One of my favorite snippets from my Shrike!Tim fic that just makes my little fangirl heart sing! I’m so excited and hope to share it soon. 💜
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“Tim.”
Tim froze, like a jolt of electricity running down his spine, eyes locked with Dick’s electric blue. He was trying to trying to process the name—his name.
He couldn’t remember the last time had called him by that name. It was his name, yes, but he didn’t use it. Tim had died years ago, peeling away to leave only Shrike. But coming from Dick’s lips, his eyes are hot, the breath catching in his chest.
“What?”
Dick’s eyes are soft and fond, “I called you Tim,” he repeats slowly sending the same jolt through his body. “Or is there something else you want me to call you? Timothy, maybe? It’s your legal name. Timmers? Timbo?”
His breath hitches painful in his chest and it feels like he can’t breath. A finger stripeless hand reaches out to brush his knee, and Tim flinches. Dick frowns and retreats back into his own space
“Why are you calling me that?” There was a panicked edge to his voice, hoarse with emotion.
I debated making this the full 4,000+ words but decided, ultimately, this was best for the flow.
In the future, unless there’s a demand for it, I might just stick to Ao3 for full chapters and continue to post snippets here. We’ll see, though.
Thank you so much for waiting! I hope you enjoy it as much as I have. 🥰💜
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He’s not sure which to classify as more bizarre--the fact that, out the 10 million people in Gotham, Dick Grayson was the one to find him (as in The Flying Graysons Dick Grayson), or the fact that if was Dick Grayson, out of the mask and into his civies. Because both options were less than ideal.
Tim blinked once, twice, trying to clear the fuzzies along with the Dick Grayson shape hallucination from his vision. Because this? This wasn’t happening.
Dick’s right index and middle fingers were pressed against the pulse point on the inside of his wrist, his brow furrowed. His expression softened noticing Tim had opened his eyes.
“Hey, I was starting to get a little worried there for a second.” His voice was soft and easy, similar to the voice he heard used on small children while in the mask. “My name is Dick--can you tell me yours?”
His fingers were warm against the soft skin, strange for their fourth day of low twenties. It was mid January in Gotham and the ground was covered in a blanket of slushy snirt.
Tim groaned.
Every nerve in his body screamed to run, find his backpack and get out of there, like, yesterday, but his body didn’t seem to get the memo.
His everything ached, borderline worse than his first accidental run in with Killer Croc, fleeing the scene of a heist well done. The sewers weren’t his favorite but they had been an easy exit point from the Natural History museum in downtown Gotham.
Waylon had only served to reinforce it (being belly rolled by a croc—so not his idea of a good time.
They were fine now (mostly). He just kept to the rooftop highway, and Waylon stuck to the sewers. It worked but damn did his leg still ache right before it rained.
When Tim didn’t answer, Dick continued with, “You don’t have to worry about anything, you’re safe now. I just need you to keep your eyes open until the ambulance gets here, okay?”
Aaaand he was awake.
Tim tried to pull his hand away from Dick’s, grimacing at the movement as a new wave of fuck, that hurt, washed over him. “Can’t.”
Dick didn’t fight him on it, letting go immediately, “Easy, try not to move around too much. I can’t tell how deep the stab wound is with my flashlight. I don’t think it looks too terrible but we don’t want to do anything until you can get properly checked out.”
“No ambulance,” Tim says this time, a little firmer. “I can’t go to the hospital.”
Dick’s head tilted to the side just a hair. “I know it’s not fun but you should really get checked out. You really need stitches and antibiotics to keep things from getting worse.” He explained carefully, to which Tim tries to hold back the eye roll. “I’m an EMT but there’s only so much I can do without my gear.”
What part of I-don’t-need-an-ambulance are you not getting?
He didn’t need an ambulance. What he needed was to get back to his safe house, stitch his side up, and sleep for the next six hours. He might be able to fit in eight if he really pushed it. He definitely deserved it.
It had been a long, long night.
“I appreciate the concern but I can’t. I just need to get home and I’ll be fine.” Tim’s voice was hoarse, but crisp. He knew what he needed and this wasn’t it.
