Chapter Text
Tim adjusts the camera lens, breath fogging faintly in the cool night air. The fire escape beneath him is solid and quiet — he’d tested every step days ago to make sure it wouldn't creak if he stepped on the wrong spot. Now he crouches low on the top landing, just beneath the roofline, pressed into the shadows.
The rooftop above him stays still and empty, for now. Streetlights hum below. Somewhere in the distance, a dog is barking.
Gotham, for once, feels slow.
With nothing to do but wait, Tim lets his gaze drift down the side of the building. One floor below, a window is bright enough to pull focus. Inside, a man is helping a little girl arrange something on the floor — toys, maybe some kind of bedtime routine. It feels unfamiliar, quiet and simple in a way Tim isn’t used to; an ordinary life playing out twenty feet below while he crouches in the dark with a camera, waiting for vigilantes to land on a roof.
Shaking off the weird feeling he gets from that scene, Tim checks his settings again. Low shutter speed tonight. Normally he has to crank it up to catch anything usable — Batman and Robin move fast, and motion blur doesn’t do them justice.
But tonight's different.
Last week, after tracing a shift in their Old Gotham route, he’d noticed a pattern: about halfway through patrol, they stop for a short break. Roughly the same timing, always on different roofs. He realized it’s a checkpoint, a chance to choose the rest of the night’s path based on whichever area is more active with crime.
Which, conveniently for Tim, means they pause. In other words: a perfect opportunity for some rare long exposure shots.
It looked random at first, but soon enough he was able to piece together a pattern to their rooftop stops. The choices were deliberate, based on specific criteria: the right height, decent cover, a location that patrol routes converged at. Once he understood the rules, narrowing down the options was easy.
The spot he’d picked tonight was one with a fire escape just high enough to watch without being seen.
Normally that kind of accessibility would probably be a disqualifier for someone as paranoid as Batman — but this particular fire escape didn’t go all the way to street level, it only spanned the last two floors. According to Tim’s research, some of Poison Ivy’s plants had torn through the lower section months ago, leaving the top part of it looking like it’s hanging on by a thread; in reality, it’s perfectly stable.
That made getting up there a challenge of course (involving a precarious balcony jump), but it also meant Batman was less likely to expect anyone climbing up to spy on them.
Totally worth it, in Tim’s opinion.
All he needs now is patience, maybe a little luck, and he’ll have the perfect chance to catch some crisp, clean shots in the dim rooftop light.
He checks his wristwatch (a special model with no backlight or reflective surfaces, perfect for stealth — he’d gotten it for himself for Christmas). It’s just past one.
At 1:17, the sweep of a cape cuts through the air. Two shadows land on the rooftop across from him — one tall and quiet, the other shorter, all restless movement.
Batman and Robin, right on time. Tim grins and lets his finger settle onto the shutter.
Click. Click.
The camera’s on silent mode, but he can still feel the vibration of each shot. He adjusts the focus.
Click.
Robin flops onto a utility box, legs swinging, and picks up what must be a conversation from earlier.
"Can’t believe you’re actually calling in Zatanna for this."
Batman crosses his arms. "We can’t take risks when it comes to something like this."
"Still feels like overkill. And since when is it like you to call in outside help for Gotham problems?"
Batman doesn’t answer immediately, letting out a deep “hm” sound instead and turning to sweep his gaze across the skyline (Tim’s heart stops during the brief moment when that gaze passes over the spot where he’s hidden; he still manages to snap a shot that makes it look like Batman is staring straight into the camera lens).
Not for the first time, Tim wishes he could translate the weird grunt-language Batman seems to speak. Jason and Dick have it down perfectly, it seems; but even after all these photos and late nights, Tim can only guess.
He tells himself not to take it personally. That kind of fluency is for family.
Batman finally speaks again. "The circumstances are unusual. It’s a mistake we didn’t catch earlier, and I don’t need to remind you how dangerous —"
"Yeah, yeah. I heard you the first ten times.” Robin interrupts him. “Still feels weird."
"Zatanna’s trustworthy. That’s the only reason I’m allowing it.” A short silence. “And it would be unwise not to take care of this before it can become a problem."
