Chapter Text
The first time someone touched him without the intent to harm, the night turned from inconsequential to very-fucking-consequential. Very-fucking-fast. And not just because of the touch itself, but what he’d done to ruin it.
Of course, it was probably an exaggeration to say such a thing, on many fronts.
Firstly, it most certainly was not the first time someone had touched him without the intent to harm. People touched him fairly often, actually. His teacher that very day had pressed his wrist into the desktop when his tapping pen had become too annoying. People bumped into him in the halls of Gotham Academy all the time. The old, wrinkly ladies at galas pinched his cheek every ten minutes, and his parents grabbed at him seemingly endlessly behind the walls of Drake Manor.
Whether their touch was to drag him to his room because of some mistake he’d unknowingly made, to make him listen if he hadn’t achieved the right amount of eye contact to indicate that he was, in fact, already listening, or to emphasise to him that no matter what he did, he would never live up to the Drake name, it was touch all the same. A few bruises here or there meant nothing when he was pretty sure he’d know if they meant to hurt him.
Secondly, the night didn’t really turn out to be all that consequential in the end. He couldn’t even remember the date, let alone what he’d had for dinner. It all boiled down to five minutes worth of conversation and a single moment. That one touch, and subsequent lack of it.
Finally, now that he was able to look back on it, he hadn’t ruined anything. He’d given himself an easy-out. A gift.
A solution.
Bruce had been away. Some Justice League mission he wasn’t privy to, which left the Batcave relatively empty. Tim had been forbidden from patrolling – a fair enough order considering he’d only donned the traffic light colours for a few months at that point. He’d intended to snoop through the Batcomputer’s files for something interesting to solve when a bike screeched to a stop bedside the Batmobile.
On it sat only the coolest person ever.
Nightwing.
Former Robin.
The Original.
When the man ventured closer to where Tim sat at the desk, he could see the small grin on his face, so different from the expression he’d worn when Tim had all but knocked down the door to his Bludhaven apartment.
The smile wasn’t for him, Tim knew. It was for Jason: for the guilt he felt for the boy, for the way Dick had treated him before his death, and for the way he’d refused to acknowledge him as Robin, even despite his skill.
Still, considering Bruce’s constant scowls and Alfred’s perpetually pursed frowns, Tim didn’t mind that his idol was treating him as a do-over. His parent’s hadn’t been home in five weeks, and it was summer break. Mrs Mac had been let go since his dad thought he was old enough to shop for groceries himself, and he hadn’t had human interaction outside of spars with Bruce that usually ended with Tim stretching too-sore muscles on the way home or wincing out to patrol. Tim was pretty sure it was just another way Bruce was trying to make him give up, but he wouldn’t let the man succeed.
“Hey, Tim. Didn’t think you’d be here tonight,” Dick said, stopping a few feet away. He crossed his arms loosely over his chest and popped his hip, eyes focused on the screen after a moment of brief, awkward eye contact.
“I wasn’t planning on being here,” a lie, “but I figured I could have a look at some cases, leave some notes.” He would be doing more than ‘leaving some notes’ that was for sure. If only Dick would ignore Tim’s presence outside the cape like Bruce did.
“It’s,” Dick checked his phone, “seven o’clock on a Friday night. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents, or, I don’t know, hanging out with your friends? Surely you’ve got better things to be doing than sitting in a dark cave getting square eyes.”
Tim wanted to turn the question back on the man, ask him if he hadn’t anything better to do. And when Dick inevitably told him he was here visiting family, Tim would be able to reply that he obviously knew that Bruce wouldn’t be around for the weekend.
“Most of my friends are travelling for summer break, and my parents are at a business dinner-” probably, but he wasn’t sure since there were somewhere in West Asia- “so they won’t be home until late. They’ll expect me to be in bed by then. And anyway, Parella is still out and about. Do you really want me, a minor, wandering the city with my friends, also minors, while that guy is still roaming around?”
Tim pulled up the case file Bruce had been putting together for the guy just to let Dick see it. He was kinda hoping to solve this case before Bruce, if only to save a hospital bed for someone who actually deserved it. A nice, comfy cell in Blackgate would suit the man much better.
But before he could pass him off to Commissioner Gordon to take down with an appropriate amount of force, he would have to find him first.
“That right there is what I’m talking about,” Dick said, pointing between Tim and the screen with a frustrated frown on his face.
“Huh?”
“You’re twelve, Tim, and spending your night chasing a child molester. God, don’t you miss riding your bike around the block or climbing the trees in your backyard and playing pretend?”
Tim didn’t point out that Dick himself had been eight - a whole four years younger than him - when he’d put on the green, scaly panties and punched a guy in the face for waving a gun around threateningly.
He also tried not to take it personally that apparently Dick didn’t want him around either. He’d known that when he’d taken on the gig. But perhaps he’d gotten too comfortable taking on Dick’s misplaced affection.
“Even if I knew how to ride a bike, like you said, I’m twelve, not a child. I’m certainly too old to be making up stories and ruining all the gardener’s hard work in keeping the grounds presentable.” Tim rolled his eyes and turned back to the Batcomputer, closing the Parella file and opening another. Silence followed his movement, and he thought that perhaps Dick had let it go, but then he spoke, closer than he had been before.
“You don’t know how to ride a bike?”
Tim bristled at the soft, hesitant, pitying tone.
