When you look up who created Tim Drake you’ll see Marv Wolfman and Pat Broderick, but that’s just because Pat Broderick drew Tim’s initial cameo as a creepy looking toddler cause he couldn’t draw a toddler.
And I’d rather not believe we’re supposed to take this as what Tim is suppose to look like, when he looks much more different during his origin story.
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Today I want to attempt to make the most quintessential Tim Drake post I can manage. By talking about his characterization as written by the man that created Tim, with help from various artists, Marv Wolfman. So basically, the man that has no better authority on Tim Drake.
That way I figure is the most concrete characterization you can get for Tim. And while obviously he’s had character development. His stories were made to show us who Tim Drake was at his heart.
So that’s what I chose to go off of for this post that goes over his origin, motivation, personality, and looks.
That way you can get the ultimate understanding of Timmy Drake! Or at least the basics.
Also, as a note, and what may be obvious, this is his origin, meaning that he’d obviously develop more as a character, which would lead to the degree of some of these traits being changed, or written by other writers that focus on some more than others, or even just made to be out of character.
I’m just choosing to use the origin, because it’s the closest way to show what the intention was for the heart of his character. <3
(I don’t own the hardback cover, but man, if I did. I’d…just treat it the same as my softback. But it’d be really cool. It’s a very fun cover. Batman’s smiling again and look at Timmy’s toothy grin!)
I think the easiest way to begin to explain Tim and his characterization, is what I can gather may be the most obvious way to it. His origin story. Which I’ve covered in quite some detail in another post, which I may link if I can figure out how to do that. So I’ll just recap the important parts of it, before just going to the character moments that can show us what little Timmy is like.
We have the same pfp and I got reaaaally confused when I saw one of your posts on my feed cause I did NOT remember reblogging that specific post about Tim Drake
Tim remembers everything about you. It comes easily to him, and you tell yourself that it's only because he has good memory and not that he's interested in you. It's so easy to forget that maybe it's all just a facade put up so you'd lower your walls.
He knows what flowers you like — how to take care of them because you'd gone into detail once while out with friends. He knows everything you say because he remembers everything you mention offhandedly.
You tell him you like his new cut once and he stops changing his hairstyle every time he cuts it. He has the same cut for so long that you're starting to wonder if he's just settling down into how he ought to now that he's getting older. Maybe he was starting with his hairstyle. It's easier to convince yourself that that's the case and not that your compliment had caught him off guard once.
You'd stared at him so much that you thought you'd get a restraining order.
And then, then there are moments you can't quite explain to yourself that you choose to ignore. When he hears you in a room of crowded people and always has what you're asking for, you have to tell yourself that it's because he has good hearing and not because he— not because he.
It's so horrible, you tell yourself. You sit on your bathroom floor and stare at the tile as you convince yourself over and over again that there's no way he would ever like you like that. He has so many better people to go after, and there's so much to yearn for when there isn't even anything to gain by messing with you.
You convince yourself that it has to be because of pride and nothing else. Surely it's because he gets a kick out of getting you flustered and shaky-eyed than anything else.
So you sit next to him on movie nights, leaning against his leg while seated on the floor, lips curled upwards kindly and sweetly as he looks at you, humming quietly as he asks if you're comfortable.
You'll never quite be if you're stuck in this limbo, but he doesn't need to know that.
I suddenly feel like I'm scared of falling in love with Tim when I read this lmao 🥀 I may, or may not, be rational enough when it comes to Tim. Maybe I'm just gonna falling deeper and deeper while still not being able to find out the real answer from Tim
I've just known that Bangboo's weight usually is around 32-40kg, that's mean if we want to carry Asaboo it will not easy like carry a plushie 😞 I always forget that Bangboo is a robot
Wait are Bangboos actually that heavy 💀 I was under the impression they were weirdly light… brb everyone I have to edit some things in my fic rn….. To carry Asaboo we will all have to work out until it’s possible 🔥
So what do you think about Yandere!Tim being with a s/o who is willing to do anything for him? Killing someone is on his way or someone threats his safe?
