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Raising Robin

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Patrol had been a bitch. Tim usually refrains from using obscenities, but tonight had kicked his ass and his right arm might be fractured and he’s leaving a lovely trail of blood all the way home and fuck it all. Shit.

Robin leaps from a rooftop, diving into the smog and sounds of Gotham. Dirty, offensive, crass. Home. He lands awkwardly on the building opposite, rolling on his left side, trying to protect his other arm. Just two blocks farther, then he will be home -safe- in the shower -clean- with food from an overstocked kitchen -full.

Tim winces and looks at the blood dripping off his fingertips and thinks he maybe should have called Batman… but no, he’s almost there. He can do this. No need to worry Bruce. No need for Bruce to think Tim can’t handle this. More than he already does.

Panting slightly, Robin lurches to the far edge of the building, aims the grapple gun, and flings himself into the air. Wind rushes past his ears and Tim fires the gun and waits for the line to go taut so he may swing across accept that it doesn’t. His eyes snap to where the grapple should have caught and sees that it simply didn’t. He missed. He panics less than he ought to, really, considering he’s actually falling to his eminent death, as concrete is not particularly forgiving. Tim wishes he could fly, like an actual robin –that really would be so helpful- but pushes away that thought because it’s not pragmatic right now. Because right now he needs a solution. Something real. Something concrete. Like that stuff he’s about to go splat on.

Robin is hit. Not by the concrete, but from the side, by something warm that wraps around his torso. Oh. That would be an arm, attached to a man. Someone grabbed him and is flying him up, away from death, to a rooftop. That someone lands them both and holds Tim until he steadies himself before backing away.

Gotham at night is pretty well lit from advertisements and neon signs and streetlights allowing Tim to see his rescuer nicely. It’s a man, clearly, from the height –over six feet- and the build –like a freaking bear, like Bruce. He’s wearing a leather jacket and jeans and combat boots. If not for the red helmet covering his entire head and the knives and guns strapped to his hips and thighs, he would look like a regular fellow. Tim doesn’t know him and the guns make him a bit wary, but this man did just pluck him out of the air mid free fall, so he figures he can be amiable.

The man in the red helmet stands, still, but the moment Tim opens his mouth to say something –Thank you for saving my life, who are you?- he turns and jumps from the building. Robin hesitates just a bit, surprised, then runs to the edge, seeing only an empty ally. Well, empty of people. It’s Gotham, of course the ally is full of trash and rats as big as cats and cats as nasty as rats.

Well that was interesting. Again, Robin contemplates calling Batman. Warning him of this… new player. But he doesn’t want Bruce to get all paranoid and hunt down this guy. He obviously is not a threat. At least to them. For now. Probably.

Tim just sighs and carefully makes him way home. He flops through his bedroom window and barely musters the strength to wrap the injured arm before passing out on top of the blankets.