Tim frowns slightly behind the camera. He keeps snapping, filing away every shift in posture, every stray glance.
Robin kicks at the rooftop gravel. "Guess it’s better than the alternative."
"It is," Batman replies. "And safer for everyone involved. Additionally, measures will be taken to prevent another similar occurrence."
“Hey, I swear, if you try to imply it was my fault somehow —”
Batman turns, a flick of the cape behind him. "We're moving. Need to check the rest of the sector before heading towards Robinson Park."
Robin is on his feet after him, shouting about not being ignored and waving a pointed finger as he follows.
And just like that they’re gone; over the edge of the building like they were never there at all.
The rooftop stills once more.
Tim lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and rushes to check the camera's preview screen. Perfect shots greet him: Robin mid-rant, Batman looming, one frame catching them in the middle of an unspoken look.
Fights make for great material — but Tim loves these quiet blink-and-you-miss-it moments too. There’s something soft about them that tugs at a place under his ribs; he doesn’t have a name for the feeling, just knows he wants to be closer to it.
Hence the overcomplicated setup, Tim thinks, suppressing a laugh. All this, just to photograph five minutes of rooftop banter.
With an elevated mood, he zips up the camera case and slings it over his shoulder. His legs ache from crouching for so long, and the climb down is not going to be fun — but tonight was a win.
Carefully making his way down to street level, he replays the conversation in his mind. Zatanna doesn’t show up in Gotham often. Just like Robin said, Batman doesn’t usually invite outside help. That on its own would be out of the ordinary, but there also haven’t been any major rogue plots lately that would call for a team-up — making it even stranger.
Probably best to call it a night after this, Tim decides once he finishes climbing down. A bus ride later and he’s back in Bristol.
Once home, he carefully packs away his gear, then quickly brushes the grit off his clothes. After tossing his hoodie onto his desk chair, he directly throws himself into bed, too tired to fully change into pajamas. Sleeping in tomorrow sounds good, he decides. It’s a weekday, but really — if they didn’t want him skipping school that often, they shouldn’t have made their online attendance records so easy to hack. And besides — he has more fun things to do, like developing his newest batch of photographs.
Tim can’t wait.
That night, he doesn’t dream of anything.
—
[A week earlier]
Tim isn’t even where he’s supposed to be — a rooftop with a clear line of sight of tonight’s patrol — when it happens.
He’s still cutting through City Hall District — one street over from where he hopes to catch sight of Batman and Robin on patrol — casual steps like he’s not in a rush, hands in his pockets, hood up to cut the wind and hide his face. The air is heavy and tastes like exhaust.
It’s still early in the night, but the streets are already starting to empty. He can understand why; much as he loves Gotham, the city isn’t exactly safe for late-night strolls even on the best of nights.
He turns down a side alley he knows is a shortcut when a scream echoes through the air and stops him cold.
It’s not the kind of shout you get from drunk college kids on the corner, or the startled bark of someone who’s just almost stepped on a rat. This one is sharp with panic — fast and young and afraid.
He freezes only for a few moments, then shakes off the shock and (despite a quickly growing sense of unease) rushes toward the end of the alley where the scream came from.
Tim crouches next to an overfilled dumpster. Thankfully the nearby street lamp is broken, providing a patch of dark as additional cover — people on the street might not even be able to notice there’s an alleyway here at all.
His blood runs cold when he sees it: two men, large and fast-moving, forcing a small figure into the side of a black van. Their victim is a girl — maybe nine or ten years old, not much younger than himself — and she’s struggling so hard one of her shoes goes flying.
No logos on the van. No plate.
It’s not the first time Tim’s seen a crime in progress, but it’s usually something minor like a burglary (as common in Gotham as pigeons in any large city), or something Batman and Robin are already en route to handle. This is different.
Seconds later, the van door slams shut and it rolls forward like nothing happened. Tim tracks it as it crunches over glass and speeds off down Fountain Drive. Fifty-ish miles per hour — not fast enough to draw attention, but too fast to follow on foot.
Tim pulls back into the alley, heart thudding, hand already in his pocket. He’s reaching for his phone before he even thinks about it.
