Chapter Text
The room he’s occupied for the past 6 days is uncomfortable, and much too bright. The walls are too pale, the floor squeaky. There’s an unidentifiable smell of disinfectant that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get rid of. He’s never been one for sleep, but they haven’t let him have some sort of eye mask for some God knows reason, but ultimately it doesn’t matter; they wake him up every few hours anyway.
The routine is mostly the same. He’s woken up every few hours during the night, is monitored, asked a lot of questions, and visited.
This is the only mildly interesting part of his day. Or rather, it would have been, if not for the fact that he freaked out on his second day here, made a life changing decision, and now only accepts one visitor.
Said visitor, currently on the chair next to him, was speaking. He listened in.
“He wants to see you.”
He shifts slightly. Obviously, he’s used to not sleeping. Comes with the territory- or, rather, came with the territory, he should say. But apparently caffeine stunts your healing yadayada, so he found himself squinting instead of responding.
“He thinks you’re mad at him, you know.”
He almost scoffs. Not in anger per say, but more disbelief. “That’s not true.” and his voice, still pretty scratchy, is raspy and quieter than he would have liked.
“It’s not true that you’re not mad, or it’s not true that he thinks you are?”
“Both. I’m not mad at him.”
“Then let him see you. He’s worried about you.”
Before answering, he finds himself tracing over his wrist. He’s been doing that a lot, since.
Since.
“I’ve already made my mind up.” he says instead. “ I think it’s best for all of us.”
“…Whatever that guy said to you-”
“Nothing that wasn’t true.” He sort of feels like he’s watching the conversation in third person. Granted, he’s been feeling that a lot these past few days. In fairness, it doesn’t help that the routine is the same every day. Makes it difficult to ascertain what’s real and what’s not real. More than that, makes it feel as though everything was weirdly just out of reach. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”
It feels like he’s got sludge in his way. Like he has to comb through honey to pay attention. And even when he would pay attention it was fleeting and cloudy.
He struggles to place exactly what caused it- of course, the others were all operating under the assumption that this was due to the shooting, the general torture, etc etc, which was almost offensive, (and very much not true) but he himself didn’t know exactly what it was.
He had a pretty strong theory.
“You need to talk to him- you can’t just tell him you’re giving it up and then refuse to see him, that’s not fair for the both of you.”
This time, he does scoff, and in anger. “If you’re going to lecture me on a decision I’m not going to change then I don’t want to see you either.” He lays down on the bed and shifts so his back’s turned.
“Don’t be like that.” He feels the other man walk closer to him. “C’mon, hey-”
But the concentrations wavered at this point and with it, the honey has settled in. There’s this weird cold feeling in his chest. “I want to take a nap. Please leave.”
He hears his name being called. It’s wounded, and quiet. He can tell there’s remorse, concern laced within it, and under normal circumstances he’d at least feel for the guy.
Instead, he feels nothing. “Don’t make me call the nurse.”
“T-”
“Goodnight.”
The other man takes a deep breath, and quietly walks to the door, closing it behind him.
He doesn’t sleep.
They tell him what happened the moment he wakes up, the first time.
He coded, twice- on the way to the hospital. Original plan was the cave, but when you’re a good couple hours away (even in the fastest car known to man) and you see a 15 year old code twice , you go where you need to. Gotham General was closer, and for once, there was no time to hide the truth.
He had been shot in the gut. A nearly lethal wound. The kind of injury that, if left untreated, would kill anyone, no matter how strong or fast. It was only thanks to quick thinking and his own extraordinary level of fitness—something that would be quietly praised later—that it hadn’t killed him or left him crippled for life.
And besides, for once, there wasn’t a lot to hide. The media had already spun the story. "Heir to the Drake fortune, kidnapped and almost murdered by a crazed English teacher and child psychologist." In fairness, it was a pretty meaty Headline. Lot's of Adsense, he was sure. But more importantly, no one needed to invent a cover, which was something. The truth, dressed up a little for public consumption, was bad enough.
It obviously got all the more juicy when more articles came out over the span of the next few days. "Nine other victims tied to Kidnapping case, held in warehouse, malnourished, abused." was one. "Criminal Network covered up months of abuse and kidnapping" was another. It was a national scandal now.