His dad had promised to teach him when he’d turned six and had gotten a bike for his birthday. And he had! Or, at least, he’d started to. The training wheels had frightened Tim because they weren’t even and the bike wobbled from side to side with every pedal, but Tim had weathered it because his dad was spending time with him. And then he’d received a call, and it had been urgent and- “thanks for understanding, champ.”
Altogether, they’d been on the driveway for all of eight minutes and fifty-two seconds.
Tim thought that must have been a record at the time.
Still, that didn’t give Dick the right to speak to him like he was some kid who needed coddling.
He stood, closing off the open files and locking the Batcomputer. The chair was between them, pushed under the desktop. Pens were dropped into a draw, and the notebook he’d been using to scribble random lines on had the top page ripped out and stuffed into the bin at his foot.
The words shouldn’t have meant anything – they didn’t mean anything. He’d heard much worse from his parents and even Bruce, both on and off the mats, so a simple question shouldn’t have set him off, but there was weird feeling in his chest and his fingers tingled where he held them at his side.
“Tim-”
“You’re probably right. I should be getting home.”
“That’s not what I meant, Tim. Why don’t you come up to the manor with me. We could put on a movie and get Alfred to make us something for dinner,” Dick tried to insist, stepping around the chair to get closer to Tim.
He took a small step back, though definitely not far enough to counteract the space Dick had closed between them. “No, thank you. I wouldn’t want to bother Alfred. And, anyway, my parent’s will probably want to check on me when they get home-” another lie- “ so best to play it safe.” He turned, heading for the exit.
Dick called out for him again, but Tim didn’t stop. He’d just made it down the stairs from the Batcomputer when he felt it.
A hand sliding across his shoulders. Firm. Gentle. Fingers grazed across his neck. And Tim froze. Tim froze so completely that even his breath stuttered to a halt for a single, terrifying second. Terrifying, because his heart seemed dip into his toes, while his stomach flipped and flopped nauseatingly behind his navel. His skin prickled and his tongue sat heavy and much too big in his mouth.
The moment seemed to stretch into eternity, and end, all at once.
He sucked in a breath, blinked hard and stumbled a step- two steps out of Dick’s hold.
“Please don’t,” he murmured, eyes darting every which way as he tried to catalogue if he’d had a stroke or something. As far as he knew his mental faculties weren’t suffering in the way he’d read about when researching the topic for a personal project. Only his body seemed to be affected apart from the single moment where his brain just… stopped working.
“I’m sorry, Tim, I didn’t-”
But Tim wasn’t listening. Instead, he was pressing a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart, blinking back the sting in his eyes. He felt… he felt devastated. He was mad with it. He’d thought, at first, it must have been because of the touch- it was so gentle, how could it be so gentle- but no. No it wasn’t the touch, but the fact that the touch had ceased. That Tim had been the one to stop it - to step away.
Barely a second must have passed, he realised, when he heard Dick’s steps echo closer.
Stilling his trembling hand, he held it up to stop the man from advancing further.
“Tim, tell me what’s wrong-”
“I understand your penchant for physical touch,” is how he started, “but I would appreciate if you refrained from partaking with me.” He finally turned, sure that he’d calmed himself at least enough to not look entirely crazed.
What he was met with was the concerned frown of the older acrobat. His brows were furrowed and twisted up in the middle, parted by a deep crease. His frown was soft, nothing at all like Bruce’s, and yet meaningful all the same. His eyes, though… his eyes were sad. And that was enough for Tim to pull himself all the way together. It seemed an impossible thing for Dick to be sad. Even after everything he’d been through, in the past, and closer to the present, he’d somehow always found it in him to smile.
So he pulled himself up straight and put on the earnest look he reserved for when Bruce questioned whether he was really up for the responsibility that came with the Robin mantle, or when his parents were expecting an apology for whatever he’d done to upset them at any given point in time.
“It makes me uncomfortable to be touched by people I don’t know very well.”
And that was that.
Tim went home that night on shaky limbs, and the next time he saw Dick, the man kept his hands to himself.
Another month passed without incident, and though Tim hadn’t been able to cast that night from his mind, he managed not to stare at Dick for longer than necessary when he visited the cave and managed to avoid the man’s gaze when he felt it on him. Eventually, things went back to normal, and his routine of training with Bruce before patrol, patrolling, then heading home to an empty house was restored.
By two months, that night was no longer constantly on the front of his mind.
It was unfortunate, then, that Poison Ivy had to ruin it.
Tim makes it to the Batcave at exactly twenty minutes past seven, traipsing through the manor’s warm halls on quiet feet, stomach rumbling at the pleasant smell coming from the kitchen. He’d forgotten lunch that day, and realised he was due for a grocery run when he’d gotten home to an empty pantry. He’d barely slept after getting back from patrol the night before, and had promised himself to go after school, but it had slipped his mind.
He doesn’t run into anyone – even as he sticks his head into the kitchen – and figures Alfred must already be downstairs. There is no doubt in his mind that Bruce is down there too, but there never is. Not when Alfred’s fight is usually to get him back upstairs at any particular time of the day.
Usually Tim would lend himself to such a cause as well, but as it had gotten easier to convince the man into his pyjamas, he’d left it completely to Bruce’s trusted butler.