Dick’s frown deepened. “I know how much hospitals suck but you’re bleeding. A lot. I can’t in good conscience let you just leave you on your own. Not like this.”
Tim stared at him for a long moment. His vision was beginning to clear up but shadows still loomed around the edges. “I don’t need your help. I had it covered before you got here.”
Dick raised a skeptical eyebrow, “If you don’t get stitches, there’s a chance you could bleed out or get an infection. This is really serious.”
“I’m fine,” Tim repeated, trying to get a hand under him and push up.
Dick wasn’t having it, though, and pressed a hand to his shoulder, effectively pinning him back against the wall of the alley, where he had slumped over. The sun had gone down, leaving them in the dark.
It smelled like rotten fish sticks and back alley sludge.
At least he hadn’t ended up in a dumpster again—because that had been embarrassing, for both he and the driver that found him.
He didn’t remember going down, or even where he had gone down. Except—Tim sucked in a breathing, running his hand down his front expecting Kevlar and nomac weave, which was bad—like, really bad.
Except somehow, some way, he wasn’t in his bodysuit. He was dressed in a Blink-182 hoodie and snow-damp jeans, all tied together with a pair of scuffed up Chucks. Not practical for snow and ice but better than being found out by one of Gotham’s vigilantes.
“Stop moving around so much, please. It’s only going to make things worse.” Dick argued gently.
Now Tim really did roll his eyes. “I can’t go to the hospital. I’ve had worse and come out just fine. I’ll survive.”
He would and he had. Much, much worse.
He’d been at this since he was sixteen when he’d learned how to suture from YouTube videos before his first sensei. He had been stabbed, poisoned and damn near decapitated on one very unfortunate occasion, and he was fine.
He’d get over it.
“Just because you have doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go now.” Dick said seriously, not moving his hand even when Tim tried to shrug it off.
“What part of I can’t aren’t you hearing?” Tim snapped back. “Look, I haven’t done anything wrong so you can’t hold me in a citizen’s arrest.”
Dick sighed, “I know that. Just give me one reason why you shouldn’t go to the hospital—I know people who can help.”
Tim ignored him. He didn’t have time for this he needed…he needed-
“My backpack! Have you-” Tim said suddenly, his heart slamming to a halt. He tried to sit up quickly and regretted it immediately when his vision started to blackout again.
“Woah, woah, woah, slowdown,” Dick begged, serving as the only thing to keep him from falling all over himself. Carefully, without jostling Tim more, he reached over and moved his backpack so it was beside his lap. “It’s right here, safe and sound.”
Tim instinctively reached out, running his hand over the waterproof canvas. Good. It was safe and hopefully unopened because that sitch would be a nightmare and a half to handle.
As it was now, Dick (Nightwing) just being here had a chance to ruin everything.
Out of 10 million people, seriously.
“Will you let me call an ambulance now?” Dick pleaded, eyes sharp and worried.
Tim opened his eyes (not realizing he’d closed them in the first place) and glared at Dick. “I already told you, I can’t, okay? If you call, I will ruin your credit. Trust me. I know people.”
Well, he knew himself and it had been a hot minute since he’d been able to have a little fun.
Dick’s eyebrows shot up, “You don’t even-“
“Know who you are?” Tim cut off. “Dick Grayson-Wayne, son of billionaire Bruce Wayne. Please, everyone in Gotham knows you.”
Dick grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, I guess you do know who I am. I still don’t know who you are, though.”
“And you don’t need to.” Tim supplied.
When Dick frowned, his eyebrows drew together, “Are you in some sort of trouble? The hospital has resources and systems in place, if you are. They’ll help you figure something out.”
Tim sighed hard, “I’m not in trouble. I just don’t have insurance, alright? I can’t afford to go to the hospital.”
It was a reasonable excuse taking into account the corporate hellscape that was the American healthcare system (or, lack thereof). The lie was more believable for a myriad of other reasons, those including, he shouldn’t actually be alive right now. In fact, there's a family burial plot in Bristol with his name on it.
So, yeah, a can of worms he didn’t particularly take joy in opening right this second, especially not with one of Gotham’s most fearsome vigilantes.
