seen from Italy
seen from France
seen from China
seen from France
seen from Spain
seen from United Kingdom
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from Canada
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Canada
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Canada
seen from Canada
seen from Canada
He's just a little confused okay??
Commission Info / Kofi (members get comics a week early)
"two robins problem" you just dont appreciate how funny it is having damian and tim both being robin.
picture this, youre a low level criminal attempting some sort of breakin. its not going well. you suck at picking locks. after a while, someone coughs. whirling around, you see its robin. as in batman and robin. he makes a patronising comment before you can run, sarcastically encouraging you to keep trying. "no no keep going, youre doing great, youve almost got it". for some reason you turn back around to find... robin?? a second robin???? what the fuck??? inspecting the lock. he makes a scathing remark on your lockpicking skills. the other robin agrees. you curl up and cry.
male!reader with a limp, so tim gets him a cane with a tracker so he always knows where r is and shows up at very convenient times and helps reader walk when the limp gets to bad
𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓
tim drake x m!reader
𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐒 ! ── 4.7k words. reader who has a limp. tim gifts you a cane that seems normal.. it's not.
You don’t like how people watch you walk.
You feel it before you see it—the way eyes flick down, linger half a second too long on the hitch in your step, the careful recalibration people do when they realize you’re not broken, just… altered. A limp isn’t dramatic. It’s persistent. It follows you into every room and reminds you of itself with each change in weather, each stair taken too fast, each night you forget to pace yourself.
Gotham is not kind to persistence.
Tim notices before anyone else does. Of course he does.
He notices the way you lean more heavily on walls when you think no one’s looking, the way you plan routes that avoid stairs without ever admitting that’s what you’re doing. He notices you standing instead of sitting because it hurts less than getting back up. He notices the micro-pause before you step off curbs. The tightness in your jaw when someone bumps into you on a crowded sidewalk.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
That’s the thing about Tim Drake—he gathers data long before he ever draws conclusions.
It’s a rainy afternoon when he finally brings it up. You’re in the Cave, perched on a stool you absolutely should not be on because your leg has already started to ache, scrolling through something unimportant on your phone. Tim approaches with that careful quiet of his, holding something long and wrapped in brown paper.
“I got you something,” he says.
You blink. “It’s not my birthday.”
“I know.”
You eye the package suspiciously. “If this is another med schedule—”
“It’s not.”
You take it from him anyway, peeling back the paper to reveal a cane.
It’s… nice. That’s the first thing that hits you. Not clinical, not bulky, not the kind that screams injury. The handle fits naturally into your palm when you test it, smooth and balanced. Lightweight, carbon fiber shaft, matte black with subtle red threading near the grip. Stylish enough that it looks intentional. Like a choice.
You look up at him. “Tim.”
“Before you say no,” he cuts in quickly, words tumbling over each other, “it’s not because you can’t walk. I know you can. I just— I see you compensating a lot, and this could help distribute the strain, especially on longer days. You don’t have to use it all the time. Or ever. I just thought you should have the option.”
You turn the cane slowly in your hands.
You hate how much you like it.
“It’s not… weird?” you ask quietly.
Tim’s expression softens. “It doesn’t make you weaker. It makes you smarter about your limits.”
That lands. Harder than you expect.
You test it that night on the walk home. At first, you feel conspicuous, like everyone can see the difference immediately. But the cane takes just enough weight off your leg that the familiar burn dulls to a manageable throb. Your pace evens out. You don’t have to brace yourself as much.
By the time you reach your apartment, you’re not exhausted.
That’s when it becomes part of your life.
You use it on bad days. Then on long days. Then without thinking about it at all. It leans against tables when you sit, hooks neatly over your arm when you need both hands free. It becomes an extension of you—quiet, reliable, unremarkable.
You don’t notice the way Tim’s eyes flick to it every time you enter a room.
You don’t notice him adjusting his laptop angle so you can’t see the screen when the signal pings.
Because it never pings aloud.
The tracker embedded just below the grip is smaller than a grain of rice, powered by kinetic charge. It wakes when the cane moves. Sleeps when it doesn’t. Encrypted six different ways. Untraceable unless you know exactly what you’re looking for.
