Chapter Text
In Tim’s defense, he wasn't really looking to adopt a pet.
Not really, anyways. Sure, he entertained the idea on nights where the soft whurr of his computer as it ran its various analysis and his own racing thoughts were his only company in the Perch. On nights where Titan’s Tower was empty for all save him, where the white noise was both crushingly silent and devastatingly loud all at once. When he dragged himself home from dealing with W.E, socially exhausted from dealing with people all day. Where a noisy night of patrol led to a utterly silent night in one of his safe houses.
The idea of a little furry friend, all trust and affection and unconditional love sounded nice. Something to keep him company when the Tower was empty, when he returned to his renovated theater apartment. Something soft and fluffy, cathartic to pet. Something to tell his woes to that wouldn’t judge. It would just listen and even if it didn't understand it’d still be there. Something to combat the quiet, the loneliness that sometimes sank so deep into him that it seemed to settle into his very bones, dragging him down, down into a thick fog that seemed to lay over him some days like a thick blanket.
Not to mention that Bart would probably love having a pet at the Tower.
But Tim isn’t so foolish to do anything beyond entertain the thought. He’s a vigilante, and an international one to boot. And while he hasn't gallivanted around continent to continent for some time, that could always change at the drop of a hat, at the mere mention of a case . He couldn’t bring a pet into his life only to abandon the poor thing while he went trekking around Europe for leads on some case or another. And though part of the charm of a pet is that unconditional love and forgiveness, Tim would rather not put a pet in the position where it has to forgive at all.
But he has still entertained the thought. Let his gaze linger too long at the dogs and cats that bark and meow sweetly at him when he passes by the open house adoptions at a shelter positioned on his way to W.E.
So the end result honestly isn't too surprising.
Half his usual patrol finds Red Robin perched atop a gargoyle right above the alley between Willow Street and Fourth. It’s been an oddly quiet night, and all Red has intercepted was a purse snatching that the victim really seemed to have on her own. (It’s Gotham. The people here are often just as tough as the criminals, and she had really good aim with that pepper spray.) So he’s taking an unneeded breather, crunching through a granola bar, watching his breath puff out in soft clouds into the crisp autumn air. Debating whether or not to turn in early. Despite the sense of stagnation that comes with such a silent night, he does like the silence. Because the silence means nobody is being robbed, being shot, being stabbed. Silence in this case is good, so Red closes his eyes to just enjoy it.
A tiny, sharp cry stops him mid bite.
Red’s eyes pop open. Ears that aren't as sharp as his would have never caught it, but Red is a Bat after all. The first thing he notes is that it's such an odd little cry, so tiny . The other thing he notices is that it seems to be coming from the dark alley directly below him. There’s no real reason to check it out, but there's also no consequence for looking into it either. It’s a such a quiet night. He can spare the time to indulge his curiosity. He tucks the granola bar back into a pouch, before dropping down soundlessly into the alleyway. It takes his eyes a second to parse through the dark to find what he’s looking for, but he spots them.
They’re cats. Two kittens to be exact.
Red Robin sinks into a crouch to study the two kittens. One’s a grey and white tabby, the other a calico with a little bobtail. Outside of the calico, the gender of the kittens isn’t apparent.
They’re not in a box, in the rain, like he supposes most kittens end up. They don't even look particularly pitiful. Instead the two are milling around a dumpster, play fighting with all the uncoordinated movements characteristic of a baby animal- all toddling feet and too-fast movements, tumbling over both each other and the general landscape. Either they don’t notice him, or they do and are entirely unconcerned. A quick survey over the alley says they’re likely sleeping under the cover of the discarded rotted wooden beams set against the dumpster on an old and ratty blanket, and they don't seem to be sickly or injured from a distance.
Despite being in a dirty alleyway littered with trash, broken glass, and the occasional discarded needle- and the distinct lack of a mother cat- the kittens look no worse for wear.
Red decides to leave it be. The kittens seem too robust to have been left along long. It isn't like he can stay here staring down two kittens long anyways- the rest of his patrol route awaits, quiet as it is, and he doubts any mugger would take a night so Red Robin can study some cats.
