Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim crying wouldn’t make Batman come. This was a fact Tim knew with confidence. Because adults never came running when children cried. No matter what people tried to tell you. This was an unspoken rule Tim knew to a high degree of accuracy.

When Tim was in fourth grade his teacher, Miss Lavoy, had said while consoling a crying Brian -the boy only had a sprained ankle, Tim didn’t think it warranted all the tears. Especially not when tears meant calling parents and they were far too busy doing more important things than fussing over a sprained ankle- that crying was a natural response to feelings. Little Susie, looking none too guilty about being the cause of Brian's sprained ankle, had asked what it meant then, when her little newborn sister cried so much all the time. Miss Lavoy had said it was what babies did when they wanted their parents' attention and crying would get that attention from them. Tim frankly thought it was poppycock. Last month the woman had claimed that hugs could heal scraped knees and that definitely wasn’t true, biology just didn’t work that way. So Tim knew, with astute confidence, that Miss Lavoy was not to be trusted with these claims.

That evening, over dinner, Tim had told his parents what Miss Lavoy had said. Tim’s mother had scoffed, that was all Tim needed to hear to know he’d been right in his disbelief. His mother had said he hadn’t cried once as a baby and that she hadn’t understood what poor parenting other people did to constantly be complaining about their child's amount of crying. His dad had told him he was right to tell them and that he’d have Tim moved to a more competent teacher, he’d even patted Tim’s head.

Unfortunately, his parents had been whisked away to another dig and forgot to get him transferred. Tim didn’t mind, the pat on the head from his dad more than made up for it, its good mood lasting him right through to their next visit home 3 months later. Besides, it just meant Tim felt less guilty about hacking into his parent's emails and sending one to the school about a leave of absence for Tim while they took him with them on their dig. Tim spent the whole time sleeping during the day, then wandering around Gotham at night with his new camera, taking photos of anything that interested him. He’d gotten a slightly blurred picture of Robin one night and the high from it pushed him back out night after night in hopes of another glimpse.

Tim had tried the crying thing once, he’d been tired from being out all night chasing vigilantes around the city, and Mrs Mac had just told him that his parents were extending their stay in Paraguay and wouldn’t be home for his birthday like previously promised. Tim hadn’t actually minded; they were important people doing important work, his birthday wasn’t all that important in the grand scheme of things. But Tim had been so tired, he’d given in to the little voice telling him he should cry, just to test it, Miss Lavoy’s theory, all it was was an experiment. So he’d cried. Mrs Mac didn’t do tears. Tim knew this, it had been one of the first things she’d informed him of when his parents introduced them. So all she’d done was tell him that that was quite enough, to blow his nose, wash his face, and come back down for breakfast when he’d properly calmed down. Tim didn’t experiment again, his hypothesis had been proven, there was really no more to the test.

The point was Tim knew with certainty that Batman wouldn’t come if he cried.

Maybe if this had been 2 years ago, before Tim became Robin, if he were a civilian on the streets. Maybe if Tim had been Jason Todd instead, like Batman clearly wanted. Maybe he’d have come, maybe he'd have placed a hand on his shoulder to console him like Tim had seen him do to the scared street kids or run a hand through his hair like he’d seen him do to one of the previous Robins that one time. But none of those things were true and so Tim knew his hypothesis from all those years ago would remain true. Adults don’t come if you cry, that means no Mrs Mac, no parents, no fake older brothers or non-existent uncles, and absolutely no Batman.

Tim could feel the fear toxin twisting in his throat as he punched in his code for Titans Tower. It felt like cold sludge slipping down his pharynx. Tendrilling needles swimming through his veins. Freezing cubes of ice forcing their way along his arteries with every pump of his heart. He gasped in tiny staccato breaths as the doors of the zeta tube pinged open. The Tower was dark, likely deserted as everyone stayed at home for the evening.

Tim stumbled through the empty hallways towards the lab, he’d managed to nab an unexploded canister of the gas from the warehouse he and Batman had been infiltrating, he could synthesise an antidote here and no one would be any the wiser. The hallways constricted and crushed in around him. Their shadowy corners twisting into creatures with long limbs and chilling sneers. Hands reaching out to grab and scrabble at his cape, to tug and squeeze at his arms, to pet and tickle his skin. Tim swatted at them, but they disintegrated and reformed like oil disturbed in water. He stumbled to the lab doors, weakly slapping a hand against the access panel, his neck prickling with the tell-tale signs of a Bat behind him. But the door wouldn’t open, his other hand trembled more violently around the canister’s cool metal.

Tim screwed his eyes up tighter. He thought he’d managed to wriggle his way out of the cave and Alfred’s medical scan without causing any suspicion, but that idea was dashed as the eared cowl loomed into view. Tim blinked. And blinked again. And again. Blink. Blink. Blink. The form didn’t stutter or change, definitely not a hallucination then.

A gauntleted hand reached forward -Tim stepped back, his knees hitting against the still closed door, tremors rocking him on his feet- and snagged around his wrist, yanking him forward to meet hard white cowled eyes.

Tim wanted to apologise, to explain himself, but no words would work themselves out around the thick sludge of fear in his throat, his mouth opening and closing around chattering teeth as Batman’s grip tightened.

