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“I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed but all I could do was to get drunk again.” Charles Bukowski
Glass shattered under the weight of Tim’s shoes each step he took. Rain pattered down onto the ground. Not caring if he got drenched.
It’s not often that Tim finds himself in Crime Alley, not unless a major threat is afoot. Especially not in civvies. Typically, he tries to stay as far as possible from Crime Alley, especially with the threat of Red Hood discovering him in his territory. But this wasn’t a typical day.
Seemingly with no purpose, Tim dragged himself along a shady alley eventually stumbling to a stop in front of a familiar door. A graffiti-covered door with a flickering neon sign that failed to illuminate the entrance, casting an eerie glow instead.
Not even a couple days prior, Tim found himself trailing a suspect to those very same doors. But today, curiosity mixed with skewed thinking caused by an inexpedient amount of alcohol led him here.
Nestled in the heart of Crime Alley was a bar hidden from the world only open to a small circle of criminals hiding from the harsh reality of Gotham City. As soon as Tim pulled the door open and stepped his foot in, the low hum of chatter abruptly silenced. All eyes were on him. They pierced through him with promises of threats if he even so much looked at somebody the wrong way.
With not a care in the world, Tim strolled in confidently, managing to make his way to an empty seat at the bar without tripping on air.
Thankful for the dim lights, he quickly glanced around the room. There were familiar faces he recognized from cases he worked on before. People who he never thought would be in a room together were there.
It puzzled him, most of these people were gang rivals or simply people who had bad history with each other, yet there seemed to be no active hostility among them. The closest thing to hostility was the thick atmosphere and whispers, but he was pretty sure those were aimed towards him. The more he wondered, he came to the realization that there was an unspoken agreement in the bar.
There was just one man in particular that caught his eye. He stood tall in the back, broad shoulders and a muscular physique. Untamed eyebrows and sharp eyes that penetrated through anything with an intensity that could make anyone waver. Scars covered his face, hands, and neck; not someone to mess with then.
“Ahem.”
Tim jumped and whipped his head towards the sound. A big gruff looking man with black hair, blue eyes stood before him.
Looking at him.
Into his soul.
No. Through his soul.
Ripping apart every little thought and emotion.
Uncovering all his s-
A louder “ahem,” came again.
Pulled out of his thoughts, Tim finally took in the man. He wasn’t any of that. He was the opposite in fact. Short. Brown eyes. Brown hair. Chubby.
Ah, Tim thought. He’s the bartender.
“Hmm?” Tim respond after a brief second.
“Ya from ‘ere, kid?” The bartender questioned with a thick crime alley accent.
“Ya from ‘ere, kid?” Tim’s mouth hung open. Robin. ROBIN.
He was here. Here talking to HIM. Out of every kid, Robin was talking to him, Timothy Jackson Drake. Well, to be fair there weren’t many other kids his age sneaking around on rooftops at midnight.
“Kid?”
“H-huh?” Tim stammered. “OH! Yeah, I am. From here,” he emphasized.
“Sure ya’ are,” Robin replied, elongating his words.
“I definitely am from here,” insisted Tim.
“Alright kid I believe ya, “ he chuckled. “But that ain’t no excuse for a kid ya size bein’ up this late on some random rooftop,” Robin paused, “what are ya even doin’ ‘ere?”
Tim froze for a brief second. “Taking in the nightlife?” he squeaked.
“The nightlife,” Robin teased.
“Yes, the nightlife,” Tim declared. “Gotham has great nightlife. Also, why should you care what I’m doing?” he challenged.
Shrugging, Robin answered, “Just worried. Ya might trip off the ledge for all I know.”
“I’m not a baby,” he said scoffing. “ I won’t trip. I’ve been doing this for a while. I’m good at this.”
“You can’t be that good,” Robin replied.
“Kid.”
Robin’s face contorted. His once warm and friendly smile evaporated, leaving only a scowl in its place. Eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring with each heated breath he took, and with intense eyes he jeered. “You can’t be that good.”
Something was wrong. Robin was kind, caring, and friendly with all kids. Why was he acting like that? But… was this really Robin?
He was no longer on the rooftop with Robin. He was in the Titans Tower with the Red Hood.
“I am,” Tim, no, Robin huffed as he threw a fist at Jason’s face.
“Kid?”
The Red Hood sneered as he sent Tim crashing with a kick, “He let you find him. And I bet he said the same thing to you that he said to me, didn’t he? That you had the talent to make a difference in Gotham. That he needed someone he could trust in his war on crime,” he growled. “That you were one of a kind. The light to his darkness. Robin the boy wonder.”
“Now…” Jason paused. “Let me show you what the Joker did to me,” he heaved while raising Robin’s bo staff, preparing to strike at him. “And let’s find out how tough you really are.”
”Kid!”
Tim jolted out his painful memories. Eyes widening when he realized where he was. He was at the bar. Not the Titans Tower. The bar.
“Kid, ya good?” questioned the concerned bartender.
