Chapter Text
Patrol was particularly slow tonight, Tim perched on the edge of a tall building, accompanied by one of Gotham's friendly stone gargoyles, bo staff resting between his knees, pressing the side of his cheek on the cool alloy. Eyes, concealed behind a domino mask, stared beyond the city of his home, a cold draft shifting past his face with the weight of his thoughts taking physcial form, a phantom itch rippling through his muscles from a secret just out of reach.
It was quiet.
Not the normal kind of quiet where not even a peep could be heard. No. This was different. Worse. Gotham still held its breath as it always did, waiting, lurking for the next disaster. Police sirens, not as frequent tonight, wailed distantly, almost mockingly like it knew something Tim didn't. No. It was quiet in a way that made his chest tighten, like there was a noise, a sound, something, that was missing.
His jaw worked, the inside of his cheek rolling between his teeth. There was just… something wrong, something wrong Tim Drake just couldn't place.
When did this feeling start?
Tim let out a long sigh from deep in his chest, the mental exhaustion racking his bones in a way it ached and throbbed. He tipped his head back, rolling his cheek against his bo staff when wide, bug shaped lenses abruptly met his.
"Brooding with the gargoyles again? I thought that was like Batman's whole shtick."
Tim's breath, for a traitorous second, hitched, heart jumping out of line, a squeak almost, almost, escaping. He could never hear him coming. That's right, Tim thought, controlling his heart and filing away how his chest suddenly felt lighter, it started a little after meeting him. Spider-Man, secret identity unknown much to Tim's annoyance.
Spider-Man tilted his head, hanging upside down, his signature drop-bys Tim's gathered, at eye level. "Bad time?" he asked in that optimistic, too upbeat for Gotham, more sunny than Nightwing believe it or not, voice of his. Tim swears he could hear his little smile, what do you look like under there?, as if he heard how his heart stuttered. He can't be that much younger than me.
It'd been a few months since the arrival of Spider-Man and it wasn't too long that Spider-Man earned respect, maybe even a little trust, from everyone. Batman should've been the hardest, same with Robin, somehow Spider-Man did it.
"He's… adequate," Damian had said, arms crossed and eyes focused elsewhere. "He is… different." That was a compliment in Damian talk if Tim has ever heard.
Different, that's definitely one way of describing Spider-Man, with an accent Tim has never heard before, with a personality more befitting of Metropolis than for Gotham, but the people love him, albeit warily at first. But now? They whisper about Spider-Man like the people of Metropolis do for Superman, smiles on their face and hope in their eyes, aspiring as Nightwing, as Superman.
"Maybe I'm taking a page from Batman's How to Brood 101 book," Tim said, the corners of his lips naturally curving into a small, easy smile. Warmth spilled in his chest, like taking a sip of tea, the one Alfred prepares for him, the best kind, when the soft sound, more of a giggle than laugh, slipped from Spider-Man. It was short, but it was sweet. Really, really sweet.
Tim didn't like how it curled around his heart. Close to painful, close to relief. Complicated. Complicated like the feeling of something important being taken from him. Tim just didn't know what that important thing was. All he knew was that he felt a little lighter, a little happier in moments like this, when Spider-Man comes looking for Tim specifically.
Statistically speaking, yes, he charted it, Spider-Man has sought out Red Robin, AKA Tim, the most, like by a ridiculous amount, no one else comes close. And Tim couldn't help but feel a little good, a little proud about that. It's stupid, he knows. None of this makes sense.
"Glad you were just brooding and not taking a nap so dangerously close to the edge," Spider-Man's light heartedness almost made Tim skip over the tiny detail. "Again." Spider-Man added.
Wait.
Tim blinked, "When—"
But Spider-Man quickly pipped in, flipping off his webstring and gracefully, silently, he perched himself beside Tim, clearing his throat as he turned his head away. Tim's eyes fell to the can Spider-Man held out, pulled seemingly from nowhere. Zesti Cola, Tim's favorite soda brand. "I, uh, thought you'd be thirsty…. y'know, patrolling and now the whole brooding thing you got going on lately. Serious throat parch-y stuff."
Tim tracked the way Spider-Man's shoulders tensed as if he was embarrassed by the words spilling out of his mouth. Tim's eyes flickered between the offering and the way Spider-Man refused to look back at Tim. Look at me, please, Tim bit back the words, that heavy tightness returning to his chest, gripping his bo staff tighter than necessary. Why? he wanted to say, How'd you know?
Instead, "Yeah," Tim huffed an almost laugh, a breath coming in too sharp, too quick. "Very serious throat parch-y stuff. Um, th… thank you, for, uh," Tim carefully grabbed the soda, deciding it was better to not acknowledge the way Spider-Man tensed when Tim's fingers, gloved, brushed against his palm, encased as well. Just… not right now. Later. In his bedroom. During another mental breakdown.
