you know, I really love how badass and capable Tim is but I’m weak for the trope where a character gets in a bad sitch (maybe held captive) and their love interests go nuts trying to get them back and they’re furious seeing he’s hurt and restrained (baddie tied + gagged them too tight?)when they do rescue him maybe Jay and Dick are so tender and caring oof what are your thoughts?
WELL BABE. I mean with characters like Tim Drake and Tony Stark, overprotective (boy)friends tearing through bad guy installations with feral intent to get Tim/Tony back just waters my crops and clears my skin. It’s fucking beautiful.
Once and a while, every vigilante has a bad fucking night.
It just happen to be Red Robin’s turn.
The residual owfuck isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. That is, once he gets himself out of this before terrible bad guys with an apparent fetish for brass knuckles and knives come back to finish the job. After a lucky shot took his zip line out mid-leap, the night had gone from generally shitty to progressively worse. Catching a hard fire escape knocked him mostly out on the way down. He’d initially come to when the fist to his solar plexus is just about agonizing.
Whatever hits he’d taken on the way down to the street damaged the suit’s security, which is the only reason it didn’t shock the shit out of anyone when they grabbed him by the arms, held him there for the first round of blows.
It’s an occasional thing, for one of them to get balls deep in imminent fucking peril. There’s nights when sleep dep and stress, the day job and night job colliding, too many bads and not enough goods, nights when a one wrong step, one bad contingency, one hesitation, is enough for them to get the drop.
Which leads them to this disgustingly dingy, blood-splattered warehouse down on the East Side, where Red is dangling from a chain in the ceiling like a side of raw beef for the slaughter.
And while blood is sluggishly running down the side of his face and his jaw feels like it’s on fire, while his gauntlets are useless and the manacles are on fucking point, when his chest fucking hurts and the fire in his side makes his eyes water because really, just a concussion can’t be enough.
When he’s giving himself a few minutes to just breathe it out, take a second to let the pain settle, half in meditation to try getting mentally past this for an epic kind of escape he’s about to pull off.
But really, he just had a rough night, and the fact these ass hats left the damn door open is really just a testament on how easy this is going to be once he feels up to taking down a few thugs or twenty.
(And just why did he have to walk into an impromptu gun fight between two rival gangs that decided to work together instead – against him. What’s taken the groups out of the room is arguments on who was going to get the glory and what bosses to call and inform. He’s pretty sure he’s got about at least ten minutes or so before everyone comes back for another few rounds of kick the shit out of the vigilante.)
So, he’s good. Totally got this.
His forearms get tight, wrists immobile when he starts pulling his weight up to get some slack on the connecting chain, going to need to have room to pick the locks–
when the abrupt tremble and loud sounds of shit just breaking comes through the open door, jarring him too much for his warped brain pan to handle, and he drops back down a few inches, grunting with the jerking motions on his upper body.
Gunfire explodes and people are absolutely screaming. Things get a little more real because at this juncture, it could be anything from more fighting between themselves or another rival group walking in on an obvious base of operations.
It’s apparent he’s out of time when several come running back in, guns out, panicked and talking over one another.
But even if his fingers are numb still in his glove, he’s slowly working the lock pick set out of his useless gauntlets, looking forward to getting free fast enough to take out the room before even thinking of taking on the fuckery happening behind that door.
What he expects is to get more roughed up before the night is over. What he doesn’t expect is for a body to slam into the room, blood arching in the same angle as the nice landing right at Red Robin’s bound feet dangling a few inches off the ground. The second body immediately following fell close enough for Red’s whiteouts to narrow down at the face beaten to hamburger, a thoughtful noise muffled through the gag shoved in his mouth.
He has a moment to register, that looks familiar, before the impressive silhouettes fill the door, and the calvary has apparently arrived.
To say he is literally boned is probably an understatement because he can see the tension all over them. Tight fists and forearms, shoulders squared, thighs tense, and game faces right the hell on.
It’s the terrifying vigilantes Nightwing and the Red Hood, towers of kicking ass and taking names –
and the thugs in the room gape at the picture those two make, blood sprays all over their suits, smoking barrels and sparking escrima sticks, lips curled up off N’s teeth to snarl, Hood to lower his chin enough that those whiteouts are fixed.
He catches a breath through his mouth since he’s pretty sure his nose is broken or dislocated, beaten body tensing for one of the thugs to get smart, turn, and fire at him.
But, it doesn’t happen because the Red Hood and Nightwing strike like an avenging wave of brutally beautiful justice. They move together like water, the fight never stopping until the bodies are piled high, a job well done. And as much as Red Robin would like to say he feels something crazily like relief, the all together different noise he makes through the gag is telling on what else watching them fight (for him) does to him.
“Aww, Big Wing, lookit what those fuckers did,” is slightly distorted through the synths, and he must have blinked a little too long because suddenly both of his vigilante boyfriends are right there, bracketing him in, being absurdly careful when they run gloved hands over him to find injuries. Hood goes for the gag tied so harshly, N hurriedly helping from behind him.
