Chapter Text
Pyrrhic Victory
(n.)A hollow victory that inflicts such a devastating toll on the victor, that it is
comparable to defeat and negates all sense of achievement or profit.
51st Ivy Lane, Coventry, Gotham 14th August, 2019 21:17
"Absolutely not!" The slightly too high-pitched voice of Damian assaults Tim's eardrums through the coms, offended as if Oracle had just asked Robin to roll in manure naked instead of ordering him on Red Robin's team.
Meanwhile, Red Robin is glad the kid's gotten the first word in, as his retort would certainly not be considered PG. Choosing not to speak up, instead letting Damian and Barbara hash this out on their own, he holds his tongue. At least then he can say he's been the bigger person this evening.
That doesn't stop something bitter from blooming in his chest again, just mere minutes after he'd swallowed that first bite of jealousy of the evening, as everyone got to fight Scarecrow but him.
Now it seems not only was he being sidelined to a potentially unimportant quest. No, now he's also got to babysit.
This evening is getting better and better. Tim thinks, while maybe putting a little too much force into the swing that catapults him above the rooftops and into the free autumn air.
"You're not fighting Scarecrow, Robin; we've been over thi—" Barbara's tone should warn against arguing with him, but of course, the Demon Brat does it anyway.
"I'm fit to fight; why do I have to sit this one out? I bet I can take him!" he interrupts, the howl of the Batmobile's engines growing louder in the background as Batman speeds them towards the conflict.
There's a short cacophony in Tim's ears, as multiple people all tune in from their various routes to agree that fuck no — a ten year-old is not taking on Scarecrow.
And while he really tries not to care for the brat, he's prone to agree on that one.
"Da—Robin. You're assisting Tim. End of discussion. I won't let you fight Crane yet; it's too risky." Batman growls, a tinge of worry in his voice. Once again, something vile and envious sparks in Tim's gut, which he will definitely ignore and never touch.
The discussion actually ends there, surprisingly — or at least it does for the official com-line. What is said between Batman and Robin off mic is no longer a concern for Red Robin. Damian's final verdict being a bunch of muttered Arabic words, and despite Oracle's logs of the com-line having an automatic speech-to-text-translate feature, Tim has a detective's hunch he won't need it in order to know what was said.
"I'm on scene in five. Is Robin on foot too?" the vigilante swinging from rooftop to rooftop asks instead of gracing any of that conversation with his acidic two cents.
"Negative. Batman will join Batgirl in her vehicle on the bypass and Robin will continue — on autopilot — in the Batmobile. You need a fast getaway just in case; this toxin is not to be messed with." Oracle answers, focused but still putting a heavy emphasis on Damian not driving, despite the chaos that must be on her end.
Scarecrow just broke out of Arkham and is already infecting a good portion of the Burnley shoreline with Fear Toxin. GCPD has their hands full, and Red Robin really doesn't envy her hot seat at the moment. Whether the side-jab at Robin's repeated denial for vehicle access has a reaction or not is unknown to Tim, as the small bat has his mic off; probably petulantly sulking into the uncomfortable seats, if the older boy had to wager a guess.
Spoilt brat. Something hot and acidic bubbles in Tim, the frustration at the entire situation surging up once more in a bout of his own petulant, youthful rage.
If Damian weren't here, I would still be Robin. If Damian weren't here, I'd be by Batman's side and could help in the Scarecrow fight. If—
Timothy cuts his own angry thoughts off, muting his microphone and cursing harshly.
Deep breaths.
Swing up, he tells himself, and feel the muscle and sinew of his shoulders react to the pull of the grapple line rectifying his free fall. The rushing wind in his hair, the swoop of his entire body lurching, defying gravity at his summit before he plummets down swing.
Deep breaths.
Nothing but him and the empty air between rooftops.
Rinse and repeat.
There is no point in speculating 'if and when'. Damian is here; Tim got put on a side quest to babysit the brat so he doesn't fight a criminal specialised in chemical warfare, and there is nothing Tim can do about it. There is no point in feeling like he does; it won't change tonight. It won't change anything at all, even. He's sure of it. Tim has his place in this family, but so does Damian. And Tim has no choice but to tolerate it.
"Fucking Crane," he mutters instead, determined to push down those feelings and lock them inside with the rest of the conflicted feelings he's had since Bruce 'died' and all he's done to bring him back.
Sprang Boulevard, Coventry, Gotham 14th August 2019 21:26
The shoreline of the Sprang River glitters romantically as Tim swings into the Boulevard alongside it. Mercey Island is cutting a barely visible silhouette into the early autumn fog, cool air making the vigilante's breath puff out in visible clouds. Catching his breath, he regards the questionable waters for a moment, watching them twinkle innocently and be none the wiser that a madman might be attempting to pollute them even further with neurotoxins.