Tim had to fight the urge to roll his eyes again. It was rich coming from the son of the richest man in Gotham. “I don’t need an apology, I don’t need a hospital, I just need to go home, okay?”
Dick sighed, looking conflicted, “The hospital has financial resources to help offset cost, when needed. I have friends there, I can make sure you get help.”
And it definitely didn’t have anything to do with a wing of the hospital having the Wayne family name plastered on it.
“Please, just, stop.” Tim snapped. He was exhausted, in pain, and cranky, and this was putting him over the edge. “Look, I know you just want to help but not everyone needs your help, okay?”
Dick flinched and the part of Tim that had once been Dick Grayson’s number one fan shriveled a little. A cold wave of shame washed over him, but he held firm, staring him down with a hard expression. It was exactly the reaction he intended but that didn’t make it feel a little guilty.
Little fanboy Tim would have died.
Once upon a time, he had looked up to him, Batman’s first Robin. But things changed, dreams died, and no one had come to save Tim Drake—not Robin, not Batman, and certainly not Nightwing.
Dick’s grip loosened on Tim, making it a little easier to try and get to his feet. He managed to wrap his numb fingers around the strap of his backpack and push up with the other and—
He was on the ground again.
This time, on his side, breathing heavily, and shaking. The pavement was cold and solid against his cheek while the world was twisting and turning around him.
Dick was talking but it all came out muffled, like cotton was stuffed in his ears. His tongue felt too thick in his mouth making it hard to form words.
The burning sensation from the nick just below his ribs burned white hot while with pressure being held on the wound.
Tim let out an embarrassing keening noise, closing his eyes again. “I know, I’m sorry.” Dick said softly, but didn’t let up on the pressure. “You’re bleeding too much. You need help.”
“No hospitals.” Tim hissed through his teeth, although his words were slurred. It was debatable whether they were intelligible or not.
“I know, I have a plan.” Dick said but didn’t elaborate upon said plan.
He’s not sure how long they sit there—Dick taking and Tim lying in the waves of pain, radiating from the gash caused by a rogue batarang.
It hadn’t even been meant for him—just a wrong place, wrong time sort of sitch. He should have been faster, should have been paying more when it hit the hvac and rebounded, slicing him.
It made quick work of cutting through his uniform (and would be a major pain to stitch up later).
Headlights illuminated the alley even as it was put in park and heavy boots hit the pavement. “I thought we talked about this, Dickie? No more bringin’ home strays, yeah?”
Tim’s heart came to a sudden, painful, halt. That voice—even without the modulator—
“I know, it’s, uh, a long story and I’m just out of options.”
Jason Todd—Red Hood—scoffed, coming to crouch down beside Dick, in front of him, his boots level with Tim’s view. They were well-worn, steel-toed boots that crushed through the thin sheet of ice. “That’s what you said last time.” He argued with no real heat. “Hey kid, still awake?”
“‘m not a kid.” Tim tried to argue, earning him a laugh.
“You sure look like a kid to me. What are you? Twelve?”
“Twenty three.” Tim corrected.
“Yeah, no, good try but you look about twelve to me. You gotta name, kid?”
And we’re back at this game again. Great.
“Maybe.”
“That’s not good enough. You can give me a name or I call EMS and you and the cops can figure it out. So, try again. What’s your name?”
“Jay,” Dick warned.
“Richard,” Jason repeated back in the same tone and Tim could almost hear the eye roll in his voice. “If he wants help, he’s gotta give a little too. I’m not going to compromise our house for some twerp. So what’s it gonna be kid? A name or the cops?”
He paused to consider. Although honestly there really isn’t much to consider. A name or the cops.
Nightwing is one thing but pinned down between Red Hood and Nightwing while trying to pretend you’re an average Joe is another.
He had a name—he had many, but at the moment, trying to find one was like grasping at air. Nothing tangible wanted to stick. Alvin Draper wasn’t a choice after his heist in Berlin, Caroline Hill wasn’t appropriate in this scenario-
“Cal,” Tim finally managed, slower than he would have liked.
