Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If Tim were to divide his life into different arcs, each would be marked by varying degrees of loneliness. Each one more desolate than the last.

He had become intimately familiar with the hollow ache of Isolation from an early age. As a neglected child, he yearned for the affections of parents that remained apathetic on the best of days. Solitude was a cold comfort, filling his days with empty promises and the sting of unspoken regrets.

For a brief, shining moment, being Robin had dulled that sting. The company of the Wayne family became like a soothing balm on his frayed edges, offering a glimpse of stability so foreign it had paralyzed him.

Yet even now, when he reminisces on the past through rose-tinted memories, he cannot deny it was far from idyllic. It was laughable, really—how foolish his assumptions had been. The Waynes were themselves a family of broken individuals. How could he have ever expected them to have the ability to fix him?

Bruce had been the closest thing to a father figure he'd ever had in this life, but even from the beginning, there had been distance between the two of them. 

When Tim met him, Bruce was still reeling from the violent, and premature nature of his second son's death. He refused to confront his trauma, burying it beneath layers of emotional ineptitude that prevented him from ever fully expressing affection toward Tim. At least, Tim hoped Bruce felt something for him. To this day, the ambiguity of their relationship sent a sharp stab of insecurity through his heart.

No matter how closely Batman and Robin stood side by side.  The chasm that existed between the hearts of Bruce Wayne and Timothy Drake never closed. 

In times like those, Dick was a comforting presence. Always willing to lend a shoulder to lean for someone in need - until he wasn’t of course. The young man was very similar to his foster father in that way. Keeping his loved ones close, but never too close, lest they see the vulnerabilities hidden beneath his easy smiles.

Caught between the disaster of these two men was, of course, Alfred. 

Kind, steady, Alfred. Who had tried his best to alleviate the loneliness that seemed to drip off of Tim with every waking step, but even he could only do so much.

No, the only chance Tim had ever truly had of escaping his never ending war with isolation was when he had been with-

His team. 

With them, he heard the heartbeat of friendship beat for the first time in his life.

That should have been his first warning—he should have known better than to hope. Timothy Drake was never allowed to hope.

He learned that the hard way when it all fell apart.

Jason's revival.

His mother’s death.

Damian’s arrival.

Bruce's death.

His father’s death.

Laid out like that, it almost sounded like a poem. The exact details of how Timothy Drake's life spiraled so completely and utterly out of control, in just under three years, was often too depressing for him to let his mind linger on for too long.

So. He didn’t. 

Instead Tim stared at his face in the tinted reflection of the heavy glass whiskey bottle in his hands, straight from the top shelf of Jack Drake's prized liquor cabinet.

Less than a month ago, he had finally turned eighteen. Yet even at this newly emancipated age, his biological youth felt like a cruel joke.

Inside, he was an old soldier, hardened by battles fought too young. A man who had lost too much, tried too hard, and always fallen just short of saving what mattered most.

His reflection showed none of this. Instead, all that peered back at him from the fractured lens of the tinted glass bottle was the sleep-deprived appearance of a haggard adolescence, desperately in need of a shave and a haircut.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tim heard Steph’s obnoxious shower voice belting out the lyrics of that one song from Mulan , and gave a humorless chuckle to himself. 

Then, without a second thought, he ripped the cork off the fully filled Whiskey bottle and took a long swig.

If someone walked in on him now, they’d probably think he had finally lost it—laughing to himself all alone in the dark, and dreary depths of Drake Manor’s abandoned wine cellar.

So, what if he did? He knew nobody was coming.  It was just him, lonely old Tim, and the ghosts of his past here to witness his descent into further madness. No one around to care even if he had finally snapped.

Isolation was an old friend, always waiting for him to come back to her. So that they could wrap a blanket of misery around his shoulders to add just one more burden onto the load already there.

These days, Tim struggled to find reasons to even pull himself out of bed. 

While other eighteen-year-olds worried about summer jobs or prom dates (at least, he assumed they did—Tim wasn’t exactly in touch with others his own age). He worried about the end of the world, and about villains tearing Gotham apart.

Or at least, he used to.

Now, he mostly just sat around in the dark, tallying his biggest failures and feeding the quiet, festering resentment inside of him.

Tim didn’t particularly want to die. Death sounded painful, and he was very tired of experiencing painful things. Each breath felt like a struggle, each day another battle he wasn’t sure was worth fighting anymore.

He never slept anymore. Instead he pushed his body to its limits, forcing it forward day after day, until it eventually collapsed under the weight of its own exhaustion. If he did allow himself to sleep, he found no reason to get up again, spending entire days lost in the void of his bed.