The reporter's voice drones on, talking about how none of the children had families, and why this was how it had gone unnoticed for so long. The words wash over him like background noise.
Apparently, an anonymous donation had stepped in to take care of everything, paying for all the victims medical bills and 3 years of therapy each, should they want it. They had also ensured that the victims remain in a safe area in the hospital, away from any paparazzi.
Tearing his attention from the small hospital T.V he opens his laptop, mindlessly clicking through his inbox, deleting a bunch of unread emails from school, news outlets, and random friends who were probably being polite.
His parents had been notified. They had sent him an e-card.
“Get well soon, you’re in our thoughts.”
He had deleted the email with a roll of his eyes.
Nice to know some things don’t change.
When he wakes, things are different.
For one thing, it’s completely dark outside. He must have slept without realising it, which is a little odd, even for him. There are no nurses bothering him, no visitors.
Huh.
What’s objectively stranger is the figure at the foot of the bed, glaring at him. “What the fuck is your deal?”
And it’s so harsh and out of place he finds himself back to earth. The fog dissipates, the honey dissolves- suddenly he’s real again. “Jason?” He croaks.
“Tim. What the fuck is going on with you? You’re not letting Bruce see you? You yelled at Dick? And now you’ve apparently decided you’re giving up Robin ?”
“How did you even get in- I didn’t put you on the approved list.”
“Sorry to cross your teenybopper boundaries, kid, but it’s been a week. If you ask me, the others all let you carry on your little teenage angst fest for long enough. And I’ll admit, I enjoy seeing Bruce knocked down a peg or two every now and then, but this is getting insane. I need to know what’s going on here.”
“I-“ his voice broke off. In contrast to the past week, everything now felt overexposed and sensitive. He could feel each breath, each touch burned. “I didn’t put you on the approved list.” He repeats. Forget the fact that he couldn’t’ve, because Jason just so happened to be legally dead, but whatever.
Jason, for what it’s worth, doesn’t point out the obvious. “No, you didn’t. And yet, I'm not leaving until you tell me what’s going on.” He takes a step forward. “So the only way you’re getting rid of me is if you beat me in a fight, which” he gestures at Tim, very much not capable of fighting even a wet sack of flour, “or you tell me. Up to you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, what’s not fair is that I’ve had to deal with Bruce mope around the manor for a week whilst you continue your masturbatory angst fest. Y’know he’s not been out as Batman? He’s not sleeping? And Dick came back to the manor today crying about how you yelled at him?”
“That’s not- Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know you. And there’s no way you’d be yelling at Dick or telling the old man to fuck off, never mind giving up Robin unless you were out of your mind. So let’s hear it.”
“There’s nothing to hear. At least Dick and Alfred understood that.”
Jason scoffs, “ Dick thinks if we leave you alone, eventually you’ll talk. That clearly isn’t working. Besides,” he sniffs. “I’m not Dick.”
He can feel himself growing more frustrated. “I keep telling you there’s nothing to say, why aren’t you getting that?!”
“Because I know you and I know when you’re lying. Stop lying .”
This was, this was--
“Just- just fuck off , Jason!”
And you know something, he’s expecting Jason to lash out, to yell at him, to say something, really, anything, but instead he just continues staring at Tim before taking a deep breath. “Alright.” He says simply, before making use of the other part of the bed next to Tim and flopping down onto it, staring up at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head.
“Wh- what are you doing?!” Tim yelps, shifting back to avoid Jason’s stature.
“Oh, me? You know, just staring at this fine hospital ceiling. Better than the night sky, I’d say. Nice and lifeless, just as all good things are at some point.”
Tim huffs out a breath. “Jason-”
“Instead of whining.” He cuts him off. “Try it.”
Tim blanches slightly but there’s a finality in his tone Tim doesn’t really think he can beat, and, after a good few moments of him aggressively staring at Jason in an attempt to will him to move doesn’t achieve anything, he mutters “ fine” before assuming a similar position to Jason, looking up at the ceiling- though his hands are firmly by his side.
