Chapter Text
Tim pulls onto Gotham Academy’s property. The grounds are congested by end-of-the-day traffic, with fed-up parents and drivers peering back at him irritably from nearby front windshields. Tim glances in the direction of the pick-up station. The line is crawling, with crowds of kids maneuvering around the near stationary cars.
Tim drives, very decidedly, in the opposite direction.
It’s difficult to merge around tired, cranky drivers, but he noses the car to the back corner of the parking lot, where the space is starting to clear out. He pulls into an empty spot, lowers the windows, and turns the car off. Pulling out his phone, he shoots off a quick text.
Here, he sends. Back corner, parking lot C. A moment later, the screen lights up with a blue ‘read’ message, but there’s no reply. Of course there isn’t. Sighing, Tim closes out his text conversation with Damian.
What a brat. Tim shakes his head—it’s not like he wants to be the one to pick the kid up. The least Damian could do is send a helpful 'Be there soon,' or 'On my way.' Tim would take a simple 'Okay,' or 'Acknowledged,' even. But no. Radio silence.
It's honestly in line with what Tim expected. It's still rankling.
Sinking in the driver's seat with a sigh, Tim pulls up some emails to pass the with. He rubs through his forehead at a manifesting headache, drafting replies to coworkers. Before long, his eyes start to itch and his vision starts to blur. He shifts in his seat. The warm air leaking through the open windows is soupy and clinging. Sweat starts to gather beneath his clothes and around his hairline.
Tim pulls up his messages with Damian. Still, no reply. Tim glances at the time. Fifteen minutes since he sent the text…more than long enough for Damian to wrap up his day and walk to the car.
Tim frowns. He sends another text, 'hurry up.' This one stays marked ‘delivered’. Tim waits for a couple of minutes, sure that the brat is taking longer just to annoy him, but when five minutes have passed since his second text and Tim still hasn’t gotten a reply or a furious preteen climbing into the front passenger’s seat, he makes his decision. Tim climbs out of the car.
Dodging vehicles and giggling groups of middle schoolers, he makes his way toward the building. The front entrance is clearing out but still trickling with students and teachers and parents. He slips around them, making his way down the main hall and taking a left, toward the math wing. It’s a Tuesday, and Damian had geometry for his last class of the day. Tim figures that's as good as a place to start looking as any.
He eyes the room numbers as he passes by. B102, Bl03, Bl04…where’s Bl08…?
There. Tim finds the door he’s looking for and doesn’t hesitate to open it. He expects to find an empty room, or Damian and his teacher. Maybe there will be another student Damian got into an altercation with? It wouldn't be the first time he was held after for class disruptions, nor, Tim thinks realistically, the last.
Tim does not expect what’s actually inside the classroom.
“Woah,” is what Tim says, coming to an abrupt stop still in the doorway, holding his hands raised in the universal sign for surrender. “Don’t shoot?”
But the gunman keeps his finger curled against the trigger as he raises his firearm, aimed rigidly at Tim’s chest.
Dammit, Tim thinks. I should have made Damian walk.