"Red Robin? Robin is on his way to you now." Oracle patches through with a heads up.
"Copy. I'm almost there." Tim answers and turns away from the mesmerising dark waters to look for another roof to grapple to, following along the Boulevard.
When he arrives on scene, there's a group of about twenty henchmen crowded around three SUVs and one van, all visibly loaded with dark, suspiciously unmarked barrels. Multiple of which are already off-loaded near the waterside, with some of their lids popped and noxious green gas curling out lazily, as if it were the cauldron of a very industrial-aesthetic-loving witch.
Red Robin unclips the filter mask from the back of his belt and pulls it over the domino he wears. Taking a moment, he pings Oracle a captured photo from the lens in his domino mask to give her the confirmation on her tip-off before engaging by swinging down onto the henchmen from his rooftop vantage point in ambush.
In surprise, one of the goons drops the heavy barrel he was carrying with a swear, making the barrel in his hands descend faster than he'd planned and with a bonus trajectory of landing on his foot.
Tim figures helpfully that this guy won't be a runner.
With a metallic BANG, the dropped container tips sideways, its lid popping open on impact, and both parts roll in opposing directions onto the road.
Great. He'll have to pick that up soon, before it spreads.
Unfortunately, he's unable to immediately rush to the offending barrel, as five henchmen attempt to jump him with baseball bats and knuckle dusters, hoping to interrupt him. Not that they were succeeding much in that regard, as Tim has three of them handcuffed and knocked out in mere moments, the other two dropping shortly after.
More goons break off from their trucks along the shoreline to help subdue Red Robin, barrels forgotten in favour of taking care of their hindrance.
The roar of a tuned engine is racing closer, howling along the Boulevard, signalling Tim's 'help' coming nearer and nearer. The Batmobile pulls up on the side of the road and he spots Damian's arguably tiny hands gripping the steering wheel with his face set in determination, peering above the dashboard. He can't help but snort.
Of fucking course the brat would drive here instead of using the autopilot like he was told to do.
Ridiculous.
Despite being in a fight, he makes sure to fix his gaze on Damian just long enough that the camera inside his Domino Mask can pick up the details he sees. Because that's getting added to the report — with visual evidence, no less.
"You started without me!" Robin calls as he jumps out of the parked supercar, already brandishing his sword and wearing his own filter mask.
Tim dodges a fist flying towards his face expertly, feeling its displaced air push past him in a rush.
"Yeah, well, did you expect me to stand there until your highness arrives or what?" Tim grouches back, irritation already climbing his throat once more. "Get that barrel across the road closed, will you? It's too close to the houses!"
"Ugh. Whatever!" Robin shouts back grouchily and quickly makes his way over to the barrel, followed by a few of the men Tim had been fighting in waves, obviously trying to intercept the child.
Their funeral. Tim thought grimly, and whacked a goon in the stomach a little harder than needed.
The attention of the goons rushing in is split in two, as Robin moves in on the scene with his sword already drawn. They spread out over the street, kicking up the heavy gas to form a thick, toxic fog around them that blurs their shapes into dark shadows.
New and previous henchmen surround Red Robin, all attempting to stop the vigilante's pursuit of justice. Delivering a strong enough kick to one of his opponents, Tim sends the henchman tumbling into a group of barrels with a shout, which topple over with the impact.
Dodging the metal baseball bat that had been aimed at his face with expert ease, the older hero sees the rush of air from the hit displacing the cloud around his eyes from up close. Using the momentum of the dodge, Tim drops to his hands and utilises his legs to throw and disarm his opponent. The heavy man drops to the floor ungainly, taking a nearby colleague with him in the fall — just as Red Robin had calculated.
He sends another two henchmen to the floor with two well-aimed swipes of the Bō- Staff, turning to face the next man rushing him with a knife this time. Only to catch a distorted figure, closer to his own fight than Robin's, lift a barrel over his head, obviously aimed to throw right into Damian's fight.
Shit. They do friendly fire with barrels now?
"Robin! Barrel incoming!" He calls, deflecting the knife aimed for his liver while doing so, shoving the butt of his palm into the man's chin in retaliation.
"Dodge?! Wha—Oh!" Tim hears Robin shout and barely makes out the outline of the child nimbly jumping out of the way of said metal hurled into his general direction with impressive speed.
The metal container slams into the concrete where Damian had been standing merely a few seconds ago with a deafening BANG, instantly popping open with the force of the impact and releasing a thick cloud of toxin. The visibility drops even further around them. Tim now can barely see beyond his own group of enemies, and Damian's group are now mere shadow puppets inside a virulent green backdrop.