They lay in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the beeping of his heart monitor. It’s clearly the middle of the night, and the only light comes through the slithers of moonlight and hospital equipment leaking through.
Strangely, Tim feels himself grow calmer at the presence of Jason in the room. He hasn’t said anything- neither of them have, but all the small glances Tim steals show Jason seemingly content, staring up.
He doesn’t really know what the play is, here. It doesn’t seem like Jason’s mad at him, but equally he’s never told anyone to fuck off before. He doesn’t know what to say.
He finds himself speaking before he means to. “Rainie Thompson’s alive.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“So are the others. Benji Parker, Adrien West…all of them.”
“Yes.”
Tim’s not really sure what he’s trying to say here. “...How did…How…?”
“The laptop.” Jason’s voice is still calm. “It was all Dick, actually. Bruce and I were… focused on you, but I remembered what you said about the laptop being important, and, well, he went in and grabbed it.” He pauses. “We were able to get a location for the room the livestream was streaming too, and go from there.”
“You weren’t credited as helping, though.”
Jason hums in agreement. “The media don’t much care for when an anti-hero does something good. Puts a damper on how they market us.”
Tims quiet again for a long while, but Jason doesn’t prompt him. It’s nice, actually. No one was pressing him for questions for once. The nurses, the other police officers, even Dick- they kept asking him more, kept asking him how he felt about everything- and easily worse, pitying him. Extending sympathy. Whispering about him when they thought he was asleep. Here and now, it was nice to just exist without questions.
Jason wasn’t pitying him. Wasn’t extending his sympathy. He was just…being Jay. It brought him back to reality, meant that he was able to actually feel human again.
Equally, it meant he wasn’t able to hide behind the fog anymore.
“I really messed up, Jay.” is what he murmurs finally.
“You were manipulated.” Jason corrects easily. His tone is still calm. It’s nice. “There’s a difference.”
Tim shakes his head, but doesn’t stop looking at the ceiling. “It’s not just that. It’s everything. I didn’t spot a serial killer for months. How can I call myself Robin, if I don’t see when something like this happens right in front of me?”
“Is that what you think being Robin is? Never making mistakes?”
Tim breathes out harshly. “No-No, that’s not it. I don’t-- I just mean that it’s part of the job to pick up on anomalies, to be a detective.”
“Sure.”
“Well, if it’s part of the job, then surely I’m not particularly good at mine, since I didn’t notice anything until it was way to late.”
“Ah.” He hears Jason say. “And that’s why you told Bruce you don’t want to be Robin anymore. Because you think you’re not good enough to be Robin”
“Yes.” The words feel bitter on his tongue. “It’s not that I don’t want it anymore, but…I have to know when it’s not right. And it’s not right.”
“Who says you have to know something like that? It sounds like a pretty big decision.”
“I was the one who thought I could be Robin to begin with, after--” his voice broke off. “I need to be objective about this. To work without emotions. Everyone is too biased to be honest with me. They’d all just tell me what I want to hear. Not what I need to hear.”
“And that’s why you don’t want to see Bruce.” Jason finishes. “You don’t think he’d understand.”
“I know he wouldn’t. He’d think I was mad at him, that this whole thing was a dig at him, a reflection on him, and I’m not, it’s notI- I just don’t want to have to explain myself in front of him. This whole thing is so humiliating.”
Jason’s silent for a long while this time. Enough time that Tim begins to feel a little uneasy.
Finally, he speaks up. “Did Bruce ever tell you how I died?”
Tim blinks slightly. It’s such an unexpected question it takes a few moments to register. The real answer was no, he didn’t. They had never, not once, discussed it fully. Certainly not properly, it was always hushed, indirect. Any conversation with regards to Jason’s passing was usually filtered through Dick or Alfred. Even now, years later, he never spoke about it with Bruce. Jason was alive and would come to dinner and they still wouldn’t discuss it.
Bruce himself got so agonised whenever the conversation came into play. Tim was good at reading a room, always was, but others weren’t, and so very occasionally a whisper of what happened to the second Robin would make its way into the conversation and Tim would watch in real time as he would shut down, disintegrate, harden and become numb. Tim wouldn’t be able to get anything out of him for at least the rest of the day. And then, like clockwork, the day would fall into the next and Bruce would be back to how he was before, no mention of Jason once.