The GCPD won’t be fast enough. They won’t be able to track down the van before it’s gone in the night. And getting the information to Batman through them… He’s tried that route before — by the time you get someone who can authorize contact with Commissioner Gordon, by the time you even get dispatch to understand the urgency or to believe you, it’s already too late.
The number he needs is right there in his contacts list under “W” from when his parents had stopped hiring babysitters for him and thought it a good idea to have the neighbors’ contact information. They’d warned him to only use it in urgent situations where he wouldn’t be able to wait for the police to arrive.
Technically, this is exactly that kind of emergency (even if they’d probably had in mind something more like a break-in at the time).
He hadn’t brought a burner phone with him tonight. But that doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is the terrified girl in the back of that van.
Tim taps the call button. The phone rings twice.
“Wayne residence.” The voice is smooth, calm, and unmistakable.
He swallows. “Hi — sorry, I know it’s late. I need to speak with Mr. Wayne. It’s important.”
There’s a pause. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“Tim Drake,” he says, knowing there’s no point in hiding his identity when tracking it via his number would be trivial. “I’m, uh, your neighbor. That’s not important right now. Is Mr. Wayne… I know he’s currently out, somewhere near City Hall. I mean — I know who he is.”
The pause stretches longer this time. Tim tries to resist the urge to fidget.
“What’s the nature of the emergency, Mr. Drake?”
Alfred’s tone hasn’t changed, but there’s a shift in it now — more clipped, formal.
“I just saw a kidnapping take place,” Tim says quickly, trying to keep his voice calm. “Two men, black van, no plates. It happened near Fountain Drive and 5th Street. They were heading east when I saw them. They took a kid.”
His fingers tighten on the strap of his camera bag.
“I didn’t get a photo. They were fast. But I figured… someone should know. As soon as possible.”
There’s another long beat of silence. Tim imagines Alfred typing, already patching through to Batman.
Then: “Understood. I will contact the police and pass along the information. Please remain where you are, help will arrive shortly.”
Tim shakes his head, forgetting for a moment Alfred can’t see him. “No, I don’t need — I’m okay, they didn’t see me or anything. I just saw it while I was walking home. From a friend’s place. I’m going home now. I just — I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Are you quite certain that you’re safe, Mr. Drake? It would be no bother to send someone to escort you home. In fact, I must insist.”
The question catches him off guard. He’s not really used to anyone worrying about his safety. His parents always sign off their calls by telling him to stay safe of course, but they know he’s mature enough to take care of himself — hence the lack of a need for adult supervision while they’re away.
Still, someone caring enough to make sure he gets home safe leaves him feeling oddly warm.
Unfortunately, he has to decline.
Normally, Tim would be thrilled about a close encounter of the bat kind. But in light of just having revealed what he knows? He needs time to calm down and figure out what to say, how to explain.
Also, he doesn’t want to answer questions about why he’s out at night dressed in dark clothes with climbing gear and a camera that costs more than most people’s rent.
“It’ll really be faster for me to just take a taxi,” he finally says. “I stayed out of sight, I’m sure they didn’t know I was here. I’m okay, really.”
A pause, then: “In that case, I must ask that you send me a text message when you have safely arrived home — for my own sake of peace.”
Tim hurriedly agrees to the odd request. Moments later, the call ends with a soft click.
Tim lowers the phone and stands still for a short while longer, staring down at the sidewalk like it might offer an answer. It doesn’t.
He opens the taxi app on his phone and orders a ride. There’s no possibility of continuing with his plans to follow Batman and Robin tonight. For one, he promised Alfred to go home. For another — he’s pretty sure they will be looking for him later tonight, and it’s better that they find him at home than on a rooftop he shouldn’t be on.
His fingers are steadier than they were a minute ago — but the shakiness hasn’t gone completely. It’s not adrenaline anymore, he realizes. It’s whatever comes after.
Consequences, maybe.
He spends the whole ride home trying to decide what to say. The truth would be easiest — but it might get Dick in trouble for being the reason their identities were revealed, and Tim’s not about to let that happen.
By the time the cab pulls up to Drake Manor, he’s run through a dozen versions of his story. The part about Dick’s quadruple somersault stays out. So does anything about rooftop photography and tracked patrol patterns. If they knew that much, they’d force him to stop. And he’s not ready to lose this.