So he isn’t surprised to see both men when he finally descends the stairs into the damp cave. Alfred is sitting at the Batcomputer while Bruce is tinkering with something near the weapons rack, black tank and sweatpants in place of his suit.
Tim rolls his shoulders back and drops his backpack onto the ground by the mats.
“Solitary,” Bruce grunts and Tim gets started, trying not to dread the fact that Bruce already seems to be in a bad mood. No, he wipes his mind clean and settles himself low, easing into the - almost therapeutic - drills beaten into his body by Lady Shiva, though without the bo staff in his hand. The lack-of feels wrong, but he’s just glad not to have that hawk-like gaze locked onto him every moment of every day - instead he gets bat-like glares, but those are much easier to handle.
Fifteen minutes pass before Bruce steps onto the mat, bringing with him Tim’s bo staff. He tosses it at him and gets into position, launching himself across the mat mere seconds later without warning, and it’s only because this song-and-dance is as familiar to Tim as navigating a pissed-off Jack Drake that he is able to dodge the first swipe.
He whips his bo staff out, barely catching Bruce’s side, ducks under another fist, kicks out behind him using the staff as balance. Fingers wrap around his ankle, and the next thing he knows, he’s flat on his back, a thumb pressing against the inside of his wrist and forcing his grip loose.
Looking up, he’s met with a disapproving frown. Bruce won’t say anything, not until the session is done and he has the complete list of what Tim needs to improve on, but Tim already knows it going to be long.
He’s proven correct an hour later when he’s handed a cool water bottle by Alfred and is sporting incredibly tender ribs. He doesn’t bother cradling them, sure that if Bruce saw he’d leave Tim behind for being a liability. With the low-level Arkham breakout Alfred had informed them about the moment they’d finished, Tim doesn’t want Bruce to go out alone.
While true that it had been at least a month since Batman had used excessive force on a criminal, with how he’s been acting that afternoon, Tim isn’t so sure that that streak wouldn’t be broken if left completely unsupervised.
All that to say, when Bruce is done lecturing him on everything he’d done wrong, and after Tim had recited back to him what exactly he needs to improve on, Tim suits up in colours that still don’t feel his own and waits by the Batmobile for Batman to emerge from the locker room. It takes just slightly longer than normal, and Tim can see, even below the layers of kevlar and armour, the tense line of his shoulders, held a margin too high than what could be considered ‘resting’.
Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. There was barely a patrol that went by that Batman wasn’t tense or cautious or angry for some reason or another. But normally he’s not so exhausted, and normally his stomach is at least slightly full. It hasn’t gotten to the point that his limbs tremble and struggle to keep him upright, but the training hadn’t helped and Tim… Tim is afraid.
He's in no condition to be pulling Batman back from that edge, that line where justice and senseless violence dance hand-in-hand.
As Batman strides closer to the Batmobile, Tim’s eyes dart across the cave. He knows Alfred has taken to keeping a stash of protein bars and other snacks somewhere in the cave for times where Bruce is being particularly difficult, he just doesn’t know where.
Most likely, the stash will be easily accessible, so probably near the Batcomputer. It the place Bruce is most often found, and the place Alfred sits during patrols. But if Bruce could find them so easily, then he would just take to eating them and refusing Alfred’s delicious, homecooked meals – a travesty and personal offence Alfred would not stand.
With time ticking down, Tim darts over to where Alfred is seated and reaches into the pocket of his suit, crowing quietly in victory when his fingers curl around a pack of fruit snacks. Before he can leave though, Alfred reaches out and catches his wrist with deceptively fast reflexes.
Instead of the scolding he’s expecting, all he gets is two oatmeal bars and a small packet of dried banana slices.
“If Master Bruce starts reaching into my pockets, I’ll know who to blame,” is the only thing the older man says, and Tim beams before racing back to the Batmobile. It’s already running when he slams the door and reaches for his seatbelt, a scrutinising frown directed his way. Tim doesn’t say anything until they’ve exited the cave and are already halfway to the bridge.
“Big night. Alfred thinks we might need an energy boost later.”
Batman doesn’t deign to reply.
When they finally park and make their way to the rooftops, Gotham is in shambles. Smoke is rising from somewhere near the Bowery, spotlights are going haywire further away toward Robinson Park, and there, reflected on the ever-present Gotham smog, the Bat Signal.
The only thing Tim can find himself grateful for is that Joker is not one of the escapees for tonight’s escapades. They will have their hands full enough with Riddler, Condiment King and Ivy running around, and excuse him for being thankful that maniac isn’t around to see him in the green, red and yellow. After what he did to Jason, Tim doesn’t want to think about what the man would want to do to the next Robin.
Batman grunts a grunt that means some approximation of ‘follow me’ and then they are off, heading straight for the roof of Gotham Police Precinct.
Commissioner Gordon is waiting for them when they arrive, another officer at his shoulder. The man’s eyes linger on Tim a second too long as they land, something that has happened every time they’d met since he’d taken up the mantle.
Despite being law enforcement and, technically, opposing the existence of vigilantes, Tim knows that the officer had had a soft spot for the second Robin. Through his camera lens, Tim had seen the way the man would joke with the boy, and how they would both gang up on Batman. Though he hesitates to put them in such confined boxes, it isn’t such a stretch to say Jason was the happy Robin following Dick’s angry one.