Tim knew what was happening to him. He saw the deterioration of his body before his very eyes, but he felt powerless to stop it.

He had been stuck in this weightless limbo ever since Bruce returned—silently slipping back into his rightful role as Batman, without so much as a word of gratitude. 

Had remained so, even as all the rest of Gotham’s caped crusaders settled perfectly back into their routines, everyone fitting neatly back into their roles like puzzle pieces clicking into place.

Everyone except Tim.

Red Robin hadn't been sighted flying across the rooftops of Gotham in well over two months now.

His phone vibrated on the cold concrete floor next to him. The Locked screen lit up, showing a cheerful notification from Dick inviting Tim out to lunch tomorrow, and carefully not mentioning any of the hundreds of skeletons and broken promises that lay between them. Between two people that had once called each other brother . 

It was the sign he didn't realize he was waiting for, sitting alone in the dark for the last 7 hours merely staring into the endless void of the cellar. 

He was suddenly animated in a way he hadn't been in days, months, no probably years if he was being honest with himself. Something inside him shifted. A spark of urgency. A pulse of life.

He turned on his flashlight and stood, gripping the nearly empty whiskey bottle like a lifeline. Taking the stairs two at a time, he sprinted toward his bedroom, possessed by something he couldn’t name.

When he finally made it to his bedroom, he flung open the closet door.  and started tearing through the contents, he reached the hidden compartment in the back—a carefully constructed false wall concealing what had once completely defined his entire life.

He pulled the dusty fabric out of its container so fast it might have ripped at the seams if the material wasn't so durable. Even if it had, he wouldn't have cared.

Without hesitation, he threw the offending piece of cloth down on his bedroom floor. Then, with a vengeance, he uncorked his deceased father's whiskey, and splashed the remaining contents of the bottle onto the fabric, ensuring every inch was dreached.

“Cheers, Dad,” he muttered.

Jack must be rolling in his grave right now at the sight of his prized vintage liquor being so thoroughly wasted. The thought filled Tim with an especially large amount of glee as he upended the last few drops from the bottle onto the floor.

Then, he hurriedly turned towards his desk drawer and rummaged around for his mother's lighter. It was there, thrown haphazardly all the way in the back, exactly where he remembered chucking it right after the funeral.

With a few inexperienced clicks Tim had a red hot fire blazing to life in his hands. 

“Goodbye, Mom,” he exhaled.

Turning back around, he tossed the lighter onto the drenched suit, and watched as flames consumed it, exploding into a inferno in minutes

The fire crackled, its reflection flickering in his tired eyes, taking a piece of the remnants of Tim's old life with each spark.

As Tim watched the fire slowly work its way through the impenetrable, flame retardant material of what once used to be his vigilante suit he finally felt it again.

A spark of purpose.

The same cold clarity he had felt the day he stood beneath the fluorescent lights of the Batcave at twelve years old, fists clenched, eyes bright with conviction.

“You need a Robin,” he had said back then, unflinching. “And I’m it.”

Now, nearly a decade later, watching Red Robin burn, he smiled.

Because maybe it wasn’t about being needed anymore.

Maybe it was about choosing who he was going to be.

~

A week later, when a new vigilante hits the streets of Gotham, he does so with the grace of a bird landing back to its perch.  

The figure moved through the city like a phantom rediscovering its shape, grace stitched into every step. He leapt from rooftop to rooftop with a casual confidence—silent, elegant, inevitable.

He wore maroon. A red so dark it bordered on black, catching the streetlights like old blood and smoke. Obsidian trimmed his armor in sharp, efficient lines. Across the curve of his gloves and the rim of his collar shimmered a hint of orange, rich and warm—like firelight. Like whiskey.

His weapon of choice was a staff, much like the third Robin’s had been, but his movements were unlike any of the others—fluid yet calculated, terrifying in their precision.

A seasoned veteran disguised as something new. Of course more than any of this, one thing in particular stuck out to the citizens of Gotham about him.

He did not wear a bat on his chest.

Chapter Text

Dick scuffed his leather boots on the ancient and garish welcome mat in front of Drake Manor.

A sudden wave of trepidation washed over him at the sight of the grand, handcrafted double doors. Although he could not recall when last, he knew for a fact that he had stood on this very front step before, so why did he suddenly feel so nervous now?

His gaze flickered to the doorbell just off to the right before returning to the intricate carvings on the door. (Who was he kidding? He knew exactly why.)

He considered all his options for half a second longer before very subtly angling his body towards the person next to him (who he refused to acknowledge looked just as dubious as him about this whole scenario).