He does, however, catch one of the blurry figures lunge for Robin, who had just landed from his evasive manoeuvre, meaning that the thrown barrel had been a tactic.
Red Robin had to hand it to Scarecrow's goons; that was a smart move.
There was no time to warn his teammate, as the air he drew in to shout was promptly evicted from his torso with force. A metal-enforced knuckle found it's way into his gut for getting distracted only for a second.
Recovering quickly, Tim retaliates and whips the tip of his staff into the man's face, shoving it into his sternum next just for good measure.
Out of his periphery, there is fast movement, and a small body suddenly parts the thick clouds surrounding them, followed by a sickening, metallic WHAM.
Robin hits the side of the truck parked between them hard enough to make the large vehicle shake, the yellow inside of his cape flowing brightly behind him as if he were a comet hurtling through earth's outer atmosphere.
Due to the truck's shape and Damian's position behind it, Tim cannot be sure if the kid got up immediately or is up at all. Anxiety lances through him almost as if it impales him, his stomach dropping to his knees with it.
Please be ok. Tim thought simultaneously to Dick is going to be so pissed I let him get hit like that…
Gripping the weapon in his hands tighter, Red Robin whirls it into the kneecaps of two men and —as Steph likes to call it— locks the fuck in.
Now it's no longer just simply subduing his foes and letting some previous frustrations out on them. This is now active threat reduction and subsequent recovery.
"Robin!" he calls over the vehicle between them, elbowing the henchman that was trying to recover from the previous knee-hit into the jugular for good measure. The idiot goes down with no more fight left in him, and the man that takes his place gets knocked out immediately too. Because Tim ducks so quickly his knees protest, and lets the goon behind him commit friendly fire with a bronze knuckle duster.
"I'm fine!" the child calls over hoarsely and coughs harshly enough for Red Robin to catch it, despite them not having their mics on due to the proximity.
He doesn't see eye to eye with this kid; he despises working with him, actually. But a kid that just got thrown into an SUV is still a kid — no matter if their name is Damian or not. Which means there's now legitimate worry blooming like thorny roses in Tim's chest at the sound of Robin's gruff voice.
Three goons left, and the patience Red Robin has for this scuffle has officially run out. Picking up a discarded lid of a barrel from the ground, he uses it to quickly block an incoming punch to his face — not needing x-ray vision to know that guy just broke or fractured his hand — before aiming a wallop over the man's head to knock him out.
Still gripping the lid in one hand, staff in the other, he shoves the Bō- Staff into one man's sternum and throws the lid into the knees of the other henchman, making them both drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes and the lid clatter beside him.
Free to now move away from the unconscious or otherwise incapacitated fools littering the asphalt, Tim turns and makes his way around the vehicle and back to the smaller group of henchmen.
He catches on quick that Robin, in the time it had taken Tim to subdue the three last stragglers, had recovered and had re-entered the fight with the goon that threw him in the first place.
Red Robin watches the shadowy figure drop to the floor while he closes in on the fight, crossing the remaining few metres hastily.
"I said I'm fine; I've got this!" Robin calls immediately, clocking him out of his peripheral while he moves to the next two targets.
Red Robin clicks his tongue against his teeth in irritation and doesn't deign to answer the call-out.
This kid always has to play the toughest guy in the room, doesn't he? Save some ego for the rest of us. He thinks instead, kicking one of Robin's enemies harder than maybe necessary.
Within minutes the two of them have the goons disarmed and on the floor in various forms of unconsciousness or delirium.
Leaning on his staff, Tim takes a moment to regain some stamina, watching Robin from more than his peripheral vision. There's a faint whistle every time he breathes, Red Robin notes — now that there aren't so many noises of a fight echoing through the night.
Fractured rib?
Broken maybe?
All possible with the throw.
That landing was less than ideal, but Tim doesn't know the extent of it yet. What he does know is that Dick will be pissed for letting the precious kid get beat up on his watch. And don't even get him started on Batman.
"Right." Tim sighs, "I don't think you're helping clean-up, I don't want that wheeze of yours getting worse, or Dick will have my head."
"But I'm—" Robin argues, cutting himself off in the process however; the exclamation causing him to cough once more. Tim watches the boy wince in a way that is more or less just a grit of teeth and tightening of his shoulders between coughs — the Damian al-Ghul Wayne edition of the Feline Grimace Scale.
"Yeah, sure. 'Fine' — was that what you were going to say again? Look, if you're injured, take it easy." Red Robin says over his shoulder, walking to a nearby barrel, trying to stave off the irritation that's flaring at Damian's antics. He takes the lid leaning to its side and uses some duct tape from his belt to tape the lid of the metal container shut for safe chemical transport.