He makes a mental note of their location- he can send Damian after them later, help supplement his literal pet project. He's been putting a lot of his focus and energy as Damian Wayne into getting some of the less than stellar animal shelters and adoption agencies up to code and better. Alongside hiring better, more experienced staff, he's been going about ensuring the education for the others on the needs of their animal and donating money to provide the space and funds needed to make the change to be a no-kill shelter. He's been going about it in his usual brutish and pushy nature, but it's been getting the job done. Tim has to admit he's pretty proud of the little gremlin. The public is too, utterly charmed by the usually prickly and abrasive Wayne pouring so much love and heart into the betterment of animal care.
Tim often wonders if they'd find it so cute and charming if they knew Damian thought the animals of Gotham to be worth more care than the socialites of Gotham.
The thought makes him snort as he pulls himself standing. With the pop of a grapple gun he’s swinging, and the kittens are once again left alone with the gloomy Gotham night.
________________________
The kittens are still there the next night when Red Robin drops down into the alleyway, taking two punks with tire irons along with him, downing one with a solid elbow to the back of the neck and taking out the other with a roundhouse kick directly to the temple. The young man they were terrorizing only spares enough time to nod his thanks before disappearing into the night.
And it’s not like Red Robin expected them to have up and moved in a day, but they’re still there alone. They still seem relatively alright, two balls of fur all tucked into a ball as they snooze. Red watches them for a few moments more- and when nothing seems to change, he zipties the thugs, leaves the kittens to their sleep, and returns to the rooftops.
And they’re there the next night. And the next. And the next.
Night after night, the kittens are still there. Sometimes they're sleeping, other times playing, sometimes gnawing on old trash. The nights get colder and colder, and Red has yet to see a mother cat. The kittens still seem ok, if dirty, but Red questions if he should interfere. Clearly somebody is caring for the kittens, providing food and water, if not shelter and care. And Damian has been up to his neck in his current case, which is apparently the dismantling of an illegal dog fighting ring. It's been absorbing all of his time.
So they're still here.
Red- Tim- worries his lip. It won't be long until winter hits and it grows bitterly cold- too cold for a pair of small kittens and a ratty blanket.
'If they're still here tomorrow night, ' Red decides, 'then I'm taking them to a shelter on my own.'
That doesn't come to pass. Not when the Titans send an emergency ping and call their leader to the Tower, his presence necessary to tackle San Fran's next big bad.
And in between leading his team, wrangling a demon uprising, and kicking some weird goat demon so hard he knocks out it's teeth, he forgets all about two small kittens living in between Willow Street and Fourth.
________________________
It isn't until early November that things change.
As time creeps closer and closer to winter, the seasonal shift always finds Gotham choked with rain. The sky stays overcast endlessly and it rains at all hours, day and night, on and off. And the rain is always painfully cold. Even the local goons are more bundled up than usual.
It makes patrol a little miserable, especially on stakeouts where it rains the entire time, on brawls that last longer than a few kicks and well placed bo strikes. Tim's usual Red Robin gear is excellent for repelling rain and keeping him warm, but his more experimental stealth suit based off his time in the Ünternet doesn't have the same heat retention and resistance to Gotham's unforgiving rains. It lacks the same thermals woven into the Kevlar as the new suit hugs his frame a little more, the swap from cowl to domino lets his hair breathe, but also totally lacks a shield to rain.
Tim isn't stupid. He knows all these limitations the Ünternet suit possesses. That's why it's still experimental. He's working out the kinks. The cowl is still more recognized than the domino, but at the very least some crooks are running when they see it. That or they've learned in Gotham, it's best to not challenge any cape.
His night has been quiet, though. That's usually the case though. Seasonal and weather shifts usually bring a lull in criminal activity as the criminals in question find a way to combat the weather. For the Bats, it means a quick break to regroup, breathe. For Tim, it means more time to work on his cases.
He's just pressed a button on his harness to call for the new and improved Redbird (no glider or wing pack on this suit, though he doesn't need it now,) when he remembers where he is.
Between Willow Street and Fourth.
The kittens.
There's no way they can still be there. Damian's dog fighting case wrapped up while he was still in San Fran- his phone is connected to the Batcomputer, and he gets updates when reports he's tabbed are accessed. And it's been days, almost a week now. Damian surely would have come for them by now.
They can't still be there.
Red Robin drops down anyways.