Still though, that didn’t stop him from knowing . He couldn’t not know. The Joker, the warehouse- the bomb- everyone sort of knew the bare bones. “…The Joker.” He says, because what else can he say, here? “In the, uh, warehouse in Ethiopia.”
Jason hums. “But how did I end up in Ethiopia?”
“He- I mean, he- tricked you, right?”
“It’s more then that. My mother- biological mother.” He doesn’t take his eyes off of the ceiling. “Lured me to Ethiopia, in one way or another. Bruce told me not to go, told me it was a trick, he actually begged me to stay in Gotham at one point, I think- but I didn’t listen.
“Off I went, in search of her. Where, of course, it was revealed that she- my mother- was working with the Joker. But by that point it was too late.”
Tim can feel the vulnerability in the air. He feels if he breathes too hard it’ll be over, and this insane piece of trauma will never come out again. He wants to say the right thing so badly he can’t figure out what to say, so just lets Jason continue.
“He beat me for hours.” Jason’s saying. “Hours and hours. Over and over, with a crowbar. Tied my hands and legs together so I couldn’t do anything, taunted me, mocked me, and eventually when he got bored revealed that there was a bomb. I didn’t realise until it was too late, and by that point I was too beaten to think straight. I knew it was over.”
Tims staring at Jason, who, to his credit, doesn’t seem to be overcome by emotion. “In hindsight, it was obvious. Why my biological mother wanted anything to do with me didn’t make sense, but more so why Bruce was so insistent to leave it, and not pursue it further. In fact whilst he was beating me, Joker even told me how naive I was.” He cracks a bitter smile. “That I should have known better.”
Eventually, he shifts, so that he’s sitting upright, and looking at Tim. “I was manipulated so badly it brought about my death. Surely, with your logic, this would constitute a mistake, right? Certainly it brought about Bruce’s emo phase, which certainly should be punishable by death. Does that mean I shouldn’t be the Red Hood? Give it all up?”
Tim blanches, and sits up from the bed. “What? No- No! Of course not!”
“Why not? I made a pretty big mistake.”
“That’s not- I get what you’re trying to do right now, Jay, but it’s not the same-”
“How is it not the same? Civilians got hurt because of me- a madman blew me up - I should have realised that I was being manipulated, but I didn’t. So why shouldn’t I give up being the Red Hood?”
“It’s-” and oohhhh, he’s got him there. Tim’s fumbling with his words, but he was never the best with words even before a crazy psychopath stalked and kidnapped him, and -- “It’s just different when it’s me.”
“That’s a terrible argument and you know it.”
“Why-” he stops. “Why are you here, doing this? I don’t understand.”
“Because, asshat, I don’t like watching people I care about lament in their feelings forever. It gets boring.”
Tim doesn’t have anything to say that, so he opens his mouth and closes it silently.
Jason raises his eyebrows and crawls over to Tim, so that they’re now shoulder to shoulder on the hospital bed.
“People mess up, kid, even Bruce. Even outside of being a superhero. It happens.” he puts an arm around Tims frame. “But if every time you mess up you don’t let yourself work through it, you'll never grow.”
Tim looks down. His smile is bitter. “This doesn’t feel like something I can grow from.”
“Tim, everything is an opportunity for growth. A year ago I couldn’t be in the same room as Bruce. People change. They grow and they change and they fuck up and they regret things but you have to let yourself make mistakes. You can’t put yourself on this pedestal that you’ll never fuck up; you’ll go insane.
“You need to remember no one died. You only temporarily helped a madman because you felt you had no other choice. Bruce, Dick and I also had no idea Lawrence was behind all this. But all this was, was an opportunity to grow.”
He lets Jason's words settle before responding, cringing slightly at the mention of the others. “Bruce is probably so mad at me.”
“Bruce is worried about you. They all are.”
“But not you?”
“Eh,” Jason shrugs. “Now I know you’re just having a teenage angst, not so much. Who hasn’t been shot before they reach the age of consent?”