"Listen, you need to report injuries, Robin. Even if I'm not Nightwing or Batman. I'm your lead tonight. Cut the tough guy shit." Tim adds, with a commanding tone back in his voice, hoping to instil some authority over the pre-teen.
He waits for Robin to speak up, but the vigilante just shifts and stares into the green fog moving in barely perceptible swirls. Red Robin sees how Damian is favouring his left leg over his right, having shifted his weight off of that foot in a manner so subtle it makes the worry and irritation — worrytation? — in his gut boil.
The smaller hero shifts, walking three paces over to a defeated henchman, and begins to drag him closer to one of his colleagues so they can save materials when subduing them. Which is a total disregard for what Tim has been saying this whole time.
Finally, Robin speaks up, growling "Jadd...Lan waqa'a fi hadha al-fakh."
Tim still doesn't know Arabic.
Also hasn't really seen the reason to learn the language of the pint-sized psycho, who wants to murder him in his sleep. So instead of understanding the words, the gnawing pit somewhere below his diaphragm collapses, a burning heat taking its place. It sets fire to the connective tissue below his lungs and fills them with hot ire.
"Ok, I've had it," the older vigilante growls.
He can sense the wide eyes of Robin's domino mask fixating on him, shoulders up to his ears for a split second, but as Tim turns to face him fully, they snap back down into a poised position.
"Every order I have made tonight — no, that anyone has made tonight — you've needed to give your two cents to. Or you've disregarded them entirely!" Red Robin begins sternly, voice raised as he reprimands the youngest hero of the family.
"That stops. Now. You are going to sit in the passenger side of the Batmobile and wait," he continues, gesturing to the mentioned vehicle parked about 20 metres away, like telling a bad dog to get in their crate.
"I'll wrap up here, and we're done. That attitude and blatant superiority complex of yours is unmanageable; you're getting benched. I don't quite know how yet, but you're done patrolling this week." Tim finishes and doesn't even deign to watch Damian's reaction or wait for a rebuttal. This argument is over; his patience has been tested one too many times tonight. He can tolerate being sidelined and overlooked —shit, he's almost used to it now— but getting disrespected like that is not on Tim's itinerary.
He barely catches the muttered "Na'am Jaddi…" of Robin as he walks away and switches channels to patch through to Oracle. Another wave of ire climbs his throat in the shape of hot breath, burning the backs of gums, lying heavy on his tongue.
He's said his piece, for now.
Walk. Away.
Deep Breaths.
"Oracle? It's Red Robin," he breathes out. The lingering heat in his chest makes it feel tight, and the pressure of the filtered respirator on his face is not helping him calm down one bit.
Whoever invented sensory issues, Tim only wants to talk.
"Red Robin! Good to hear from you. What's your status?" Barbara's metallic voice comes over the speaker in his ear.
"Clear. Goons have been apprehended, and I'm closing the Barrels right now. All ready for the roundup." Tim speaks, moving into the gas one more time to drag another incapacitated person into the fresh air with a bit of a grunt.
"And Robin?" Oracle asks carefully, treading lightly on the cracked eggshells.
Dropping the guy he was carrying with little fanfare, the hero looks up to watch the young vigilante his guardian angel was talking about. Through the fog he sees Damian still favour his left leg as he walks away.
No injury to report, my ass.
"Don't get me started…" he growls, heat once more tickling his molars. "I'll have a report for B, that's damn sure."
"Tim…" there was a reprimand somewhere in that voice of hers, that Tim certainly doesn't want to hear right now. "Was there an incident?" O asks instead of actually reprimanding him, thankfully reading the non-existent room.
"You could say that…" the vigilante mutters, watching with a deeper frown as the child in question wobbles, sways for a couple of steps and then rights himself by leaning on the hood of the Batmobile.
"He was a right brat, no surprise there. He's injured but won't tell me how, so I don't know… What about the others?" is the final answer Tim gives while he tries to move toward a neutral tone.
It has been half an hour since they rolled out, so he wondered if Bruce had defeated Scarecrow already.
"The fight is wrapping up right now. A few injuries, nothing too major. I've sent Dispatch your way to help with cleanup." Oracle concludes a short report in his ear, while Red Robin drags two goons into the pile-up he's accumulating, like it's the weirdest dragon's hoard ever seen.
"Thanks, O. I'll finish up here. Do the rest need assistance?" the vigilante asks, leaning down to grasp the tipped-over barrel that got away. Righting it back on its feet, Tim had to squint to peer through the thick fog to find the shape of the lid that had gone on the run earlier.
