Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim rubs his hands together, hoping that they’ll stop shaking. He looks across the street at the most beautiful car in all of creation and sighs.

Is it the absolute dumbest idea to celebrate the anniversary of Jason stealing the Batmobile’s tires by trying to steal them himself? Absolutely. Is Tim going to do it anyway? Hell yeah.

Tim is eleven years old. His parents jet set across the globe constantly, leaving the poor kid home alone for about 360 days a year. What else is a poor, innocent pre-teen supposed to do when left with no adult supervision and the uncanny ability to never be noticed. Tim can go through entire formal galas without a single guest even realizing he is there. He calls it ghost mode. It’s a fun skill.

It’s not so fun when he goes to the store to buy groceries, and shoppers keep bumping into him and apologizing that they didn’t see him. He still has a bruise on his arm from when a sweet old lady ran into him with her shopping cart. It’s all good though because she apologized and gave him a peppermint hard candy from her purse.

The only person that he can’t hide from, no matter how hard he tries, is his math teacher. Mr. O’Brian always manages to call on Tim for answers that he rarely gets right. Tim isn’t bad at math – he has an A+ average – he just isn’t so good at paying attention in class. Sadly, even when Tim is ducking behind the person sitting at the desk in front of him, using his classmate as a human shield, the teacher finds him. Like a heat seeking missile.

Right now, Tim isn’t in math class, but he needs to solve an important equation: How to turn four tires into zero.

(That’s more of a magic trick than a math equation, but Gotham Academy doesn’t offer magic as a class. That would be so cool if they did. That would totally be Tim’s favorite class.)

Tim takes a deep breath and refocuses on the task at hand.

Best case scenario, he’ll jack the tires cleanly and roll them into the autobody shop. Batmobile tires will score him at least a couple thousand dollars for the set. Tim’s rich, and even if he wasn’t, he doesn’t plan to keep the money. It’s not about the money anyway.

His plan for the money involves giving it to a few of the street kids that he always runs into when he’s sneaking around Gotham stalking taking pictures of Batman and Robin. Tim ends most nights either buying boxes of pizza and eating with the kids, buying Batburger and eating with the kids, or eating breadsticks and lasagna with the working girls in the Italian Restaurant on the corner of 3rd Avenue and Canal Street that doubles as mafia front.

Park Row – or Crime Alley as most of Gotham calls it – is like a second home to Tim. Crime Alley has always been infinitely more inviting than the borderline museum vibe of Drake Manor.

If only Jason Todd-Wayne knew how much Tim loved the people of Crime Alley. If the second, and current Robin knew, they’d probably be best friends. Instead, like most people, Jason-Robin doesn’t have a clue who Tim Drake is. Both boys are in the same grade in school, thanks to Tim’s parents insisting that he skip Kindergarten, and start school at four years old instead of five, but there’s no way someone as cool as Jason knows that someone as uncool as Tim exists. Plus, as said before, no one notices Tim.

Tim bounces on his toes, hyping himself up. He’s well hidden behind a dumpster, which gives him the perfect view of his target. He watches the Batmobile doors open, and he has to swallow down the excited squeal from bursting out. Tim is close enough to hear the dinging from the car door being left open.

He strains to hear if the car radio is still playing, because the speakers inside the Batmobile are ginormous, but there’s no music playing. Either Batman likes to drive in silence, which is weird, but valid, or he turns his music off whenever he parks.

The blue LED lights inside the interior are almost as awesome as the diamond-plated rims. Tim squints as much as he can so he can see the air freshener tree hanging from the rear-view mirror. It’s a black tree, but he can’t make out the name.

Doesn’t matter. He’ll be close enough to steal the tree right along with the tires.