Gordon hadn’t gotten the chance to accept a child soldier until Dick had almost outgrown the green panties and pixie boots. And by that point, Dick had practically been an adult anyway. Still, it had eased the introduction of Jason, and his focus on justice instead of revenge had certainly helped, and the two, whist certainly not friends, had immense amounts of respect for each other. Different to the respect they both held for Batman.
So, Tim doesn’t find the lingering looks odd or even disdainful. Disappointed, sure, but never loaded with malice or any sort of overt disapproval.
He is no Jason; it can be only expected that someone like Commissioner Gordon would have a hard time transitioning.
“We know where the problems are, Commissioner,” Batman growls, and though Tim hears it near-every night since becoming Robin – and quite a lot before that – it still makes an uncomfortable weight roll over his shoulders. There’s something wrong about the cadence, something that makes Tim’s subconscious subtly cringe away.
“I’m sure you do,” Gordon responds, “just as I am sure you are aware of the hostage situation currently going down in Old Gotham.”
Old Gotham. On the opposite side of the city. Two islands away. That Old Gotham.
“Are you saying your officers are ill-equipped to handle it?”
And- oof. It really is unlucky that tonight of all night is the night Gordon called for Batman’s assistance. Tim send a silent apology his way, even as he stays still by Batman’s side.
“I’m sorry,” the other officer speaks up, voice defensive. “I was under the impression ‘The Batman’ was to be contacted for anything Rogue related. Wasn’t that your request.”
Tim can confirm that that is most certainly not what Batman requested. He can also discern that the man is probably newer to the force if he is taking Batman’s ‘disrespect’ for Gordon this seriously. It is odd, though, that someone so fresh would warrant an introduction to The Dark Knight.
Without giving Batman the chance to respond, Gordon sighs and rubs a thumb over an eyes. “Peters, you were told to observe. If you cannot do that, and only that, then I’m sure you can tell Montoya to head up on your way back to my office.”
Peters looks appropriately chastised, though perhaps a little indignant.
“Scarecrow has taken a group of eight people hostage in the industrial sector. Some of our officers responded but have since been affected by fear toxin. I’ve ordered a retreat, but they still need saving.” Gordon huffs lightly, eyes once again darting to Tim. “Condiment King is reported to be causing havoc in Chinatown, but no people are in immediate danger. Poison Ivy has been spotted in Robinson Park, mostly putting on a show-”
“Oracle,” Batman interrupts.
Tim watches Gordon’s eyebrow twitch and cringes. The man definitely knows about his daughter’s… extracurriculars. It’s a wonder he hasn’t put a stop to it yet, but Tim supposes he might just be glad she’s no longer prowling the streets alongside them, as crass as the thought is.
In his ear, his comm screeches for half a second before Oracle’s voice comes through.
“Accurate report. I’ve got eyes on Ivy. Minimal damage at the moment, but she has two men wrapped up in her vines.” The report is succinct. Tim thinks that maybe she’s just as uncomfortable fact-checking her father as her father is knowing who is on the other end of their line. “Smoke in the Bowery is a distraction. Riddler is still setting up somewhere in the Narrows.”
“You don’t have a location?” Batman growls and Tim winces. He can see Gordon narrow his eyes at the harsh tone, but the man ultimately turns away to look over the city.
“No,” Oracle replies shortly, giving as good as Batman. She’d never been one to take his moods lying down. It was something Tim had always admired about her. “But get them to start searching the west side. We all know Riddler won’t put up too much of a fight if he can’t perform the full extent of his scheme.”
Batman grunts and relays the orders, much to the consternation of their good friend, Peters. It seems the only thing keeping the officer back from attempting to yell Batman’s ear off is the dry look Gordon is sending him. And while the two are caught up in their one-sided stare-off, Batman and Robin vacate the rooftop. They’re gone without a trace by the time either man turns their attention back.
Tim almost feels bad for Gordon as he watches the commissioner sigh and rub his eyes from over the edge of the neighbouring high-rise. Batman is pacing across the roof behind him, grapple in hand. Before he can launch himself across another alleyway and pull himself up onto the even higher roof beside them, Tim clicks his comm.
“I can head to Ivy while you take Scarecrow. Then we can meet up again for Condiment King,” He says, voice low so as not to carry over to the retreating officers. Scarecrow would keep Batman occupied enough that Tim wouldn’t have to worry about any potential damage the vigilante could do before they meet back up again, even with the mood he’s in.
“No,” Batman replies.
“Batman, we’re kind of spread thin tonight. Splitting up is the logical choice.” It just doesn’t make sense to stick together tonight. “If you think you’ll need back up for Scarecrow, then I’ll meet you there instead. Ivy shouldn’t take too long.”
“Robin.” And, oh. That didn’t sound good. “You are not going off by yourself.”
“Look, she’s easy enough to talk down. The problem is that she’s also really easy to rile up. A single wrong word from a hostage or witness could escalate the whole situation-”
A hissed growl cuts him off as Batman stalks back across the rooftop toward him. Tim only just stops himself from pressing back into the half-wall behind him.
“You are not in charge here, Robin. You will follow my orders and you will follow them well.” Though he can’t see most of the Bruces face, he can feel the anger radiating off the man. It is almost similar to how the man had been a few short months earlier, back when Tim was still trying to convince himself that following the man on patrol and calling ambulances as needed was the best he would ever be able to do. “Insubordination like you have just shown will not be tolerated. If you cannot follow orders, then you don’t belong in that suit. Fall in line, or fall back, soldier.”