The alley is just as disgusting as it was before- the smell of wet dumpster trash almost overpowering as Red carefully picks his way across the alley to the dumpster. He leans down and peeks under the soaked rotted wooden beams.
There's nothing but a wet ratty blanket.
He sighs in relief. Of course they're gone, whoever has been feeding them probably took them in from the rain, made sure they were warm-
" Miaow ?"
Only his Robin training stops him from flinching. That was definitely a meow. A kitten's meow.
They're still here.
Before he can begin a frantic search, there's another tiny meow, and then there's the little calico kitten wiggling her way from under the dumpster. She waddles over to him, damp but thankfully not soaked, and sniffs his fingers when they're offered to her. When she butts her head against his fingers, Red runs a hand down her back. She smells strongly of trash, she's pitifully thin, and she's trembling.
The little grey one is nowhere to be seen. He searches and searches for almost half an hour, but there's nothing.
Just a little wet calico kitten, all alone.
Red's- Tim's- heart clenches.
His decision is made before the Redbird even pulls up, ready to accept him and his little wet acquisition tucked carefully into his arms.
________________________
The nearest shelters are all closed, a quick search on his phone reveals. Closed for three straight days in observance of Veteran's Day. No pick ups, no drop offs, just staff coming in and out to check on the animals. They would be closed anyway, seeing as it's nearly three in the morning.
Sure, Tim could always make the trip further out, past Gotham even, to find an open one, but most shelters close to observe holidays. Meaning he'd have to hunt hard to find an open one, and then go through the process of a surrender. At nearly three in the morning.
The mere thought gives him a headache.
So instead, Tim puts a hoodie and sweatpants on over his suit and makes a trip to the rundown 24 hour pet supermarket that he's seen more than once on his patrol route. He picks up a bottle of kitten shampoo, a tiny cat nail trimmer, two jingly toys, a few cans of kitten food, a little kitten bed, a bowl, and a little red collar with a bell. Enough to house a kitten for a few days and ensure the tiny hellion doesn't destroy his Perch.
The exhausted clerk at the counter had eyed him when he came in so late, hood drawn up and eyes down, but was more than helpful when he revealed his little ball of sad wet kitten. The kindly older man perked right up and guided him around the store, pointing out things he'd need as a 'first time cat dad.'
He didn't have the heart to tell the kind clerk he planned on dropping the kitten at a shelter as soon as they opened.
But the clerk was patient, understanding- though he did laugh when Tim looked totally out of his depth at the amount of collar choices.
"You'll want somethin' with a bell," the man had said with a fond smile, grabbing a red collar with both a bell and a bow and passing it to Tim. "Kittens are rambunctious little things, like ta get inta all sorts o' trouble. Real helpful ta be able to hear where the little monster is off ta now."
He'd sent Tim on his way with an armful of cat supplies, a covered litter box and accompanying litter, a free red blanket the calico kitten is currently wrapped in, and a soft order to "take good care a' her, now."
He somehow manages to get it all to his Gotham Perch without dropping anything.
Bat training.
Came in helpful everywhere.
Tim shuffles in awkwardly, dumping everything but his small wet acquisition on the floor near the door. He can always come back for it. His kitten- the kitten stays wrapped in her blanket, no longer quivering as bad as before.
First things first- a bath. The little calico smells strongly of trash, and Tim doesn't want that smell lingering in his apartment long after the kitten is gone. So after he strips out of his suit and into some comfy sweats, he fills his sink partway with warm water and gently settles the kitten in. Surprisingly, she doesn't fight him- just slumps in his hands and shudders. He tries not to let that worry him as he scrubs the dirt and grime from her fur, lets it sit to kill the fleas under her coat.
He trims her nails, cleans out her ears, and wipes her eyes and nose- and after about 30 minutes of scrubbing and re-scrubbing to kill the smell, he's got a little clean, warm, dry ball of kitten. She'd dozed off again while he was towelling her down, so he just clips her new collar around her neck and sets her and her blanket onto her new cat bed. He can coax some food into her in the morning.
Tim runs his hand down her back to her little bob tail and back up, scratches behind her ears. She stretches out in her sleep and-
And aw man, she's purring. It's a rattly and shaky noise, and Tim wonders if she has some sort of respiratory infection he should worry about- but she's purring. And it's loud for her tiny size.
His heart melts.