At first Tim thought he mess his s/o head successfully, but he didn't. It's just in his s/o head from the beginning. Will Tim grab that chance and I don't know, use his s/o? Or will he have other reaction?
oh that's an interesting scenario! so a bit like a yandere x yandere type thing? i think his reaction sort of depends on what the set up is and what his designs upon you were on the first place. in general, i think tim is surreptitious about his impulses. he cares about his image and keeping it clean and free of suspicion, because that grants him more liberty to act.
his perspective on you will change a lot depending on how you start out your relationship, though. he would approach a villain differently from a civilian, for example. the former would get a far heavier hand, because he has plausible justification for it. i don't think he's particularly violent either. he seems to be the more controlling and manipulative sort. he wants to know exactly where you're going and what you're doing and who you're speaking with, and theoretically hold power over that, even if he doesn't exercise it most of the time. the most efficient way to control you is of course to control you instead of your surroundings. therein comes the manipulation.
it would be pretty fun if you were like. a little bit unhinged from the get go. i like to think you try a lot to behave like a normal person, and it becomes this driving force in your life. both shackle and guiding light. and he somehow sees in you that thread of... i don't know what to call it. obsessiveness. resemblance. he spies himself in you. and he has to pull the thread out, he needs to know where it goes. you become something of a pet project. how far will you go? how much can he push? obviously it does drive you a little crazy. i think he receives your increasingly violent outbursts with magnanimous grace to everybody else, and only shows his evident delight to you. he likes that he can incite that from you. in return, he shows you exactly how you affect him. i think his loved ones regard you with much suspicion and hostility and beg tim to stop seeing you and he finds it as funny as i do.
im 50/50 on whether he ever tells you you're exactly the same person. i think he always plays with it, works it into the subtext. but i also like to think that he is wholeheartedly devoted to justice and vigilantism and the goodness of the world, because he is robin, so it is hard for you to believe him. if he holds back, it is because your guilt and shame makes it easier for him to hold onto you. if he tells you, it's because he caved into the incessant need to know if, when you knew exactly how similar the two of you were, you would hold on back.
i do find myself quite charmed by the prospect of an extremely reluctant reader who very pointedly does not want to have anything to do with crime being dragged around by these tight-suit wearing, back flipping, quippy little guys to the sites of like. gruesome murders. robin is like you are instrumental in bringing justice to this poor victim and you're like man's dead he doesn't give a shit why do i have to--okay okay turn off the weepy eyes. jesus. can't even mind my own business in this goddamn place. i'll move to metropolis one day, i swear i will. and robin's like (completely calm) thank you for your help :)
Summary — Jason suffers from a failed mission and needs you. Word Count — 3.0k.
Content — angst, hurt/no comfort.
Zya's Notes — this is my first time writing Jason, bear with me.
Loss is a frequent echo in Jason's life.
Weighted to the depth of his soul, anchored by his part. Since his birth, nothing but the blanket of death envelops his life—from his mother, to his time with the Joker, to the Lazarus pit that brought his resurrection. Because even if it did bring him back to life, the innocence behind his eyes was gone.
You've always known this. From the very first day you met him, Jason warned you he was damaged. At first, you assumed it to be a precaution he gave all his lovers because he didn't see himself as something worth loving. Some of that remains accurate. However, over time, you learned more about his secrets and tales and discovered his statement wasn't an exaggeration.
Because it's easy to love Jason Todd.
But it's just as easy to hate him.
Kicking off his boots, Jason steps inside his apartment and disengages his helmet from his head. He sets the red mask on his shelf, maneuvering to his cabinets in search for the hardest liquors in stock.
