Tim is not a bird. Tim never needed to fly, but the Bat couldn’t fly alone, and there were no birds there to help him.
Cw: suicide attempt, mention of death/mutilation, metaphors in place of actual events.
Tim Drake was born without wings. That’s okay, it never bothered him, he never had wings, so you can’t miss something you didn’t have right? Sure he got jealous seeing all the birds flying above them, but it was out of reach, impossible, he just moved on.
Gotham was known for its birds. Famous for it even. The city didn’t have many actually, despite it being known for them, it was only because of the few they did have. The few they had that protected those who didn’t. It was a noble sacrifice, one that they all honored. The birds of Gotham were so beautiful.
Tim would spend countless nights laying on a rooftop and just watching them fly, taking pictures of the way their wings fluttered as they soared. The Bat was the first bird to fly over Gotham. His wings were such a dark black they were invisible at night, and Tim only knew so much because he’d watched a feather drop, right into his lap, and it’s his most prized possession, he keeps it with his favorite picture of the Bat.
The next bird was just as beautiful, maybe even more so. Blue Birds wings were the same pitch black, but at the very tips, his feathers were a beautiful bright blue, shining as the fluttered and danced in the sky, his way of flying seemed like a show, like he was performing. He was so effortlessly mesmerizing, it made everyone want to be him, want to feel that freedom; that surge of protectiveness over those beneath him.
The third bird was breathtaking, his wings weren’t as black, a lighter shade; but a blood red on their tips. The Crimson bird flew more jagged, like he wasn’t following any direction, bouncing through the air, flying higher than anyone could ever hope to, diving straight toward the ground, and lurching himself back up last second. He seems to be playing, having fun as he reached unimaginable places, his call echoing off the tired city that watched him soar.
Tim was so happy to just watch them, every night he stared at the sky, stared at them. Plastering his walls in pictures of them, dreaming one day maybe he could fly too.
Then the Crimson bird stopped flying. It tried to stay as a whisper, but soon everyone knew, the birds wings had been cut. It was devastating to everyone, but especially the Bat. Tim could never mourn not being able to fly because he never could. But he also couldn’t imagine if he could fly, only to have it taken from him, he knows that’s not something anyone could come back from.
The Bat doesn’t fly like he used to. Tim sits there with his camera, waiting, and any time he does see him, he’s flying too low, he’s being reckless, he’s scaring people. The Bat isn’t supposed to fly like this, the Bat needs to fly in the sky or the people won’t trust him anymore, or it will all have been nothing. His call is softer now, sad. It reminds Tim of a mother bird calling out to her little ones, knowing they won’t answer, they can’t answer, they can’t fly.
The Bat needs someone to fly with. Tim has had this idea in the back of his mind ever since he saw Blue Bird fly. It’s stupid, it’s reckless, but The Bat is in trouble, and Tim so desperately wants to be like them, to know how it feels, to fly.
He’s always been a genius, it only makes sense that he was able to make his own wings. They don’t take long, it’s something he’s been planning out in his mind for a decade. They’re a bit clunky, but he makes them look real, he can’t risk anyone knowing they’re fake, he’s a fake. The Bat needs him, and he needs the sky.
He only has one chance, he reckons. He knows a simple few flaps won’t work, he needs distance, he needs air, he needs to throw himself off a seven story building, giving himself enough time to fall, enough time to catch himself. If they don’t work, well he won’t be alive to have to face the embarrassment of being found dead with a pair of fake wings on.
He weighs his options, nerves overwhelming him, but as he looks at the sky, there’s no stars visible, no wings cutting through his vision. The Bat needs him, he reminds himself. He has to do this.
He leaps from the building, swallowing back a scream as he opens the wings, he flaps once, steadies his breath, and catches himself halfway down. The wings flutter seamlessly, and he cries out happily, lurching himself upward, flying in circles, cheering and crying as he sees the city below him, sees the height he’s gained on the world, sees the stars closer. He did it, he can fly. And now The Bat needs him.
He doesn’t take it well. No matter how hard Tim tried, he knows the wings are fake, and he’s scared for the danger the boy now faces, but he doesn’t put up a long fight. Tim is glad he made it when he did, afraid the Bat might lose his ability to fly if he didn’t get help soon.
He’s kept at an arms distance, he’s often referred to as the Crimson Bird when he’s barely glanced at, and he’s okay with that, he really is, because he can fly. He can fly alongside the Bat. It’s the best feeling he’s ever had.