Drake Manor is quiet. It always is — his parents are rarely here, and Tim doesn’t spend much time at home either — but tonight the silence sits heavier than usual, more suspenseful — like the house is holding its breath.
He’s settled on the living room couch, one leg tucked beneath him, a blanket dragged up to his knees, his half-empty mug cradled in both hands, warming his fingers.
The hot chocolate is way too sweet.
It’s not his usual drink of choice — not unless it’s freezing out, or he’s sick, or his mom’s made it for him. But tonight, it felt right. Something warm to sip and easy to make, something to keep his hands occupied.
He left the lights off when he got in — habit, mostly (Tim doesn’t want to risk anyone noticing he’s frequently coming and going late at night) — but now it feels like a mistake. The silence and shadows are just making him more anxious.
He doesn’t even know for sure if Batman will show up tonight. Maybe they’re still deciding what to do about him?
He tells himself to go to bed. It’s already after midnight…
Then he hears it — the soft thud of boots on the back porch. He goes still.
The door creaks open, and a figure steps into the hallway light.
Batman. And behind him — Robin, curiously looking around and scanning the room.
"You’ve got a nice place," Robin says. "Cozy."
Tim’s eyes stay locked on Batman, who hasn’t moved past the threshold. The cape hangs still, the silhouette sharp and waiting.
Tim clears his throat awkwardly. "Uh — thanks. Feel free to come in. Do you want anything? I could make tea. Or hot chocolate."
Robin squints at him, making his way inside. "Are you trying to bribe us?"
"I’m trying to be a good host," Tim mutters, heat crawling up his neck. He probably sounds ridiculous. "It felt weird not to offer."
Batman steps further into the room. "We won’t be staying long."
It’s both a relief and a disappointment.
Tim sets the mug aside and stands. "Right. Before anything else, I just wanted to ask… the girl — she’s safe?"
"Uninjured," Batman nods.
Robin jumps in. "Got the creeps cuffed up and handed over. B drove them halfway through a dumpster first, though. Won't be causing any trouble in the near future, I can promise you that."
Batman’s attention is steady on Tim.
"How much do you know?"
Tim swallows. This is it — the moment he practiced in his head on the ride home. His voice comes out carefully, but steady.
"I didn’t know anything for sure until tonight. I had suspicions, but..."
Batman steps closer. "What gave you those suspicions?"
Tim feels himself tense, but Robin quickly steps in. “Hey, B, dial it down a notch — you’re gonna make the kid think this is an interrogation.” He turns to Tim with a more relaxed tone. “You’re not in trouble or anything. We just want to know how you figured it out.”
Batman doesn’t say anything, but steps back.
Robin grins and collapses on a nearby sofa chair. “Also — you always sit in the dark like this? What’ve you got, night vision? Echolocation? I thought we were supposed to be the bats here.”
Tim lets out a quiet laugh, some of the tightness in his shoulders easing. It’s enough to make answering feel a little less like stepping into a spotlight.
"I found a batarang.” Tim says. “A few weeks ago, I was birdwatching. That’s kind of my hobby, I do wildlife photography. I was in the woods, and I guess I must have wandered too close to your estate? When I found the batarang, I didn’t think much of it at first — just a cool souvenir."
He shrugs, casual, rehearsed.
"But then I started piecing things together. Batman doesn’t patrol out in Bristol, and if there’d been a rogue incident, I would’ve noticed it happening so close to my backyard. And then the timeline of Robin — the first one leaving, and then the new one showing up when you adopted —" Jason, he leaves unsaid. "The more I thought about it, the more obvious the truth became."
There, Tim thinks. Not a single lie. Even if Batman had brought some kind of odorless airborne truth serum (those probably exist, right?) Tim was in the clear.
Robin tilts his head. "That’s a pretty big logical leap for a civilian."
Tim feels his face turn red at what’s basically praise from one of his heroes. "I’m observant."
Batman crosses to the coffee table, where Tim laid out the batarang — cleaned, catalogued, stored beneath his bed for weeks. The one he’d found on a Gotham rooftop.