Tim didn’t tell you.
He told himself he would. Eventually. Once things were safer. Once Gotham stopped being Gotham. Once the nightmares eased and the threats stopped stacking up like bodies.
He watches your dot move across the city while pretending to do homework.
He watches you take routes that are safer than they used to be—but still not safe enough.
He watches you pause longer in unfamiliar places, watches the slight deviation when your leg starts to bother you. Watches the nights you stay out later than planned. The ones where your dot stops moving for just a little too long.
He doesn’t interfere. Not yet. He doesn’t want you to believe that he thinks you’re not capable of handling yourself. You are. He knows it.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
It goes on like that for weeks.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would make you suspicious. Just life settling into a new, slightly altered normal.
Your limp worsens on cold days and eases when the weather’s kind. Some mornings you forget the cane by the door and have to turn back for it, grumbling under your breath. Other days you barely notice it’s there. Tim doesn’t hover. He doesn’t comment unless you do. If anything, he seems… calmer, lately. Less tightly wound. You assume it’s school, or patrols going well, or one of those rare stretches where Gotham isn’t actively trying to kill everyone you know.
You don’t connect that calm to the fact that Tim knows where you are at all times.
The cane becomes routine. So do the aches.
Until one day, they aren’t routine anymore.
It hits you mid-afternoon, sharp and wrong, like something in your leg has decided it’s done cooperating.
You’re halfway down a block when the pain flares—hot, immediate, deep in the joint. You suck in a breath and stumble, catching yourself hard on the cane. The impact sends another jolt up your arm, rattling your teeth.
“Shit,” you hiss.
You stop walking. Just stand there, breathing through it, waiting for the familiar ebb that usually follows. Cars pass. Someone brushes by your shoulder and mutters an apology you barely hear.
The pain doesn’t fade.
You test your weight carefully, shifting forward.
Your leg protests viciously, a sharp spike that makes your vision blur at the edges. Your knee threatens to buckle outright.
Okay. Bad day.
You swallow and lean more heavily on the cane, trying again, slower this time. One step. Then another. Each movement sends a grinding ache up your leg, like something is misaligned, inflamed, angry. You grit your teeth, forcing your breathing steady.
You tell yourself you just need to get home. You’ve pushed through worse. You always do.
But by the time you reach the next corner, sweat is prickling along your spine and your hands are shaking. You pause, resting your forehead briefly against a cool brick wall, cane wedged tight under your palm.
This isn’t smart.
You know that.
You consider calling someone—then immediately dismiss it. You don’t want to make it a thing. You don’t want pity or lectures or that careful look people get when they think you’re fragile.
You straighten, resolve hardening, and step off the curb.
Pain detonates through your leg.
Your knee gives out.
You don’t fall—only because a hand catches your arm, strong and steady, fingers biting just enough to keep you upright.
“Hey—hey, easy.”
You freeze.
That voice.
You look up, startled, breath still punched out of you, and there’s Tim. Hoodie zipped halfway, hair a little wind-tossed, backpack slung over one shoulder like he just happened to be walking by.
Your brain stutters.
“…Tim?”
He’s already adjusting his grip, sliding an arm around your back with practiced ease, the other hand anchoring your forearm. His touch is firm but careful, like he knows exactly how much support to give without hurting you.
“Yeah,” he says, a little too quickly. “I—uh. I was in the area.”
You blink at him. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry.” He glances down at your leg, brows knitting. “You okay?”
You let out a shaky laugh. “Define ‘okay.’”
He doesn’t smile back.
That’s when you realize how close he is. How tight his jaw looks. How his eyes are scanning you—not just your face, but your posture, the angle of your knee, the way your weight is pitched too far onto the cane.
“How long has it been hurting like this?” he asks.
You hesitate. “Today. I mean—it aches all the time, you know that. This is just… worse.”
“Worse how?”
You shift instinctively, and the pain spikes again. You gasp, grip tightening around the cane.
Tim’s hold firms immediately. “Don’t move.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.” His voice softens, but his hands stay steady. “Let me help.”
You start to protest out of habit. “I can walk—”
“You can,” he agrees, “but you shouldn’t right now.”