“Just peachy,” he replied as he wiped at the visible sweat dripping down his neck.
“Anything to drink I can getcha?” the bartender asked.
“Just a whiskey on the rocks,” Tim replied. “Please,” he added.
The bartender nodded and turned around grabbing a bottle of whiskey that glistened in the dim lighting. He retrieved a crystal glass and place a single ice cube inside. The clink of the ice against the glass was quashed by the background conversation of the bar. With well practiced hands, the bartender poured the amber liquid into the glass and slid it across towards Tim.
Without a word, Tim took a hold of the glass and downed the whiskey. Just like his father. He remembers the very nights when his parents were home. Constant arguing and glasses being thrown around would wake him up. Instead of even attempting to resume his slumber, he’d grab his favorite blanket and pad towards the top of the staircase. He’d listen to them argue until the very end.
There were times the arguing would go on for hours or end just as quickly as it began. But they all ended the same. His dad would pull out his favorite crystal glass and pour his favorite whiskey to the brim. The whiskey didn’t stand a chance against him. He downed the glass all in one go. Not a single spill.
He’d continue to pour and down the drink until he got tired of the repeating hand motions. He, instead, would take the whiskey and chug straight from the bottle.
Yes, people may get the wrong ideas, but his dad surely wasn’t an alcoholic…right? But then again Tim had no idea if he did this all the time. All he knew for certain was that every time he was home, he drank alcohol like his life depended on it.
How could he be so stupid. He was Robin now Red Robin. The son of Batman, the greatest detective alive!
All the signs were there but he was blind.
Or maybe he knew this whole time and didn’t want to confront reality. The reality where he inherited his father’s drinking habits. All the evidence was in front of him. For god’s sake of course he had a problem. He was just like his dad. He solved all his problems with alcohol, just like him. Even before coming here he chugged down three beers.
Batman would be so disappointed at what he’s become. What would he say when he discovers his son is an alcoholic? What would Dick say?
Did they even care? They had to a little right? He was family. They’d probably try to get him help. Right? He was family… right? Why else would they let him stay? But…wasn’t it him that stayed? He forced himself into their home. They never wanted him. He walked through their door and demanded to stay.
But…no… wouldn’t they just tell him to leave? They wouldn’t let a stranger or co-worker or whatever he was live in their home. Or maybe they were. Was he just too thick headed that he didn’t get the memo? Of course they didn’t want him. Were the bullet and stab wounds not enough proof? Dick taking Robin away from him? Batman always being so cold to him? Nobody doing anything when Damian and Jason kept trying to murder him? They’ve been trying for ages to get him to leave!
Mood suddenly soured, Tim called for the bartender, “give me another and keep them coming.”
Doing as instructed, the bartender once again prepared the glass and poured the whiskey. He slid the glass over and watched as Tim grabbed it and chugged it down in one single breath.
Tim enjoyed the way it burned his throat. It reassured Tim that he was real and not a dream.
Without a word the bartender poured him another one. Tim downed this one quicker than the other two. This time he felt the gentle buzz kick in. It was the only time he could feel something. Where he wasn’t numb.
Craving for more of that sweet buzz, Tim asked for two more glasses of that sweet, sweet whiskey.
Being more than tipsy now, Tim thought back of what his life really was. He had no family, after all, he was orphaned at a young age and the batfam clearly didn’t regard him as family. His ex faked her own death. His “brothers” tried murdering him. Two of his best friends died. Bruce died but not really. Dick, the only one he actually considered his brother, ripped Robin away from him and refused to believe him. Forced to go on an expedition alone to save Bruce but ultimately ended up losing two partners, his spleen, and endangering a civilian.
From the moment he was born, his life was an unrelenting storm, destroying and ripping through all his hopes and dreams. How much longer would have to endure it all? All the pain, the hardships, the burdens, the work, the expectations. Just how much longer?
Tim was pulled out of his thoughts when felt something wet dripping down his neck. Reaching up towards his neck and trailing up to the source of the wetness. He realized he was crying. Tears. Actually tears.
Tim scoffed in disbelief. How long has it been since he’s last cried. A year? Two? He doesn’t even remember. The tears just kept going. They flowed out without his permission and refused to stop.
Laughing hysterically, Tim caught his breath and slurred under his breath, “Wha’ ‘as my life become? I’m cryin’ inna bar. Inna bar!” He chuckled sadly. His mom would have an aneurysm if she saw what her son’s become if she were still alive.
More tears fell from his eyes. Suddenly embarrassed, Tim rose up from his seat, leaned over the bar in the direction and asked, “where’s the res’room?”
“That door right there,” the bartender replied while looking in the direction of the door at the back of the bar.
Tim turned and began walking towards the restroom. His movements unsteady and unpredictable from the alcohol coursing through his veins. Each step took an immense amount of concentration. Even with all his concentration he couldn’t help but walk like the earth itself was shifting under him.
More than a quarter of the way to the restroom Tim felt himself unexpectedly collide with something.