Despite himself, Tim smiles.
There’s a bit of silence.
“Did you mean it?”
“...Hm?”
“You just said- you care about me. Did you mean it?”
“Tim,” Jason’s voice isn’t rough, but it’s certainly a little exasperated. “Am I not in your hospital room at 4:30 in the fucking morning tending to you like I'm one of the fucking nurses? What more is there to say?"
And the thing is, he does. It's humiliating and stupid and kiddish and he hates it, he hates it, but he needs to hear it. He needs to hear Jason say it.
And, to his credit, Jason does seem to understand this the longer he looks at Tim’s face, because his face drops. “Yes." his tone is far warmer this time. "I care about you. So do the others.”
A warm feeling attempts to bloom in his chest but Tim instantly stifles it, afraid of the next thing on his mind.
“Will you tell Bruce I’m sorry?”
He watches Jason cringe slightly and face changes. “ No.” far more harshly then Tim thinks is necessary. “I’ve had enough of you telling me shit like that.”
Which, Tim has no idea what he’s referring to, but sure, okay. Whatever.
The moment passes but it seems to awaken something in Jason because he’s pulling himself to his feet, “C’mon.” He says. “We’re getting out of here.”
Tim gapes. “Jay- you just said it was the middle of the night, I can’t just leave .”
“Just sign yourself out.”
“I can’t; I’m under 18.”
“Christ, I keep forgetting you’re 10" he mutters. Then raising his voice slightly, takes a deep breath. "Alright, then, whatever. When can you get out of here?”
Tim doesn’t even bother correcting him. “Day after next, as long as my stitches hold.”
“Okay. Then here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to call Bruce-” Tim attempts to speak over him and Jason doesn’t let him. “ Yes you are, because I cannot physically stand his lamentations anymore Timothy- so you’re going to call him, and you’re going to ask that he comes to pick you up when you get discharged. Got it?”
“...I just think you’re not really giving me much choice here.”
“That’s because it’s not up to you anymore.”
Tim huffs, but there’s no heat behind it. Strangely enough, he doesn’t want Jason to go. “Thank you, Jason. Seriously.” He tries to pour as much sincerity into his voice as he can. “And for what it’s worth. I’m sorry about Ethiopia. Your mother, Joker- the warehouse, all of it.” He feels a bit lame saying it, but still, he needs it said.
He is sorry. He used to think Jason was this monster, this terrifying beast, which, in a way he still was when he wanted to be, but over the months he saw a different side to him, a more human side. Jason was, and he supposed, would always be, a victim, in some ways.
And so what’s interesting about it, is that when Jason does end up turning to him and they lock eyes, there’s an indescribable look in his eyes. One that he’s not really sure he understands. “Yeah, well.” He pauses slightly. There's something in his voice Tim can't place. “It worked out, didn’t it?”
Just as soon as it happened the moment is over, and Tim watches Jason reach into his pocket, bringing out his phone. “ I’m going to go to the bathroom. When I’m back, you better have called Bruce.”
He chucks him the phone and Tim catches it easily before disappearing. How he’s going to make it to the bathroom in a random hospital and not get stopped by security is beyond him, but knowing Jason he’ll find a way.
He looks down at the phone, where Bruce’s contact detail stares back at him.
With the option between calling Bruce and apologising, or facing the wrath of scary Jason Todd, there's not much choice.
He sighs. “Fuck it.” he mutters, before hitting ‘call’.
Two days later, Tim sat on the edge of the hospital bed, absently tracing the bandage on his wrist. The hospital room was quiet now, the soft hum of machines the only sound. He had been cleared for discharge earlier in the day, and boy howdy, he was not looking forward to his pick up.
In fairness and respect to all nurses everywhere, they hadn’t really asked questions. Just silently acknowledged he had changed his mind and yes he would like Mr. Bruce Wayne, official Temporary Guardian for Mr. Tim Drake to pick him up.
Still, as he sat waiting, he couldn't help but feel his pulse quicken. Now that he was back on Earth a bit, it made the whole situation feel all the more ridiculous. Forget his “angst-fest” as Jason had so eloquently coined it, Bruce was well within his rights to bench him from Robin for how he acted this week alone.