Something about the certainty in his tone makes the argument die in your throat.
He adjusts you carefully, guiding your arm fully around his shoulders, positioning himself at your side so you can lean into him without twisting your leg. He watches your face the whole time, gauging your reactions, moving only when you nod.
“You’re shaking,” he notes quietly.
“Yeah,” you mutter. “Guess my leg’s throwing a tantrum.”
He huffs a small, humorless breath. “It’s allowed to.”
You take a tentative step with his support. The pain is still there—sharp, insistent—but with your weight partially on him, it’s manageable. You exhale slowly, relief slipping through you despite yourself.
“Thanks,” you say after a moment. “Seriously. Talk about timing.”
Tim’s mouth twitches. “Yeah. Convenient.”
You don’t notice the way his grip tightens for just a fraction of a second.
You walk like that for several blocks—slow, uneven, but steady. Tim matches your pace without complaint, adjusting automatically when you falter, murmuring quiet reminders to breathe, to take it easy. He keeps you distracted with low, normal conversation—school, some dumb thing Jason said, a documentary he thinks you’d like.
He never once suggests calling someone else.
Eventually, you recognize your building.
“There,” you say, nodding weakly. “Almost home.”
Tim exhales like he’s been holding his breath the entire way.
Inside, he helps you up the stairs, step by careful step, until you’re finally inside your apartment. The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the city.
The moment you sit, the adrenaline drains out of you, leaving your leg throbbing and your body exhausted.
Tim crouches in front of you without asking, eyes level with your knee. He doesn’t touch it—just looks.
“That was bad,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” you admit. “It was.”
“You should rest it. Ice. Elevation.” He hesitates. “And… maybe let Alfred take a look?”
You grimace but don’t argue.
He straightens, then pauses, eyes flicking briefly—almost unconsciously—to your cane, resting against the couch.
You don’t see it.
You just see Tim Drake, showing up when you needed him most, like it was nothing more than coincidence.
And he lets you believe that.
Because as long as you get home safe—
as long as he’s there when you can’t make it on your own—the secret can stay exactly where it is.
Hidden.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
After that day, it happens more often.
Not constantly. Not enough to set off alarm bells. Just… enough.
Tim runs into you when your leg is acting up outside a café and insists on walking you the rest of the way, claiming he was “already headed that direction anyway.” He appears near the bus stop on a night when the pain has crept up your spine and settled meanly in your knee, offering a ride like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Once, you open your apartment door after a brutal grocery run to find him in the hallway, backpack slung over his shoulder, staring at his phone like he’s been there for ages.
You squint at him. “Do you live in my walls now?”
He smiles, sheepish. “Coincidence.”
You don’t question it too hard.
Mostly because you don’t want to.
There’s something comforting about it—about not having to ask, about someone noticing without making a production out of it. Tim never makes you feel watched. Never scolds. Never takes control unless you’re already struggling. He just… slots in beside you, steady and quiet, like gravity decided to be kind for once.
So you let it become a joke.
One evening, you’re limping a little worse than usual, cane tapping a sharp, irritated rhythm against the sidewalk. Gotham is loud, neon reflecting off puddles, your leg aching deep and ugly with every step. You pause to rest near a storefront window, breathing through the flare of pain.
“Rough day?” Tim’s voice says, right on cue.
You don’t even jump anymore.
You turn, grinning tiredly. “You know, I was just thinking it’d be funny if you showed up.”
“Wow,” he says. “I feel summoned.”
You lean more heavily on the cane, eyeing him with mock suspicion. “Okay, seriously. You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you, the street, the universe at large. “Show up exactly when I’m about to eat shit.”
He shrugs. “Good instincts?”
You snort. “No way. You probably have a tracker in your brain for me. You always know where I am.”
The words are careless. Teasing. Thrown out with a crooked smile and a laugh you don’t fully feel.
Tim stiffens.
It’s subtle—so subtle you almost miss it. His shoulders go a fraction too tight. His breath hitches, barely there. His eyes flick—not to your face, but to the cane in your hand.
Then he blinks.
Smiles.
