Archive of Our Own

Out of all the people to send after Mr. Freeze, even Tim had to agree he wasn't the right choice. The case was interesting, sure, his skills were perfect for it, sure, but also. No spleen, no shirt, no service ya know? Not that Tim didn't want to freeze his ass off in an underground lab searching desperately for a fucking USB drive of all things- 

Okay maybe this case sucked. Maybe his skills didn't suit this mission. But this is what he was doing, this is what Bruce asked him to look into. So there he was, up to the tits in frostbite, digging through what looked like an abandoned arctic base’s worth of junk. Seriously, it was like Mr. Freeze started hoarding in the last few years. It wasn't like his suit didn't have thermal protections, he wasn't stupid. But fuck this place was cold. Cold in the way that left your limbs all tingly and tight, that made your teeth clench together too tight and give you a headache. 

His fist was currently six inches deep in a filing cabinet when a voice rang out behind him. 

“Looking for something, Robin?” God dammit. Tim turned around and sure enough, the man of the house, Mr. Dickhead Freeze. 

“Victor, give me the drive and this can all be over, the same deal Mr. Wayne offered you is still on the table.” Tim hated this part, the part where he had to pretend like there wouldn't be a fight. Had to pretend like he wasn't about to spend the next ten minutes either getting the shit kicked out of him, or kicking the shit out of the other guy. The charade was exhausting, not to mention time consuming. 

“Why would I trust that man with my Nora?! Why should i trust him to continue funding that research after he has me in handcuffs?!” Brain Freeze demanded, taking an ominous step forward.

“For the same reason as last time? Dude, the last what? Six times? We arrested you he's still funded your stupid fucking research can you just. Can you just give up already?” TIm let his shoulders drop. He was already exhausted, he really didn't wanna do this tonight. He had shit to do, him and Steph were gonna have a movie night, it was supposed to be fun.

“What?” To his surprise, freeze did look genuinely caught off guard by Tim’s honesty. He could use this. 

“Dude. I'm so tired. Please.” It wasn't a lie, hopefully Dr. Blue Icee would have a shred of empathy and just... let time knock him out. 

“Robin,” Freeze dropped his shoulders and shook his head, honestly he looked a bit like Bruce. The same disappointment in his eyes.

“Freeze?” Maybe this would work?

“No.” The attack came so fast, and honestly Tim had been too cocky in his plan, that it didn't even cross the vigilantes mind to try and dodge. So, like a light bulb, he was out. 

_______________

Waking up in what is essentially a freezer is hard. Between the general fog of impending hypothermia, the massive headache, and the general exhaustion Tim had already been struggling through that night, the freezer was just the cherry on top.  

Tim was on his back, when he stretched his toes down he could go about two inches before they tapped the end of the metal box. His arms had about three inches of wiggle room on each side, just enough for him to move them up and across his body. He could comfortably bend his arms up and across his chest but couldn't fully extend them up. Tim ran his fingers along the edge of his new space, trying to keep his panic subdued. Maybe this was fine, Freeze wouldn’t just leave him in an airtight, freezing box alone to die, right?

The lack of light, and a moveable seam on the edges of the lid was proving otherwise. The second Tim was done exploring his new, tiny space, the simple thought of air crossed his mind. 

Air.

How much had he started out with? How long had he been in there, and how much air did he have left? 

He couldn't panic. Well, outwardly. If he did that he ran the risk of running out of however much air he actually did have left. Screaming and hyperventilating both took oxygen, precious,   oxygen. Tim swallowed. Three facts were laid out in front of him. 

1: He was trapped in a freezer, Hypothermia was a real concern here.

2: He had no idea how long hed been asleep, and how much oxygen he had at his disposable. 

3: Victor Fries, aka Mr. Freeze, was a dick, and officially stepped his game up from nuisance, to actually trying to murder teenagers psycho.  

Hee needed to get the fuck out of here, and fast. Pressing his fingers back around the edge, Tim tried to press his nail into any sort of seam he could find, and push in, trying to find rubber that indicated a seal, if he could perforate that, he could get some more air. When that proved fruitless he tried just good old fashioned pressing the lid up as hard as he could, only to find an astounding lack of movement. It felt like he was underground almost, like the lack of give wasn't due to some weight, but an immovable force opposing him. 