Spider-Man suddenly sprung onto his feet, causally balancing on the balls of his feet on the edge, jolting Tim.
Tim, eyes slightly wide, peered up at him, an unexpected wave of guilt, of Did I do something wrong? and What did I do?, hit him, hard like waves chipping at a cliff side. His hand acted on its own, reaching out for Spider-Man before his mind knew, but Spider-Man just twisted his waist, evading Tim's hand without making it seem purposeful.
Still. It stung. It stung a lot, it stung a lot more than Tim realized. Or wanted to admit.
"I, uh," Spider-Man jabbed his thumbs over his shoulder, in a random direction, "I gotta go–my… house is on fire?" then, under his breath, Tim just barely caught it, "Stupid, stupid."
Spider-Man just thwiped a web and disappeared into the shadows of Gotham, leaving Tim to stare at the space he once occupied, soda can twisting and turning in his grasp, bo staff lightly tapping against the side of his head.
The thought, to follow, crossed Tim's mind, but he knew better. Chasing Spider-Man was useless for someone, like Tim, who believed in the law of gravity, when Spider-Man can somehow defy all logic, more so than Nightwing. His last attempts ended in disaster, resulting in a whole lot of heckling from Spider-Man.
It was… strangely nice, annoying, yes, but not in a bad way.
Tim peeked at the soda in his hand, a wandering question lingering afloat. He never mentioned his favorite drink being Zesti Cola, but deep down, he already knew the answer.
He could feel it, been feeling it for a while, watchful eyes, not hostile, curious, friendly, maybe even safeguarding. It should be alarming, Tim should tell someone, but… it kinda made him feel… good? Safe? All warm and fuzzy that he can't explain.
Like now, those same watchful eyes lurking in the shadows are on Tim, he could feel it, and instead of feeling scared, paranoid or anxious, Tim smiled, faint, and cracked open his soda.
Nothing made sense.
One way to describe Tim's bedroom would be that it looks like a crime scene. Red yarn decorated his bedroom walls, yes, walls, mapping and linking grainy photos in its own secret language.
Multi-colored sticky notes, scribbled in ramblings only Tim could comprehend, littered, framing the photos, sometimes overlapping. It's the only way Tim could get his thoughts out here, out of his mind, to stop himself from going insane. Theories of where Spider-Man came from displayed in a beautiful mess before him. Locations, he most frequents. Everything, Tim had on Spider-Man. Here. Plaguing his walls like black mold.
The empty can of Zesti Cola placed carefully by his night stand, acted like evidence, but really, it felt more like a keepsake. Not that he'd admit it to anyone else. They wouldn't understand. They never did.
They acted like everything was okay, that everything was normal—can't they feel it? Feel that there's something wrong, very wrong, something missing, just plucked out of their memories and placed on the highest shelf, fingers shy of reach.
Days blurred together, mornings, Tim would wake up to an empty feeling in his chest, numb and exhausted; nights felt restless, but also felt like a blessing, blessing in little moments with Spider-Man. It was confusing. Everything is.
Dick would check up on him, staying lately in Gotham, in the Manor, to help Bruce with some super secret mission, a tea in hand freshly made by Alfred and Dick would join Tim on the floor during one of Tim's mental episodes where nothing seems to be going right, bracing his back against the bed, starting pointless conversation to keep Tim grounded.
Tim appreciated it, really, he did. It's just… Dick didn't understand—he couldn't. Dick tried but it wasn't enough. It didn't matter what Tim could say, or explain, like he has over and over for what feels like a billion times, none of it mattered when no one, not a single one of his family, not a single one of his friends, could feel what Tim is feeling.
"Am I losing my mind?" Tim said out loud, alone on a rooftop, the moon clouded above. Another night of patrol. Except, Bruce had benched Tim, said, "You need rest." Tim almost scoffed at Bruce then. "It's an order, Tim." Bruce said, sterner, voice blooming in the batcave, silencing Tim's objections, his claims of, "Bruce, I'm fine, seriously."
Tim had agreed, verbally at least, and snuck out later on that night, where he is now, avoiding Bruce and everyone else, hoping, praying, for a run-in with Spider-Man. Like Spider-Man wasn't one of the reasons Tim was going insane.
Would Spider-Man be blonde? Brunette? Maybe a redhead, maybe he has long hair, maybe he has short hair. Tim wondered what his eyes looked like next, as Tim has wondered for these past few months. Blue? Green? Brown? Something exotic? Unique. Maybe something close to the hopefulness Spider-Man brings, like yellow or liquid gold. Could it be orange? Beautiful as a sunset. "I bet you look kind," Tim muttered, a soft curve lifting the corners of his lips.