Laughs, light and easy, like nothing in the world just dropped out from under him.
“Yeah,” he says. “Because that would be totally normal.”
You watch him, still amused. “I mean, it’d explain a lot.”
“Mm-hmm. Sure.” He steps closer, casual, already positioning himself at your side. “Or maybe you’re just very predictable.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate,” he counters gently. “You take the same routes. Same times. Same bad habit of pushing yourself too far.”
You huff. “Wow, okay. So you are stalking me.”
He rolls his eyes. “If I were stalking you, I’d be a lot worse at hiding it.”
That lands well enough that you laugh, tension easing out of you again. You shift your weight—and immediately regret it as pain spikes through your leg.
Tim’s hand is there instantly, steadying you.
“Easy,” he murmurs, all seriousness now. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you lie. “Just—being dramatic.”
He doesn’t call you on it. Just adjusts, letting you lean into him as you start walking again.
Behind his smile, though, his mind is racing.
Because for half a second—just half—he thought you knew.
He replays your tone in his head, your expression. Light. Joking. No sharpness. No suspicion. You weren’t probing. You weren’t watching him closely. You didn’t hesitate after saying it.
You didn’t know.
Relief loosens something tight and ugly in his chest, though the worry doesn’t fully fade. He tells himself to be more careful. To space it out. To stop hovering so close to your worst days.
He doesn’t succeed.
Because you stumble again two blocks later, and he tightens his grip without thinking, guiding you safely across the street while traffic roars past.
You glance up at him, breathless, and grin. “Told you. Perfect timing.”
He swallows, forces a smile of his own. “Guess I’m just lucky.”
You don’t see the way his thumb presses briefly, protectively, into your sleeve.
And you never notice how his timing is never luck at all.
Tim walks you all the way to your door.
Not just the building—the door. He insists, even when you tell him you’re fine from the stairs up. He keeps that calm, stubborn grip on your arm, matching your pace, counting steps without ever looking like he is.
When you finally unlock your apartment, your leg is screaming and your patience is thin, but there’s a strange comfort in knowing you made it without falling apart in public.
“There,” you breathe, leaning briefly against the doorframe.
Tim relaxes like he’s been holding tension in his shoulders the entire walk. He steps back just enough to give you space, hands dropping to his sides.
“If it still hurts tomorrow—”
“I know,” you interrupt gently, smiling. “I’ll behave.”
He studies your face for a moment, like he’s checking for something he can’t quite name. Then he nods, satisfied enough.
“Text me if it gets worse,” he adds.
You smirk. “You’ll probably show up before I do.”
He snorts, but it’s a little forced. “Good night.”
“Night, Tim.”
You shut the door and slide the lock into place.
For a moment, you just stand there, the quiet of your apartment settling around you. The adrenaline fades, leaving behind that deep, bone-heavy ache in your leg. You limp to the couch and sit, setting your cane carefully within reach.
The silence stretches.
Then your brain, unhelpfully, starts replaying things.
You always know where I am.
You’d meant it as a joke. You’re still pretty sure you did.
But now that you’re alone, it echoes differently.
You think about the café. The bus stop. The hallway outside your apartment. Today. Last week. The way Tim never calls ahead, never says I was nearby until after he’s already there. The way he doesn’t hesitate when he reaches for you—like he already knows exactly how bad it is.
You frown.
“Okay,” you mutter to the empty room. “That’s… weird.”
You tell yourself there are reasonable explanations. Tim’s observant. He’s a creature of habit. Gotham’s not that big. You run in the same circles. It’s not impossible.
Still.
You glance at the cane leaning against the couch.
Your fingers tighten around the armrest.
It was his idea. His gift. Perfectly balanced. Custom, really. Almost too perfect.
You shake your head and let out a quiet laugh. “Don’t be paranoid.”
But the thought doesn’t go away.
You remember the way he stiffened—just barely—when you joked about a tracker. The half-second pause before he laughed it off. The way his eyes flicked down.
To the cane.
Your chest tightens, not with fear, but something closer to confusion.
“No,” you say firmly, as if Tim can hear you. “He wouldn’t.”