The sound of the door creaking open had him snapping his head up in time to see Bruce step in, dressed in a jumper and some jeans. A far more casual look then Tim was used too. Still, this didn’t stop him from carrying the usual heavy weight in his eyes, deep and serious.
“Ready to go, chum?” Bruce asked, his voice low and steady.
Tim nodded, his fingers stilling over the bandage. “Yeah. Guess so.”
Bruce handed him his jacket, and as Tim slid it on, the older man took a moment to study him. There was concern in his expression, but it was muted, hidden under layers of restraint. Bruce wasn’t one for emotional displays, and Tim had learned to read between the lines a long time ago.
“I’ll take you back to the Manor,” Bruce said, stepping aside so Tim could follow him. “Dick’s waiting for us.”
Tim didn’t respond right away, instead glancing back at the empty room before he finally followed Bruce out into the corridor. The quiet of the hospital was almost suffocating, but as they made their way outside, the cool evening air brought a sense of relief.
The car ride back was mostly silent, punctuated only by the occasional sound of Gotham’s nightlife as they drove through the city. Tim stared out the window, watching the familiar streets blur by, but his mind was elsewhere—back with the kids, back with the case that had nearly consumed him.
Bruce broke the silence as they neared Wayne Manor. “You’re going to be okay, Tim.”
Tim blinked, pulling his attention back to the present. He glanced at Bruce, unsure how to respond. Bruce didn’t often offer comfort, not in the traditional sense, but there was something in his tone now that made Tim’s chest tighten.
“I don’t feel okay,” Tim admitted after a moment. “Not after all of that.”
Bruce nodded, and for a second, Tim thought that might be the end of the conversation. But as they pulled into the long driveway leading to the Manor, Bruce parked the car and turned to him, his gaze steady.
"Come on," Bruce said quietly. “There’s something I want to show you.”
The rooftop of Wayne Manor was quiet, bathed in the soft light of the rising sun. Tim stood beside Bruce, the city stretching out beneath them like a living, breathing entity. It was a place Tim had been to countless times before, but tonight, it felt different—more intimate, more vulnerable.
They stood in silence for a while, the cool breeze brushing past them, the distant sounds of Gotham far below.
Tim stared down at the city, his heart beating wildly. “Bruce.” There was some level of resignation in his tone, and he didn’t like it. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this. For Robin.”
Of course, this wasn’t the first time Bruce was hearing some version of this, their explosive argument contradicting any other possibility. Still, it felt more real now. More intimate. Before, his alleged reasons for giving up Robin was because he didn’t feel he was worthy of Robin.
Back then, it had been about the title. About being "worthy." He had convinced himself that he wasn’t enough—wasn’t strong enough, skilled enough, didn’t live up to the legacy of the Robins who came before him. That had been his defence mechanism, a way to distance himself from the pain of failing.
But here and now, a new truth became apparent. This wasn’t about worthiness anymore. This was about whether he could handle the cost of being Robin. The past week had been hell. The terror of nearly losing the nine children, the weight of responsibility crushing him with every second, the sleepless nights haunted by nightmares of what could’ve gone wrong. The suffocating feeling of knowing that his choices, his actions, could mean the difference between life and death for innocent people.
There was a newer realisation, a more terrifying one. Yes, he was worthy to be Robin.
But could he be?
It was vunerable and raw, and the confession had his fingers shaking slightly whilst he waited for a response.
Finally, Bruce spoke, his voice calm but thoughtful. “It’s a fair enough worry,” he began, his tone steady. “A very human one. And I understand why you feel that way. The danger, the darkness… it’s overwhelming, and it makes you question everything. Yourself. Your limits. Whether you can keep going.”
Tim nodded, unable to think of a responce.
“And you’re right,” Bruce said, his gaze steady on the horizon. “This life... It's not easy. It’s not supposed to be.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not capable of it. It doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for it.”