Tonight had been a rough mission. Despite the countless lives he saved, he still couldn't rescue a child from the massacre. All he remembers is the piercing screams, the little girl's pleas for help, his hushed reassurances that he's almost there.
But he wasn't. All there was left was silence.
Jason uncaps the glass and swallows a large gulp, moving to his bedroom. He lands on his bed with a thump, a groan slipping through gritted teeth from the pain.
There had been phone calls and pings from the Batcave, where he was sure the rest of the family had found surveillance of his gruesome mission, but he didn't have the energy to answer. Louder than the rest, he hears the moronic ringtone Dick set for his number playing on a loop, like an irritating itch that refuses to die down. Ignoring them all, Jason drinks from his bottle until there's nothing but droplets left.
That's when he hears a shy creak from the front door.
His body hums with heightened nerves, not easily seduced by the copious quantities of bitter alcohol Jason tried to force down his throat. He highlights every sound echoing through his empty apartment—the leisure clicks of heels against hardwood, calculating the distance it travels—and by the time his bedroom door cracks open, you peek through.
At first, he thought he'd imagined you. That happens. A side effect of the Lazarus pit, Jason managed to control it after years of training—to distinguish between what's real and not. But it comes back on occasion. However, nothing was worse than the episode months after you broke up with Jason.
"Hi, Jay."
Jason blinks. His hallucinations never spoke. They always observed and trailed after him as a figment of his imagination, a shadow from the corner of his peripheral. But they always remained silent. Taunting, even.
That's how he knows this is real. You're really here.
He should feel a cool sense of relief wash over him. It's been months of anguish and grief from missing you and wanting you back. It didn't matter that the breakup shattered him, he knew that if he saw you again, he would welcome you back with open arms.
But none of that arrives. All that came is hurt.
"What are you doing here?" He rasps, and despite his attempt at keeping his hostility at bay, they seep out like spits of venom.
You flinch, gripping the doorknob tighter as you resist the urge to run. "Dick called me."
He huffs, "Dick's always in my business."
"Maybe it's because he cares about you."
"If he cared about me, he would've been here."
Jason's words weren't aimed at his older brother. It's a direct shot to your chest, but Jason doesn't have a speck of remorse. His eyes are bloodshot, making his irises glow, and his expression hardens into sharp lines. You'd told Dick this was a bad idea, that Jason would want nothing to do with you, but the eldest refuted that you're the only one he would be willing to listen to.
Perhaps, once upon a time. But not now.
It's easy for you to leave, turn your heel, and exit the apartment complex without another exchange. But you don't. It's only been a few months since you last saw Jason, but you can't pretend that you don't miss him. Don't long for him every night. Don't check the news and headlines for any articles regarding Red Hood and his nefarious activities after dark.
Pushing the door wider, you step into the familiar bedroom and approach Jason, each step feels heavier than the last. He eyes you carefully as if you're prey entering a trap, and you grab the bottle clung to his chest before looking at the empty content.
His hooded gaze raises, "Didn't know I was supposed to share."
You scoff, but your shoulders loosen slightly. You set the bottle down on his nightstand, grabbing his muscular arm and hauling him up from the mattress, with difficulty because of the weight of his gear. Like a practiced choreography, you unlatch his belt, to the straps around his pecs, and unload them to the closet where it's stashed for the next day.
Jason says nothing as you return to the space before him, making a conscious choice to not meet his stare. You're surprised by his lack of resistance, especially as you drag him to the nearby bathroom, flicking the light on, and setting him in front of the sink counter.
When you pull out the aid kit from under the cabinets, Jason finally breaks the unbearable silence. "You remembered."
Your breathing lulls and you sink in the memories of the past. Long nights of patching Jason up, after his encounters with criminals and felons—the whips of clashing blades and the graze of bullets on skin. You even took a medical course at Gotham College to better equip yourself on how to take care of your boyfriend.
Well, ex.
"How could I forget?" Your voice is quiet, almost indistinguishable, but Jason clings to every little word. "I was the one restocking it."