Tim is careful. Tim asks permission. Tim respects boundaries almost to a fault. He wouldn’t track you. Not without telling you. Not like that.
…Right?
You reach for the cane, lifting it slowly, turning it over in your hands. It looks the same as it always has. Solid. Simple. Innocent. You don’t know the first thing about trackers, about where they’d even go, how small they could be.
You feel a little silly for even thinking it.
Still, you set the cane down closer than before, like you want it where you can see it.
You grab an ice pack, prop your leg up, and try to focus on something else. A show. Your phone. Anything.
But the unease lingers, low and quiet.
Not enough to accuse.
Not enough to confront.
Just enough to wonder.
And somewhere across the city, Tim walks home with his hands in his pockets, jaw tight, replaying your joke over and over again—wondering if next time, coincidence won’t be enough.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
He doesn’t go straight home.
He tells himself he will—tells himself that dropping you off, watching your door close, hearing the lock slide into place, should be the end of it. Mission complete. You’re safe. You’re inside. You’re off your feet.
That should be enough.
Your joke. It wasn’t accusatory. That’s the problem.
If you’d sounded sharp—if you’d narrowed your eyes, if your tone had gone careful or cold—he’d know how to respond. He’s good at that. He can deflect suspicion, bury data, reroute conversations until they lead nowhere dangerous.
Instead you’d laughed.
You’d trusted him enough to joke.
That’s what makes his chest ache now.
He hadn’t planned for this.
The tracker was supposed to be preventative. A safety net. Something passive. Something you’d never have to think about because you’d never know it existed. He told himself that over and over again while he installed it—hands steady, logic airtight, heart pounding harder than it ever does on patrol.
You’re vulnerable, his brain had said. Gotham is not forgiving. This reduces risk.
You trust me, another part of him had answered quietly.
He rubs a thumb against the seam of his sleeve, jaw tightening.
He’d justified it easily at first. Too easily.
You don’t patrol. You don’t have comms. You don’t have armor or backup or a symbol that makes criminals think twice. You have a limp and a habit of downplaying pain until it bites back hard enough to drop you to the pavement.
He couldn’t be everywhere at once—but a dot on a screen? That was manageable. That was safe. That was just information.
He hadn’t expected how often he’d check it.
At first, it was background noise. A glance while doing homework. A quick confirmation before bed. Just to make sure you were home.
Then it became routine.
He learned your rhythms without meaning to. The times you were most likely to push too far. The routes you took when your leg hurt versus when it didn’t. The places where you lingered—bookstores, late-night diners, that one corner where you always stopped like you were debating whether to keep going or turn back.
He learned when to hover and when to hold back.
And lately… he’d been hovering too much.
Tim starts walking again, faster now, the city blurring slightly around him. His thoughts sharpen, slide into analysis the way they always do when something goes wrong.
You’re not fully suspicious yet. He’s sure of that. You didn’t inspect the cane. You didn’t go quiet. You didn’t ask follow-up questions. If you were genuinely worried, you’d have tested the idea instead of tossing it out like a joke.
But the seed is there now.
He planted it himself by being sloppy.
Showing up once or twice is coincidence. Showing up every time your leg gives out is a pattern. Tim knows patterns better than anyone. He also knows when someone starts noticing them.
He pulls his phone out, thumb hovering before he even unlocks it.
He tells himself again that he’s protecting you. That the ends justify the means. That you’d understand if you knew the things he’s prevented, the nights you didn’t get hurt because he nudged the world just enough to keep you upright.
He considers disabling the tracker. The thought comes fast and sharp, like ripping off a bandage. He could do it tonight. You’d never know. He’d still worry, still watch from afar when he could—but he’d be blind again. Dependent on texts and chance encounters and hoping your bad days don’t turn dangerous when he’s not there.
His stomach knots.
He doesn’t disable it.
Instead, he opens a note on his phone and starts adjusting his own rules. Longer gaps. Fewer “coincidences.” He’ll wait until you ask for help—or until it’s genuinely necessary. He’ll be more careful. Smarter.
He has to be.
Because if you ever look at him the way you did tonight—but without the smile—he’s not sure he could lie convincingly enough to keep you from pulling away.