Tim tried not to think about that much more and moved on. Patting down his own body a wave of relief washed over him when he found his utility belt still on him. Okay, so maybe he was starting to panic for nothing. It would suck but he could just call for help, right?

Tim dug out his emergency radio and pulled it to his mouth. 

“Uh, Red Robin calling in, I need some help here? I got found searching through his stupid lab and uh.” Did Tim really wanna reveal he got bested by Mr. Snowmachine? No. DId he need oxygen and any source of heat at all? Unfortunately, yes.  “Yeah I got locked in a freezer? Can someone come get me?”

TIm cringed and rolled his eyes. Something about calling for help was always insufferably embarrassing. Tim waited for a reply with bated breath, preparing for a litany of teasing, and an ETA on help arriving. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

“Guys? I uh, can't keep calling like this. Oxygen is not my most available resource at the moment.” Tim tried again, his chest was starting to tighten without a reply, panic quickly taking hold. 

“Guys? Oracle? B?” Again, no response.

Panic was rising in his throat like bile, and Tim swallowed it back. He could not waste any energy here, breathing too hard and passing out was a death sentence. He could. Not. Panic. 

So, help wasn't arriving, Tim could make due. He'd gotten himself out of worse, right? Grabbing at his utility belt, Tim felt around some more, grabbing a knife from his belt. So maybe his nail wasn't long enough, but surely a knife would be right? 

So, as calmly as he could, Tim shoved the knife into the barely detectable seam, and hit the butt of his knife. 

And to his overwhelming joy, the knife shifted forward, into the seam. 

“Oh thank fuck” Tim bit back another swear and squeezed his eyes shut. Air, moron. 

Tim hit the knife again, and it went further into the seam, far enough he felt a small pop of pressure. 

It pierced, thank god it pierced. 

Okay, air was solved. Now he just needed to focus on the whole, ya know, hypothermia thing. 

Shifting his knife forward Tim cut more of the seam, but not without the cost of some serious arm work. It felt like he was trying to cut through stone with a spoon. Tim laid back for a moment, and took as deep of a breath as he was willing to with about a millimeter of air flow coming through the box. 

This was harder than it should have been, something wasn't right.

“Hypothermia, dumbass,” Tim whispered to himself. Knocking his head back onto the floor of his tiny chamber. And as if he spoke it into existence, his teeth began to chatter.

Being objective was something Tim was good at. Something a lot of people said he was too good at. 

Being objective, he wasn't making it out of here. Being objective, the hypothermia would get to him long before he would be able to pry himself out of this fucking freezer.

At least hypothermia was an easier way to go than choking to death, little mercies he supposed. 

Fuck. He didn't want to die like this. 

He wasn't sure he even wanted to die, period. Sure he didn't really act like it, but fuck, he was starting to like life again. Bruce was back from the dead, Jason was finally calming the fuck down, hell even Damian was becoming less of a jackass. 

Was it unfair to call an eleven year old a jackass? Yes. Was this Tim’s own internal monologue while he was accepting his own death? Also yes, and in his expert opinion, that eleven year old was being a jackass.

Tim did kinda wish him and the kid could have actually bonded though. When he wasn't being a conniving brat, he was actually a pretty cool kid. He had an incredible knack for art, and this empathy that he seemed so determined on hiding from everyone but his stupid animals. He really did have potential. Potential Tim wasn't going to get to see. 

Tim sniffed and swallowed back a lump in his throat. Fuck. okay maybe this was gonna be harder than he thought. 

Tim dug back down his side and grabbed the walkie talkie. Maybe now, with the little gap, he'd get some service- maybe, maybe he had another shot?

Tim decidedly ignored the shake in his hand and pressed the walkie talkie, taking as deep a breath as his anxiety would allow, and started talking.

“I don't think any of you guys are gonna be able to hear this, but just on the off chance- the tiny stupid chance you can, I think uh. I think this is it.” Tim swallowed again and shut his eyes. Shit this was morbid, even for him. 

“Taking stock of my own body right now, I think- I think I've got five minutes, max. Accounting for the fact I've been oxygen deprived for, well I don't know how long, that estimate is probably too generous.” Tim's head was swimming, and he tried to shake it off, running a hand down his face and squeezing the bridge of his nose he tried to collect himself.

