Chapter Text
Maybe I'm a metahuman?
21 might be too old for my powers to suddenly activate, but what else explains these full body tremors, my shaky hands, the way everything in my corner office feels slightly off kilter – besides that I must be some kind of earthquake meta?
Have I eaten today? Protein smoothie - 64g of protein, efficient, 7 hours ago. Six cups of black coffee since then. Possibly caffeine shakes?
Did I sleep? 3 ½ hours, not much time between patrol and the 8AM board meeting.
Am I sick? Temp is 98.3, slightly elevated from my base normal but nothing concerning. A little tightness in my chest, but that's been present the last few weeks - months? Nauseous again, already vomited once today, but that appears to be caused by situational circumstances (Bruce at the board meeting).
Most likely: situational circumstances, mixed with the lack of sleep and six cups of coffee. I'm fine, there's just a lot going on.
WE has acquired a smaller pharmaceutical company and I have to be heavily involved in merging it with Wayne Pharmaceutical - so a 3 week press tour, meetings with the Board to finalize details, lengthy explanations on how the merger affects both companies.
TDW has been awarded a place on Gotham Weekly’s 30 under 30, so there's a gala I have to prepare for, and a photoshoot and an interview about my accomplishments as a 21 year old in charge of a company worth billions.
And as RR, I'm investigating the suspicious death of a journalist, and figuring out which mob boss or other lowlife killed to cover a story.
Then Steph has been on my ass about keeping shit from her, which I haven't been doing. Some thoughts are my private thoughts that don't need to be vocalized - ever. Especially just to please her. But I planned a wine night for us so she'll get off my back.
And Dick texted me again, but every time I type a response, my palms get sweaty and my heart starts racing. Still trying to determine the root cause of that.
I'm fine, truly. I'm just … not handling shit as well as I should be, as well as is expected of me.
Kon keeps saying I should book a trip to Kansas – smell the fresh air, haul a hay bale, walk through the farmer's market, smile a real smile at strangers. Sounds nice, but there's too much to do and not enough time for it all.
I'm trying to balance obligations with enjoyment, but what's enjoyment worth when everybody needs something from me? I'm being pulled in so many directions I think I might sn–
Oh fuck, not again. My left thigh is shaking and there's an iron taste in my mouth – tell-tale signs I'm about to –
I almost don't make it to the garbage can before the wave hits me. I'm on my knees, in the office where I am supposed to be an adult - the adult in the building - and instead I'm puking until all I can produce is a dry heave.
Disgraceful, the ghost of Janet Drake's impossible fucking standards whispers in my ear.
I'm just hoping my assistant didn't hear me this time.
~
4PM and another meeting about media strategy.
Every time I offer an opinion, Christopher, the Director of Marketing, shuts me down in that backhanded but polite corporate speak. So I've taken to sitting quietly at the head of the table, nodding along to whatever someone else suggests. Christopher encourages their suggestions, jotting down notes with an enthusiasm he's never once presented to me in the 2 years he's worked here.
An intern - Sarah or Sasha, who's probably closer to my age than anyone else in this room – recommends we lean into a TikTok trend, a strategy I already suggested 15 minutes ago - a strategy quickly rejected by Christopher. It's treated with wide eyed enthusiasm when the intern suggests it.
I want to slam my hand on the table and rage, I'm the President of this fucking company! I'm Bruce Wayne’s son! I'm Red Robin! I demand respect!!
But I don't push; I am Janet Drake's perfect doll, after all.
~
7PM and I'm finally free - for today, from WE.
But I have to stop by the Cave before patrol, and suddenly the iron taste has reappeared in my mouth. Considering how little I've eaten today, I'm surprised by how much of my stomach contents have ended up outside my body in the last few hours.
I don't want to see Bruce, but I have to ask Batman a question about this murdered journalist. I have to ask him for his opinion on what to do. I have to ask him for ... help.