And that terrifies him more than any patrol ever has.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Weeks pass.
Tim adjusts. Slowly. Deliberately. He goes through the mental exercise of showing up less—of letting you struggle a little, trusting that you’ll manage, that the city won’t tear you apart before you make it home.
The first time he does it intentionally, he hovers a few blocks away, hands in his pockets, watching your dot move across the screen like it’s the most delicate thing in the world. He wants to run. He wants to step forward, slide into your path, wrap an arm around you before your limp flares too badly. He wants to intervene even when he knows it’s unnecessary.
It’s like fighting an instinct he didn’t realize had grown inside him.
And yet, even when he doesn’t step in, he never stops thinking about you. The dot moves across the city, and he calculates distances, timings, possible hazards, traffic patterns, every alley and pothole along your route. He imagines worst-case scenarios. He imagines you falling, slipping, twisting something that doesn’t heal as easily. He imagines himself being too late.
And each time, he clenches his jaw, forcing his hands to stay in his pockets, muscles taut, until your dot finally disappears into your apartment. Then—finally—he exhales. Relief and guilt wrestling each other in his chest.
Over the next few weeks, this becomes routine. He keeps the tracker data in the back of his mind, a private measure of your safety, but he’s careful. He lets you take your time. He lets you manage your bad days. He even grins a little at his own restraint, the faint amusement of a warrior learning patience.
But fate has a cruel way of reminding him that instinct cannot be fully tamed.
It’s late, colder than usual, the streets slick with rain. You’re making your way home after a long night—one of those nights when the pain in your leg doesn’t just flare, it screams. Each step feels heavier than the last. The cane thuds against the pavement, but it’s not enough this time. Your pace falters. Your breaths come sharp, uneven.
You’re halfway across a deserted street when your leg gives a violent twist. Pain explodes up your knee, your vision blurs, and suddenly your weight collapses entirely. You hit the ground hard, cane skittering out of reach. The world tilts sideways for a terrifying second before you’re on the cold, wet asphalt, unable to lift yourself.
Tim doesn’t hesitate. He’s already there. Faster than you could have imagined. He doesn’t knock on your door first. He doesn’t hover in the shadows. He’s there, boots hitting the wet concrete, hood up, hands ready before you even register the movement.
“Hey—hey, I’ve got you,” he says.
You barely have time to process him before his arms are under you.
It’s not clumsy or rushed. He lifts you like he’s done it a hundred times—one arm under your knees, the other solid around your back, drawing you carefully against his chest so your leg doesn’t jostle. You gasp, startled, instinctively gripping his jacket.
Your cane clatters to the ground.
“I’ve got it,” he says quickly, shifting you just enough to hook the cane with his foot and snag it with his free hand. He tucks it securely under his arm, adjusts his hold on you, and stands.
You’re heavier than you look. Or maybe it’s just the weight of the situation pressing into his spine. Either way, Tim doesn’t mind. Not even a little.
Your head tips forward, forehead pressing briefly against his shoulder. “Sorry,” you murmur, exhausted and embarrassed and hurting too much to mask it.
“Don’t,” he says, voice tight. “Don’t apologize.”
He carries you all the way home.
Not halfway. Not to a cab. All the way.
Step after careful step, he carries you across the street, through puddles that soak his jeans, up the sidewalk, and finally toward your building.
Halfway to the stairs, he pauses briefly. “You okay?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
“Yeah,” you whisper, voice tight, “I… I just—”
“Shh,” he says. “Just rest. I mean it.”
By the time he reaches your door, you’re trembling, exhausted from the pain, the effort, the sudden realization of how dependent you’ve become in this moment.
Inside, he finally sets you down on the couch, careful, deliberate. He places the cane beside you, slides off his jacket, and checks your leg instinctively. You catch a faint smile in the corner of his mouth, the one that’s meant to reassure you but betrays a little relief as well.
“See? Made it home,” he murmurs, voice low, almost private.
You’re breathing heavily, staring up at him, mind swirling with embarrassment and gratitude. “Thanks… for… everything,” you manage.
He waves it off like it’s nothing, but you notice the way his thumb brushes against the cane in the process, a small, subconscious act of care. “Just doing my job,” he says lightly, but his eyes stay on yours longer than necessary.
