Chapter Text
Tim winces as his boots press into shoddy wooden boards. The resounding creak makes an unwanted volume of noise, not only adding to the atmosphere of ancient architecture, but possibly giving away his location. Tim presses forward, regardless, breath carefully controlled, paying careful attention to where he stepped. There was not a lot he could do against the aging wood underfoot. It didn’t matter how calculated his steps were. He couldn’t control his environment. He wasn’t sure which floorboard might creak under weight, testing them out individually wasn’t exactly in his agenda for the evening, so he endures the occasional noise with suppressed winces.
He didn’t know why Damian was in an abandoned soda factory, perched on the harbor, but that was where his tracker had last reported his location. The entire family was scrambling across Gotham, searching for their lost Robin, but it’d been Tim who stuck around in the cave who got lucky. Robin’s tracker had chimed back into existence after communicating nothing for the last twenty-four hours. After reporting this important piece of information to his family, Tim left comm duty to Alfred, and hopped on the RedBird. He made a beeline for Damian’s coordinates, taking comfort in the fact that his family would not be far behind him.
On this particularly cold evening, Gotham faced harsh winds that could pull a roof tile off a roof, and turn it into a weapon of decapitation. The family risked the terrible weather to find their youngest, who had disappeared underneath Bruce’s nose, twenty minutes into a routine patrol.
Tim could hear the clattering noise of metal outside the factory, whipping winds pounding into deteriorating structure. It wasn’t loud enough to mute his footsteps, but it was certainly loud enough to prompt concern. If Damian was truly hunkered down here, Tim could understand his reasoning, considering the fact that he would have a difficult time trekking his way back home.
Tim creeps forward in the attic, eyes squinting in the dark. When the darkness consumes him, Tim’s domino mask accommodates, aiding his search by automatically activating night-vision. The attic was cluttered with junk, much too small to conceal an entire person, like the floored crates with plastic wrapped soda cans (most likely expired). Tim had a mask over his mouth to keep himself from inhaling the dust that he would likely kick up. Operations which required stealth required rebreathers as an absolute necessity.
Tim knew better than to announce his appearance directly upon entry. He couldn’t discount a possible trap. He had far too much experience with being lured into traps by faulty tracking signals.
Tim creeps forward. He avoids skewed objects placed hazardously on the floor.
He pauses when a figure steps into view, having previously concealed himself behind an extension of a wall.
Tim lets out a breath in relief, but he keeps his guard up.
“Robin?” He cautiously calls.
Damian narrows his eyes at him, hand floating over his sheathed katana.
“Robin? Report,” Tim says.
Damian does not immediately report. He shifts in place, finding a comfortable stance, and then flexes his fingers.
“Tell me something only the real Red Robin would know,” Damian demands, voice rasping. It was clear that he’d gone without water for too long, throat dry, and scratchy.
Tim mentally pauses. That was a strange request to be asked, but he carefully answers, anyway, indulging Damian’s question. “You adopted a chinese dragon (1).”
Damian stares at him impassively, assessing him. Tim stares back at him with his lips pressed in a thin line. He didn’t know what Damian had gone through in the past twenty-four hours, but it was clear that whatever it had been led to doubt. He wanted Tim to prove himself, which meant he believed Tim could possibly be a doppelganger.
Damian’s muscles relax. He releases a rush of breath, and then his hand falls from his hip. He stalks forward, closing the distance between them, and Tim mentally prepares himself for a closer check-up. Instead, he is quite surprised, nearly knocked off balance by Damian throwing himself at him.
Tim automatically wraps his arms around Damian in a tight grip. Damian wraps his arms around Tim’s stomach, reminding Tim that Damian was the shortest of them all, still only a child.
“Robin?” Tim whispers, confused, and concerned.
Damian’s hold on him tightens.
“I missed you,” Damian confesses.
That throws Tim in for a loop.
“What happened to you?” Tim asks with furrowed brows, knowing that such a reaction could only mean a few things.
Damian doesn’t respond immediately, fingers digging into the fabric over Tim’s back. Tim waits impatiently for an answer, but then Damian’s hold on him loosens. He falls down on his knees, and Tim makes a surprised noise of concern. He lowers himself to grab Damian, supporting his weight.
Damian slumps his cheek against Tim’s chest, eyes half-lidded. Tim feels his heart pick up in speed, racing in worry. Without asking, he starts running his hands over Damian’s body, wordlessly checking for injuries. The fact that Damian does not protest gives him great reason to be anxious. He finally pulls at Damian’s cape, twisting it to the side as much as he could, inhaling deeply when he feels a damp spot on his back.
Tim does not waste any time.
He lays Damian down, face snuggled most likely uncomfortably in Tim’s lap, tugging his tunic upward to inspect the concerning flesh wound in his back.
Tim raises a hand to his comm.
“I found Robin,” he says.
Unsurprisingly, it is Dick’s voice that rings first, “Status?”
“Bleeding, injured, and in need of medical attention. Quick.”
“I’ll prepare the cave,” Alfred reports.
“Situation?” Batman asks.
“Undetermined,” Tim says. “Robin is unfit to relay any information at the moment.”
Dick inhales, much like Tim’s earlier reaction.
“ETA, two minutes,” Dick puts out, regaining the reins over his emotions. He sounded professional again, like he didn’t have a reason to panic. It was the vigilante in him that was keeping him that way. It had been trained in all of them from a young age by a protective father.
“One,” Batman states.
“We’re in the attic,” Tim says, eyes never leaving Damian’s wound. Then, he bends over his youngest brother, only to murmur, “We’re taking you home, Robin.”
Damian does not acknowledge his promise.