“O-kayyyy” His voice dragged the word out in that way that he always hated but could never quite suppress while anxious.

“It’s all on you Jay-bird! Go on. Ring the doorbell!” his voice was obnoxiously dripping with false cheer. If the scoff that came from the other man was any indication, he wasn’t having any of it.

In lieu of a response, Jason turned to Dick with a slow, sadistic smile—the kind that reminded him that, somehow, somewhere along the line, his younger brother had grown up to become Gotham’s most fearsome crime lord.

"Nah, that’s all you, Dickie-bird. You’re the oldest; you should clearly be the one to ring the bell, right?" Jason’s voice dripped with sarcasm, putting special emphasis on the word 'Dick'—as per usual. 

Before their exchange could devolve any further into a petty argument (not even the first one of the day) they were both interrupted by the sound of the front door being swung wide open.

Both Dick and Jason startled, their gazes snapping to the younger man suddenly standing in the doorway, identical deer-in-headlights expressions plastered on their faces.

Timothy Drake—freshly legalized adult of the great state of New Jersey (Dick had been horrified to realize he had forgotten Tim’s birthday this year) stood before them with a maniacal grin on his face. 

Immediately Dick felt unbalanced, both from Tim’s abrupt appearance, and the unexpected changes in his appearance (when had both his younger brothers gotten so tall?).

For a beat, the two older men could do nothing but stare. Taking seconds longer than was socially acceptable– to process the disturbing sight that now greeted them in the doorway. When they finally did, their reactions were justifiably aghast. 

This extreme reaction was not at all brought on by the widening edges of Tim’s already unsettling smile. Nor was it the result of the eerie twinkle of derangement in his eyes.

No.

On the contrary both these men were already quite familiar with Tim’s more eccentric behaviors, and found the sight of these crazed characteristics to be oddly comforting(and if that wasn’t indication enough of just how messed up this family was) in the wake of newer, more horrifying features. 

The subject of consternation that had so thoroughly grabbed the attention of both the older men standing right outside Drake Manor, was located on said Manor’s inhabitants face. More specifically, on the lower section of his face.

Timothy Jackson Drake had a goatee.

A cartoonishly long, unjustifiably defined, stereotypically evil goatee.

A muffled sound not unlike that of a dying animals escaped from the back of Dick’s throat.

He snapped back to reality just in time to release an even higher-pitched keening noise when he realized he had been hyper-fixating on his younger brother’s facial hair long enough to start mentally cataloging every villain with facial hair he had ever encountered— and ranking them based on levels of evil.

With a Herculean effort, Dick suppressed the final hollow wail that threatened to escape his lips when he realized Tim now ranked at the top of that list.

He realized then, that this awkward three way staring contrast had already gone on for far too long. If Dick didn’t say something fast, some of the derangement in Tim’s eyes might leak out and start seeping into his own.

"Tim! You look very—ah—very—um—"

"Different," Jason finished flatly.

Dick didn’t hesitate for a second before swiftly jabbing a sharp elbow into Jason's ribs (which he knew were still tender from last night) at the retort. If his own smile became just a touch less strained at the hissed “Dick” Jason let out as he hunched over in pain? Well, he was off duty—no one could hold him accountable for playing dirty right now. (Besides, Dick had made it very clear to Jason that he had to behave before they had come to stage this little intervention today).

"What he means to say is nice! A very nice kind of different!"

Against all laws of nature, Tim’s smile somehow widened even further, and Dick suddenly regretted every life decision he had ever made that led him to this point.

The ever-present dark circles beneath Tim’s eyes seemed to gain a disturbing 3D depth, stretching into endless, pitch-black gateways to the abyss. (Dear lord, was Dick waxing poetry about Tim’s eye bags? He regretted even waking up and leaving Blüdhaven this morning.)

“Thanks!  I was actually wondering if I should shave or not, but since you guys seem to like the new look so much, I guess I should keep it!”

Hearing his younger brother's oh-so-innocent response, Dick audibly gasped in horror, turning three shades paler at the thought of being the reason Tim kept the Aladdin-villain-level facial hair.

Dick was still reeling for being the potential reason ten years from now Tim would have to look back and destroy all photographic evidence of his early twenties when he heard a quiet snicker go off to his right. This coupled with what he could now identify to be the mischievous edge to Tim’s smile made Dick come to a very important realization.

He was being trolled.

So overcome with relief at the prospect of not being the reason Tim made the biggest fashion mistake of his life, Dick couldn't even work up the nerve to be annoyed at his brothers for being the butt of their joke. He even let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle of his own.

