Chapter Text
The first thing that Tim noticed was the glaring street lamp illuminating a familiar red helmet. The second thing he noticed was that he was probably heavily intoxicated, the sick feeling in his stomach paired with the spinning alley queued him in. It was either that, or he got drugged.
Tim felt as his shoulders were grabbed harshly and he was raised from the ground he hadn't even realized he was approaching.
Right. Red Hood. The more he looked at the helmet the more it looked like one giant lollypop that had just been sucked on by a kid before being discarded, turning the sucker into a monster that haunts little children for not finishing their candy.
Tim snorted at the thought.
Jason, on the other hand, didn't express any similar sentiment.
“You think this is funny?” The overly modulated voice speaks, “I'll crack your head open right now and see who laughs in the end.”
Yep. Definitely something a candy-monster would say.
“A little.” Tim slurrs. “Just let me go, and I'll walk back home on my own.”
It seemed that it was Jason's turn to huff a laugh. It was a bit unsettling considering the mask filters out most emotion.
“It seems like the party animal has finally decided to grace us with his death.” He says. “The famous Timothy Jackson Drake, thinks he can just waltz out of Crime Alley unharmed after getting wasted at some filthy bar revealing just how rich he is. Do us all a favor and get shot somewhere where I don't have to drag your body into the river.”
There were a lot of statements which Jason made that confused him. First of all, he knows Jason wouldn't go so low as to omit the ‘Wayne’ from his family name. They were on much better terms. Second, there's no way Tim would ever go to a crappie bar and wave around his money unless he had previously planned to be kidnapped as Timothy rather than Red Robin. He didn't remember any plans of the sort.
Tim decided to ignore the comment and focus on the developing headache that was making his vision swim.
Jason, though, seemed to notice and decided to make it worse by dragging him out of the alley.
“W-what are you doing?” Tim spluttered.
“Were you planning on driving yourself home after that many drinks? I'm taking your sorry butt to a taxi before we add it to the Gotham Gazette's list of deceased. Also your nose is bleeding.”
Tim wiped his nose with his sleeve, noticing his clothes. The last time he wore a tailored suit was when he was eight and his parents stayed home for parties. The scratchy fabric hugging every inch of his body was just as uncomfortable as he remembered. Honestly, he didn't care if he got blood on it. It was just another excuse to burn it.
Once the two made it out of the alley, Tim had to squint at the harsh lights of Gotham's nighttime life. People of all kinds went about on the sidewalks, minding their own business. On the roads, the traffic was light, only a few cars and taxis having the courage to drive during the height of crime and villainous activity.
Rather than raising his hand to hail a cab like a normal person, Jason stepped out on the road with his gun facing the next oncoming taxi. It was a quicker method that ensured someone actually stopped for an armed masked man.
Once the taxi had made a full stop, Jason unceremoniously tossed Tim into the back seat before giving instructions to the cab driver.
It was almost insulting how easily Jason threw him around like he was more of a rag doll than a trained vigilante.
Tim fumbled with his pockets until his fingers grazed thin pieces of paper, pulling out the cash and handing it to the driver. It was probably more than what it would normally cost to get to Crest Hill, but the guy probably needed it for whatever emotional damage he just received. Tim also didn't have the current brain capacity to count out the exact amount.
Closing his eyes, Tim let himself drift, barely acknowledging the slamming of the cab door and the acceleration of the car.
Gosh his head hurt, he couldn't wait to go to bed.
By the time he was resurfacing to consciousness, he heard the shrill sound of old breaks and a harsh cough from the front. Tim carefully opened his eyes to see the cab driver staring at him.
“Welcome home.” He said grimly, turning to face forward and grip his steering wheel.
Tim stumbled out the door to face the Drake Mansion.
Rather than the usual dark, gloomy, empty feeling of his old home, he was faced with a Bruce Wayne party level of a light show. Music was blasting from the inside and yet the people were somehow louder.
Something was definitely wrong. The Drake mansion stopped hosting parties long before his parents had passed away. It was the same house, but a completely different vibe.
“This isn't home” he muttered absently.
No one paid him any mind as he made his way inside, towards his old bedroom. Despite the lively-ness, Tim still noticed how the halls and decorations lacked any feelings of warmth and homeliness. It wasn't anything unusual, but with every other strange thing that had happened since he woke up, it was strangely comforting.
As he turned around the corner, two more roadblocks stood between him and sleep. Dick and Damian.
Tim groaned.
It seems the feeling was reciprocated when Dick put on an overly exaggerated smile and Damian didn't hide his disgust.
“And here I thought the star of the party wasn’t going to show up!” Dick laughed. “Unfortunately Bruce wasn't able to attend today. He wasn't feeling well, but he sends his regards.”
Most likely he was too busy on a case to attend a party.
“Yeah, sure.” Tim mutters before attempting to walk past them. They were acting too strange for him to bother.
“Did you know that your nose is bleeding?” Dick then asked out of the blue.
Tim placed his fingers just below his nose before pulling back and seeing red on his fingers. The only thought his brain could muster at the moment was ‘huh. Would you look at that?’.
“Disgusting” Damian says just loud enough for Tim to hear “he's too plastered to even give a proper response.”
That caused Tim to lean against the wall and face his younger brother. His brain finally kicking into conversation mode. “I didn't choose to get drunk,” he said.
“I don't think I've ever met you sober, Drake.” Damian replied.
Was this Damian's strange way at attempting to make a joke? If so, he's worse than the Riddler.
