merry christmas 2021, babe. you’re a joy & a delight, and thank you for getting me through some shit this year, and listsening to me scream about anything and everything at all hours of the night.
So.So. My babe worked so hard to get more out of me for this Robinpile Praise Kink au with the last amazing art. And this masterpiece of feels and art with the angst of realization and My. Fucking. Heart. We also talked about how much we love Dami with the real emotional intelligence between all of them as a thing of pure beauty. For context, I had this small thing sitting in my work-in-progress doc you’ll find under the cut. Chip’s awesome fic is def in line with it, helps define it, gives it the ending and the transition, the fucking bridge, I could use to move into the actual part of the praise kink we all crave.
Never know, I might have a place to go after this ;)
Of all people to get up in his face about self-care, Tim never imagined any one of them to be Damian.
Brat Wonder wasn’t even happy when Red Robin took a dive off the Mylar building with Captain Cold to save the current Robin from being a vigilante ice pop. Rob was actually angry as fuck pulling Red out of the dumpster he fortunately landed in (because really, hitting pavement from that high would have been a shit way to go but at least Leonard Snart wouldn’t have a dead Robin under his belt) and snarled something about near death. Without giving him time to get a full breath to start with the demeaning rigamarole, Red Robin had taken off from there, not sure what Demon brat’s problem is tonight.
But since it’s apparently opposite day or something, the current Robin doesn’t seem to be able to make like Elsa and let it go.
Red just fired a zip line to be out of this sitch since Snart is pretty much dangling from the Mylar with gun incapacitated and sirens blaring from only a few blocks away anyhow. He feels something behind him long before Robin gets close enough to reach out for him.
“What the fuck do you want now?” He starts as Robin flies through the night beside him.
He expects snark and disgust, just like that ten-year old kid he’d once been. He’s not prepared for Robin to reach out and basically snatch him around the waist, pulling him off his own line to change directions. The swing changes to North rather than the West he’d been heading.
“Hold on,” Robin calls against the wind. “I’m taking you to my safe house.”
“What now?” Because really, what now? The kid (okay, teenager) literally hates him.
“I have already stated my intent,” Robin replies as their bodies arch up high into the night, the grapple line releases and reels in as gravity takes over and they start to fall. Red fumbles for his own around Robin’s arm, but the next shot fires again.
“I have no fucking clue why you’d want to do that,” because none of this makes sense in the slightest. “If you want some intel or something, send me an email–“
The whiteouts turn to him sharply, “you believe I want intel?”
“There’s no other reason to deal with me, is there?” And God, is he really as tired as he sounds?
The noises over Robin’s comm are choked and angry. Nightwing and the Red Hood listening to their rapport. Robin ignores them for the moment, pulls the line to reel in again for the next shot.
“Drake,” is low with the wind whistling around them and the usual night sounds of the city below that Red can imagine he isn’t hearing quite right because his name doesn’t sound like a curse. “I am taking you to my safe house to talk.”
“Like I already said–“
“Not about a case. Nightwing and the Red Hood might want to join this discussion as well. We have been attempting to get your attention for weeks now. Grayson has sent annoying texts,” he ignores the sputtering from said vigilante, “Todd has tried hacking your email and calendar. Father attempted to find you at TItan’s Tower. You have been dodging us for quite a long time. Longer than even Oracle knows, haven’t you?”
Whatyou need to understand is, if we don’t step in and bring him back, we’re going to be burying him.
Robin closes his eyes, sees the footage that ends with an arch of blood spraying, imagines it from Drake’s throat instead.
“I have no idea what the hell we have to talk about,” because Red is honestly lost here. “I come when the call goes out. I send intel when anyone asks. I still fight the good fight in Gotham when I’m in town. I’ve always been here,” he makes the point, “I never left.”
“Oh Timmy,” Nightwing breathes in Robin’s ear.
“Horseshit,” Hood snarls.
But Robin sighs sadly, “really? You honestly believe that, Tim?”
And now he knows they’re in oh shit category because why the fuck would Damian of all people call him by his first name?