"Do you remember your training?"
"Of course I do," you say. "They don't give out As for anybody."
A faint smile breaks out across Jason's face, even if he didn't want it to, and you lift your head to discover the easygoing expression. You return with your own grin, and a moment, suspended in time, there's a place where you forget the broken status of your relationship.
Despite the rough exterior Jason tries to exert, attempting to hold you at arm's length, his eyes soften upon meeting yours, tracing your features as a way to drink you in after months of agony and separation. They linger on your lips for a moment longer than necessary, wondering if they still taste the same as before.
But as quickly as it came, it left. Jason turns away, curling his hands into fists, his jaw sharpening by the grind of his teeth. Remnants of his anger remain, pulsing, eruptive, and targeted at you. It dulls with every passing moment in your presence, but it isn't fair. You can't return exactly as you were as if you didn't add to his misery.
"Jason?"
"Just finish up," he snaps, stonewalling his emotions to keep himself safe. "I don't have all night."
You sigh. Unraveling the roll of gauze, you examine the cuts and bruises on his shoulders and forearms. It isn't too bad. Jason has always been good at protecting himself—and you—so you believed the blood soaking his shirt was mostly his opponents rather than his.
When you grab the isopropyl alcohol, the can is light. "It's empty," you murmur, setting the gauze back in the kit. Jason glances at the bottle in your hands.
"It's—"
"I know," you mumble with a nod, slipping out of the suffocating bathroom before clinically moving through your old apartment, and finding another bottle behind one of his doors. When you're about to return, you catch a whiff of lavender in the air and freeze, searching the room to find a lit candle sitting on the island in his kitchen.
Your expression softens, admiring the glass filled with wax before you make your way back to the bathroom. Jason's attention is set on your phone sits on the counter's edge.
"Someone texted you," Jason informs, his arms crossed against his chest as his gaze drifts to your face.
"Oh," you set the bottle down as you pick up your phone, reading the message.
Jason studies your expression, wondering who it could be. He didn't check out of respect for your privacy, and he's holding his tongue from asking, but a curious thought pounds at the edge of his mind. Did you move on? He couldn't resist by then. "Who is it?"
"Tim," you answer, setting the screen face-down on the countertop. "Also, Damian. He says to 'get some rest, Todd,' and that you still owe him a match tomorrow morning."
You punctuate your sentence with a soft smile, hoping to simulate the feelings from before, but Jason doesn't return the gesture. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat, and a sting surges through his veins. "Didn't know you still kept in contact with my brothers."
"Didn't know you still kept the candle."
If Jason was surprised by your response, he doesn't reveal it. He leans against the edge of the sink, the porcelain digging into his spine as his arms remain crossed over his chest. "You were right. The aroma covers the smell of blood."
Your lips curve with surprise, your eyes brightening from his admission. "I was right?"
"Don't let it get into your head."
"I wanna hear it again."
He says your name as a scold, but you merely beam from his words. There were some suggestions you gave Jason when you lived with him—making his place less James Bond and more homey. Before you came, he tracked grim and mud into the living area, wafted a tingeing scent of copper, and covered the entire apartment in weaponry and computers. You adjusted some things, but they were accepted with reluctance, and you hadn't expect Jason to keep any when you left.
Jason mirrors a gentle smile on his face as he watches the excitement radiate from you, reminding him of an easier time. That's how the start of your relationship felt—giddily, charming, and loveable.
"Your turn," Jason declares, uncrossing his arms and returning them to his side.
"There's not much to say." You admit somberly. "I keep in touch to make sure everything's okay."
"With everyone?"
"Dick, Tim, Damian..." You trail off, contemplating adding the last member. "And Bruce."
You study Jason's face as he absorbs the information, but nothing helps you identify his emotions. That's one of the difficult things about being with Jason. He never reveals his true emotions to you, always making you guess his thoughts. He doesn't tell you when he's hurt, or angry, or happy, because he keeps it all to himself.
