Chapter Text
[Several days earlier]
Tim leans closer to the laptop screen, one elbow braced against the desk as he flips through the most recent SD card dump. The low drumming of rain outside his window fills the silence — otherwise broken only by the soft click of the mouse and the faint rustle of a snack wrapper as Tim reaches absently for another bite.
Click. Blurred. Deleted.
Click. Bad angle. Deleted.
Click. This one’s pretty good — both Batman and Robin in the same frame, the former’s foot off the ground as he moves to intercept someone. With a smile, Tim adds it to the curated folder he’s been building.
They’d been fighting some thugs at the docks last night. Something to do with smuggling, probably. Tim hadn’t caught the full context as he’d only gotten there halfway through, crouched behind a rusted crane that screamed “OSHA violation” with every creak.
Another few photos go by. He yawns, rubbing at his eyes. It’s late, and the glow from the screen is making his brain fuzzier by the minute, but he keeps going. He wants to finish reviewing this batch of photos before going to sleep.
The next few shots are mostly useless — focused on the backs of some retreating thugs. But in the corner of the frame, behind them, there’s a glimpse of a neighboring warehouse. Tim pauses, something about it seeming familiar. He opens another folder of photos and scrolls down until he finds what he’s looking for. There. Another angle, clearer this time, from a few weeks ago. Same warehouse, Black Mask’s men.
Tim frowns, sitting back. He remembers overhearing something last night: one of the thugs, in the process of getting thrown around by Batman, had been yelling something about “the twenty-seventh” and “boss’s orders”.
Putting the pieces together in his mind, Tim reaches over the desk to where his map of Gotham is spread out and pulls it closer. Uncapping his marker, he draws a circle around the warehouse.
It definitely seemed like something big would be going down if it involved several gangs, Black Mask's among them. Tim likes close-up shots, but getting too near when there are as many thugs — and as much gunfire — as there usually are when gangs this big clash? That’s just asking for trouble.
Grabbing a post-it, he writes a quick reminder for himself to stay away from that area on that specific night — it’s in about two weeks, and he doesn’t want to risk mixing up the date. He presses the sticky note in place and folds the map carefully, tucking it back into its plastic sleeve.
With another wide yawn, he goes back to reviewing the last of this evening’s photos.
—
[Today]
Tim’s not usually the type to sleep in.
But that’s the situation he finds himself in: standing in his room at nearly eleven in the morning, hoodie halfway on, phone in hand, staring at an empty alarm screen and wondering when he started developing such bad habits.
His alarms are set for weekdays by default — he’d have had to make the conscious choice to turn them off before bed last night. Maybe he’d been more tired than he thought, if he doesn’t remember doing so.
He goes downstairs and starts the motions of making breakfast. There’s not much in the fridge, but Mrs. Mac should be bringing groceries tomorrow. He settles for toast, then forgets he started the kettle until it’s screeching. He pours the water and makes himself coffee, then sits in the kitchen drinking it slowly while scrolling through his phone’s notifications.
Nothing looks or feels particularly off.
By the time he finishes eating, there’s still nothing interesting from his phone. No calendar entries for today, nor any memos. He flips through his notes app and finds a few half-written ideas — one titled “project” that contains exactly three empty bullet points and no context.
He scrolls further through his apps, checking his synced calendar just in case. He swipes to check the past few days.
Most of it checks out: class blocks, homework reminders, the occasional meetup with friends at the skate park. But then —
11:00 PM, Gym
Tim frowns at the screen. This is… what? He doesn’t even have a gym membership, and if he did — he wouldn’t be going that late at night.
He taps on the calendar entry. There’s no location, just a small note under it: “Bring gloves + backup gloves”.
He sits there for a moment, baffled, phone still in hand. Gloves? Like gym gloves? As far as he knows, those are mostly used for weightlifting and strength training. Looking down to check, Tim confirms that he hasn't developed any arm muscles. Or perhaps it's referring to climbing gloves? But that makes even less sense. He doesn't have a climbing gym membership either, and where else would he be climbing? Gotham is an urban cityscape, the only things to climb are tall buildings and fire escapes. There's a forested area around Drake Manor, so maybe he's been climbing trees? But that still doesn't explain why, or better yet — why he doesn't remember.
After double checking the house's carbon monoxide detectors, he concludes he is probably not suffering from CO poisoning. His room also doesn’t immediately provide any helpful information.