“You’re a bad Robin.” Batman growled. Tim couldn’t argue or agree or apologise, all he could do was watch the canister slip from his fingers and ignore the slowly growing black spots of fear in his vision. “You’ll never live up to the real Robins.” Something black and blue danced up behind him as Batman continued. “You’ll never be enough.” The grip on Tim’s wrist twisted painfully in emphasis.

Tim knew this. He did. He really did. It was a second fact that Tim Drake knew without doubt. He’d never be a good enough Robin for Batman, or Nightwing, and certainly not Jason.

Once, when Tim was still fresh in the suit, Bruce had called him Jason. They’d been in the cave after patrol, the Batman cowl had been off, affording Tim the ability to see the distaste roll across Bruce’s face the moment he’d realised it was Tim next to him and not Jason. Bruce barely spoke to Tim for the next week. Bruce didn’t get Tim’s name right for another 3 months. Bruce didn’t continuously get Tim’s name right for a further 5 months.

That night, when Tim had blearily toddled home, he thought about the three hours the man hadn't called him by the wrong name and was surprised to find he felt rather disgusted with himself. Like this was just another way Tim was pushing himself in, another way he was stealing attention away from Bruce’s actual children, another way he was replacing Jason.

He hadn’t gone on patrol the next night.

Once, when Tim had been in the suit for 3 months over a year, he and Dick had been lying on the sparring mats after training. Dick had been grilling him over his plans for the summer break and Tim had bashfully admitted he didn’t have any. Dick had offered to take him to the zoo, Tim had been so excited by the offer it had taken him 0.8 seconds longer than usual to realise Dick had called him Jason. Tim’s plan had been to pretend he hadn’t noticed but as he’d opened his mouth to accept, Dick’s face had fallen and he’d clammed up quickly retreating from the mats saying maybe they'd go another time. Tim didn’t bother mentioning it again, it was clear that the offer had been for Jason and not Tim. Tim spent the break watching Star Trek reruns, and debating getting a haircut -to look more or less like Jason Tim never decided- ultimately he didn’t because his parents had come home and all silly ideas like that promptly vaulted from his mind, like a gold medal Olympic diver, with the prospect of a head pat from his dad. Tim’s parents died 7 months later and Tim never did get that head pat.

All this to say, Tim knew he wasn’t Jason. He knew he’d never compare to Jason, not in the eyes of the tabloids who ran slander on both his identities at any chance, not in the eyes of those in the Alley who crept and slinked back into the shadows when he came near and certainly not in the eyes of Batman or Nightwing or Bruce or Dick. It didn’t mean Tim liked hearing it from them but he still knew it.

The black and blue formed into the gymnast body of Nightwing, hovering at Batman’s side. Tim tried to twist towards him, hoping with all his might -which was quickly dwindling under the force of those blank glares- that Dick might step in and support him.

“You should give up the suit.” Nightwing said instead, his mouth frowning in disgust as Tim reached out a shaking hand to him. “You don’t deserve it.”

Tim nodded, his head wobbling back and forth stiffly, he wondered whether a particularly harsh nod would have it toppling off. He could do that. He always planned to give up the colours when Bruce no longer needed him and it had been almost a year since Batman had unnecessarily injured someone, and that had only been because the goon had caught Nightwing with a bullet. Besides, the suit was never his, it was Jason's and if Jason wanted him to give it up he would. Except Jason wasn’t here and Tim thought the original Robin quite sufficed to tell him what he could and couldn’t do as a stand in Robin. Besides, Tim had started drawing up schematics for a new suit under a different name. Now he was nearly emancipated, he could go anywhere and be a hero. He didn't need the Robin suit. He didn't.

Tim’s hand, not trapped in an iron gauntlet grip, began to scrabble uselessly at the clasps of his cape. His nails catching uselessly in the fastenings of the body armour in his haste to take it off. The grip on his wrist disappeared, stepping away. And Tim resumed his frantic tugging, now invigorated by the use of both hands. The figures of his heroes turned away, gesturing for him to follow. Tim did.

Back down the halls, all the way back to the zeta tubes, his eyes blurring in unshed tears as the shadows snapped and growled at him, in no way assisting his fight with the green boots.

Batman and Nightwing stepped into the tube Tim had used to get to the Tower, its coordinates still set for his return to Gotham. They looked at their feet. Tim hastily piled up the suit and accompaniments there. He’d hoped he’d be able to keep the utility belt for the new suit, a last comfort of what once was. But Tim should have known that was a futile dream. He dropped the belt on the top. Tears finally spilling down his now domino-free face, Tim hit the engage button to the right of the tube, watching the suit and his once dream pseudo family dematerialise away.

Tim crumpled to the floor sobbing as the shadows lurched forwards, no longer held at bay by the presence of the other vigilantes. Squishing and suffocating around him as he curled into himself. Shivering in his under armour, sobs echoing and bouncing down the halls.

Tim knew he should drag himself back to the lab and finish the synthesis on the antidote, knew he should drag himself back to his room and put on some warmer clothes, knew he should look for somewhere to stay that wasn’t right next door to the people who’d just fired him, knew he shouldn’t keep swatting at the not real hands coming to stroke at his arms. Tim knew these things, but the tears kept coming and his crumpled ball on the floor tightened. He’d worry about it later.