“I uh. I'm sorry, guys. I know, I know the past two years weren't easy for any of you and I know, I know I wasn't helping. I don't regret what I did, I mean we got B back, but. I should've. I don't know. Between dad and Kon, I don't know what I was supposed to do. Go full evil genius and try to clone my dead best friend? Probably not. But, ya know.” Tim took another shaking breath, that all too easily led into a sob. “I really miss him.” 

“But uh, that's not important right now. I'm saying goodbye. Even if you guys can't hear me, I know these things record anything we say so, last will and testament here we go!” Tim let out a pathetic laugh and tried to ignore the way his limbs were starting to feel heavy. “Uh, to my dear eldest brother. Richard, Dick, Dickie bird. You, uh. You were the best brother I could have asked for. I'm sorry, fuck. I'm sorry that we, I'm sorry that. I wish you hadn't taken robin but i get why you did now, and it was yours to take. I love you. I'm sorry we stayed mad at each other for so long. I forgive you.” 

Tim took another deep breath. Okay. this is fine. He can do this.

“Dick, you can have my skateboard. I know you like flinging yourself into fun new dangerous hobbies, and I'm sure you'll be great at it. Next up, Jason! Let's get the elephant out of the room. You didn't try to kill me, you were sending a crazy ass message, I get that. It's fine. I think honestly? If I were in your place, I would've been going for the kill, not a message. Anyways, you were always my favorite robin, i love you a lot, you're my hero bla bla bla. You get my books. You fucking nerd.” Tim was sure the amount of whimpering and sniffling he was adding to the massage was pathetic, but a wills a will. 

“Steph, I love you.” A sob worked its way out his throat, as Tim realized he couldn't move his left arm anymore. “You know that. Anything I'd say now you've already heard, I need- I need you to just make sure they don't fall apart when I'm gone, alright? You're the only one in there with a good head, you're crazy, but not their kind of crazy. You get the cat I've been hiding in my apartment for six months. Damian, kid. I'm sorry I didn't get to know you. You're a good kid, take my camera. Use it. You'll dig it.”

“Alfie, i'm sorry- i really am- i'm so sorry i'm doing this to you. If there was another way i- i don't want you to feel this way again. Thank you, you were- you were the best grandpa I've ever had.” He wasn't sure if his message was even decipherable at this point, through his clattering teeth and pathetic crying. “B- dad. I uh. You know. You already know. I love you. I'm sorry- i'm so fucking sorry.”

Tim let go of the walkie talkie, finally, and let his head thump back against the metal beneath. This was it. This was.. How he went out.

His life hadn't been too shit he guessed, he had helped people. He'd done good work. He'd been a good soldier, a good Robin. 

He'd been good. 

The warm, comforting embrace of unconsciousness was slipping its hands around him, and dragging him down. There was no use fighting it anymore. He did his best, had been, good .

______________

Waking up was not a part of his plan, but by god when Tim was met with bright white hospital lights, batcave brand med bay sheets, he started crying with relief.

“Fuck. Oh fuck. Oh thank god. Shit.” The relief was immediate, no moment of initial panic, no moments of forgetting what had happened, just immediate relief. 

“Tim?” Bruce, oh god it was Bruce. Tim whipped his head around and broke out into hysterical laughter the second he laid his eyes on the glorious sight of a greasy, eye bag having, exhausted father.

“Oh thank fucking god . Fuck. Oh my god i thought- oh Christ I was certain-” Tim knew he looked crazy, and honestly he didn't care, because Bruce was pulling him into a crashing hug, and there were happy tears streaming down his face. 

“Tim sweetheart, I'm so sorry- I heard everything on your radio, there was a malfunction,” Bruce started. 

“Shut the fuck up dude, no way. Fuck off- the whole time?! The whole message?” Tim was crying again, and he couldn't tell if it was the endorphins from finding out he was in fact not dead, or the immediate regret of his last will and testament being broadcast to his entire family over a radio. 

“Yes-”

“Fuck off.” Put him back in the freezer. He didn't think he'd have to live with that message. He could already imagine the teasing now. Recovery was gonna be a nightmare.