He spends almost twenty minutes tidying, in hopes that the clutter might offer some clue as to why he decided to skip school today.
He’s just about ready to give up and chalk it all up to just an usual (and hopefully onetime) lapse of memory, when he looks under his bed and finds it: a camera. A very nice camera. Not new, but definitely expensive. Something mid-professional range, the kind that photography kids at school brag about borrowing from their parents.
He pulls it out slowly and turns it over in his hands. The grip fits his palm exactly. There’s a nick near the side dial like he’s dropped it before. It’s definitely his, the neck strap is adjusted to fit him perfectly. He just doesn’t remember ever buying it, much less using it.
He opens the gallery and it comes up blank. Checks the memory slot next.
Empty.
Some more searching turns up a spare battery and a few SD cards, but they look unused — still in the original unopened packaging.
Tim frowns slightly and sets the camera down, then leans back against the bed and stares at it.
He doesn’t dislike photography, but it’s not really something he’s been particularly interested in either. He doesn’t remember buying a camera like this, or saving up for it. He’d almost think it was a gift he’d forgotten about, but it looks used — recently used, there’s not a speck of dust on it, and he knows Mrs. Mac doesn’t come into his room to clean.
And what would he even take photos of?
Birds? Buildings? People?
He can’t imagine himself spending his time doing any of that. The only thing that comes to mind is filming himself doing skating tricks, but there’s no tripod to be found. And besides — his phone is more than good enough for that kind of thing.
Eventually he decides to look through the rest of his room again, this time more carefully. He checks all the usual hiding spots, though he doesn’t really know what he’s looking for.
Under the bed: dust and a few fallen coins.
Inside his closet: mostly clothes. A few shoeboxes. Nothing strange.
Bookshelf: all in order. Except — wait.
One of the lower shelves protrudes slightly more than the others. Barely a quarter of an inch, easily overlooked if he hadn’t been meticulously checking each book for a hollowed out compartment.
Tim kneels and pulls out the shelf, carefully putting the books to the side. There’s a false back — too thin to hold much, but enough to tuck a transparent sleeve into.
Bingo.
He takes it out and lays it out onto his desk. Inside is a folded paper map of Gotham.
There’s a few differently colored lines going through it. Some circled buildings. A post it note with one block of handwriting.
“Meetup location. After midnight. Don’t forget.”
A date is scribbled below the text, it’s in 6 days. He pulls the note off, and finds the Gotham docks circled multiple times in red marker under it.
Tim stares at it for a while. He doesn’t remember writing any of that, but it’s undeniably in his handwriting. Also, it was hidden in his room.
At this point, it’s clear: there are too many odd clues for it to all be a coincidence, he’s forgetting something important.
Tim flips the map over one more time just to check for a hidden message on the back or code or — he doesn’t know. A second note he missed at first? A cipher? Something that would make all of this make sense?
No such luck.
Eventually, he pulls out his phone again and scrolls through his contacts. He hasn’t talked to his parents in a few days, but maybe they know something he doesn’t. It should be about late afternoon where they are — hopefully they’re still in an area with reception.
His thumb hovers over “Mom” for a few seconds, and then hits Call.
It rings for a minute before finally connecting.
"Tim!" Janet Drake’s voice comes through — cheerful, faintly surprised, and slightly echoing like she’s on speaker. “Is everything alright?”
"Yeah!" he says quickly, leaning back against his desk chair. "Yeah, I just felt like calling."
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says warmly. “It’s good to hear from you.”
"Hey, kiddo," Jack’s voice chimes in from further away. “Wait — what time is it back home now? Shouldn’t you be in class?”
Tim winces. “I — yeah. I overslept.”
“Are you sick?” Janet asks immediately, concerned. “Do you have a fever? Headache?”
"No, no – I’m fine, I promise. I don’t know what I was thinking last night," literally, Tim thinks. “I must have turned off my alarm by accident.”
"Skipping school, huh?" Jack laughs. “About time. I was starting to think you’d never get around to the rebellious teenager phase.”
“Jack,” Janet scolds gently.
“What? It’s healthy.”
Tim grins despite himself. "Sorry. It wasn’t on purpose, really. I’ll make up the work."
Technically, he’s supposed to be at boarding school instead of at home. Not that there’s a hard rule against leaving campus — it just gets logged, and his parents have never bothered checking the logs. As long as he gets good grades and doesn’t cause trouble, they trust him to manage his own time. Which means that when he wants to go home, he can.