“Damian.” Dick warned their younger brother.
“What?” Damian had the audacity to look innocent. “I've spoken nothing but the truth tonight. I don't understand why we have to engage with such uncouth behavior just because he's our neighbor.”
“That's not how we speak to our host.” Dick pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “He's also not just our neighbor but a business partner. You need to learn to deal with it.”
Tim began to wonder if he was wading through an overly detailed dream. The two of them were treating him like a stranger, even worse, like a stuck-up Gothamite.
“What's wrong with the two of you?” Tim asked in all seriousness, mostly talking to himself.
Dick then took his turn to look offended. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Do you think we're beneath you?” Damian added.
Tim watched as Damian reached for a katana that wasn't even there. He thought Damian was beyond attempting to murder him these days, but apparently he was wrong.
Nothing made sense.
His house wasn't his house. His body didn't feel like his body, and to top it all off everyone seemed to hate him more than usual. Maybe if he went to bed he'd wake up and everything would be back to normal.
Tim continued his walk towards his bedroom.
“Oh!” Dick stops him this time before hesitating and putting that fake smile back on his face. “I almost forgot. Bruce is holding a party at the Wayne manor next week which you're invited to.”
“There will be plenty of alcoholic beverages to keep you busy.” Damian replied “That is, if you don't insult Pennyworth like you did last time. I will keep to the threat I made then.
What treat? Why in the world would Tim insult Alfred? His jokes were being taken too far.
“I can't drink alcohol.” Tim said, deciding to focus on something he can better comprehend. “I'm underage.”
His two brothers looked at him, baffled. Tim sighed. Whatever act they were putting on seemed to be lasting throughout the night. It would be better to just ignore them and move on.
“Tell Bruce I'll report to him tomorrow.” Tim said.
Damian scoffed “What business do you have with father to warrant a report?”
“I'm not sure, yet. I'll let him know once I figure it out.”
Tim resumed his walk to his bedroom before yelling, “Tell Bruce I hope he gets better soon!” If his brothers wanted to put on a play, he'll gladly play along so they could leave him alone.
This time, his brothers didn't stop him from leaving.
Tim 1 - Dick and Damian 0?
He'll have to review that score at a later time.
Unlike the rest of the doors in the mansion, Tim's was slightly worn, the golden handle losing its sheen and opting for a more tarnished brown in some spots.
Bedroom sweet bedroom. People have talked about how there's no place like home, but Tim prefers to day there's no place like your own bed.
Once he opened the door, Tim faced an unfamiliar sight.
This wasn’t his bedroom. There was absolutely no way this was his bedroom! Where were the countless photos of Batman and Robin he kept stuck to the wall? Where were the countless evidence boards, covered in string he had created over the years?
Sure there were photos on his desk, but they were mostly of plants and architecture. It felt like the world of Batman had never graced Tim's room in the first place.
His bed was left unmade which wasn't unusual, but rather than a blue blanket, he was faced with a black one.
Now, a different colored blanket wasn't much evidence of anything, but with everything else that had happened, he felt on the verge of losing it just a little bit at the sight of it.
Tim gave the blanket a sniff. It smelled more like money than accumulated sweat and blood.
If he hadn't acknowledged it yet, Tim had become aware that something was very very wrong.
Was Tim in a different world where Batman didn't exist? No. He had already met Red Hood, and without Batman, Red Hood would not exist as he was. At least Tim hoped thay was the case.
Everyone seemed normal, if not slightly agitated at the sight of him and occasionally speaking nonsense, so what was he missing?
He quickly went over to his laptop, booted it up, then searched up Batman. To his relief, multiple news articles and blurry images came up. He even found photos of the old blue batman ice cream pop with gumballs for eyes. Despite its color, it was still cherry flavored.
Research articles praised the efforts of Batman and Robin while others challenged the integrity of having vigilantees at all.
The articles screamed of Bruce. Only one person would ever decide to dress up like a bat and beat up criminals with expensive equipment as a profession. That was something so unique to his adoptive father that it could never be replicated by anyone else in any other universe. He was sure of it.
Okay, so he's not in some other world. At least not one without ‘his’ Batman.
Tim closed his eyes to block out the LEDs from his laptop screen to think for a moment.
Batman exists. Red Hood exists. Robin shows up on the news. Dick and Damian are both living with Bruce, the others are likely as well.
Tim thought for a moment. Wiping his nose to reveal more blood.
It seemed that the only divergence centered around him. It was like he didn't even exist in the world of his adoptive family.
Tim opened his eyes again and grabbed a nearby tissue box to stuff his nose. He then decided to look up what Batman was up to between Jason's death and his return.
It wasn't good.
Graphic images paired with haunting articles depicted a recklessly violent Batman, beating up petty criminals beyond a full recovery.
As of the more recent years, he seemed to have reformed himself a little bit, making him more like the Batman Tim remembered from his more recent memories.
Memories.
What was the last thing he remembered? Surely it would clue him into how he got into this situation in the first place. Maybe it could give him a hint on how to get back.
The harder he thought about it, the worse his headache got.
Tim sighed before shutting his laptop and staring at his bed. If he was as drunk as his brothers had accused him, he likely wouldn't be free of the head pain for a while.
He decided to take things one step at a time and compartmentalize once his brain was at a higher capacity than whatever backup generator it was running on.
Snuggled into some annoyingly soft, not-blue blankets, Tim fell asleep.