You close your eyes, letting out a slow breath. “You make a good nurse,” you mutter, half-joking, half-relieved.
He chuckles quietly. “I practice.”
And somewhere deep down, he knows; this is how he’s always going to protect you, even if you never realize how much he’s involved. Even if you think it’s all coincidence.
© 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐬 — do not copy my work.
game night pt. 2: the return of tim
WHO ALLOWED THEM TO DO THIS WHO ALLOWED THEM TO HAVE TIM SAY THIS WHEN HE THINKS HES DYING
Conners alive by the time the red robin series starts. If Tim did die, somehow hoping to see his best friend, they would miss each other. I-
Happy birthday, Tim! This piece of art took around 6 hours, and is fanart (though I guess it's official art) for my own fic!
Speaking of...
Enjoy! I really love this one (may be my favourite one ever) so please give it a read :DD The art makes a bit more sense after reading too.
Title: he was right (i'll never be satisfied)
Rating: T
Wordcount: 8,104
Pairing: Gen
Summary:
He could clean every artefact, wear every coat, or speak every line, but she wouldn’t be there with him. He had to find her coats in her hamper, had to watch interviews and childhood videos to burn his father’s laugh into his memory. Dana was there, Dana helped, but Dana wasn’t her. All he could do was grow his hair out and look in the mirror, letting the public call him ‘Janet?’ so that he could think that she was standing behind him.
The owl was gone, he realised. He felt damp.
…Oh, those were tears falling down his cheeks.
…
Or: Tim Drake; adopted son of Bruce Wayne, half-Korean, a master of galas, and a boy who just misses his parents.
Or Or: A character study of my favourite character for his birthday (ft. art)
“This is my mission. And I'm going to do whatever it takes to find Bruce. God help me.”
Tim Drake's Horrors (literal)
The Day 2 fic I've written for whumptober is probably one of my favorites XD The title is 'The Twisted Tale of Tim Drake', which in itself sounds fun.
Basically, it's an AU where Tim sees hallucinations which he calls The Horrors (he's like eight, give me a break). These Horrors are characters from the non-age-appropriate stories Janet told him when he was younger to discipline him. I pulled out these Horrors from stuff I used to watch as a kid like Courage the Cowardly Dog, Flapjack and Coraline, and just some "Horrors" I imagined up as a kid myself (I did not hallucinate, don't worry, the ones I imagined up were on purpose, i'm not crazy I swear). Now that I've finished the fic and left it as a oneshot, there are SO MANY things about this AU that I want to explore more.
Once you read the fic, you'll understand it more, but here's a bit of how they work:
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The Horrors only ever came during the night, they hated sunlight and loved the shadows. They also avoided his parents, so they were never there when Jack and Janet were home, which wasn’t very often. They never spoke, but always listened. Never touched things and didn’t like being touched either. And they never ever came more than two feet close to Tim. Once he realized that, he wasn’t too bothered by their presence.
He still was, don’t get him wrong. He was terrified of the monsters that followed him like shadows. Goosebumps never failed to break out all over his skin every time they came. They appeared often enough that he didn’t pass out of fear, but sparse enough to make his heart jump and race every time.
One thing that Tim found interesting though, was that just like his parents, the Horrors seemed to avoid Gotham’s vigilantes too. Every time he spotted Robin or Batman or Batgirl during his Gotham night outings, they disappeared in a blink. Then as soon as they were gone, they apparated back just as quickly. It made him love Gotham night outings even more.
~~~
Here are some examples of what they look like:
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"Since then, with every passing week he spent alone in a giant, creaky, empty manor, Tim met more and more of the Horrors. He met Rasma the man made of strings, Tispy the giant floating white head, Juno the hungry snake with caterpillar feet, Dolly the doll whose eyes and tongue popped out of her head every few minutes, and many more."
"He was out, fiddling with his camera, when Pan the red boy who could fly appeared out of nowhere on the rooftop across from him. It waved at him, the blood on his hand flying everywhere. It laughed without sound at his horrorstruck face with a pointing finger."
