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Tim can admit when he’s fucked up. He’s not too proud to admit it. He might fudge the numbers on how often he finds himself in... predicaments, but he’ll be the first to admit he lets his drive for the truth take over the part of his brain that’s supposed to keep him from walking directly into the lion's den.
Case in point: He’s currently tied down to some sort of sacrificial dais, with his arms and legs spread out from him. The ropes at his wrists and ankles are tight, pulling his limbs taught and not allowing for much wiggling.
Well, this certainly could be better.
He should honestly stop taking such dangerous cases, but when sobbing mothers come into his office telling him all about their missing children it’s hard to say no.
Especially when he finds out it’s multiple children all living in the same neighborhood. Always taken from locked rooms, no signs of struggle. Their parents put them to bed and the kids are gone by morning.
And then there had been the teeth. Piles of them under each child’s pillow.
Interesting.
Tim had started how he usually starts, by going to the underground magic market in Old Gotham. He was a familiar enough face that people usually didn’t give him that hard of a time. Until he asks enough questions to draw Red Hood’s attention.
“Leave it alone,” Red Hood always tells him, “this is bigger than you, Drake. I’ll take care of it.”
And it’s not like Tim doesn’t think Red Hood can handle it, it’s just that once a problem has been introduced to Tim Drake he can’t leave it alone until he solves it.
“Tenacious,” his mother had said.
“Stubborn,” his father called him.
“A pain in my ass,” Red Hood frequently griped.
Well, Tim thought as the cloaked man waved around a wavy dagger, probably not for much longer.
Tim had found the lair all by himself. He’d waited until the suspicious cloaked figured he’d followed there slowly filtered out before letting himself in.
The building was bigger than it’d looked on the outside. Cavernous rooms with a labyrinth of halls, all lit with the eerie flickering of torches. Torches, in the 21st century. Of course.
He’d found the way down behind a false wall that he’d had to solve an honest to God puzzle for. He knows people in Gotham are a bit extra with their motifs but even this had felt a little excessive.
He’d found the kids in the basement, all 32 of them. All of them huddled up in cages, all of them crying and staring up at him with large, frightened eyes. His heart stuttered in his chest as his eyes flicked over them. They were all still in their pajamas, most of them without socks. Tim had only been down here for a few minutes and still the chill was creeping into his bones.
“I’m here to help,” he told them, keeping his voice low. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
Tim hadn’t even made it two steps in the room before something had hit him from behind.
So he lays, back of his head throbbing, on the cold stone slab they’d tied him too.
“You don’t even know!” The pacing man exclaimed. “You could have ruined everything. Weeks of work, and you don’t even know what you would have done.” The man laughs, something breathy and high pitched and not quite all there. “No matter,” he says, eyes flashing as he steps up to Tim, “we were in need of fresh blood for the summon. The Order thanks you for your sacrifice.”
“Do, uh.” Tim coughs, his throat is dry and his head pulses with his heartbeat. “Do you mind telling me what you were planning on doing?” He asks. “Since you’re just going to kill me anyways. I mean, it seems like an awful lot of work. All those kids couldn’t have been easy to take, to keep.”
The man shakes his head, waving the strange dagger again. “Thirty two children,” he says, dreamily. “Thirty two sacrifices that have to be kept alive until the time comes. Of course that wasn’t easy, but it will have been well worth it for the power we’re going to receive.”
“Right, right,” Tim says, and tries to subtly test his restraints. Yep, still restraining. “You mentioned a, uh, summon? Who, um, who exactly would that be?”
The man smiles down at him. Perfect white veneers glinting in the low light. “Why,” he says, “the Tooth Fairy, of course.”
Tim blinks. Then blinks again. “Sorry,” he says, “the tooth fairy? Isn’t that— that’s just parents giving kids quarters for their teeth. She’s not real.”
Then again, he hadn’t thought Santa Clause was real until two Christmas’ ago either.
The man’s eyes are crescented with his smile as he places a hand on Tim’s shoulder and raises the dagger with his other hand.
“Oh,” he says, “I assure you she’s real. It’s just a shame you won’t get to meet her.”
Tim squeezes his eyes just in time for his face to be splattered with blood. He hears the dagger clatter to the ground and then the man above him slumps down, collapsing on top of Tim’s body. He can’t open his eyes to see what’s happening without blood getting in them.
“Jesus Christ,” says a mechanicalized voice, “what did I fucking tell you, Drake?” Tim’s heart skips a beat.
Red Hood came for him.
The body on top of Tim is pulled away and then there’s something wet and floral scented wiping carefully at his face.
Tim blinks of blearily to see Red Hood carefully fold up the wet wipe he’d used on Tim face before chucking it over his shoulder. He leans over Tim with one hand bracing him on the stone dais right above Tim’s head. He looks unimpressed even with the helmet on.
“Maybe I should keep you like this,” he muses, “you’d certainly get into less trouble.”
“Hood,” Tim breathes, and then can’t actually bring himself to say anything else because his heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest and his head feels dizzy with relief. He was going to die and then all of those kids were going to die and it was going to be all his fault because he can’t leave well enough alone. He can’t just leave things to Red Hood and his menagerie of vigilante pals, he always has to get himself involved.
Red Hood sighs, sounding very put out even with the voice modulator. “Hold on, kid,” he says, “I’ll get you out. Don’t move or I might cut you.” And then he’s walking around the stone slab and sawing away the rope holding Tim in place. The second he cuts the last rope he turns to face Tim and says, “now can you tell me what the hell you were—”
Tim launches himself at Red Hood, half falling off the dais as he wraps his arms around Red Hood’s neck. Red Hood catches him around the waist with a “woah!”
Tim’s shaking, he realizes distantly.