Honestly, his younger brothers were such little shits. Why had he been nervous again?

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. Mind letting us in now Timmy?” Dick spoke with a roll of his eyes.

He noticed a visible twitch of Tim's left brow at the nickname(Dick never did figure out why Tim hated it so much), and struggled to keep a smirk of satisfaction off of his face.

As a wordless response Tim stepped back making space for the two older men to come inside. 

Dick and Jason crossed the threshold into Drake Manor. The warm glow of the chandeliers in the grand hallway illuminated the rich wooden floors and the pristine walls, decorated with expensive artwork. The house smelled faintly of coffee and smoke, likely from one of Tim’s latest tech projects gone awry. (How big had this fire been exactly? Dick worried that he could smell it all the way from the main entrance.)

Tim shut the door behind them, before pivoting on his heel. Without missing a beat, he took the lead, heading deeper into the house with an easy stride, yet Dick still couldn’t help but notice the minuscule jerks brought on by insomnia that inhibited his every few steps.

Jason and Dick exchanged brief glances before following suit, falling in step behind him. Their boots echoed faintly against the hardwood floors as they passed through the main hallway and into the spacious kitchen.

The kitchen was just as grand as the rest of the manor, with sleek marble countertops, high-end stainless steel appliances, and an island large enough to double as a small conference table. Tim gestured toward the bar stools lining the island, and the two older men took their seats as their younger brother moved towards the cabinets.

“Coffee? Juice? Vodka?” Tim asked, voice laced with amusement as he turned over his shoulder to gauge their reactions.

Dick immediately shot him a glare, his lips pressing into a firm line. “Really, Tim?”

Tim laughed, a sharp and knowing sound, his shoulders shaking slightly. “Relax, it was a joke.”

Jason chuckled along, shaking his head. “Well, look at you, all grown up now,” he said, leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms against the counter. “Guess that means we can get together later—for some brotherly bonding , without Big Bird here hovering in the background of course.”

Dick’s glare snapped over to Jason this time, his brows furrowing in exasperation. Jason merely grinned, holding his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender, though the smirk never left his face.

“Fine,” Jason said, smoothly pivoting the conversation. “I’ll take you up on that coffee offer, though.”

Dick, clearly aware of his tactics, but willing to let it slide this time to maintain the peace, let out a slow breath before turning to Tim. “Yeah, I’ll take a glass too.”

Tim had a shit eating grin on his face as he turned towards the coffee maker. At least it was nice to see both of his younger brothers getting along so well (Dick hated remembering what it was like between them in the beginning) even if it was at his own expense.

Within a few minutes, Tim set two steaming hot mugs of coffee in front of them, before finally pouring one for himself as well.

The brief peace that settled between them, was quickly interrupted when Dick reached for the sugar shaker set at the edge of the marble island. He began carelessly sprinkling an absurd amount of the content into his coffee, and Jason, already expecting this, gave him a look of mock horror.

“Jesus, Dick, you want some coffee with your sugar?”

Dick ignored him, stirring his coffee with an air of superiority. “It’s perfectly fine like this.”

Tim, on the other hand, took a deliberate sip of his own coffee—pitch black, no cream, no sugar. Jason turned to stare at him in mock betrayal. “Alright, see, now that’s just psychopathic behavior.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “And you?”

Jason made a show of taking the sugar from Dick, and adding just three sprinkles of sugar and stirring with exaggerated care. “Unlike you two, I’m a man of balance.”

Dick snorted. “Right, balance . I'll remember that next time Red Hood loses his temper and decides to paint Crime Alley red with the blood of his enemies.”

The teasing faded into an easy silence as the three brothers sipped their coffee, settling into a rare moment of companionable peace.

Silence that was broken a few minutes later by the sound of Dick’s voice.

"Soooo. Cardinal, huh?"

At his very casual conversation starter Dick heard Jason choke into his cup of coffee and start coughing slightly in the background. Neither him nor Tim turned towards him to ask if he was ok, as this too was pretty normal behavior for Jason, but Dick did hear a low ‘real subtle ’ whispered under his breath, so he figured his brother would probably survive.

Gotham had been abuzz with excitement recently. The sighting of a new mysterious vigilante hero, had captured the attention of the entire city. The media had gone into a frenzy, with pictures of this new caped crusader's striking visage plastered across every front page in the city. For a short time, there was almost a pseudo bidding war among the Gotham papers, as to what exactly this new hero should be called. Finally, after many weeks,  much heated debate, and the general coincession of the public, Cardinal was born.