At first, it didn't bother you, because you knew he didn't trust easily. But, sometimes, it feels like he didn't trust you at all.
You can't bring yourself to ask, to beg him to talk, so you go back to helping him with his wounds. In the silence, you clean the cuts, layering a thin layer of ointment cream over the scars, and bandage him up. By the time you're done, Jason remains as quiet as he was before.
That's truly all Dick asked you to do. He couldn't get into contact with Jason, and knowing an unannounced visit from Nightwing would do nothing but provoke an argument, he thought to ask you to check-in. To make sure he isn't beating himself up over the loss in his mission.
You didn't have to clean him up. Take off his gears. Make sure he isn't hurt. But you did.
As you make your way out of the bathroom, you glance at the exit. Jason can return to his bed on his own two feet, and as you're about to bid a polite farewell, Jason cuts you off.
"Why didn't you ever check up on me?"
The question startles you. Turning to see him exit from the bathroom, Jason stops a couple feet away from the bed, keeping a safe distance from you. His gaze never wavers.
"Jason..." You swallow a bile forming in your throat. You didn't want to give him some pseudo-bullshit to comfort him. He has always appreciated the truth. "We were broken up."
He huffs, "Which was something I didn't want."
"I know."
"It destroyed me,"
"I know,"
"I needed you," he confesses with such rawness, you can't help but falter from the sound. Your hands clench into fists by your side, nails digging into your palms to ease the ache in your chest.
"I..." You stammer. "It was hard for me. Being your girlfriend."
The good has always been good; euphoric and phenomenal. But the bad had been bad; miserable and troublesome. You couldn't handle the whiplash of emotions, of being pulled to absolute highs one night to being dragged to complete lows. It was too much for your little heart.
"I love you, and I'll always will, but I just... It was hard."
Jason stares at you, and behind his strong demeanor, something cracks behind the armor. He swallows thickly, his mind running a hundred miles an hour trying to rationalize your confession. "Did you... did you move on?"
"Jay..."
"No, I don't want that," he asserts, despite knowing a positive answer would wreck him, "I want to hear it. Was it easy to forget about me?"
"Jason, please," you beg, throbbing pain eliciting from your clenched palms as tears crowd your vision. "It took everything of me to step inside your apartment. To see you. When Dick called me, I truly didn't want to go, but he said you needed me."
His breathing slows. Pieces forming together. "And you came."
You nod once. "And I came."
He says nothing, his chest rising and falling with unsteady beats, and you can't help but take this as an opportunity to bid a formal farewell. You can't take it. But just before you can take two steps towards the bedroom door, Jason calls out with a rough voice. "Stay."
It takes everything of him to say that. Vulnerability seeps into the very crevices of his words, to his dark eyes, waiting for your answer—waiting for you to deny him. "I'm... I'm not asking for anything else. I don't expect anything. But I need you tonight."
Your eyes soften. You know how hard is for Jason to talk about his emotions, about his needs. You know it isn't good for you, every rational bone in your body telling you to leave, but you resist against them. Extending your hand, Jason doesn't hesitate to take it into his palm, pulling you into the bed.
It's so easy. You slip under the covers, crawling over to Jason's side as you lay your head on his chest, laminating the irrelational beats of his heart. His arm settles around your waist, brushing against your thin tee, in an act so endearing, so natural, it's almost forgotten that this is the first intimate touch in months.
It hurts to be around Jason. To remember the good times. To recount the worst. His breathing remains unsteady—not because there's any damage to his lungs, but because that too is a side effect of the Lazarus pit. When you first dated him, you thought every night's rest was his last.
It causes you to tighten your grip around his torso, needing to keep him real. Alive. Your breathing becomes steady when you feel his hand glide over your skin in soothing strokes.
"I thought you hated me," Jason admits after a long stretch of silence.
