Chapter Text
The day had dawned dull and rainy in Gotham. Tim had always been comfortable with the semi-darkness that always seemed to shroud the city of his birth, but today the weather just seemed to be accentuating the mood that had been following the young man for days now. Outwardly Tim may have been keeping up the distant façade that had been lectured into him at a young age, but internally he was as turbulent as the sky. Gotham shed its tears in mourning the way that Tim longed to.
The Dark Knight was dead.
Tim still had trouble processing it. He’d seen the body, broken and battered when Superman brought it back to the cave to tell them, the so called “Bat Family” (minus Jason, who was still running around the city in a red helmet doing who knows what). There was a level of suspicion, as always. Their mentor had taught them all well. There had been an autopsy, a series of identity checks that all came back positive. By all regards, that was indeed Bruce Wayne lying lifeless in the middle of the Medbay.
But Tim was a detective. He had learned long ago to trust his intuition. And something about the whole situation seemed… off. Some wiggling sense of distrust had lodged itself in the back of the vigilante’s mind ever since Clark had appeared, face full of sorrow. He couldn’t find a cause, nothing to point at to explain the feeling of disbelief over the situation, but it was there, nonetheless.
It was Tim’s insistence that kept the team from publicly declaring Bruce Wayne dead. And there could be no public funeral for Batman, lest the city fall into chaos as soon as his loss registers with the criminals. With limited options available, the body had been buried alongside his parents in an unmarked grave, the small ceremony attended only by the family and a select few heroes from the Justice League.
That whole day had been a blur.
Tim was still struggling to process it.
The weeks following that day had been a slowly escalating chaos.
Though not telling the city about Batman’s death had stalled the outbreak in crime, people had eventually noticed that Batman hadn’t been spotted in weeks. Nightwing and Robin just didn’t have the same sway to them. Dick had, naturally, not left town since That Day, but he had refused to don the Batman mantle for months afterword’s. It had taken Jason popping up again and dressing as the Dark Knight to deal with the rising crime in his own more violent way for a few weeks, and Tim nearly dying in his own slightly misguided attempt to stop the second Robin’s rampage himself, for the oldest of Batman’s protégées to accept the Batman mantle for himself.
On the bright side, the whole event had opened a limited communication between the Bats and their wayward brother, allowing them to forge a limited peace by promising to leave Jason to his own territory as long as he didn’t keep killing people.
Tim saw the whole situation as an overall win.
What Robin hadn’t expected is that his attempt at initiative would lead to this situation. A situation where Tim was no longer Robin at all.
The conversation itself had been short, Tim knew, and yet it seemed to leave behind an impact far beyond what should be possible for so few words. Dick, while donning the Batman uniform, had directly stripped the Robin mantle from Tim and given it to Damian.
Damian. The ‘grandson of Ra’s al-Ghul who had almost killed Tim multiple times’ Damian. Dick had chosen him as Robin over Tim. There was a reasoning, Tim knew. He had tried to process the words that his brother had thrown out to try and placate him when Tim didn’t take the news as calmly as Dick’s overoptimistic mind had imagined.
Tim had been Robin for years now. Tim was almost an adult. Tim was Dick’s equal, capable enough to do things on his own. Wasn’t that why he had gone after Jason alone, against Dick’s direct orders? Wasn’t Tim aching to get a chance at freedom, to build an identity for himself?
And Damien… Damien needed training. Needed a direct outlet to reshape the violent tendencies he had been raised with. Dick needed to be able to keep a close eye on the demon brat, and doing so by giving him Robin had made the most sense. Didn’t Tim see? Wasn’t this the most logical option?
Tim could see through the pleasantries, though. Tim knew what the real motivating factor behind the decision was, even if Dick wasn’t completely aware of the reason himself.
Dick thought Tim was mentally unstable. Everyone did, really. The - former - Robin’s insistence that something wasn’t right about Bruce’s death had driven a wedge in the trust between the family. Dick didn’t trust him. Damian flat out thought Tim was crazy. Alfred treated Tim cautiously, like he thought he was going to shatter.
And Tim got it, to an extent. He had lost so many people in such a short time. His father, Stephanie, Bart and Conner. Now Bruce. It was enough to drive a person mad with grief. Maybe Tim was affected, to a degree. His depression had certainly reared its head with a vengeance recently.
But did that have to mean that no one he had considered family would listen to him? Why couldn’t anyone just sit him down, listen to all the threads of suspicion that Tim had been gathering the past few months, and then decide whether he was sane or not? That was all Tim wanted anymore.
Did they trust him so little that the possibility that he saw something no one else had was impossible? Wasn’t he supposed to be the detective Robin?
Well, former Robin now.
Then there was the picture in Wayne Manor, the first hint of something tangible. Rumors in Europe about strange, possibly related phenomenon. Attempts at conversations with Stephanie and Cassie, both of which ended the same way. No one believed Tim. He was on his own for this one.
