Chapter Text
They'd say let your love grow tall; tall as the grass in the meadow? O r the dunes on the shore? Like the buildings in the city?
Let your love grow tall by Passion Pit.
There's a tiny speck of hope coming alive in his chest every time he flies, rooftop after rooftop—the air swooshing past his ears, the sounds of his cape fluttering, the grapple gun dissolving into one with his hand... He could go on; describing each sensation, each gulp for air.
Tim has memorized it. He's been Robin for two years after all.
His world is tinted in red, yellow, and green, but he can see the black part of it too. Bruce had made sure of it.
He isn't as rebellious as Dick, or as reckless as Jason; Tim is the in-between. Not too warm, nor too cold. He must come up with thousands of solutions, from the easiest to the most difficult ones. Tim is a problem solver—another tool in Batman's utility belt, another way to crack Riddle's, and Two Face's, and whatever other criminal's schemes.
Tim is an essential tool and that's it.
That's why when each night nearly ends—when the first group of stars starts to dim and disappear from Gotham's skyline—he nods at Bruce and goes home. Aching, hiding dripping blood, with cracked knuckles and twisted ankles, Tim mans up and goes home. Bruce doesn't stop him—Batman doesn't even look twice at him. Tim only hears the fluttering of his black, ripped cape and his mentor is gone too.
It doesn't hurt; he understands why Bruce keeps his distance. Red Hood would probably be happy to know that—that Bruce isn't the same as before, that he's just a shell of the man he used to be.
Going to his own home after patrol always riles Alfred up. The butler has insisted countless times for Tim to stay the nights at the manor, but he can't.
It's weird, a part of him longs to stay there, to be taken care of, to drop jokes and have people's attention in reward—have Bruce's and Alfred's attention—but then he remembers the lingering silences, the scowl on Bruce's face anytime Tim tries to move closer to him, the flicker of sadness and regret in Alfred's eyes every time he speaks.
Tim knows a lot about ghosts. The kind of ghosts that stay with you even when they've been dead for months. He understands that maybe Bruce and Alfred aren't affected by him per se but by the memories—the ones he brings upon them every time he acts quirky or every time he's brave enough to put on the suit.
That's a wall that Tim's not so sure he could break apart one day, so it's better to keep his distance, to not become too attached. It desn't matter if it's too late—if his heart already swims in fondness every time he interacts with Bruce, Al, and Dick—Tim needs to set a boundary between them, so they don't all get hurt...
...Which is why Tim's confused when, one night, Bruce stops him before he can say his usual goodbye.
"Robin," and even his Batman voice sounds a little bit insecure, "Isn't he in Spain?"
Tim blinks once, twice, trying to get rid of the tiny voice in his head squeaking for affection, and wills his brain to start working, awkwardly remembering that his father is on the other side of the planet.
"Yeah, he'll be there for another three weeks," he replies, going nonchalant. "I don't remember telling you..."
"Come home," B immediately rasps, not so much a statement but also not a question. "It's Dick's birthday."
He knows that it's Dick's birthday, hell, Tim had sent him the longest birthday message in history just this morning, but he can't. He has—
"I have school in a few hours."
Batman sighs.
"I know," his mentor replies quickly. "You can stay the night. I'll give you a ride to school in the morning."
Tim's brain short-circuited. He can't deny the invitation—Bruce clearly wants him there—, it would be unpolite to not say yes, but that's the 'Janet part' of his brain talking. He wants to celebrate with them so, so bad; wants to hug Dick tightly and eat Alfred's food and desserts; wants to sing "Happy Birthday" along with them; wants to laugh at his bro– Dick's pictures of when he was little.
Tim wants to be there when Alfred talked about Dick's first days at the manor, even if he already knows the story right and backward. He wants to be present on a birthday full of smiles, food, and loving people—to see what it's like, to have the remote idea of what he's been losing for all these years.
And that's the problem too, isn't it? If he hangs with them he'll go to sleep in the saddest mood ever, wondering about the things he never had.
(He loses even when he's gaining; that's how life works for him.)
Suddenly bummed, Tim exhales, "Look, B—"
"I was just—" Batman talks at the same time as him and then shuts his mouth.
The two of them stay in silence for a few beats. Tim's stomach is starting to ache, and he doesn't know if it's the embarrassment of having to decline or simple hunger. Probably the first. He's about to apologize when Batman takes a few steps forward; Tim can see his hand already holding the grapple gun. Shit.
"Responsibilities," Batman nods, suddenly all formality and blank looks. "You can come for cake in the afternoon if you want."
In a flick of the eye, B is gone. The tiny speck of hope in Tim's chest fades away. He shudders and irrationally wonders if Bruce is going to be angry for the next couple of days while the sky looms after him, dark and menacing.
Tim waits a few seconds to recompose himself; to breathe and come to terms with his decision. It’s best for everyone if he keeps his distance. Plus, Hood’s probably still preparing some strike, so if staying away from the family delays his murder attempts, it is just another perk of moving aside his feelings to concentrate on the important stuff.
And the important stuff right now is thinking about what he’s gonna have for dinner. His stomach is suddenly grumbling and he reckons that maybe the stomachache wasn’t just for embarrassment. Tim inhales one more time, turning around. He's about to bury very, very deep the striking feeling of sorrow that suddenly fills his heart when a pair of green eyes appear in front of him.
He doesn't even have time to retract his bo when puffs of green gas start to revolve around his face. Tim doesn't breathe. He immediately turns into stone-mode, and intensely moves his left arm, hitting Poison Ivy—obviously, it's Dr. Pamela Isley, no one else is that sneaky—with the kind of force that's born from pure panic. Ivy stands aside, laughing and paying no mind to her—Tim hopes—aching right side. She makes no move to defend herself, and Tim's mind reels, because if Ivy's not making another move that only means one thing...
His body's barely reacting to another presence somewhere behind when abruptly the air is knocked out of him.
Someone just hit him; Tim breathes. Shit, shit. He's inhaling the green gas, he's inhaling against his will—
With nothing else to lose, Tim calls for Bruce, once, twice, to no avail—he isn't sure if he shouted or if he simply whispered. His eyelids are dropping although he tries to stay awake; the more he tries, though, the more pain he feels in his nape.
Blotching, dizzying colors, and lights start to dance in his view and Tim thinks that he deserves this; he should've been paying attention to the important stuff, not wasting time feeling sorry for himself.
The last thing he visualizes before fainting is Bruce's disappointed frown.
(And, hah, he was wrong; he's not even an essential tool.
Tim's just a goddamn idiot.)