"I could never hate you," you whisper. "That's not possible."
"You left me."
You don't answer that. Abandonment can be constituted as hate in Jason's world and there's nothing you can say to make him believe differently. Lifting your head from his chest, your eyes wash over his relaxed features. The fluff of white hair in the mass of dark roots, the gentle slope of his cheekbones, jaw, and the crooked outline of his nose. It's as if you're trying to commit to memory all the changes that have happened since you've been gone.
"I'm here now."
Jason nods and you return back to your previous position. It's always been difficult for him to find his slumber, but he manages to find it easy with your presence.
But as he falls asleep, you can't seem to follow him. For a moment, you wonder why everything was such a problem. Why couldn't you have stayed in this relationship if the both of you brought to each other a sense of peace no one else can encapsulate? But, then you remember.
It's the mornings. The morning after every bad mission, every disaster under the domain of Red Hood. Jason would return to the streets, becoming more reckless, vicious, and death-prone than ever before to make up for the loss he had the previous night.
And it killed you. Sitting in this apartment, obsessively checking for any articles about how Red Hood finally struck his last time. Even though Jason may have been raised from the dead, given the opportunity of a second chance, he lives his life as if it's his first.
Jason goes out into the world believing he's invincible. And maybe he is. Maybe he can beat death once again. And again. And again. But you can't sit around and watch. Because every night, every day spent wondering if he is hurt, if whether he's going to walk through the front door, kills you.
So, by morning, when the sun filters through his blinds and a warm ray lands on Jason's scarred and healing skin, his muscles throbs with pain, and his head pounding with a mild case of hangover, he slowly opens his eyes one by one.
And he remembers. He remembers everything the night before. How you came. How you stayed. And when his hand drifts to the place on his chest, to find any remnant of you, he discovers nothing but the wisps of air.
It's easy to love Jason Todd. It is. But it's hard to stay with him like, forever, without feeling hurt as hell. Sometimes he fights like there's nothing holding him back.
You see it online, and you think it'll be silly. A question that'll crack Jason up. One he'll ask his siblings to fuck with them. So you slide in next to him on the couch, lay your head on his shoulder, and ask.
Jay, would you love me if I was a worm?
Jason looks at you. You smile, teeth holding your lip to keep the laugh in. You expect him to tickle your side, plaster you to the cushion. Is that one of those internet trends? I swear...
Jason doesn't smile, though. Jason looks at you, his eyes serious.
You love a worm now, he says. Of course I'd love you if you were a worm.
You blink. What is he talking about?
Jay, what do you mean?
Only worms come outta the dirt. Robin was light, but Hood is mud. And you love me. You make sure I eat and drink and sleep. You love me when I'm shriveled up. When I miss the dirt. When I feel cut in half. You hold a worm in your hands and kiss me goodnight.
And here is where he draws you close. Brands your cheek with his breath. You shudder.
I would love you if you slept in the dirt. I would love you if you couldn't work or make spaghetti or change the channel. I'd buy you everything you needed and I make a damn good marinara and I'd build you a little worm-sized remote. I would love you if you were split in half. I'd love both halves of you equally. You do that every day and make it look damn easy when I know it's not. I'd love you no matter what shape you took.
You'll spend the rest of your life convincing Jason he isn't a worm. That loving him isn't loving mud.
Tonight, you hold him tightly, kiss his chest, and take solace in the fact that if you were a worm, Jason Todd would kiss you on all five of your hearts every night.
Finally, some loser reader representation in isekai fanfic! Don't get me wrong, I love a good power trip, but as a fellow reader who is a fucking loser with stupidly large amounts of anxiety, I'm glad to see our name being spread out there
Because realistically, I feel like most people that were isekaied would totally avoid the main characters out of sheer embarrassment of themself and because of their pathetic amount of social anxiety. I mean, if they can't even ask the waiter for ketchup when they eat out, how would you expect them to talk to their favorite characters who are literally perfect in almost every way?