Tim’s chest aches with his held breath, and though he does not tremble - all too familiar with the temper Bruce harbours beneath the surface - he has to flex his fingers and rotate his shoulders to ease out the stiff muscles as the man steps away.
Batman is already on the next roof by the time Tim fumbles out his own grapple. He takes a fortifying breath before relaxing back into Robin. Then, he takes a running start, and leaps.
He follows Batman across the island, then the bridge. Tellingly, the man cuts through Upper East Side, heading toward the east-most bridge toward the third island, steering clear of both Robinson Park and the Narrows.
Truthfully, Tim has all intention of following the Bat’s orders after the scolding he’d just received. Really. The thing is, Tim just so happens to cast a glance toward the park just as a boom of vines and flowers escapes the greenery into the streets.
The blocks of Upper East Side are uniform enough that he gets a clear view - even from the other side of the suburb - of the cars being crushed and the streets turning to rubble. He’s not close enough to see any one person - Ivy or otherwise - but it’s clear enough that something had happened to set the woman off.
Tim glances quickly at Batman who is paying the destruction no mind. In fact, he isn’t paying Tim any mind either. He’s not once looked over his shoulder to make sure his Robin is following, not even after Tim’s earlier adamance of splitting up. It would be easy; to take advantage of Batman’s belief in Robin’s fearful obedience. Tim doubts the man would even notice he was gone until he tried to order him around to capture Scarecrow. And by that point, Tim is sure he wouldn’t be too far away anyway.
It only takes a second to decide, a moment to slow down, and a blink before he’s veered off course, heading into the threatening maw of wriggling, writhing vines.
Whilst true that he hasn’t yet faced the rogue alone, Tim has gleaned enough information through articles, mission reports, and patrol summaries to know that Pamela Isely isn’t one for senseless violence, and she never has been.
Misguided though her initial introduction into the rogue gallery was, Poison Ivy has a heart, and spirit, and a will strong enough to have carried her through over a decade of villainy, fighting for a worthy cause.
Because that’s what it is. Even if she continues to go about it the wrong way, no one can argue that what she’s fighting for isn’t important. Tim almost admired her. Almost, because it was just a little too hard to look past the deaths and grievous injuries she’d caused over the years.
Minutes pass before he’s leaping over the first vine. It squirms below him, reaching up, out, down, looking for purchase on the next thing it can destroy. Whether alive or not, the vine holds no prejudice, and Tim can only be thankful that the rooves he’s traversing are high enough to not yet be a target. He can almost feel the way the plant would wrap itself around him – leg first, then hips, pulling and squeezing until the pressure becomes too much-
He leaps over another alley, tucking he knees up high before rolling to a land.
Robinson Park looms closer. Batman hasn’t addressed him through comms.
When he finally reaches the green border of the park, he’s met with utter chaos. The ground is torn to pieces, dirt and mud coating any piece of grass that doesn’t have some form of animated plant bursting through. The plants themselves seem to be screaming, and though Tim knows it has to be some sort of trick or effect, he can’t help but be unsettled. Especially when he realises that under the artificial noise, are the very much not-artificial cries of very real people.
Ivy must know that he’s here. It would be impossible for her not to with how dense the vines he picks through are. He can barely take a step without tripping over a root or cordon. Not even his - albeit limited - bat-training is helping him. Dick may have been able to move through the writhing maze with some ease, but Tim doubts the man is willing to train him so thoroughly, no matter how kind he is being.
With subtlety and sneakiness out of the question, Tim doesn’t bother going slow – not that he isn’t careful, because that godawful screeching is making his ears ring, and he isn’t a jerk – and marches through the landscape carnage, coming to a small clearing near the reservoir.
There, he finds the source of the screaming. The two men Oracle had mentioned earlier, hung upside down by their ankles and being shaken about by not-quite-sentient vines. Ivy is off to the side, arms lifted to pet a plant that has risen from the ground beside her, like any respectable villain would when waiting for their enemy to arrive. Tim almost expects a monologue from the woman explaining her grand plan to take over the world.
But he knows better than that, and so does she. While many of Gotham’s Rogues play into such stereotypes, the smart ones know that doing so only gives opportunity for Batman to foil their plans. Sometimes Tim thinks they only commit crimes in order to see Batman and speak to him, like some sort of obsessed ex-lover. It’s unnerving and disconcerting and he would rather not think about the man in such a way, but unfortunately some Rogues just make it impossible not to.
Again, he is so thankful that Poison Ivy is not one of them. She’s reasonable. As loathe as he is to say such a thing about a woman who is currently holding two people hostage.
“You’re not Robin,” Ivy hums as soon as he gets close enough. Again, he hadn’t been trying to hide, so he’s thankful the woman didn’t try to smite him the moment she spotted him.
Tim taps the ‘R’ on his chest languidly, saying, “The badge says otherwise.”
Narrowed eyes is the response he gets. It hadn’t occurred to him that Ivy may have interacted with Jason while the boy had held the position, though in hindsight, it made sense. Though his predecessor had only been Robin for a few years, the Rogue gallery had been particularly active, Poison Ivy especially so. Statistically speaking, it would have been nigh impossible for them not to have crossed paths.