But not as Robin, not anymore. That role had been taken, and Tim had no wish to fight with the Demon Brat over it. He had work to do, and time was of the essence. He was about to go where Robin never could. Which left him only one option… the only suit on hand that would fit his needs…
Red Robin.
With a rough plan of action and a new name, Tim had been ready to set off on his self-appointed quest, prepared to sneak out of the city before anyone could try and stop him. He didn’t need that final confirmation that they didn’t trust him, he wanted a clean break. The Bat Family and the Titans had already given him enough data to work off of.
But Dick had shown up. Batman had shown up. They had fought desperately with weapons and words, trying to get the other to cave in. Dick had tried a last-ditch effort to hold him back, suggesting that Tim was unstable and dangerous, that he needed to go to Arkham. Arkham, of all places. As if Tim was a mad criminal.
Well, Tim reflected, he wasn’t really a hero anymore either. He wasn’t Robin, the living representation of youth and hope that prowled the Gotham streets. He was prepared to cross lines, prepared to straddle that line between the light and the dark. Whatever proved him right. Whatever would bring Bruce back.
As he flew out of Gotham, chartering a Wayne Enterprises plane to get to Europe, Tim accepted that his life was changing.
He just had no clue then where those changes would lead him.
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Tim doesn’t know what he did to end up in this situation. His life ever since he left Gotham was just a mess of searching and fighting, using action to drown out the growing doubts that plagued his increasingly darkening thoughts.
He knew starting out that he would be crossing some lines that Robin never had. He hadn’t predicted that he would be approached by Ra’s al-Ghul and a group of his assassins with an offer of assistance. Or that he would be just about desperate enough to accept it.
Tim’s resources were running thin. His leads weren’t turning up any hard evidence. The general lurking suspicion that Bruce was lost somewhere in time was still there, but the clues he had managed to dig up on his own thus far were dismissible. This cave and the rumors tied to it was his last big lead.
The assassins following him around to assist and protect him didn’t really ease his nerves about the situation. Tim wasn’t sure yet what exactly Ra’s was after, but it surely wasn’t good. But he was running out of options.
Tim knew he was already toeing the line. He floated in that vague grey area between vigilante and criminal, pulling stunts that he never would have dared back in Gotham. Working with the League of Assassins would just be another push away from who he once was.
But it was worth it, if it brought Bruce back. The world needed Batman. Who was Tim Drake, the once-Robin, in comparison to Bruce Wayne? If he had to betray his morals here… if he had to sacrifice his life … it would be worth it to bring Gotham’s greatest protector back.
What else was Tim, if not the Batman’s soldier? He had saved Bruce from himself before. This would be no different.
Tim’s life seemed to be flying by in a series of contradictions. The drive out to the Iraqi cave was simultaneously unbearably long and surprisingly short. The assassins chatted with each other, surprisingly normal considering their employer and profession. Tim chimed in occasionally, but found himself distracted.
And then they’d arrived, and Tim had gone in alone. And there it was . The proof he had needed. The symbol that had followed him throughout his life, a guiding light in the darkness at so many levels. Bruce was alive, lost in time. And now Tim had a solid starting point.
He stood there for nearly an hour, soaking up the feeling, forming plans of action on what to do next. Maybe this would be enough for him to return to Gotham and get the family’s help. Surely they would listen now that he had solid proof of his claims. He didn’t need Ra’s assistance after all.
He climbed out of the cave to where the team of assassins waited, grinning like he hadn’t in months when they asked if he’d found anything. For a moment, everything had been perfect.
And then it all fell apart.
A man. Another assassin? He’d called himself the Widower. Wielded duel blades.
Stabbed Z through the back.
Sliced through Owens and Pru.
Moved towards Tim.
One blade blocked by his staff, one biting into his stomach. Painpainpain , vision flashing, legs refusing to hold his weight. Something about the Council of Spiders? Tim’s mind was scattering, absorbing details at rapid speed but at the same time nothing seemed to be able to process past his shock.
He was so close . This couldn’t happen now. He’d just found the proof he needed, he had to tell Dick and Alfred and everyone else. They had to know that Bruce was alive.
But Tim couldn’t tell them. Tim was bleeding out in the desert, alone besides the likewise injured assassins and their mysterious attacker. Half a world from anyone he could possibly call family.
A discarded soldier in the fight against crime. A cautionary tale of what happened to heroes who became too lost in grief.
I thought I would die as Robin…
Tim’s vision gave out as he coughed, copper coating his mouth and throat. His face pressed uncomfortably into the rough ground as he felt his body giving out.
The Com in his ear sounded, but he couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t collect himself enough to attempt a response.
Bathed in blood, in the middle of the Iraqi desert, Timothy Drake-Wayne slipped into the darkness.
And then there was nothing.