EXACTLY!!! THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!
I mean, in the fic the reader will definitely use the excuse of them being "danger magnets" (which,,, they are), but it literally is because, what are they even supposed to say. What do they even do while in front of Bruce Wayne while knowing about his nightly activities that - contrary to everyone else's belief in that universe, doesn't involve getting frisky in the sheets (too much, at least)? How are they supposed to be normal around all of these freaks? And when they're attractive too??? HELLO????
How are you supposed to talk to such smart, charismatic, personable people, when you can't even correct the cashier or server when they mishear you and or get your order wrong? How are you supposed to even look at someone who's naturally intimating, when you can't even maintain eye contact with normal people? How are you supposed to do this?????
God forbid you get saved, imagine how embarrassing that must feel to actually be in that position... and awkward too because of how, y'know, you KNOW their secret identity. At least you have more of an excuse to act nervous in that scenario, but how are you supposed to act like you didn't just get saved by one of the Wayne's either????
You know that one meme that as a guy standing in the corner of a poorly drawn party, holding a red cup? The "they don't know" meme? That's the reader in Intruder. That's you, bro.
could I request a fic with insomniac!reader and tim? i love your writing im excited to see how you make his character your own! <3
thanks for the request! first time writing tim... kinda nervous like I'm on a first date 🫣 hope you like! this one isn't as mushy gushy as my usual fics (jason) so yeah. also my knowledge of yj is purely through fic 🤙
tim drake x gn!reader. tw insomnia, tim being so awkward but maybe... there are feelings... who can say. tim's character is so interesting to me (probably because I identify with him the most lmao).
****
It's really, really nice of the team to let you stay over tonight. Like, really nice.
You haven't even done much. You're pretty much a nobody in the superhero world, not even a D-list hero. Certainly not anybody that should be hanging out with the likes of Wonder Girl and Superboy and, God, Tim freakin' Drake.
Kon was just overly generous in his cool, brash way, herding you into a spare room after last night's battle. After tonight, you'll politely break away from the team to give them some reprieve. It didn't escape your notice that they didn't hang out last night like they usually do.
You've been awake for an hour now, listening for sounds of life in the corridor. If you were home, you'd already be on the couch watching crappy TV. But you really don't want to run into anyone here.
Maybe you have some chamomile tea leftover from the last time you stayed over. You hadn't stayed the whole night, slipping away without interference as most of the team had gone to their own homes.
You get up, stretching and popping joints. It's always a little cold in the Tower, and it wakes you up as you walk to the kitchen first. You're as quiet as you can be in heating the water and finding the tea.
You take your mug and head to the den. As you enter, you freeze.
Tim turns his head from his place on the couch. The blue light from the TV makes him paler, and his eyes bluer. Sometimes, he looks so much like Bruce Wayne, it startles you.
"Oh," you say, unsure what else to say. Your brain is tired and fried. "I... was just looking for my watch."
That's definitely your dumbest lie. You don't have a watch. Tim sure as fuck knows that.
His eyes flick to your wrist, as if reminding you both how stupid your lie is, then to your mug. He mutes the TV.
You stay where you are. Tim stands, obviously shouldering his own bout of insomnia.
"It's... you can come in," he says, just as awkward as you.
That's comforting. Tim's usually so suave, the few times you've interacted. He's all Gotham Heights, his upbringing never quite sloughing off no matter how many times he's probably tried to blend in and not be so... private school.
"I was just going to bed," he says quickly.
"No, you weren't," you say. You don't mean for it to come out so shrewd. Tim looks a little startled.
"I mean, you don't need to go," you add. "I'll take this to my room. It's fine. Sorry."
"No, I've been here too long anyway. I should work on my case."
Here's the thing. It's not that Tim avoids you because in order to do that, you'd have to see him more than three times a year.