He’d read mission reports from Jason’s time as Robin - he’d tried to stave off his curiosity, figuring his snooping would be a disrespect upon the dead, but that was his Robin - and despite the fact that Batman and Robin usually stuck together, Robin’s direct involvement with most rogues was left… vague. Whether it was an oversight, a deliberate omittance of information, or something else entirely, Tim is unsure. It certainly isn’t the case with reports including Tim, and he hasn’t had the chance to go over any of Dick’s files.
Frustrating as it is, no detail he might have found in those reports will help him now. He has all the information he needs to bring in the woman in front of him.
“Might I inquire as to the crime these men committed to deserve such treatment?” He said and immediately cringed, recalibrating back into Robin.
“Oh, now isn’t that the question,” Ivy sneers and turns back to the men she’d imprisoned. He tries not to feel too offended and nurses his bruised ego with the fact that her sentient plants were still very much keeping an eye on him. “Would any of you like to tell your supposed saviour why exactly we’re gathered here tonight?”
Tim steps cautiously closer, making sure not to step on any errant roots.
All the men do is yell incoherently over each other. It’s all he can do to guess that what they’re trying to say is “it’s not my fault” or “I did nothing wrong” even though he can barely hear their individual words. The reports on the Batcomputer don’t lie – every single person Poison Ivy attacks… they deserve it in some way or another. At least in the woman’s eyes, and even sometimes in the eyes of the law, however corrupt the justice system is in Gotham.
But it isn’t up to him to decide how they should be punished for their wrongdoings, and that right didn’t belong to Ivy either.
“You understand, don’t you, Robin? These men are predators who take what isn’t offered to them. Women aren’t safe with this filth running around,” Ivy says, strutting around the wall of vines that hold up her prisoner’s. “The last one did. He understood that some people are incapable of change, and some don’t deserve the opportunity. He cared more about the safety of the many, of the minority, more than he cared about the lives of the people who put them in danger.”
And Tim… well he can’t quite figure out if that was true or not. Despite the long hours and endless nights he’d spent stalking the Bats through the city, he’d never seen Robin put in a position where he had to save a bad person from a worse person, where no innocent victim was involved. He’d seen him escort working girls home, he’d seen the boy fend off traffickers with extreme prejudice and find a safe place for kids to stay for the night. There was always something else for him to focus on. Another goal more important that carrying out extreme justice on the perpetrator. Who was he to say that Robin had never played along with Ivy’s schemes for longer than strictly necessary?
“I suppose I can see where you’re coming from,” he replies, tilting his head as he thought over what to say. “It’s a little harsh though, right? I mean, sure, some people are content living disgusting lives with disgusting morals and have no desire to change. But how do you know that, if the first thing you do is string them up for their crimes and strangle them into non-existence? You,” he turns to closest man to him, face a painful red, “what’s your name?”
“H-Hank,” he wheezes, and Tim grimaces at the bulging vein on his temple.
“Do you want to change, Hank?”
The movement Hank makes could barely be called a nod, but Tim takes it as one all the same.
“There you have it, Hank wants to change.”
Ivy storms around the wall of vines and right up to Tim, hissing, “You don’t even know what he did, you insolent child.”
“Yeah, well neither does anyone else,” Tim shrugs, and reaches out to tug at the vine curling around Hank’s ear, making no real effort to remove it.
“Excuse me?”
Whatever interaction Jason had with Poison Ivy, Tim doubted it elicited the absolute rage held in the woman’s eyes, as Tim realised he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere in the conversation.
“I just mean that all you are doing by hurting these men, is feeding into the image the city has of you,” he tries to adjust, to explain away whatever he’d said wrong.
“These men you defend make a habit of targeting women and assaulting them, you think the world isn’t a better place without them? You think women all across the island’s aren’t thanking me that they’re gone?”
“That’s the thing, though. They don’t know. You might argue that you’re doing something good, and, yeah, I know there are people out there who are grateful, but the rest? What do you think they say about you? That you’re doing the world a favour? That you’re cleaning up the city, one murder at a time!”
“They know exactly who I kill,” Ivy hisses, almost nose-to-nose with him, finger jabbing into the ‘R’ on his chest. “I don’t hide that my so-called victims are the lowest of the low, that they deserve exactly what’s coming for them.”
“You might not hide it, but others certainly do. That’s your whole thing, right? Protect the environment, protect the women. Well guess what? The world isn’t run by women. It’s run by men exactly like them,” he thrusts a hind out to the men hanging beside them. “who are only better are hiding it or paying it away. And just like they turned you into the villain, they continue to do so by turning these men into martyrs. “No, no, these men were innocent, and had their lives tragically taken by a feminazi who wants all men dead!””
“How dare you!”
“I live in this city too, Ivy. I’ve seen bad men get away with murder because their pockets were deeper than the Mariana Trench, and I’ve seen innocent people punished for crimes they didn’t commit.” He takes a breath and recentres himself, not bothering to take a step back, out of Poison Ivy’s range. “Death is not the worst thing that can happen to these men. In fact, it’s probably a blessing, because they will never have to face justice for their crimes.”
Ivy scoffs and pulls back, straightening her shirt and smoothing the top of a plant that had sprouted beside her. “’Justice’, he says. You claim to know the happenings of this city, and yet you still think they will face justice. Clearly you have no idea what you’re doing.”