He shook his head. What is he doing? Imagining what face lies behind that oddly expressive mask of Spider-Man, of a person he knows nothing about. A mystery. An unknown. An oddity. But does Tim really know nothing about Spider-Man?
Spider-Man has a sensitive nose.
Tim learned that when he first met Spider-Man, in the sewer, when Tim had gone in under to chase after Killer Croc, who was on a job for the mob. It was accidental, a miscalution on Tim's part, a job that should've been easy almost ended with Tim in the hospital. That's when he, Spider-Man, showed up, said something stupid, something almost funny. Thinking about it now, Tim would've laughed. Back then? Tim was on edge, an unknown oddity had appeared, but… he must've been good.
He had saved Tim after all.
"You good–oh my God, what is that smell?" Spider-Man harshly buried his nose into his arm, dramatically falling into a low crouch, much more spry, much more limber, much more lithe than Dick, ya know, the professional acrobat.
"Ah, that's the unfortunate smell of human waste, toxic gas probably, and the sweet, sweet smell of disappointment. Really clears the sinuses, huh?" Perhaps, Tim should've asked who this mysterious guy was, however there was just something, something Tim couldn't quite explain, that made him feel… safe? Yeah, safe.
Spider-Man paused, body frozen, those wide bug lenses of his staring directly at Tim. Tim should've felt anxious, scared even, but no, instead, heat crept up the back of his neck, threatening to spread to his cheeks. "What…?" It might've sounded like a squeak, might've sounded rough, could you blame Tim? He was being stared at by a spider themed dude.
Slowly, almost carefully, like dealing with a deer in the headlights, Spider-Man rose to his full height and approached Tim, slow, very slow, steps quiet, too quiet, but that could've been due to Tim's heart pumping blood to his ears. Spider-Man stretched his neck as humanly possible, sniffing Tim near his collarbone. "It's… coming from you," Spider-Man softly mumbled in a way it felt wrong to hear, like Tim wasn't supposed to hear and definitely shouldn't be preening at that. "Smells good, really good."
"Uh… thank you?" Tim muttered, unsure and definitely embarrassed.
"Crap—I didn't mean—uh, I gotta go, bye!"
A giggle, sweet, small, escaped from Tim, the memory freely living in his mind. It should be weird. It shouldn't make his stomach swarm with butterflies, shouldn't have warmth, a peaceful warmth pool from his chest to his stomach. He shouldn't feel anything at all.
Spider-Man is kind.
Tim had stalked the CCTVs for a glimpse of Spider-Man post encounter. At night, Tim would search the streets, come across Spider-Man by accident, linger in the shadows as he watched Spider-Man help a kid on the rooftop with her homework. Tim watched, on the weekends, as Spider-Man would bring a mean cat down, gentle as if holding something precious, even as the cat would hiss and claw. Tim watched as Spider-Man helped an old lady with her groceries that fell all over the sidewalk, just to get smacked by her purse. He watched as Spider-Man gave a homeless man his sandwich and Tim wondered if Spider-Man had eaten at all that day. Spider-Man had looked so happy, mask extremely expressive, a bounce in his step, when he had bought that sandwich.
And he just gave it away? Easily. Without a second thought.
Tim watched as much as he could. He watched too frequently, he had fallen asleep on a roof, only to wake up, draped in a blanket, a packet of cookies left beside him with a sticky note that read; 'Enjoy! :)'. Tim wondered if it was Spider-Man.
Spider-Man is efficient.
Spider-Man is smart, surprising Tim during one of his missions, and giving helpful pointers to improve Tim's gabgets, even showing off some of his to Tim's. Sure, the warehouse might've ended in an explosion of webs, but God, did Tim have fun, so much fun. Real fun.
So, Tim guesses maybe he does know a little about Spider-Man. It may not be his secret identity, but it was a start. That, that was important.
Spider-Man is… Spider-Man is good.
A rough, smoker voice disturb Tim's thoughts, attention focusing in reality, two guys, below the building Tim was perched on, backed a kid, Tim couldn't get a look at his face from here, into the alley wall. How unlucky for them, thought Tim, noticing the lack of weapons, yet he could never be too careful.
Tim stepped forward, allowing gravity to pull his body back down, landing silently in a crouch behind the two men, his cape quietly fluttering. Standing up, Tim pulled his bo staff out, extending it and twirling it lazily before using it as a support, bracing himself against it. "I'm going to give you ten seconds to run away," rather generous, isn't he? "I'm kinda waiting for someone, would really like to not deal with your poor life choices, right now."
The man, the one with greasy, salt and pepper hair, down to his shoulders, nose crooked and teeth that's shy from falling out, twisted and rotten, let out a scratchy sound, a battle cry? swinging a sloppy punch.