But there's a distance. You've tried not to take it personally, tried to chalk it up to the fact that you're introverted and Kon and Bart are Kon and Bart, and Cassie's too straightforward to beat around the bush, and you've somehow won her over, which is nice.
And Tim is just... cautious. Paranoid.
Those are understatements, and you can't imagine the psychological damage caused by being raised by Batman, but, well, you've seen the previous and current Robins, so you can hazard a guess.
Anyway, Tim kind of acts like an unsocialized cat with you. You once mentioned it to Kon, in nicer words, but he dismissed you, saying, "Whaddya mean? Rob likes you!" Which had assuaged nothing, but whatever.
"I won't be here long," you say, as a last-ditch effort to not make it feel like you're kicking Tim out of his own space. "I just, uh, couldn't sleep."
He watches you in that freaky Bat way, like he's trying to determine if you're a threat or not. Jesus.
"It's hard for me to sleep after a battle," you add, trying to show your belly. That's how it feels, being around Tim Drake. Like you always need to be vulnerable first. Like you're in a battle of wills you didn't know you entered.
He doesn't sit down, but he does say, "Me too."
You nod and drink your cooling tea. "There's more tea in the kitchen if you want. Chamomile."
"I'm... good. Thanks."
You edge over to the armchair diagonal to the couch and sit.
"You can work in here," you say. "Unless, uh, it's too distracting. I'll keep the TV muted."
His laptop is on the other side of the couch. Tim is still, only his eyes moving from you to the laptop.
"I don't wanna push you out," you say.
"It's really fine," he replies immediately.
It's so not fine. This isn't boding well for your insomnia. You're definitely going to be agonizing over this interaction all week.
"I won't bother you," you say.
"I didn't say you would."
Then what's the problem?
Slowly, Tim returns to the couch. You look away, so it doesn't seem like you're watching his every move (you are), nor is Tim clocking your every move (he is).
He settles on the couch and opens his laptop. You drink and try to figure out what's playing on TV. It looks to be a rerun of Columbo. You smile.
"You like Columbo?"
Tim looks spooked that you're still talking to him, but he answers. "Yeah."
"Me too."
You watch Columbo silently look for clues. Tim types, fingers flying over the keyboard. Then his fingers pause.
"I used to watch it with Dick," he says. "When I first became Robin."
You nod, giving him your full attention. "Yeah? He seems like the type."
"He does a pretty good impression of him. He likes detective shows."
"You don't?" you ask.
Tim shrugs. "They're fine. I guess I just hate how predictable they can be."
"Of course the boy genius would say that," you say, smirking.
Instantly, Tim's face turns to stone. He hums, looking back at his laptop. You blink. What happened?
"Sorry. That was a joke," you say.
"I know," Tim says, any trace of warmth gone.
You're startled by the shift. "I don't—I wasn't making fun of you. I mean, you are smart. Really smart."
Tim carefully looks at you. "...Thanks."
You nod clumsily. You should've just stayed in bed.
It's quiet for a long time. You're trying to muster up the confidence to escape to your room when Tim speaks again.
"People have said stuff like that to be facetious. I... reacted without reading your tone."
It's not an apology, but it's probably the closest thing you'll get.
"It's okay," you say.
Tim nods. His shoulders aren't so tense, though his posture is atrocious when he's off-duty.
He gets up and gives you the remote. You take it, smile small. Tim retreats.
"You can unmute it if you want. I don't mind."
So you do, and you and Tim spend the next hour half-watching Columbo and half-watching each other. Eventually, your tea finishes, and the episode ends, so you get up.
"I think I'll try and sleep," you say.
Tim nods. "Good luck."
You hum. "Thanks. Good luck with the case."
"Yeah. Thanks."
You wash the mug and leave it on the dish rack. Then you escape back to your room. You really do feel like you could sleep again. Maybe Columbo reruns are the magic ingredient to a good night's sleep.