“I landed in that dumpster and came out in another universe, didn’t I?” Is deadpanned as they make another leap over the cityscape. “It’s okay. You can tell me, it’s not the first time.”
“Tt. Ridiculous. Why would anyone create a portal to another realm in a waste management container?” Robin comes back mildly.
“None of this makes sense in my correct universe,” Red catches bits of familiar building, looks for anything out of place to prove his theory. “Unless it’s about the world of bad guys, the Bats leave me the hell alone.” Just like it should be.He’s the Robin that wasn’t chosen after all.
“That is not true! You are a former Robin, just as Grayson and Todd, and a Bat just as we all are.”
But Robin doesn’t expect Red to flinch. Doesn’t expect the vigilante in his arm to take action.
Red flips himself around in mid-air out of Robin’s hold, one hand already in his utility belt for restraints, something stronger than zip ties. He’s fast when Robin pulls the grapple, intending to let it go for a necessary second to keep Drake from what he believes is a fall to his imminent demise – only to feel his predecessor’s knees in his back, an arm coming around his throat.
He can only gasp out, his unfortunate automatic reaction is to grab the arm with the power to choke him out, so it’s easy to throw the special cuff on one wrist. Red Robin easily turning the situation around to get Robin’s arms pinned and cuffed behind his back.
“DRAKE!” When they start to fall faster toward the city.
“Rob, what’s happenin’?” Hood demands.
“Is Tim trying to run? Little D?”
Red Robin takes the extra grapple out of his own belt, fires it with a hand tightly gripping in the back of Robin’s utility belt. He lands them both on the familiar Wallstone Apartments, kicks the legs out from under Robin, rides down to the roof, pins the imposter with a knee.
“Who the fuck are you, and what did you do to the real Robin,” is dark and low, a growl when Red Robin gets down in the imposter’s face. The sharp edge to the whirlybird is right under Robin’s chin.
“What th’ fuck is he doin’? Rob?”
With his arms wrenched painfully behind him, the Boy Wonder gapes at Red Robin. “You honestly believe I am-am what? An imposter rather than I don’t care to see you die?”
“Robin are you okay? Do you need back-up?” And Nightwing sounds desperate to make an appearance instead of let Robin handle this.
The whiteouts on Red’s mask don’t move away, stay fixed on Robin’s, answering that question without the need for words. The knee, however, moves up to Robin’s chest, presses down. “I’ll ask again. Where. Is. The. Real. Robin?”
From behind the whiteouts, Damian just stares at the snarl on Drake’s face, the utter promise of pain.
“Drake,” is softer, huffy with the pressure on his chest. “It is me. Ask me anything only I would know.”
The snarl doesn’t change, but the domino over Red’s eyes shifts. “The first time we met, what was your reaction when I tried to shake your hand?”
Simple question. But it still makes Robin flinch in shame.
“I…I backhanded you, but you have to understand–“
And welp, that kills Red’s initial theory. Not a shapeshifting asshole after all.
He lifts up, takes his knees off the tunic and sits his ass down on the Wallstone’s roof, more at a loss than he’d been a few minutes ago. What the absolute fuck is happening in his life right now?
“I remember that,” Nightwing sighs. “He has to understand where you were then–“
“I did worse, Gremlin. Don’ t let it hit ya. We godda plan, yeah?”
Gingerly, Robin sits up, works his fingers to find the catches on the restraints to free himself.
“Okay,” Red sighs, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Okay.”
Robin rubs his wrists and hands over the restraints.
He takes them gingerly because none of this makes any sense. The past six months haven’t made sense, and he should have just listened to his inner vigilante this time and stayed the hell in San Fran instead of coming back to Gotham (but if he had, he would have run the risk of Batman showing up at the Tower again for no apparent reason – awkward and uncomfortable for everyone involved.)
“All right look–“ because he’s tired okay? It’s been a slew of long nights and terrible bad guys. He wants to finish this patrol, go back to the Penthouse, have a shower, and pass the fuck out. Getting between Rob and Leonard Snart hadn’t been on tonight’s program, and yet, here they are.