"Negative. Just… bring back Damian to the Batcave in one piece. Dick and Jason will be there, and he'll be out of your hair, promise," he hears Oracle say softly as he retrieves the lid with a little groan. Good thing he isn't needed; this whole thing is making him tired now that the irritation wasn't as strong. Barbs always had that calming effect on him.
"'K… I'll try. Red Robin out." Tim mutters, pulling out strips of tape to seal the barrel and walking off. Huffing a sigh, he sets off to drag the last few henchmen into a collective to be arrested.
He hears Oracle's disconnect from his channel with a goodbye as he rounds up to the last open barrel. Tim peers inside out of curiosity, since this form of toxin seems different than usual, and is glad for the lenses in his mask to protect his eyes from the noxious fog. Inside, right at the bottom of the barrel, he can barely make out brick-like shapes.
Dry Ice-like compound, supercooled into a solid state, reacting to oxygen and setting gaseous toxins free, his mind supplied helpfully.
For a moment, he's looking forward to heading back to the cave so he can analyse the samples most likely collected and already being tested by the Bat-Computer.
Red Robin dismisses the thought with a sigh, as cleanup comes first. If he's doing this job solo, he'll do it clean and proper.
It takes him merely a few more minutes to drag the last of the henchmen into the fresh air so that GCPD don't have to comb through the fog to find people and tie them up. Just as he's collecting all the keys out of the fobs in the henchmen's cars, the sirens begin wailing closer and closer.
Perfect timing.
Depositing all the keys in one pile on the hood of the SUV nearest to the tied-up goons, he saunters over to check the ropes one last time.
Patting the knot, he nods once to them. "Right. Sorry guys, that'll be my cue. Have a great night though." Tim gloats and stands up, not listening to their sputtering and groans of defeat.
Red and blue lights bounce off of the houses and dance over the water's surface as they race along the Embankment towards his exact position.
Three cruisers alongside a large van park beside the Batmobile and officers start piling out of the vehicles, already brandishing masks of their own.
"Night, guys! Barrels are secure, and the goons tied up for your leisure! Keys are over there!" Tim calls over to them and points to the vehicle he'd left them on.
He answers their 'thank yous' with "All in a night's work, take care!", heading to his own vehicle, actually feeling a little more accomplished and balanced than when he first had to come here.
As he approaches the vehicle, Tim spots Damian through the windscreen. Sitting — oh joyful miracles can come true — on the passenger side of the car. Coming closer, he sees the boy leaning his face ever so slightly against the cold glass of the window, his gaze turned away from him and out over the bay area.
At least there won't be a discussion on who's driving.
Hopping in, he thumbs the engine on as soon as he's seated. In the very dim lighting of the interior, Damian's face is cast in deep shadows, but Tim doesn't miss how his entry garners not even a blink or glance from the formerly so recalcitrant child.
There was no peep from him either, no question about what comes next, no demand to be included in more of the mission, just stillness. His hands rest in his lap, cape pooling around deceptively loose shoulders, his back leaning into the seat cushions just ever so slightly, while still looking poised. The only thing that is betraying this as a lie of false calm, are the tiny hands fisted into the edges of the cape across his lap. Curled so tightly that the elder hero would wager a bet on Robin's knuckles being white beneath the colourful gauntlets.
Weird.
Tim can only shake his head, irritation now making way for a tired frustration that he audibly lets out with a sigh.
Tapping into the control screen of the supercar, he sets the autopilot to the cave. Because he can't drive a normal car, let alone the Batmobile and after tonight's events, this certainly wasn't the night he'll be attempting it.
Wisely, he's set the navigation to take a loop around Gotham from the mainland to avoid any havoc wrecked in downtown Gotham. Tim settles into his own seat as the car pulls away from the side of the road and begins speeding towards the nearest bridge to get them home.
Again, Red Robin glances at Damian while streetlights illuminate him intermittently. They leave the twinkling lights of Gotham City behind them, at least for a little while. And at the sight of his quiet teammate, all sense of accomplishment that had been blooming in Red Robin's chest over his successful clean-up and handoff slowly began wilting.
Something was obviously wrong, but Tim wasn't the one capable of treating Damian. That was Dick's area of expertise. Dick was a brother — maybe even a father figure — to Robin.
Tim was…the annoying predecessor in his way, and no matter how everyone else in the family tried, that relationship seemed to be set in stone between them.
So the teen can't help but think Not my circus, not my monkey.
Tim figures that whatever this silent treatment is, it'll either be taken care of by Dick, or at least he won't have to be on the receiving end of it for much longer.
And he can't wait.