Tim wanted to like Peter. Truly, he did. He wanted to like him as much as he wanted to like half of the costumed heroes that did what he did and far more, powered or otherwise. He was⊠Vulnerable. Tim hated to admit it, but in a world of shielded powerhouses, he somehow always felt like he had his belly up to the sky. In a world of metas, mutants, mutates, god-like beings, him and the rest of his âfamilyâ were simply human. Had none of them donned the cape and cowl, theyâd simply be what was being protected, sitting ducks waiting for the slaughter until some other vigilante decided to try and take the town. It was that same mentality that drove him to be as protective as he was. They were only human, and thatâs all they would ever be if some idiot with superpowers thought they could take on the Rogues Gallery first.
     The bird could silently admit that he may have been⊠Harsh. He might still be harsh. It was just uncomfortable to come back from being Raâs Al Ghulâs latest torture fodder and breaking The Code to see your very-recently-made girlfriend hanging with a very well known hero who just decided to unmask himself. Publicly. With little remorse, it seemed. Call him paranoid, call him over-protective, but that wasnât how things were done. Every tragedy in Timâs life had been because someone had found out. It was one of the few rules heâd had hammered into his head the minute he accepted to become a caped crusader, and having it broken time and time again brought nothing but death. He couldnât stand to lose Steph again.Â
     Some rational part of his brain told him he was jealous of Peter, jealous that he could just⊠Live with his secret out there. There was no world that Tim Drake and Red Robin could be the same person without casualties, the Demonâs Head made sure of that fact.Â
      âFunny,â Red Robin replied, sarcasm lacing his words in echo of the Spiderâs. The silence hung longer, between the rustling of wrappers, the city below, the familiar whip of his cape behind him⊠Gah, he was going to regret this. With little flourish, the bird situated himself at the edge of the rooftop and made a quick check for any security cameras or otherwise prying eyes. Reaching up, he peeled the mask off of his eyes, stowing it in one of the pouches on his belt, and turned to the other hero.Â
     âParker. We need to talk.â
No one had ever really liked Spider-Man, Peter knew that. He was annoying. Had some low-grade rage issues. Wore tacky pajamas in public. Had an at-best-ambiguous relationship with the law. Was somehow both too eager and too cynical. There was a reason heâd flown solo as long as he had, and it wasnât just the stubborn individualism or the homework schedule. There were some superheroes everybody liked--Captain America (before the whole treason thing)! Thor! Superman! Wonder Woman!Â
Peter had never been any of those things. For every appreciative note, there was a Bugle article (or two or three), every Twitter shoutout came with a host of hatred. (Donât Google yourself especially holds up when youâre sixteen, friendless, and generally considered a neighborhood nuisance.)
And then heâd gone and gotten unmasked.
Being the Accordsâ poster boy had been bad enough when his identity had been secret. Then, heâd still been part of that oh-so-exclusive club, had still known what it was like to keep secrets, had known what it was like to crush under the weight of them. Then he was a traitor, a sellout, a danger, a liability. It didnât matter that he didnât choose to do this, that heâd never wanted this. It didnât matter that heâd spent a third of his life in hiding. If Spider-Man could be unmasked, so could any of them. He was reckless. Heâd given up the gig too easily.Â
Look at the damage heâd done before the world knew his face.
Tim Drake -- Red Robin (emphasis on the Red, apparently) -- was so similar to him, thatâs what Steph kept saying. By all accounts, they should have gotten along. But Tim had succeeded where Peter had failed, in saving Steph, in saving his own identity, in looking like a menacing jackass in his suit, instead of just a regular old garden-variety jackass.Â
If Peter was going to think critically and maturely (which, realistically, when did he ever?), there was a hatchet to bury here. It wouldnât be so hard to try. But it was easier to posture and pretend to be in the right, to carry an air of superiority alongside his sandwich and keep on as they had.
And then Tim took off his mask.
Was he supposed to take his off, too? Was that how this worked? Level the playing field, man to man (hero to hero)? But Peterâs face, while forgettable, was public knowledge. Timâs--that implied trust.Â
âGoddammit, Drake,â he muttered, before he could stop himself. âWhat, sub not good enough for you? Too much mayo? Are you more of a tuna guy? Or are you just gonna give me one of those holier-than-thou lectures?â