~~~
My further thoughts on this AU:
Tim's Horrors are there to help him and warn him of danger, making him especially tuned to his surroundings
They watch over him like his personal guardian angels (or demons)
No one else can see them except Tim, so he won't be discovered when they try to help him
But this also means that he can't use them to his advantage during fights or interrogations to scare criminals (and sometimes siblings)
They don't talk so Tim has to rely on their body language cues which gets even harder seeing as their bodies are weird amalgamations
They do still disappear when Tim's safe people arrive though. So Tim can feel completely safe with them.
But somewhere along the line, after the events of the fic, Jack and Janet stop being safe for Tim and the Horrors are there at the same time as they are to help him cope.
Even though he gets used to seeing the Horrors and doesn't get as scared anymore, he still spirals into a freak out and even a panic attack sometimes when a new Horror shows up, because Tim hasn't becomes used to it yet.
One of my favourite parts of this concept is a spoiler for the fic, but has something to do with Tim and his relationship with the emotion of fear.
I'm not sure whether to make them just Tim's hallucinations, or actual beings from another world who have taken a liking to Tim.
I mean, the fic definitely implies the latter even though I haven't made up my mind yet. Because if these are just hallucinations, then the limits of what they can do to help Tim are very large.
If they are otherworldly beings, then is it just one being in different forms or several beings who just collectively like Tim and want to protect him.
If they're a group, then did one of them go like "Yo, I found this cute neglected kid. Check it out."
They've all just adopted Tim as their own child. Tim just has that sort of face where the people who meet him can't help but adopt him. It happened with Bruce, it happened with Jason, it happened with Dick and Alfred and Barbara. It's really not that crazy to think that these alien, ethereal terrors from a secret circle of hell want to adopt him too.
By the time Tim becomes Robin, he grows more comfortable with his Horrors and has figured out how to train them to help him during fights. He hones this talent so well that the Horrors work just as well as Duke's powers too, except they don't require light and are okay in almost every situation.
They shield Tim strongly from mind-control and mind-reading because anyone who tries to get in his head sees the Horror and immediately backs out (also important to note that the Martian Manhunter and Miss Martian are now extremely terrified of him and leave the room as soon as he appears. His Horrors find it funny, Tim does too but doesn't openly say it).
People often find him talking to himself. Only the batfam (and the martians) know that he's really talking to his Horrors. Cue interactions like:
"Jason, my Horrors say that I shouldn't forgive you for what you did at Titans Tower. The only exception is if you grant me ten no-questions-asked favors and bake me 3 cakes and a 5-course-meal. Oh and twenty hugs."
"Damian, I know you cut my grapple line. Go and fix it right now before I tell Rasma to visit you in your sleep." (they can't, but he's not about to let him know that)
"Dick, Dolly says that you look very nice in that shirt. I think she has a bit of a crush on you *wink*." "Tim, I know that your Horrors' version of beautiful means a mixture of the ugliest and most horrendous things to ever exist on Earth. I saw you complaining about how Dolly finds literal dogshit attractive. I'm not falling for that *puts shirt away*" Tim: *grumbles and walks away*
Bruce finds Tim's hallucinations concerning, but he can't help but admit that he's fascinated by them too. He asks Tim about them in a way dads ask their daughters about their friends like, "Tim? What do your Horrors say about Scarecrow's new strand of fear toxin." "Everything alright with you and your Horrors? You seem really upset." "Interesting. Tell me more about Uloo's paper-eating obsession."
Damian gets jealous a few times because he wants to have horrifying hallucination friends like Tim too. But one day, he walks in on Tim having a panic attack and freaking out at a new Horror who just appeared, throwing Tim off because he wasn't used to this one.
Damian enters the room and the Horror disappears, leaving Tim sobbing in relief. After that, Damian realizes just how much Tim was actually hiding under his cheerful mask.
Damian creates a system so that there is at least one person available near Tim every time a new Horror appears (which doesn't happen as often as it used to, but they change every week).
Tim is very grateful to have the people he does now.
That's all I have for now!
I'm really really excited for you guys to read this fic ^^ If you have any more questions, comments or even new ideas for this AU, please lmk!!