“No,” Robin interrupts in that disturbingly firm, quiet kind of way that’s really not how he categorizes Damian at all. “You are going to come with me, and we shall talk about this out of plain sight. We do not need civilians spotting us here.”
“I don’t even know–“
“I will make you coffee,” Robin pushes himself to his feet, “and Todd can cook unfailingly well.”
“Damn right.”
“Ooh, that’s devious, Dami.”
That shakes Red right down to the bones. “Coffee?” Sounds much more desperate than he’d realistically like.
“I purchased the Sumatra brand you favor.” Robin tries, whiteouts pointing down at Drake, actually looking at him. How hollow his cheeks are, how the Red Robin tunic is ill-fitting because the older vigilante has obviously lost too much weight since new suits were created, how the hint of bruises creeps up the side of his throat.
The mask turns up to meet his, Drake’s jaw clenching, a muscle jumps.
Robin flips his cape out of the way and sinks down to a knee, faces the older vigilante head-on. “Drake. Tim. We need you.”
There’s a moment of stillness as Drake assesses him, and Robin just lets him have his moment. He is glad N and Hood are finally silent, seemingly waiting with him.
“Fine,” Red Robin finally sighs, wondering what the hell he’s getting himself into now. “I’ll give you an hour. Where’s this safehouse?”
Robin forces himself not to smile while Nightwing and Hood cheer in the background.
**
The swing takes them to a dilapidated building on the North side, one that had been condemned for years. It is a Wayne Enterprises holding Robin adopted.
Red Robin climbs in a window after him, cape held aloft so he doesn’t trip and eat face.
The top floor had once been a hollowed-out storage floor, and has obviously been repurposed. He sees a functional kitchen, couch in front of a television, a hallway that probably leads to bedrooms, bathrooms, labs, whatever a vigilante could need.
He doesn’t explore, doesn’t move from the spot by the window, fingers twitching inside his gloves, hair at the back of his neck standing up, his instincts telling him he shouldn’t behere.
Robin is calmly making coffee as promised. The cape flung over a seat at the scarred dining table, chairs for four around it. He’s pulled off the domino, gloves, and gauntlets, moving knowledgeably around the kitchenette as Damian rather than Robin.
The strong smell of percolating coffee is enough to ease down Red Robins fight or flight just a little.
“Okay, I’m here,” Red Robin warily takes a step closer to that smell. “What do you need me to do?” Because really, he’s useful for the vigilante life, and that’s…about it. For the Bats anyway.
Dami sits down at the scarred table, makes a motion to the chair across from him. He tries not to take offense when Red Robin hesitates, tries to remind himself they’ve had a tempestuous past, tries to remember Drake has few reasons to trust him even if he’s been Robin for more than a decade by now.
The vigilante finally seems to conclude the risk is worth the reward and pulls out a chair to sit at the table.
Damian tries to keep Drake engaged by talking about the Titan’s last fight with The Light, asks for details of the skirmish.
(He is already aware. They have watched the footage multiple times. He knows the bruised or broken ribs under the tunic must be painful; the rips in skin that bled through the Kevlar/Nomac weave are hopefully wrapped and stitched.)
Drake is light with his words, answers in short bursts, keeps his attention on his coffee.
“None of this tells me why I’m here,” Drake finally glances up, “but it doesn’t seem like you’re going to rip me a new one for being in Gotham in the first place, right?”
Damian sighs softly, bare hands clasped together on the tabletop so Drake can see he does not have any weapons in hand. “I had thought you and I were…better now. Yet, you honestly think I would be angry you have come home? That I would make you leave?”
The Bat-stillness tells Damian two things:
Drake’s expectations are disturbing.
The situation is worse than Dami originally believed it to be from the evidence Oracle provided.
After all, who would suspect an imposter simply for making sure one doesn’t die?
It is almost a relief when the windows silently raise, and Damian has back-up for this conversation. He can only hope the three of them will be enough for this unconventional…intervention.
Fortunately, they have a plan.
But Red’s shoulders go unbearably tight under his slightly too big tunic, his whiteouts pointed right to the other vigilantes silently making their way across the top floor toward the scent of delicious coffee.