Hood—Jason—made a satisfied noise. “You got a last name, Cal?”
“Do I have to?”
“Do I have to?” Jason mocked. “Yes, you have to. You know the deal—you want our help, you’ve got to give a little in return.”
Tim glared which only serves to egg on Jason’s attitude, Jason smirked.
“Cococran.” It takes him a beat longer than he would have liked to fish for the name. But things like blood loss and sleep dep decide to make things difficult.
Sue him.
“Alright, Cal, you in trouble or somethin’?”
“Jay-“ Jason holds up his hand to cut of Dick.
“I’m serious, kid. Are you in trouble?” Jason repeats, watching Tim with a hard, unreadable expression.
Tim grit his teeth, locking eyes with him. “…no.”
Jason didn’t respond for a long moment, searching his expression. “Fine,” he grunted, turning back to Dick. “You couldn’t ’ve called Leslie, could you?”
Dick sighed. “I know but just look at him.”
Jason rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, you and B and your whole bighearted shitck, I get it. But after this, nu-uh, I mean it. This is the last time, seriously.”
Dick smiled softly at him and then it was time to get to work.
Halfway through peeling the hoodie away and plastering a wound dressing to his side and being shoved in the back seat with Dick, things get hazy, and he’s out.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Tim chuffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t know, Dick, I’m just-“
He cuts himself off, trying to find the right word, unable to pinpoint the exact feeling.
“You’re just what?” Dick urges gently, eyebrows drawn together in a look of concern.
He looks so damn sincere, eyes so vivid and blue and so patient as he watches him fumble over his words. It’s too much and, truthfully, he’s the last person to deserve this level concern.
He looks down at his lap, twisting his fingers into knots.
“You’re just what, Tim?” This time it’s Jason, his back pressed against the arm of the sofa. His arms are crossed over his broad chest in a no-nonsense kind of way. “You gotta talk to us. We can’t help you if you don’t let us, got it?”
Tim takes a shuddered breath and shrugs half-heartedly. He was too much—for his parents, for Bruce, and eventually, if not today then soon, would be for Dick and Jason soon. It’s the way it’s always been, eventually everyone gives up and leaves him, so what’s the point?
He wants to cling onto what they have just a little longer.
Just a little bit longer.
Dick sighs and moves to stand out of his crouch. Tim’s his heart sinks for a moment until he realizes his not leaving. Instead, Dick slides in beside him. In one fluid motion, he’s sat sideways in Dick’s lap, with his arms wrapped around him.
Tim gasps at the suddenness, but doesn’t fight it. With Dick, there is no fighting it. He just lets him adjust him until his comfortably sat in his lap, face pressed to the crook of his neck. His hair is still damp from his shower, and he smells of his tingling tea tree and mint shampoo.
He doesn’t seem to care Tim is still in his body suit, fresh off of patrol. But if he does, he doesn’t say anything, just tucks him in a little closer.
Tim’s eyes feel hot.
“I’m so tired,” he says in a small voice.
And cue the waterworks.
Hot tears wash down his cheeks. It’s stupid. He didn’t mean to share it but when he opens his mouth, it’s all that comes out, because he is. He’s so. Damn. Tired.
Former Rogue!Tim/Shrike!Tim verse- (Un)deserved Reputation
Part I
By the time he made it back to his Ducati, things like blood loss and concussions had finally begun to settle over him like an uncomfortably thick blanket, making it hard to process. His vision swam, with multicolor specks threatening to take over.
So, maybe he was just a little worse for wear than originally anticipated.
He was so close to the Nest, if he could make it back soon, he could patch himself up without a fuss from his vigilante boyfriends. Afterwards they could all bundle up on the couch together, watching whatever horrible reality tv Jason was currently into. He could finally get that his body had been so desperately craving.
Unfortunately, his body seemed to have other ideas. His legs decided to give out just a step before his bike, sending him toppling down. Which, ow, fuck, that hurt. His ribs screamed, and the shrapnel embedded in his skin roared to life. What had been a dull ache, turned into a full, white-hot blaze.
Tim groaned, slumped over in the shadowed side-alley. His limbs were stiff and didn’t want to cooperate, and breathing… Well, breathing was another topic.
