himself upright. He places his phone on it’s charger. Then he trudges back to his first aid kit, preparing to rebandage his hand. He washes his wounds carefully, and strips his dirty clothes off. Tim showers and takes a preventative dose of antibiotics for his asplenia. After drying off, he tosses the dirtied bandages in the trash with his good hand and rewraps his injured one.
It is nearly sunrise now. Tim can feel the lack of sleep catching up with him. But he has a board meeting today. He cannot afford to be drowsy.
Tim shuffles to his kitchen. Opening his fridge, a wave of sickening sweet aroma washes over him. Food has gone bad again. Ignoring that problem for later, Tim snags an energy drink and cracks it open.
Slouching onto his couch, Tim sips his drink. The acidic sugary beverage burns his mouth just slightly. But the pain feels strangely comforting. It’s a pain he knows. One that feels right.
“Cheers.” He whispers sarcastically to himself. His tone is laced with venom. Of course he fucked it all up. This always happens. Letting his eyes droop closed, Tim rests for just a moment.
The alarm from his phone jolts him awake after an hour. Tim chugs his now room temperature energy drink. Discarding the now empty can in his recycling bin, he pushes himself off the couch. A twinge of pain reminds Tim of his injured hand. A spot of red is visible from where he bled through the wrap.
Tim ignores it, for now. Instead, he gets dressed and does his hair. A modest amount of make up covers his features. Before he sets out for the office, Tim collects the pieces of his uniform and stores them away safely.
Tim meets his company car downstairs. His chauffeur greets him politely, but grimaces when he sees Tim’s hand. Tim looks down at it, straining to come up with a believable answer.
“Cooking mishap.” Tim offers. His driver, Chris, gives him a disbelieving look. Well, at least he tried. Tim leaves it alone, getting into the backseat without elaboration.
The drive goes smoothly. Instead of sitting with his feelings from last night, which continue to treacherously threaten to rise to the surface, Tim goes through his mental to do list. All his tasks for the day. Everything he promised to coworkers, employees, the board. This solution keeps him brain busy enough that Tim runs through it all the way up to the boardroom.
Swinging the door open, Tim looks up to find that his world has changed once again. In his chair, Tim’s chair, is Brucie Wayne. Many of the board members look shocked to see Tim. Bruce looks surprised too. Like he didn’t expect Tim to show up and do the job that he has been doing since he was sixteen.
“My apologies, Tim!” Brucie titters. “I must’ve forgotten to hit send on that email. I’ll be handling today’s board meeting.”
Cheeks burning from embarrassment, Tim swallows the lump in his throat harshly.
“Ah.” Tim replies, barely keeping his voice even. “I’ll be in my office then, if anyone needs me.”
Tim spins on his heels and walks swiftly to his desk. Tears threaten to spill over but Tim refuses to let them fall. No one at the office will see him cry. No one.
Tam stands to greet Tim, again looking a bit surprised to see him. Which isn’t fair. Tim has never taken a day off since he became CEO. Not once. He was technically on FMLA when he faked getting shot to cover his spleen surgical scar, but since he (or his fake body double) was unconscious at that point, Tim would argue that Tam filed that on his behalf.
Tim flings the door to his office open, storming inside. He slams it behind himself, leaving Tam outside without answers. Just in time too, given that the moment that he is hidden from view his body betrays him and tears begin to fall. A sob rips itself from his chest without his permission, and Tim has never been more grateful that he sound proofed this place years ago. At least he was right about that.