Lately, that’s been happening a lot.
Weekends, sure. But often mid-week, too. It’s not like he has a reason to come home this frequently — the manor is usually empty, even Mrs. Mac only comes by every few days, so he usually prefers hanging out with friends at school. Compared to an empty house, it’s not much of a contest.
He frowns, trying to remember why he’s been making the long trip back between his school and Bristol so often. Could it be related —
“We’re just glad you’re alright,” Janet interrupts his thoughts. “But maybe don’t make it a habit, okay?”
"Got it. No repeat offenses."
A beat passes. Tim hesitates for a moment — but only for a moment, knowing they might not have much time to talk before they have to go back to their work — and then goes for the reason he called in the first place.
"Hey — this might sound weird, but… did you guys get me a camera recently?"
There’s a pause on the other end.
"A camera?" Jack repeats. “Like one of those polaroid ones?”
“No, like… one of those nice ones that photographers use, with interchangeable lenses and stuff?”
“I don’t remember buying you a camera,” Janet thinks out loud. “But you’ve talked about photography before, haven’t you?”
"Yeah, I think so,” Tim lies, not remembering mentioning it at all.
“You definitely asked for a zoom lens for your birthday,” Jack adds. This is news to Tim, who remembers having been thinking of asking for a new skateboard instead. “Almost gave me a heart attack when I saw the price tag. You didn’t lose it, did you?”
“No! No, it’s here, I just —" He pauses, trying to think of an excuse. “I got a package recently and wasn’t sure if it was something you sent. It’s probably something I ordered that I forgot about.”
“Well, how you use your allowance is up to you,” Janet says. “You never did show us any of your photos, though.”
Tim tries to laugh casually. “I’ll fix that next time you’re home.”
"We’d love that," Janet says fondly. “Listen, Tim, we’ll be heading to the dig site in a few days. The signal might be spotty.”
Tim nods, even though she can’t see it. There’s a flicker of something heavy in his chest — not quite disappointment, but similar enough. They always do this: off to the next site, signal spotty, timelines vague, like it doesn’t even cross their mind to miss him. It's hardly unexpected, he's more surprised that they had time to pick up the call at all.
He tells himself he’s used to it by now.
“We’ll try to call you in a few weeks when we’re done,” Jack says. “If you need anything and can’t reach us —”
“Call Mrs. Mac, I know,” Tim says. “And don’t worry about me — have fun digging up whatever ancient pottery you’re chasing this time.”
"Always do," Jack says. Tim knows he means it good-naturedly, and is annoyed at himself for being frustrated at hearing it.
“We love you, sweetheart,” Janet adds. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
"You too," Tim says, softer now. “Love you.”
A chime rings through the house — the doorbell.
Tim glances toward the hallway. Weird. He’s not expecting anyone today, and solicitors never come around this part of Bristol.
“Hey, someone’s at the door,” he says. “I gotta go — good luck with the dig.”
They say their goodbyes and he taps the screen to end the call.
Tim sets the phone down, glancing once more at the mysterious map still laid out on his desk, before heading to answer the door.
A teenage boy stands on the front step, one hand shoved in the pocket of his jacket, the other raised like he’s reaching to ring the doorbell again.
“Hey,” he says, with a confident smile. “Sorry to bother you. I’m Jason. We live just up the street.”
Tim blinks. “Uh — hi?”
Jason continues without pausing. “We’re out of sugar. I’m making banana bread, and figured — neighborly goodwill and all that. Any chance you’ve got some to spare?”
There’s an awkward pause before Tim steps aside, trying to hide his confusion and maintain a polite veneer. “Um, sure. Come on in, how much do you need?”
He doesn’t know much about the Waynes — which is weird, now that he thinks about it. They’ve been neighbors for years, but other than knowing who they are? He’s drawing a blank.
Jason strolls in like he’s done this a dozen times, glancing briefly at the entryway and then into the kitchen as if mentally mapping the place.
“You’re Tim, right?” he asks, ignoring the question.
“Yeah.” Tim leads him towards the kitchen, trying to remember where Mrs. Mac would have put the sugar.
“Cool. Thought so.” Jason casually follows behind him. “You’ve got a nice place,” he says. "Cozy."
“Thanks.”
Jason’s looking at him oddly, like he’s trying to figure something out. It makes Tim feel uncomfortable, so he busies himself with rummaging through the cupboards to try and find the sugar. After a few more moments of one-sidedly awkward (Jason doesn’t seem to be bothered by it) silence, Jason asks: “You don’t have school today?”