Now it’s Tim’s turn to scoff. “You really think criminal justice is the only kind to be served? It’s like you said; the women are grateful for what you do for them. All you have to do is make them all see it. Women do make up half the population after all. Social justice can be just as brutal for those who value it enough,” he shrugs.
Ivy eyes him with a scowl, then looks at the men. Both of them are almost purple in the face, still struggling against their binds. Tim can almost feel the unbearable pressure in his own head and twists his mouth as if he could dispel it. He checks his watch and winces when he sees how much time has passed since he split from Batman. The man had surely noticed his absence by now but still hasn’t paged him on comms.
“In a hurry?” Ivy hums mockingly, and Tim looks up, grin on his face.
“Nope, I’m not on babysitting duty for another few minutes, I’m in no rush.”
Ivy quirks a brow, “Babysitting?”
“Well, someone has to keep an eye on Batman,” Tim huffs, only just refraining from rolling his eyes. Always be alert, and all that. “I do still have to arrest you though, so perhaps we can work something out?”
At that, Ivy laughs, and Tim can’t help but grin. Perhaps his first encounter with one of the A-list rogues can pre-emptively be called a success.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” is all the warning he gets before a vine is rushing at his face. Given the close proximity to the woman herself, Tim barely has enough time to dodge. He pulls a batarang out of a pouch on his belt and strikes, nipping the thin limb before it can twist and strike again.
He jumps back as Ivy coaxes more plants from the ground. Roots burst through greenery and spray soil into the air. It’s a game of keep away as Tim works to get closer to Ivy while trying not to get caught in any of her traps. And he’s doing well, if he says so himself: dodging left to avoid a solid-looking bulb aiming for his head, sliding under a limb thinker than his thigh and slicing it with a batarang now in each hand, rolling over a writhing ball of vines and out of the way of two menacing looking flowers. Every time he feels he’s making headway, he looks up only to find Poison Ivy further and further away.
In a rush of frustration, he doesn’t bother avoiding the obstacles in his way, simply charges through them. He ignores the thorns nicking and snagging his suit, and the explosion of pollen from the flowers along with the thick coating of it that settles over his skin, and he tackles Ivy from behind… right into the reservoir.
They drop into the water with a great splash. Tim is immediately wrestling to keep Ivy detained, but he supposes his thin arms and smaller stature are no match for a rogue as experienced as Poison Ivy.
It takes no time at all for the woman to have him pinned. He can only be grateful that the water is shallow enough for him not to be at risk of immediate drowning. Still, the possibility is there, so he struggles against her hold, trying his hardest to get a hold of another batarang to defend himself with.
“Uh, uh, uh. That’s enough out of you,” Ivy tuts, and taps his cheek where he can feel the sting of a cut. “And what’s this?” She rubs her fingers together, and Tim spots some of the pollen that hadn’t quite washed off in the water. It leaves a deep orange smear across the pads of her fingers, and he can only imagine what it must look like on his face. “Perhaps little uptown Robin will get an idea of what it’s like to have autonomy taken away.”
Tim’s breath catches in his throat as he finally connect what the pollen meant for him. He hadn’t even thought about it when rushing through the bursting flowers, how could he- what was he supposed to do?
“Oh don’t look at me like that. I don’t actually make that sort of pollen. As you said, people like to twist the narrative.” She gets off him quickly, but Tim is swiftly wrapped and held in place by wet roots. “Nice chat, but I’ll halve to leave you, little Robin. Places to be, lives to ruin, you understand. Enjoy that, though – I’ve heard big ol’ Bats gives a pretty good hug.”
Water splashes around him as he struggles to free himself, the sight of Poison Ivy strutting away the last thing he sees before getting a face full of water. He quickly stills, and the water settles at his ears again.
It’s minutes later that he finally manages to wrap his fingers around the lost batarang, and he slices through the roots, quickly rushing back onto dry land. His skin itches, and he is reminded of that day on the cave. His fingers tingle, and his breath comes shallow.
When he glances over to where the men were being held, he sees nothing but empty grass, and in the distance, two figures racing into the maze of city blocks. He’s not sure if it’s a victory on his part, and can’t seem to focus enough to figure it out.
The water is cold against his ankles, and a slight breeze makes him shiver. The park is empty, now that the men have disappeared from view. He has no idea what direction Poison Ivy disappeared in, and as he looks down at his watch again, knows he wouldn’t have the time to go after her anyway.
Looking down at his soaked suit, he sighs. He’s going to be in so much trouble when he finally meets up with Batman again. Not only did he let Poison Ivy get away, but Alfred is also going to have to clean his suit with something military grade.
He turns to take another look at the murky water he was just lying in and grimaces.
Poor Alfred.
Wiping as much of the water from his face as he can, he races over the uneven terrain of Robinson Park until he’s back on bitumen and can grapple up to a rooftop. Despite the extensive damage done to the roads and even some of the buildings, not a single head is poking out of a window or door to investigate. That’s good. At least the people around here have some sense of self-preservation. With how nosy some of Gotham’s elite are, he’s not sure half of them would survive a regular Tuesday night in the suburbs.
Though, perhaps they’d actually do something to fix the dilapidated state of almost a third of Gotham as a whole, if they were forced to experience it every day. No maze of a house to go back to, no sprawling gardens to stroll through, just cracked pavement, charred windowsills… and not-so-abandoned warehouses with Batman-like figures atop them.