The mysterious vigilante bore a striking resemblance to Red Robin in terms of combat style, tactical maneuvers, and overall presence. However, there was one key difference between them—subtle but unmistakable. The absence of the Bat symbol on his chest.

To Dick, these similarities were impossible to ignore. This new hero was undoubtedly Tim. But why the sudden change? Why did Tim abandon his identity as Red Robin and rebrand himself under a new mantle? And why had he pulled away from the family so suddenly over the last few months?

That was precisely why he and Jason had come to Drake Manor today. To confront Tim. His brother had distanced himself, both as a civilian and as a vigilante from the family, and Dick was determined to understand why.

Tim, it seemed, had other plans.

At Dick’s abrupt shift in conversation, Tim took a slow, measured sip of his coffee before raising his brows in mock innocence. “The new vigilante, right? What about him?”

Dick felt his jaw tighten. That response was so typical of Tim—deflecting, playing coy, giving just enough to pretend like he was engaging while still revealing nothing.

Dick took a deep breath. This wasn’t how he wanted things to go. The last thing he wanted was for this conversation to devolve into another argument or worse, a full-blown interrogation. That was something Bruce would, and Dick had sworn to himself when he took Damian under his wing (hah) he would be better at this than Bruce had been to them.

So, instead of pressing, instead of demanding answers, he inhaled deeply through his nose, closed his eyes, and let out a long, audible sigh.

The effect was immediate. Tim’s body visibly tensed, coiling up like a spring, bracing himself for whatever would come next. But nothing could have prepared him for what Dick actually said.

"You know I love you, right?"

Tim physically stepped back as if struck. “What?”

Dick's face remained impassive. “I know a lot has happened to this family over the last two years. But I just wanted to say that I—no, that we love yo—”

Oh no.

Dick’s sentence trailed off when he realized Tim wasn’t even paying attention anymore. No, Instead, his younger brother was staring at him with naked suspicion. His eyes narrowed as if he could discern all the hidden truths behind Dick's words with just a glance.

Dick could only watch on in horror, his stomach sinking with dread, as he recognized the exact moment Tim’s mind started rapidly cycling through possible explanations for his sudden display of vulnerability.

There it was.

‘Extraterrestrial kidnapping and replacement? No, too convoluted.’

‘Malevolent dimension travelers performing a psychological operation? Unlikely, but not impossible.’

Then, suddenly, clarity.

Tim’s eyes widened, like they always did when he came to a final extreme conclusion all on his own, before flicking toward the salt shaker resting just beyond his reach, and Dick felt a cold chill wash down his spine.

Oh no.

Jason’s quiet snickering from the side only confirmed Dick’s worst fears.

“Tim, wai— ”

Too late.

Tim launched himself across the kitchen island. His body moved with the precision of a seasoned acrobat (to think he would have his own teachings thrown back at his face in this way.), twisting mid-air as he made a mad grab for the salt shaker.

Dick made a half-hearted attempt to intercept him, one hand reaching out as if he could somehow stop the inevitable calamity to come with sheer willpower alone. But if he was honestly with himself, he would admit to already being resigned to his fate at that point.

Tim snatched the salt shaker off the table, spun in one fluid motion, and—with zero hesitation— hurled it directly at Dick’s face.

It hit him square in the forehead.

Salt exploded into the air, like divine punishment sparkling down on him from the heavens. Cascading waves hit Dick in a shimmering, grainy shower of misfortune.

For a single, painful moment, the room was utterly silent.

Dick slowly blinked, salt sticking to his eyelashes as he and Tim simply stared at each other, both coming to the mutual realization that nothing had actually happened.

Dick would never admit it to anyone, and certainly not out loud, but a small part of him was secretly almost relieved at the results of this whole spectacle. Crazy though they may be, Tim's most outlandish theories had a startling high rate of accuracy. Dick had almost started to second guess himself there for a second, and appreciated the verifiable evidence he wasn't some type of possessed spirit, or occult demon, or-

Dick's ever spiraling thoughts were cut off to the sound of Jason’s howling .

He practically fell off of his stool, wheezing while clutching his ribs (Dick should have elbowed him harder before) as he gasped for breath between wild, uncontrollable laughs.

Dick, still covered in salt, let out a long, exhausted sigh. “You’re the worst.”

Tim, despite himself, cracked the smallest of smirks. “Just making sure you’re not a body-snatching vampire.” (Dick didn't even want to ask at this point)

Jason cackled even harder at Tim’s response.

And despite everything, despite how absolutely ridiculous this whole situation had become, Dick couldn’t help but let out a tired, amused chuckle of his own.