"One," Tim said, easily tilting his head out of the way, "two," he continued, falling a step back, bringing him away from the civilian, bruised knuckles ghosting past Tim's chin, "three, four, five," Tim counted, giving the two time to change their minds as the second joined in. "six, seven, eight," Tim flipped over the second guy. He stumbled into the first guy. Tim almost yawned, "nine, ten. Okay, broken ribs it is. You two really should've run away."
A KRACK! with a capital K, a THAWK! and a POW! Later, Tim had apprehended the wannabes muggers, both men beaten and slumped against the wet, brick wall of the alley, wrists and ankles tied by zip ties. For a job well done, Tim dusted his gloved hands, turning to the civilian who surprisingly decided to stay in the same spot. "Are you al…" Blue, concealed, met brown. Not just any brown, oh no, it was sun dappled against a forest floor, a canopy of shifting ambers, warm as a lit fireplace on Christmas day, hot chocolate in hand, the softest blanket draped over his shoulders. Wide, earnest, incredibly kind eyes, almost puppy-like with the way the civilian stared at Tim, red rimmed, that… that broke something inside Tim as that complicated feeling came back, stronger, almost too painful now.
Tim breathed in sharp, too sharp, edges cutting into his working throat. His eyes, wide behind his mask, drank in very detail of the boy, roughly Tim's age, integrating the soft, brown curls curtaining the boy's face, sharp jaw, softer eyes, to memory. Then his eyes fell to the boy's mouth, chin fighting back a tremble, lips unsure if to commit to a smile.
Tim's heart ached. It hurt and it leaped, and it twirled, and it hurt. It hurt so, so much, and he felt happy. Happy in a way that was cruelly unfair and he felt pain, the same kind of pain when he wakes up in the morning, feeling like something was stolen from him. Conflicted feelings, crashing into each other, his heart thudded too quickly against his chest, threatening to jump out at any given second.
The boy opened his mouth, a weak shudder escaping before the boy tried to speak again, "Th… thank you." the words came out too small, too tiny, it twisted something ugly in Tim's gut, instinctively taking a step closer to him, hand lifting, as if to touch, daring to reach.
Tim's lips parted, words almost slipping free, when the boy turned to leave. It was automatic, a desperation that clawed its way out, "Wait!" Tim grimaced, the sound of his own voice bouncing back at him. The boy froze, back facing Tim, shoulders hiked to his ears as a name on the tip of Tim's tongue almost left. "P…?"
Slowly as if he was afraid, as if he heard wrong and needed to be sure, the boy turned his head, croaking out a fragile, "What did you say?" as if he heard a ghost, painfully hopeful in the way the boy's kind, wet eyes shone, it shattered Tim's heart. It grabbed his heart, twisted it, and yanked it out, leaving his chest gaping and bleeding.
Tim swallowed, "I…" What did he say? He… he can't remember, did he even say anything? He was going too, then… then, blank. "I—uh, I," Tim fought hard, fought through the fog clouding his mind, fought through the sinking coldness surging in his blood, like ice, but nothing. Nothing but this hollowness starting to consume him whole.
That same hope died in the boy's earnest eyes, a brittle smile lifting without reaching his warm, kind, pretty brown eyes. "It's okay," the boy nodded his head, delicate curls bouncing, sounding more like he was trying to comfort himself than anything else. "It's okay." He repeated, firmer, steadier. "I… thank you again, Red Robin."
"Who are you?" Tim blurted, taking another desperate step forward, desperate to not lose sight of this.. stranger, that's who he is, someone Tim has never met before so why… why can't he let him go?
The boy tilted his head, wobbly smile forced to be a grin, like that was proof he was okay. "Oh, me? I'm…" the boy hesitated for a moment, debating something in his head before letting his head fall, gently shaking it in defeat. "I'm nobody important."
"That's not—that's not true. You are important, you are! Trust me. Please."
The boy just smiled, thin, but real.
"Let…" Tim found himself speaking, "let me walk you home—please." He pleaded, a whine bubbling in his throat, hand stretched out, too scared to fully touch. What's going on?
"It's okay," the boy refused and it was like Tim was being crushed by a building, blown up, pressing metal wiring and old pipes through flesh. "You're waiting for someone, right?"
"I…"
"Take care, Red Robin… see you around."
When that boy left, Tim tried, he really did, he tried to follow that boy home, but along the way, he lost him. Tim didn't even get to see Spider-Man. Tim thought of him, the boy with kind, sad eyes, back at home, in his too big bed—it felt like it at least—fighting sleep as if he was thrown into war, a war he was losing, Tim fell asleep.
The following day, when Tim opened his eyes, he slapped his hand across his aching heart and just stared at the ceiling, almost catatonic, as the feeling of wrongness, emptiness, of numbness, like something important was taken from him, stolen, same old ache he's been feeling for months, settled in his chest like bone settling wrong.
Tim just couldn't figure out what was stolen from him.