He forced himself to breathe slow, trying to ignore the catch of the shrapnel in his middle. It was the first time he needed to dig out shrapnel from himself, but this seemed to be worse. He lifted his hand from where it was currently holding pressure, more blood.
The last time, he had been a kid and it hadn’t been far beneath the skin. He had been talked him through it after a particularly rough run in with Batman. He had talked through removing the debris without nicking anything vital, how to disinfect and thread the needle for sutures, how to correctly pierce the skin without causing more damage.
As a 16 year old boy, it had been excruciating. Years later, the pain isn’t any less excruciating, it’s just…easier to work through. It’s easier to focus through the pain, run through calculations, or plans on how to improve the outcome in a future sitch.
He just needed to get back to his safe house.
Tim took a terse breath through his nose and peeled his hand away to look at the injuries. The impact of the explosion had caused metal fragments to fracture his body armor. He couldn’t tell how serious the injuries were. But if he were to go off the blood alone, it wasn’t looking particularly promising.
Dick and Jay were going to be pissed.
They couldn’t find him passed out again. The last time, Dick hadn’t let him out of his sight for nearly a week and, yes, that was included but not limited to bathroom breaks and showers. To be fair, he had a broken leg and 4 broken ribs, but still.
Jason had given him an earful and provided him with an overbearing amount of food and soft blankets (and had taken away his coffee privileges).
Passing out was not an option. He just needed a minute to get it together before trying to get up again when a hand touches his cheek.
They don’t manage to get a word out, before Tim is up and has them pinned on the ground. It’s purely instinct. They are flat on their back, with his knee driven into their belly. They let out a gwah when he knocks the wind out of them.
“Easy, it’s just me.” they wheezed, body remaining open and loose beneath him.
Tim blinked, his mind needing to process their voice, “Jay? Why are you here?”
Last he checked, Dick and Jay were supposed to be out of town for two more nights. Dick had gone off on a mission with the Titan’s and Jason had gone out on Official Red Hood Business ™ nearly two weeks ago with the expectation of all parties returning on Tuesday.
With the agreement that Tim would check in once every twelve hours (although Dick argued for more), Tim had been allowed to go on a recon mission for the first time since he and Jason had squared off, leaving him nearly dead and Jason with a guilt complex he was still apologizing for.
He had been itching for the same freedom he had before and he wasn’t going to ruin that.
“I think the bigger question is why are you here? It’s Tuesday.”
Tim didn’t lessen his hold on his vigilante boyfriend, “What do you mean? It’s Sunday. You aren’t supposed to be back yet.”
“Like hell it’s Sunday, we’ve been lookin’ everywhere for ya, Sugar. Dickybird is frantic, worried you ended up in a gutter dead or somethin’. Would you get off me now?” Jason sounded extra grumpy at this point but didn’t struggle in his hold.
He could have easily escaped but hadn’t pushed it.
“It’s Sunday,” Tim urged weakly. “You’re not supposed to be back yet.”
The world was beginning to spin again, the specks threatening to take over. He felt like he was going to be sick.
There was no way he had lost two whole days.
He had begun his official stake out on Friday. He had been watching and gathering intel through Saturday before making his move before the drop on Sunday (and subsequent minor explosion).
“The hell it is. Do you have another concussion? Because-” he finally got a good look at Tim, how pale his face was, how his hands were shaking, and paused, computing. “Is that blood? Why the fuck are you bleeding?”
“It’s nothing.” He repeats by rote.
Jason, obviously fed up with his shit, shifted out from under Tim, eyes wide behind his helmet.
Unfortunately, Tim was weak to his careful ministrations, and had to just let it happen. His body lost all fight. Sweat had begun to bead down his forehead and he realized just how chilled to the bone he was.
One moment, Jason was moving him and the next he was on the ground and didn’t remember the in between. His helmet sat beside him where he was sitting on the ground, lips moving. But all he could hear was the ringing in his ears from the explosion.
It was only when Jason put pressure on his middle, that he came back too.
“Jesus fucking christ, sugar, that’s a lot of blood.”