“But what if I’m not?” Tim’s response was soft. “What if I can’t handle it? This week…Bruce-- ” His voice faltered, and he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “I’ve never felt like this before. It was too much. If this is what it’s always going to be like, I don’t know if I can keep doing it. I don’t know if I want too.”
Bruce’s expression softened. “Tim, you’re not always going to feel like this.” He took a step closer, his presence grounding. “This week was hard—impossibly hard. But it won’t always be this way. And when it is, you don’t face it alone .”
Tim felt a lump form in his throat.
“This life that we’ve chosen is difficult, but what makes it liveable, survivable , is knowing that you’ve always got someone in your corner. I did the whole ‘alone’ thing, and chum, it gets suffocating too quick. You lose a part of yourself to the darkness, and you wonder if you’ll ever get it back again."
“Yeah.” he whispered.
“But you will Tim.” He puts his arm around Tim softly, securely. “I promise you will. Dick, Jason, Alfred and I care a lot about you. We love you- I love you. And we will always care for you, always be there, by your side.
“What if I let them down?” Tim asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Other victims. The team. You.”
Bruce’s gaze softened, and for a moment, there was something almost paternal in his expression. “You won’t,” he said quietly. “You already proved that. But even if you stumble, even if there are times when it feels like too much, we’re here. I’m here.
"This was a difficult week for all of us. But what I want you to do is take what you can from it and use it tomorrow, and the day after, and the next. I want you to try to realise that not everything needs to go perfect all the time, but with the right mindset and support, you’re able to learn where you’re good, look out for what you missed this time, and use your experiences to make you a better vigilante, a better hero.
“You think this experience makes you weak.” Bruce finishes. “But you’re wrong. It makes you better.”
There was a warm feeling in his chest, though once he had breathed raggedly it disappeared. His mind was still uneasy.
"What if I still can't do it?" he whispers.
"Then we’ll support you, no matter what.” Bruce ends. “Whatever way you need, whatever way you need it.
"But I want you to remember that there are people who care about you- and nobody, not even myself, does it alone.”
They stood in silence again, the sun finally rising over the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of orange and pink. It was the first sunrise he had seen in a week, and it was beautiful.
He reached over to where Bruce was standing and before he could talk himself out of it hugged him. “Thank you, Bruce. Really.”
Bruce enveloped his arms round Tim. “You don’t have to thank me, chum. We’re family.”
Months pass, and with it, July brings longer days, shorter nights, and very occasionally in Gotham, good weather.
Tim had followed up with each of the victims, mostly for his own sanity. The general consensus was that they were alright- Lawrence may have underfed them, but he truly hadn't beaten them at all. The first true bit of "violence" he was planning on inflicting on them was during the livestream in front of the nationwide audience. It would seem he truly believed he was doing something right- and he had no interest in making them suffer if no one could see it.
Still, it was an adjustment period for everyone. None of the others were back at still, and a couple had been moved out of state, whisked away by distant aunts and uncles or grandma's. Tim was the only one who was back in school.
He did think it would be more of a story, but high school is fickle, even in kidnappings. A few people stared when he made his return his first few days, but other than that, no-one really cared, and a few weeks later, everyone had moved onto the next big scandal (Eva Parker found out her girlfriend Aidy McClain was texting another girl- a freshman, during their two-year anniversary dinner.)
Soon enough, the bell rings for the end of the day, and their substitute, Ms. Drudy lets them all pick their books up and rush out the door. It's the penultimate week before summer break, and you can tell.
“Mr. Drake, if you would wait here a moment,” Ms. Drudy calls out from the front desk, “I need to have a word.”
Tim paused mid-step, letting his backpack onto his desk. He was completely healed by now, and in all fairness to Ms. Drudy, could totally take her down in a fight if needed. Not that this would be necessary, being that there was the incident a few weeks prior where he had finished patrol early and walked in on Dick, Bruce and Alfred in the cave plastering photos of Ms. Denise Roberta Drudy on the cave computer screens for background checks.
Still, he would be lying if he said he wasn't a tiny, tad bit confused.
He wanted until the last kid had filtered out of the classroom before leaving his backpack at his desk and walking up to her in the centre of the room, waiting expectantly. In general he had a pretty warm view on her, being that she wasn't trying to kill him and such, but he reckoned she was one of those teachers who forgot about her children's names the moment they left the building.