He picks it up and turns it over in his hand, silent.
"I know I shouldn’t have kept it," Tim says. "But I didn’t tell anyone. Not my parents. Not anyone."
Batman looks around, appraising the empty house. "Your parents are away?"
"Yeah. They’re in Europe for business." He shrugs. "Like I said, they don’t know anything."
There’s a beat of silence.
Batman’s gaze flicks over him — head to toe — like he’s scanning for injuries. "You weren’t seen tonight?"
"No. I stayed hidden. You don’t have to worry,” Tim hurries to reassure them. After all, they don’t know quite how proficient he is at staying undetected. “There were at least two of them, I bet they would have gone after me right away if they’d noticed me."
Robin’s expression turns complicated at that, like he’s unhappy, but he doesn’t comment. Tim quickly goes over his words, but can’t place having said anything wrong.
"So, yeah — the only people who know I was there are in this room. And Alfred. Obviously."
Another pause.
"Don’t go out alone at night again. It’s dangerous."
Tim starts to speak — then nods. "Okay. Yeah. That’s fair. I don’t usually. I was just —" He cuts himself off. "Okay.”
He hopes they can’t hear his heart beating in his chest at the lie.
"You know," Robin says, watching him with open curiosity, like he’s still trying to fit all the puzzle pieces together. "For a kid who’s had such a busy night, you’re taking it pretty well."
Tim huffs a little laugh. “I’ll probably freak out once I’ve had time to sleep on it. And — it’s probably obvious, but I’m kind of a fan.”
That earns a faint snort from Robin. “Hear that, B? Wanna give the kid an autograph?”
Batman doesn’t react. He tucks the batarang into his belt with practiced ease. Tim watches it disappear.
"Physical evidence of what he knows could be dangerous," he says.
Tim nods. "Right. Of course.” After a moment of hesitation, he adds: “I really won’t tell anyone. I wasn’t even going to tell you. Tonight was — I just wanted to help."
Batman studies him a moment longer.
"I believe you."
Tim exhales — slow, quiet. His shoulders ease.
Batman gives a short nod toward Robin, and they move back toward the door.
"Get some rest," Batman says. “You did good tonight.”
It’s short, just a hint of approval — but Tim feels it like a firework just went off in his chest.
Robin glances back on the way out. "And seriously — motion sensor lights. In the yard too, it’s a death sentence to walk in at night. Nearly tripped on an abandoned skateboard out there."
Tim laughs just as the porch door shuts behind them.
He stays standing for a long moment, staring at the space where they’d stood.
Batman came to his house, looked him in the eye, and trusted him.
And that — right now — is everything.
—
[Now]
Tim wakes up late.
The sun has already climbed high enough to warm the floorboards, and the shadows across the curtains tell him it’s much later than he usually allows. The clock on his desk confirms it — 10:46 AM.
He sits up slowly, squinting against the light, trying to remember if it was a weekend. It’s not. He has school. He should’ve been up hours ago.
He quickly checks and confirms his suspicion — his phone has no alarm set.
That’s not right.
He rolls his feet to the floor and stands, stretching carefully. He’s still wearing outside clothes, for some inconceivable reason. His hoodie’s still hanging off the edge of the desk chair, so he tugs it on out of habit.
As he reaches for it, his knee brushes against the corner of the chair and causes him to hiss. A spot on his leg throbs — nothing sharp, just a dull ache. He pushes the fabric up to check.
A bruise. Dark, already healing, looking a couple days old.
He doesn’t remember getting it.
And now that he’s paying attention — his right wrist is a little stiff too, like he’d jarred it bracing a fall or catching himself. His shoulders are tight. Not sore from sleep, not from bad posture. More like he'd overexerted himself yesterday, lifting or climbing something.
He frowns.
His memory of yesterday is fine. After coming back from school, he’d done his homework. Watched something dumb online. Gone to bed around midnight. Hadn’t practiced any new skating tricks or anything else bruiseworthy.
Except —
He feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand.
Except there’s a faint feeling in his gut, like a skipped step on a staircase. That uncomfortable backward lurch when your body thinks something should be there — and it isn’t.