Incapable, redundant, an unnecessary presence, whispers the phantom words from Batman’s judgemental glances. If I can't finish this case on my own, if Batman has to pick up my slack, what use am I to the family?
Still, I will myself through the cave’s entrance, pull my legs out of the car, and shove myself towards Bruce, who's sitting at the main computer. He appears to be alone, thank God.
“Bruce,” I can hear the shake to my voice, and quickly clear my throat to hide its wobble. Bruce doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge me at all
A “tt” echoes from somewhere I can't see. Fuck.
“Father does not want to be disturbed before patrol, Drake.”
Damian emerges from the shadows, a scowl that seems to be solely reserved for me on his face. He's warmed slightly to everyone in our family, except for me. He's obviously been training, as a sheen of sweat coats his bare arms, but he looks like any al Ghul does - put together, in control, the smartest and most smug person in the room.
“Did you hear me, Drake? Father does not want to be disturbed,” Damian repeats.
I'm tired. I'm so tired. I don't want to deal with him. I just want to talk to my da– to Bruce. I just want to talk to Bruce.
“I heard you, Damian,” I aim to keep my voice even, but it shakes on his name, “but I need to ask Bruce a question.”
Damian folds his arms to his chest and watches me. He's learned from Jason how uncomfortable being watched so openly makes me, and even though Dick has asked him to stop, Damian refuses. He wants me to know how quickly he can ruin me.
“Father. Does. Not. Want. To. Be. Disturbed.”
“Damian,” the exhaustion drips from my words, “I don't have time for this. I –”
A hand slams down on the desk, and I don't jump outwardly – because I'm a professional – but my heart hammers in my chest.
Damian smugly turns to Bruce, whose back is still to us, but who is now staring straight ahead instead of typing at the computer.
“Boys,” his voice is cold and distant, “you are both almost adults; you need to learn how to handle yourselves appropriately. I don't have time to listen to your petty squabbles.”
And with that, Bruce's full attention returns to the screen.
Damian “tt”’s once more and heads for the showers.
And I –
Almost adults?
Almost adults?
I have been President of WE for 4 years.
I have been in Bruce's orbit holding everything together since I was 13 - for Bruce AND Batman.
I have fought and nearly died so many times.
And I'm still only almost an adult?
My entire life revolves around Bruce, revolves around this family, and in return I get ... what?
A thought from deep within my mind rushes to the forefront:
I don't need to keep doing this.
I can just leave.
Damian will never respect me.
Jason will always be the favorite son who tried to kill me.
Dick will always be the one who stole Robin from me.
And Bruce will always be the hero I'll never be good enough to please.
Instead of trying so hard to fit myself into this family, I can just leave.
The thought smacks me in the face, and it opens the flood gates of my mind. Every thought I've been suppressing for almost a decade is free to fly at me at once.
I can't be in the Cave right now. I can't think here.
I can't be here. I –
~
I've spent all night pacing the roof edge of the tallest building in my territory, barely hearing all the bats sounding off through comms or the police sirens or the loud drunks scurrying out from the bars down below.
I've just been thinking:
Have I overstayed my welcome?
I spent my whole life wanting them to want me, but do I even want them anymore?
I am never going to be good enough for them, am I?
No matter what else I sacrifice, there will never be a good enough reward for all this suffering.
Why continue to try to be a part of a family where my presence is conditional on my constant performance?
Am I being selfish? If I really leave?
What would I do? Without Bruce's company, Bruce's family, Bruce's influence, Bruce's money, Bruce's approval?
Could I really let go of being Red Robin, of being Robin - forever?
If I walk away, what if everything works itself out?What if it doesn't matter if I leave or not? What if I was never needed anyway?
What if everything I've ever sacrificed didn't matter at all?
All my thoughts are piling up; each one pulls at my attention and tightens my chest and forces the iron taste back into my mouth. My foot slides and I almost don't catch myself.
Not on purpose or anything. An accident.
But as I grapple through the brightening sky towards the Nest, another thought crashes into me:
Would anyone notice if I just ... let go?