“Hey Baby, you with us?” is soft and gentle, the contrast to the savage beat-down N just had a hand in a few minutes ago.
Once the cloth is out of his dry mouth, gloved fingers rub the indents, and the helmet is tilted up at him.
“Shh, shh. Gonna getcha down, yeah? S’good, Sweets, we gotchu.” Already stretching up on his toes to work the manacles fast while N sweeps up his bound legs from behind, holding him up to take the weight off his wrists.
“There we go,” and a nuzzle against his face, sweet relief when his wrist and hands pop free, and he tries to work the feeling back in his fingers, laying against Nightwing’s chest for just a moment to be dizzy and relieved.
“Thanks for the save,” Red Robin woozily banters, “bad guys can be such ass hats.”
“Don’t I know it,” Hood gives a solid kick to one of the bodies twitching on the floor before coming around to gently fit a gloved hand on Red’s bruised jaw, thumb the mask so the whiteouts slide up and they can see how dazed his eyes are. He n’ N exchange a worried glance while Red pats the hand on his jaw and maneuvers himself out of the octopus hold, a little wobbly but still on point.
“All right, I’m on clean-up since I was the metaphorical damsel this time–” is cut off with a whoosh of breath when he leans over enough to brace a hand on the wall when owfuck gets a little more serious than he expects.
“Nothin’ doin’.” Is Hood nipping that little sitch in the bud, already a towering presence at his side, a heavy arm sliding around his back, “me n’ N done already gave the coppers a heads-up, you feel me, Sweets?”
“We’ve already tied up most the rivals in the building,” Nightwing soothes the one to step up into his space and tilt his face up this time, “and you are going right back to the Manor to be patched up. You’ve got a concussion and who knows what else.”
“Hey, it’s okay, really–” because missing a spleen anyone? He’s been through worse, worked through worse, and still brought out his inner bad ass. These two? Need to take a pill.
“Nu-uh. Ya try ta ged outta it, then we’re callin’ in the big guns. You feel me here?”
“Too late,” is growled somewhere in the vicinity of shadows over their shoulders.
When Red Robin spins on his heel and almost falls, Hood and Nightwing move fast to catch him by the arms so he doesn’t fall in front of the very stern-looking Robin suddenly steps from the shadows, both hands out to steady him by the hips.
Looming over him like Hood and N, Robin’s forehead is wrinkled in that special way when he’s scowling behind the domino. Red Robin manages to gasp before all six-foot-two of concerned vigilante is all over his everything.
Everyone is well-aware Robin doesn’t take any of his shit and is extremely efficient. What few, select people only know–
–he can also be extraordinary gentle.
This time, when Red Robin is swept up against another chest, another symbol, he doesn’t fight it, not when the youngest leans down and says something softly against his ear.
“Let us care for you, Beloved.”
He sighs a little and lists closer, throwing an around around those shoulders and idly fiddles with the cape.
“Better,” Hood uses a gloved thumb to run over his busted nose.
“I want a hot shower and bed,” Red admits wearily, “I can be a stubborn ass about it some other time.”
N chuckles sadly, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of his head. “That’s a good choice, Timmy. We’re going to find a second to eat between that, okay?”
He hums a little, trying to lay his face down on his arm somewhere that wouldn’t hurt. “I guess. Hot shower first, please.”
The bang of grapples echo against the sirens screaming in the night, and the Bats take off, flying over the rooftops to transportation not far off. Hood and N take driver and shotty so Robin can continue to cradle their bird on the ride back.
He might bitch good-naturedly about Hood driving the Red Bird like a literal bat out of hell, but it gets all kinds of shut down when Robin tenderly presses his mouth to the bruises on Red’s jaw and rubs soothing circles on the back of his neck.
Nightwing is the one that hops out and takes him from Robin to carry up to the Perch, talking low against his ear about the pick-up from the GCPD so he honestly feels better about where the night has taken him.
But it’s Jason Todd that runs a bath instead of the shower and strips down, runs gentle hands over the bruises and contusions, soaps him up to wash away the night. The two of them wrapped in towels while Jay sets his nose fast enough that it’s really not as bad as it could have been.
Dick towels his hair dry while he sits at the kitchen table, shivering, and Dami kneels by him to check out each injury with the first-aid tackle box in easy reach. Coffee is off the menu (a crime against humanity!) but the hot chocolate has been left to cool enough not to sting his sore mouth.
The eventual clothes are a combination from the communal drawer so he’s swimming in Dami’s shirt and Jay’s cut-off sweats, several ice packs bandaged over them on the worst of the swelling.
Grilled paninis and soup are utter heaven because A) Jay and Dami can cook, B) everything is easy to eat with a bruised face and cuts on the inside of his mouth, but also C) cute boyfriends keep giving him gentle kisses and touches whenever they come within a literal foot of him.
And they’re so good about it, taking care of him without being too smothering (at least no one has threatened to call his team – yet) through getting patched up and fed.
No, no, they wait for it.
Once he’s wrangled into bed, the three of them surrounding him in warmth and comforting touches, he’s pretty much trapped until morning.
Honestly, it’s probably the best part of the night.