Tim doesn’t bother trying to hide his approach – Batman already sees him.
The itching of his skin grows stronger the closer he gets to Batman, until he can barely breath through it as he lands on the warehouse roof. The Dark Night’s arms are crossed over his chest - the picture of disappointment.
The man says nothing, just stares at him. Tim wants to apologise, if only to appease him, but he’s not sorry, nor can he quite form words in his distracted state. Instead, the silence is filled with his harsh breathing, in and out, in and out as he forces his trembling limbs to still. It’s just like that night, months ago now. And like that night, he manages to overcome it; to convince his body that it doesn’t need what it thinks it craves, because it’s clear now what the pollen is.
As far as he can tell, most of it washed off in the reservoir, but given that he’s covered in cuts and scratches, it wouldn’t have needed too long to get into his blood stream. Still, he wonders of the smear of orange powder is still on his cheek – wonders if maybe Batman is ignoring it, or if he just can’t see it. He thinks it’s better to pretend it’s not there at all.
Blue and red lights are flashing on the street below, he notices belatedly, and figures Batman must have wrapped up with Scarecrow already. He glances at his watch and blinks before trotting over to the side of the roof. On the street below there are three ambulances and Tim’s brows scrunch in disappointment until he spots an officer leading Scarecrow into the back of one of the patrol cars some ways away. The man seems relatively unharmed from what he can tell at such a distance – he’s being mostly held up by the officer escorting him, but Tim can’t see any broken bones, nor any blood where it wouldn’t be expected. Barring the red coating the bottom half of his face, he actually seems to be in pretty good shape.
“Huh,” he mutters, and turns back to Batman.
“Go back to the cave, Robin,” Batman growls, closer than he was before.
And Tim hears him, he does, but the man is close enough now that Tim can feel the heat radiating off him and it makes his mind go a little fuzzy. He finds himself gazing at the black expanse of Batman’s cape and armour-clad arms. He’d seen it before, the way they’d cradled a past Robin at the end of a patrol. It had never been something Tim needed – nor had it been something he’d wanted – but it had looked… cozy. He imagines it now, drowning in such warmth. He reaches out a hand, but pulls back at the last second, blinking up at Batman’s cowl.
“The cave?”
Batman isn’t looking at him, instead looking out toward the smoke addled sky, back the way they’d started. “The cave. You’re done for the night.”
There’s something deep in his chest that expands until almost-bursting. He’s unsure if it’s anxiety or excitement. Maybe Batman did notice?
“We’ll talk about your insubordination when I get back. Right now, I can’t trust you to follow orders.” With that, Batman is gone, disappearing into the night and taking his warmth with him. Tim shiver’s in its absence, blaming the new tremors on the brisk wind that blows through, and pretending that’s all it is.
In his ear, Alfred’s voice crackles to life to tell him, “Batmobile is enroute, Robin. Make your way two blocks east to Pratt Street,” and then he too is gone.
“Pratt Street,” he mutters, forcing himself to move through the new aches that plague his body, down the fire escape and over to the meeting point.
The Batmobile is already there when he rounds the corner onto Pratt Street, making him wonder just how long it took him to get down off that roof. It hadn’t felt like long at all.
He finds one of Batman’s spare capes in the back seat when he climbs in and wraps it around himself. It doesn’t help. Not when his skin continues to crawl, and his bones feel like they’re vibrating. There’s no one there to hide from, so he doesn’t bother.
And when he gets back to the cave, and when he sees Alfred busy talking into his headset, he doesn’t stick around. It’s clear to him that he isn’t able to control his reactions in the presence of another person, and he’d actually rather die (sorry Jason) than make Bruce cuddle him. Assuming the man wouldn’t just leave Tim to his own devices anyway, their relationship wasn’t like that. The moments Dick and Jason got as Robin were not something that happened with Tim. He was a placeholder, a partner- a soldier, as Bruce had so aptly put it. You don’t cuddle soldiers.
After a quick shower to wash off the bulk of the reservoir smell – and the rest of the cuddle pollen – and a quiet ‘sorry’ whispered to Alfred’s back from across the cave for the mucky suit, Tim escapes to the Manor, bypassing the lab completely – those antidotes are inventoried every week.
And anyway, cold water had done wonders to shock his system, allowing for a short period of clear-mindedness before the water heated and the fuzziness was back. But that short window was all Tim had needed, because it had allowed time to think of a long-term solution to the cuddle-pollen problem.
The antidotes Batman creates in the lab are a short-term fix – and barely even that. They only lessen the effects of the pollen, nowhere near negating the need to physical contact. At its base, cuddle pollen – and, really, any of Ivy’s pollens – is a reaction of chemicals in the body. Human contact aided the body in correcting the imbalance with a nice, big dose of oxytocin.
But the body couldn’t crave what it never had. Admittedly, he’d never been struck by cuddle pollen before, but he’s sure if Dick hadn’t touched his shoulder like that all those weeks ago, he wouldn’t be so affected by it - he’d never craved boysenberry ice cream with golden syrup until he’d tried it for the first time either.
Batman seemed happy enough to rely on his skills and the antidote to deal with cuddle pollen in the past, and perhaps he is still happy to do so, but the thought of having someone’s arms around him made Time uncomfortable on a good day.
It was better to build an immunity. For everyone involved.