Tim stiffens slightly. “I do, just overslept.” Glancing over his shoulder, he can see Jason raising an eyebrow like he doesn’t quite buy it. “Don’t you?” He fires back.
“We got let out early. Study hall last period, and no one sticks around for that.”
He doesn’t say what school he goes to. Tim wonders if he also goes to a boarding school.
“You feeling alright?” Jason asks suddenly.
“Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?”
Jason nods. “Good, good... Just making sure. You look kind of out of it.”
“Probably because I slept too much last night, it’s just as bad as not getting enough sleep. How much sugar did you say you needed?” He asks again, starting to get a little annoyed, and letting that eat into his manners. He has more important things to do than entertain his bored neighbor — like investigating his missing memories.
Jason’s unfortunately not looking to be in any rush. “Not sure…” he hums. “Never tried baking before. A cup should be enough for a single batch of cookies, right?”
Tim, finally having found the right cupboard, takes out an unopened bag of sugar and turns to Jason, unimpressed. “Didn’t you say you’re making banana bread?”
Jason grins. “I think I’ll make both, actually. Maybe I’ll drop off some if they turn out well, as thanks for saving me a trip all the way back to town for sugar. Your folks like sweets? I can make some extra. When are they coming home anyway?”
Tim refrains from pointing out that Jason’s questioning is starting to sound less like small talk and more like he’s casing the joint. Looking around shiftily, asking when the house will be empty… Not unlike the burglars from Home Alone, Tim thinks with amusement, trying to imagine himself trapping the house while his even richer neighbors try to break in. The Gotham Gazette would have a field day with it.
“No need to trouble yourself, they won’t be home for a while. I probably won’t be here much longer either, I usually stay at my school’s dorms.”
That’s a lie — he spends more time at home than at the dorms. But considering he’s never met nor even talked to his neighbors before, he doubts Jason will notice.
“Aww,” Jason frowns. “You’ll be missing out. Alfie’s recipes are absolutely to die for.”
Tim doesn’t know who ‘Alfie’ is, but his previous irritation is mostly washed away by the thoughtfulness of the offered gesture. Never let it be said that he can't be bribed with baked goods. “It’s fine, really. Maybe some other time?”
“Sounds good. Anyway,” Jason adds, seemingly finally getting the hint and pushing off the counter he’d been leaning against, “didn’t mean to interrupt your afternoon or anything.”
“It’s okay,” Tim says. “Need anything else?”
“Nah, I think I’m good.” He picks up the bag of sugar and heads for the door, turning back just once with a casual wave. “Thanks for the hospitality, neighbor.”
Then he’s gone.
Tim locks the door behind him, peeking out of the eyehole to make sure Jason is gone before turning back to head upstairs.
That whole interaction felt… It didn’t feel normal. Not exactly alarming, but definitely not normal.
Tim frowns at himself. It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you, and after the morning he’s had — there’s clearly something wrong. But he’s also pretty sure the rich neighbor’s kid isn’t out to get him.
He heads back upstairs, the soft creak of the steps the only sound in the quiet house. He decides to put aside the odd visit for now. The Waynes are famously eccentric, after all, and Tim’s never really interacted with them before. Maybe this is just what they're like — slightly offbeat, rich-kid strange. He should be focusing on the concrete evidence he has, rather than worrying about every little thing that seems off.
He nudges the door to his room shut behind him and lets out a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. He’s scoured the room twice now — no more clues, at least none that he could find.
He moves back to the desk and opens his laptop, tapping the touchpad absentmindedly as it wakes. He opens a fresh document — maybe writing it down will help make sense of it.
Overslept on a school day; no memory of turning off alarm.
Odd calendar entry; no memory of making it.
Expensive camera I don’t remember buying; not a gift from mom or dad either.
Map note in my handwriting; no memory of writing it.
Been coming home a lot more lately; can’t remember why.
He leans back. The commonality is clear: he's forgetting things. He glances around the room again, then down at the list. He’s not going to find anything else here. Perhaps if there’s something more to uncover, it’s elsewhere.
Tim closes the laptop, then checks the time. Still early enough in the afternoon to catch a bus back to school. Maybe a change of scenery will help clear his head as well.
And if he can’t figure out anything, then he’ll be coming back next week regardless — after all, he still has a note talking about a meeting that he shouldn’t forget to attend.