Only three days, he reminds himself as he scoops up her cat bed with her in it, carrying it to his bedroom so he can keep an eye on her. Three days, Tim. Until the shelters open. Then you can drop her off, and she can get a real home.
Tim pretends he believes that as he dozes off to the sound of her rattly purr.
________________________
There's something touching his face in his sleep.
It's poking gently at his nose, cheeks, eyelids, gentle pats with something soft, but definitely insistent. Tim snuffles slightly and tries to ignore it, turning over. He's so tired. And it's one of the rare days he isn't expected at W.E, and he completely plans to sleep until his back aches from lying down.
Then there's something scraping his cheek, rough like sandpaper and not at all pleasant, and then there's little teeth on his ear-
And then a shrill mow right in his ear.
Right. The kitten.
She has other ideas.
Tim groans, lethargically swiping the kitten away from his face, where she'd started poking his cheeks with her paw again. "I'm up, I'm up, stop it kitten."
She falls off his chest, landing near his side. She clambers back up his chest anyways, only to tumble down into his lap when he sits up, meowing with alarm. She looks befuddled and offended as she rights herself.
Tim can't help but chuckle as he drags his hands down his face.
"You really gotta wake me up too? It's...aw man, it's only 8?"
A quick check of his phone confirms he's only slept four hours. Seriously? He was really settling in for a solid ten hours today too. He drags a hand down his face, then tries his best to glare at the kitten in his lap.
She stares back, lets out another ear piercing mow, and promptly starts gnawing on his fingers.
Tim sighs and accepts he's lost this fight.
"Right. Let's get some food in you."
________________________
A quick shower, ratty t-shirt and shorts, and fifteen minutes finds Tim sitting at his kitchen island, sipping a chai tea and watching the kitten scarf down what has to be half her body weight in a mix of wet and dry kitten food. He's not surprised she's hungry- the alleyway couldn't have provided the best selection of food, and he'd been too tired and worried about getting her clean last night to try and also make her something to eat.
He'd fed it to her in small increments so she wouldn't make herself sick, and he watches her as she finishes off the last of her bowl.
His tablet sits beside him, open to a half assed draft of his report for W.E. His reports usually start like that- basically nonsense and strings of letters as he collects his thoughts and replaces the nonsensical bits with charts and graphs and long stretches of financial information he and his investors already know. He makes a point of texting Bruce to let him know he'll be taking patrol off for a few days under the guise of a well needed break . With how much Bruce has been pestering him to take a breather, he knows B will go through changes to ensure Tim gets all three days he's asking for undisturbed. He still assures that he'll be working on W.E things remotely and running comms for the Titans if necessary, because dropping all work would simply be too suspicious.
It'll keep the rest of his family off his back too. The last thing he wants in the entire Bat peanut gallery storming his Perch to get a look at the kitten.
He hums softly, pulling his phone close to him to do a bit more cat research while his- the kitten licks her paws. A quick Googling and flipping through cat sites told him the kitten was likely about four to five months old- she has most her teeth, if they're tiny, and her coordination, while awkward at times, is still more confident than a kitten who's only a few weeks old. And he was right- she's a girl. Nearly all calicos are.
He slots that information away in a mental folder he's started calling 'Not Immediately Useful Information.' It contains things like knowing the Eiffel Tower is six inches shorter in the winter and that China throws away over 2 billion chopsticks a year.
It's a really big folder.
He watches his newest acquisition finish cleaning her paws, then she wanders her way over to Tim's feet, miaowing and demanding his attention. Tim sighs.
"Needy, aren't you kitten?"
"Miaow."
He chuckles as he scoops her up and settles her into his lap. She pulls herself up onto the island, sniffing her new surroundings curiously. Tim keep a sharp eye on her, gently guiding her away from the edges where she could fall, and moving his cup of tea away when she tries to dip her head in to drink. Her adventure comes to an end when she, in true cat fashion, starts batting at a spoon to push it off the island top. Tim huffs, scoop her up, and dumps her back in his lap.
She seems content enough, getting comfortable by kneading Tim's lap. (Tim's very glad he trimmed her nails in the bath.)
He sighs softly and turns his attention back to his tablet and drafting his W.E quarterly report. If he starts absently scratching behind the kitten's ear, relishing in her rattly purr, well.
Nobody will know but him.