The Crimson Bird’s wings are displayed in the Bat’s cave. It’s disturbing at first, seeing severed wings, red in spots that isn’t from his natural feathering colors, so large, but still so small. So full of life, but dead, cut from the same life they had left. Tim doesn’t look at then often, a sickening reminder that he is not meant to fly, and a bird that was had that taken from him. Tim can’t hold the guilt for a bird he never met, he just can’t. He’s holding it too much for the Bat right now.
Tim continues to upgrade his wings, and eventually, the Bat helps him as well. He didn’t want to match any of them, afraid that might cause a bad reaction, so he dyed his tips green, and when the Bat hadn’t said anything, he kept his color. He learned to fly like it was breathing to him, it was easy, it was flawless, he was a bird.
The Bat was better, he treated him kindly, he fixed his wings, he viewed him the same way he viewed his other flying partners. Blue Bird was not happy at first, he was worried about Tim being a boy, not a bird, he was worried about the Bat not doing what was right, but Tim proved himself; and the Blue Bird welcomed him as well.
Tim knew this was not a situation he would end happily in, but he thought he might have longer. He’d hoped.
The Crimson Bird attacked Tim when he wasn’t expecting it, when he felt safe in his home, when he felt like he was one of them. His wings were destroyed, his own body hurt worse. The Crimson Bird seemed ready to kill him, his wings had grown back, but they weren’t right, they were completely red now, they were crooked, the feathers felt like daggers.
When Tim recovered he fixed his wings and he tried to carry on. It had been so long, he’d been welcomed as a bird, he’d earned his place. He wouldn’t just give it up like this, not when he’d fallen in love with flying. He had it now, he would mourn the loss of it.
He could exist around the Crimson Bird, he could avoid him. But then the baby Bat arrived. He was everything Tim couldn’t be, and his wings were green. Tim watched as the Bat soared with him, watched as his real wings fluttered in ways Tim fake ones couldn’t. Tim was driven out, Tim was never a real bird. Tim was almost killed again, the wings destroyed again, but the Bat was too busy to help him fix them, to pay attention. What did he need a boy for when he’d gotten back two birds?
Tim had done what was needed. And now he was no longer needed. He was right, about being not able to come back from losing your wings once you’ve had them. He knew this all was a mistake, he knew he should’ve left it alone, but he so badly wanted to fly, and now he was left flightless, alone.
It doesn’t take long for him to find that seventh story building again, and let himself tip over the edge. He doesn’t have wings, he doesn’t have fake ones, he doesn’t have anything. He’s close to the ground when he feels a sudden searing pain, and he’s caught, falling unconscious from the pain, he’s carefully set back on the roof of the building, a bird sitting close by, waiting for him to wake up.
When Tim wakes up he’s in agony, crying as he reaches for his own back, scared to feel feathers. He sees someone in front of him, and yells in shock as the Blue Bird smiles sadly. Tim feels his wings flutter and cries in pain and confusion, hands shakily touching his wings.
Wait, his wings? Tim’s cries turn to a happier sound as he lurches himself upward, feeling his wings flap, it’s natural, it’s a part of him, he’s a bird. The Blue Bird flies with him, he brings him home, he promises him he’s safe. Tim is happy to be back, happy to be greeted by the Bat, to be welcomed home.
The tips of his wings were now red, though it was a much lighter shade than the Crimson Birds, Tim wasn’t just a bird, he wanted to be acknowledged for all he had done, he wanted everyone to know how proud of him the Bat was. So he was Red Bat. He flew beside them, and he earned his place. He flutters his wings and flies higher than he ever has, he was a bird, and nobody could take that from him.
Thank you for reading! If there’s any confusion about the metaphors here’s a bit of an explanation •*⁀➷
Batman was the first vigilante in Gotham, he’s a bat, bats are winged creatures = The Bat was the first to fly
Blue Bird and Crimson Bird had wings, they could fly with The Bat = Dick and Jason were brought in by Bruce and became Robin alongside Batman
The Crimson Birds wings were cut, he couldn’t fly anymore = Jason died
The Bat needs someone to fly with = Batman needs Robin
Tim Drake was born without wings, he had to make his own = Tim was not chosen to be Robin, Tim had to make himself Robin.
Tim’s wings were broken twice and he was pushed out of the birds nest = Jason and Damian both tried to kill him, and viewed him as an unworthy/fake Robin
Tim grows his own wings and flies = Tim proved himself as a Bat like the others, and returned as Red Robin.