“Drake?” Red Hood asks softly. “Tim?”
Tim grips him tighter. “You came,” he mumbles into Red Hood’s neck. “You saved me.”
Red Hood freezes and this close Tim can hear how his breathing gets just a bit heavier. He wraps both arms around Tim and holds him closer. “I’ll always come,” he says, lowly. “No one’s ever gonna touch you.”
Tim takes a shaky breath in, before blowing out the air slowly. He needs to get a grip. Tim pulls away, keeping his head tilted down. “Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to over react like that.”
He feels Red Hood’s fingers twitch where they hold him. “You almost died, Tim. You’re not overreacting.”
Tim doesn’t answer, instead choosing to wipe at his cheeks. He can’t believe he’s crying. His mother would be so disappointed.
“Tim,” Red Hood says, ducking down so he can better look at Tim’s face, “you’re not—”
“Thirty-two rugrats safe and accounted for,” a cheerful voice calls from the doorway. “They can all go home after the paramedics give them a quick— woah. Am I interrupting something?”
Tim jerks out of Red Hood’s hold and hops down from the dais. He glances over his shoulder to see Nightwing standing awkwardly in the archway to the room.
“Put a sock on the doorknob next time," Nightwing says, “geez.”
Tim feels himself flush bright red. Red Hood flips off the other vigilante. “Fuck off. Do your goddamn job.”
Nightwing holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey now, I’m not the one canoodling with a victim.”
Red Hood shifts next to Tim and Nightwing laughs before disappearing back out into the darkened hallway beyond.
“Fucker...” Red Hood mumbles, but as Tim tries to take a step— and fails spectacularly when his knee buckles under his weight, Red Hood catches him. He keep an arm tucked up behind Tim’s back and with his free hand takes Tim’s forearm. “Careful,” he says, “just take it slow.”
They make their way around the dais where Tim finally sees the slumped form of the cultist. His robes are draped around him and there’s dark blood pooling beneath him, staining the stone floor.
“Did you have to shoot him?” Tim asks, before he can think about it. The guy was literally going to kill him. Now wasn’t the best time to be questioning Red Hood’s methods.
“What,” Red Hood says, “and just let him stab you with his kris?”
Tim blinks. “His who?”
Red Hood gestures broadly. “The dagger.”
Tim furrows his brow. “The wiggly one?”
Red Hood barks a laugh. “Weren’t you the one telling me your parents used to be famous archaeologists? You don’t recognize a ceremonial dagger when you see one?"
Tim bristles. “They weren't famous,” he says, “and it’s not like I ever went with them. A knife is a knife.”
Red Hood laughs again as he guides Tim from the room. “Sure, Drake.”
Tim elbows him in the side.
It’s not until he’s home, with Red Hood carefully lowering him onto his couch that it all really hits him.
“I—” he starts, and then he has to blink a few times to take in the room around him. “I almost died.”
Red Hood’s hands freeze from where they’re checking him over. “Yeah,” the man says, voice low and gruff even with the helmet, “you did.”
“I—” Tim’s voice catches again. “Fuck.”
One of Red Hood’s hands comes up to cup the side of his head. “Yeah, birdy.” He says. “Fuck.” He stays crouched there, holding Tim while Tim falls apart with a panic attack.
When Tim finally has his breathing back under control he blinks up at Red Hood who, at some point during Tim’s panicking, had taken off both his helmet and his gloves. He’s holding one of Tim’s hands, thumb stroking the back of it while the other rests firmly on Tim’s knee, grounding him. He’s still squatting in front of Tim and when he notices Tim looking at him he smiles.
It’s soft and sweet, and even though Tim can’t see his eyes with the domino on his face he can feel Red Hood’s gaze. “Hey,” he says, and his voice is low and smooth. “Welcome back. You feeling okay?”
Tim nods, and feels dizzy with the movement. “I, uh, yeah. Yes. Thank you.”
He can’t stop himself from cataloging everything he can about Red Hood. His dark hair that’s curling in every direction, some of it flattened by the helmet but some of it still defying gravity. The white patch of bangs that swoop dramatically on his forehead. A hooked scar that looks purposeful somehow, etched on his cheek. The way his smile grows as he notices Tim clearly checking him out.
Tim feels warm, but thankfully Red Hood doesn’t call him out. Instead he reaches into one of the pouches on his belt and pulls out an honest to God business card. He hands it to Tim who takes it tentatively and looks it over.
Red Hood & Acc. it says, with an address and a number at the bottom. He flips it over.
There’s another number on the back. Tim’s heart skips a beat.
“You need help, you call that number.” Red Hood says, tapping the front of the card.
Tim licks his lips, and somehow can feel Red Hood watching the motion. “And, uh, the one on the back?”
Red Hood grins. “You need me? You call that one.” He leans up, boxing Tim in with his hands on either side of Tim’s legs, tilting his head so their breath starts to mingle. “And if you just want me? You can still call that number.”
Tim feels his brain short circuit. “Buh, wha—?”
Red Hood brushes their foreheads together before pulling back and standing up. “Sorry to come onto you when you’re fresh out of a panic attack. But I’ve been trying to find a good moment to give that card to you for weeks now.”
Tim gapes up at him. “Weeks?” He asks. “You— I—”
Red Hood laughs, and it lights up something in Tim’s brain. He reaches forward and ruffles Tim’s hair. “Call me when you’re feeling better, birdy.” And then he’s gone. Ducking out a window that Tim knows doesn’t have a fire escape.
Huh.
Tim holds the card out, staring at it and feeling a bit like he’s in a dream.
He slumps sideways on the couch and holds the card close to his chest.
Huh.
He’ll have to call in the morning.