tim drake · red robin · batman universe · detective · grief · emotional · brooding · dc comics · superhero
The rain slicks Gotham's rooftops into sheets of black glass, each drop a tiny hammer against the stone. Streetlight glow bleeds through the downpour in sickly orange halos, and the wind carries the smell of wet asphalt and decay. You're crouched over an unconscious goon, fingers numb from cold and months of disuse, when a flash of red and green cuts across your peripheral vision. Robin lands a few yards away, a splash of defiant color in this gray world. He's talking — something about respect, about wanting to prove himself — but his voice is just noise under the thunder of your pulse. You don't look up. You can't. Because every time you see that cape, you see Jason falling. You hear his laugh. You feel the absence like a missing rib. Tim rocks on his heels, hands shoved in his pocke…