Surprised, Tim paused his stride and looked up. A big man hovered over him, face twisted in anger. A familiar face. Taking longer than he would sober, Tim recognized the face. He was the only man that Tim worried about the moment he first took a seat at the bar.
Tim was suddenly yanked forwards. Shirt scrunched in the man’s hands, he growled “The hell are you starin’ at? You fuckin’ bump into me and now you think you can stare.”
Tim said nothing, opting to continue staring.
Caught in the grip of the larger man, Tim felt a surge of unease. The dimly lit bar seemed to close in around them, the distant chatter and clinking glasses momentarily paused by the atmosphere. The man's anger intensified, and his twisted expression spoke of a volatile temper simmering beneath the surface. "You got a problem, kid?" he barked, the question more of a rhetorical challenge than a genuine question.
Tim, though physically overpowered, met the man's gaze with a look of boredom. The drunken air hung heavy, and an evident tension crackled between them. The man's grip tightened on Tim's shirt, his frustration reaching a boiling point. "I asked you a question," he sneered, his breath hot against Tim's face.
The escalating tension was now at an all time high. Tim, still greatly under the influence and no longer bored with the situation, was pissed. The man had no sense of boundaries. Every time he spoke spit was sent flying towards Tim’s face.
He was Red Robin for fuck’s sake. He couldn’t just let any man spit in his face. How would he like it if he did that to him?
On second thought…, Tim mused.
Not allowing himself any more time to backtrack his idea, Tim locked eyes with the man and spat in his face.
The bar seemed to freeze in time. Not a single person moved until the man raised his fist and striked Tim across the face. The punch echoed in the silent room as Tim staggered back, his cheek stinging from the sudden blow.
Tim clenched his fist and lunged at the man, determined to retaliate. However, the effects of the alcohol and the surprise punch had thrown Tim off, affecting his coordination and strength. His attempts at landing a meaningful blow turned into clumsy swings.
The angered man, far more steady, easily sidestepped Tim's erratic swings. With each failed attempt, Tim found himself exposed to the man’s counter attacks. The man, filled with adrenaline, seized the opportunity, landing a series of swift and relentless powerful blows.
The bar became a stage for the one-sided confrontation, the rest of the people watched, neither flinched at the sight nor moved to end it. The occasional sounds of grunts and the dull impact of fists against flesh filled the room. Tim, now faced with the consequences of his actions, dropped to the floor.
The man moved to continue pounding his fists at Tim, whereas Tim made no move to defend himself or block the attacks.
What was the point of even trying when he couldn’t even win a fight against a thug? Was he as bad of a fighter as Jason and Damian would say? What if he just-
A sharp, commanding voice cut through the sounds of punches. “Enough!” the bartender yelled.
Everyone paused what they were doing, including the man, and turned to look at the bartender. “If ya’ gonna fight in my bar, then get the fuck out,” he spoke.
Listening, the man stood, stepped away from Tim, and walked towards the closest napkins to wipe the blood off his hands.
Turning his attention to Tim, the bartender sighed, “and you kid, get out.”
Trying his hardest, Tim got back up, took one step and went tumbling back to the floor. With how disoriented he was, it would be nearly impossible for him to walk out of the bar without an assist.
Seeing Tim struggle, the bartender sighed and stepped towards Tim and helped him up. He held Tim up and dragged him towards the exit.
The bartender's demeanor shifted from stern to a begrudging empathetic look as he took hold of Tim. His grip, firm yet surprisingly gentle, conveyed a mix of frustration and concern. Tim, wincing from the residual pain, stumbled forward as the bartender guided him toward the exit.
The alley's cold air surrounded them as they stepped outside. The bartender, now more caretaker than enforcer, eased Tim’s rising emotions. Once a good distance from the bar, the bartender released his grip on Tim's shirt, propped him against a wall, and offered a parting gaze that held a subtle hint of understanding and sympathy. "Get yourself together, kid," he grumbled, a gruff acknowledgment of the complexities that were reality. “Go home and clean yourself up. I don’t wanna see you here no more,” he said as he walked in the direction of the bar.
Tim, now left alone in an alley, slid down the wall. The cool, sharp air bit at his bruised and bloody self, reminding him of what was now becoming a distant memory.
A sudden downpour of water brought Tim’s attention up to the sky. It was beginning to rain again, but Tim made no move to search for shelter.
Maybe it wasn’t curiosity that brought him to the bar. Maybe, just maybe, somewhere deep in his conscience he was hoping someone could just end it all for him. Maybe that’s why he refused to fight back at the end. Maybe it’s why he’d drink his days away.
Tim closed his eyes, letting the sound of the rain patter against the dumpster, the sound of the cats yowling, the sound of the distant murmur of the bar, the sound of the cars honking fill his ears.
Maybe if he never stalked Batman and Robin, or blackmailed Bruce, or became Robin, or interacted with them then maybe…
Maybe he’d be happy.
But who knows?
Tim certainly doesn’t.