When he reached her desk, she rummaged through her draw slightly before handing him a white A4 envelope.
“Your English report card, Mr. Drake. Principal-approved."
Tim blinked.
"The Principal asked that I regrade your assignments due to the obvious mishandling of your grade." she starts. "I went back through all your assignments for the year, revisited some from previous years as well, to get a better understanding of your progress. The English grade on your report card now actually reflects your efforts over the past year.”
Tim nodded. Honestly, his English grade hadn’t crossed his mind since, well, before everything happened. He slipped the letter out of the envelope and, instead of the glaring red F that had been there before—on an essay Jason had helped him with, no less—there was now a much more encouraging green A+.
He couldn't help but let out a small, surprised laugh.
Scanning his other essays was a similar experience. B, B-, C+, A-, even an A on it's own- nothing below a C+. His final report card held his average to be an A-.
An A-!
As politely as he can, he thanks Ms. Drudy and reaches over to his bag to stuff the envelope in.
“You earned it, Tim,” she said gently.
He nodded again, offering a small smile before quickly making his way outside to where Dick was waiting, leaning against the car, his usual lopsided grin already in place when their eyes met. He’d told Dick repeatedly that the school pick-ups weren’t necessary, but especially when he was in Gotham Dick insisted. And, since it was "Family Dinner" as Dick liked to call it, here he was, picking him up.
Now, though, he was glad. He felt like he was vibrating in excitement. An A-!
The sun cast long shadows across the parking lot, and the hot air was welcomed.
“How was school?” he says, walking with him to the car.
“Good,” Tim says. He climbs into the passenger seat. “My new English teacher’s re-marked all my old work from this year.”
“That’s good.” Dick says, just a slither of cold leaking into his voice.
“Yeah, well. Look at this-” he brings out his report card and hands it to him.
Dick breaks out into a smile as he reads Tim's report. “Tim, this is amazing! Congratulations. Jason’s gonna be so pleased.”
Tim smiled. “He cooking tonight?”
Dick hummed, turning the engine on and beginning their route to the manor. “Something like that.”
Reaching the kitchen, he watches the scene before him in general confusion.
“Jason gave Alfred the evening off.” Dick attempts to explain lightly. “Still can’t tell if he regrets that or not.”
“You’re going to begin regretting things if you don’t wash your hands and help caramelise these onions.” Jason responds quickly, and Tim watches in disbelief as the terrifying red Hood zips from one area of the kitchen to another in a giant frilly apron. Bruce is next to him, apparently attempting to keep up.
“Tim- those sprouts are not going to peel themselves!”
“Wh-But I have a bad wrist!”
“I didn’t see you complaining about it on patrol last night.” Jason responds, hands now in some sort of garlic knot tying competition. Still, he throws over a bowl of Sprouts. “C’mon, vamanos”.
Tim catches the sprouts with the aforementioned ‘bad wrist’ with ease, which admittedly doesn't do him any favours with his argument. Still, he makes sure to groan loudly whenever Jason passes by him.
In the chaos, Jason spots Bruce making a beeline for the stairs. “Uh- No, no! Don’t think you’re getting away that easily. The table needs to be set, and do you see an extra pair of hands anywhere? And Dick, don’t turn up the heat, you’ll burn the onions!”
“Man, whatever we’re paying Alfred is not enough.” Dick responds, looking slightly put out.
Bruce seemingly agrees, grumbling slightly. Still he grabs some plates and disappears into the next room.
In the distance, Tim hears Alfred from the living room, clearly attempting to take back the plates from Bruce, who apparently doesn’t seem to be doing it correctly.
Back in the kitchen, Jason’s busy scolding Dick for his onion technique, which as it happens, is evidently not good. “I’ve never been a good cook!” Dick’s attempting to explain. “You brought this on yourself!”
Before Jason can respond, an alarm on his phone begins trilling. He shoots over to the oven, looking scandalised. “The Lasagna!”
Something warm blooms in Tim’s chest.
This time, he lets it.