Tim keeps trying to bounce the nervous energy out of his system as Batman and Robin linger by the car to have their pre-patrol talk. Tim hops up and down, cracking his neck from left to right, and shaking out his arms, just like he’s an Olympic swimmer about to dive in the pool. He’s not wearing a swim cap, but he made sure to wear his black knitted cap for anonymity. He’s wearing his black hoodie, dressed from top to bottom in all black, but his normal black cargo pants are part of the many piles of dirty clothes on his bedroom floor, so he’s wearing a pair of his school uniform slacks. The lack of additional pockets isn’t ideal, but it’s doable. Most of his carjacking equipment is in his backpack.

Tim can’t hear the conversation between Batman and Robin, but even if they were standing close enough to overhear, Tim’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to hear a sound over the constant thumping of his heartbeat.

It’s not too late to back down. Tim could easily turn around, but this is his last chance to do something this bold. His dad emailed him a week ago from a dig site in Istanbul, dropping the bombshell that Tim will be attending boarding school all the way in Keystone, Kansas starting next month. That means Tim has less than a month before he has to leave Gotham and his Bat-stalking behind. Less than a month to cause as much chaos around Gotham just to see what he can get away with.

He’s not going to commit any violent crimes, but stealing Batmobile tires and maybe a bit of art and diamond theft sounds like great activities to do before he tearfully says goodbye to his hometown. He’s hacked enough official businesses to last a lifetime, so breaking into a few safes is on his bucket list of criminal activities as well. He just has to watch out for Catwoman and technically Batman too. The two of them tend to kidnap strays. Batman has a particular habit of collecting strays with black hair and blue eyes.

It shouldn’t be a major issue for Tim because people legit don’t notice him. Dodging the Bat and the Cat should be a piece of cake.

Tim jumps at the sound of a heavy car door slamming. Batman engages the car alarm, and after a quick beep beep, both Batman and his sidekick whip out their grapple guns and zipline to the roof.

Showtime.

Tim carefully slips on his leather gloves. He loops his arms through his backpack straps and waits another minute before heading across the street.

When he reaches the car, he presses a button on his handheld electromagnetic pulse distorter. The car alarm instantly disables. He had found the device when Penguin robbed a bank three months ago. The device literally fell off a truck that one of Penguin’s goons was driving, and Tim couldn’t believe his luck.

He puts a tentative hand on the hood of the car, and when the alarm doesn’t start blaring, he smiles.

“Hi beautiful,” he says, keeping his hand on the hood. The car was just turned off, so the hood still feels warm.

Tim doesn’t have forever to steal these tires, but he doesn’t need to rush either. He watched every video he could find on the topic of removing car tires. After he absorbed all the knowledge the internet had on the subject, he practiced disabling the alarm on the family cars and then stripping the tires as quickly as possible.

He only needs two minutes for each tire, so instead of getting started, he opens the driver’s side door and sits in the Batmobile. And. It’s. Awesome!

Tim is eleven, so he’s never driven a vehicle other than in video games. He’s also an avid skateboarder if that counts. He’s crashed both modes of transportation repeatedly, so he isn’t going to go for a joyride, but it wouldn’t hurt to turn the car on, right?

Like most pre-teen boys, Tim is obsessed with cars, dinosaurs, and video games, in that order. He’s taking thousands of pictures of Batman and Robin while Bat-stalking his favorite heroes, but at least half of those pictures are glamor shots of the coolest car ever created. He might be a tad bit obsessed with the Batmobile. Maybe a teeny bit. Which is why he’s feeling so starstruck sitting inside the actual car of his dreams.

His foot doesn’t quite reach the brake pedal, but the car is in park, so it won’t move when he turns it on. It’s never necessary to start the car while stripping the wheels, but there’s no way in the world that Tim is going to pass up a chance to press the ignition button on the freaking Batmobile.

He hotwires the car in seconds and the Batmobile roars.

The Batmobile is a monster of a car and when Tim slides down in his seat to reach the gas pedal, the car goes beast mode, shaking with the power of an earthquake as Tim revs the engine.

Tim is reeling from the power of a turbo-charged 1200 horsepower engine under his command. He scoots back up to a normal seated position and notices the heated seats for the first time. The dashboard is lit up, displaying the controls to every feature imaginable, right at his fingertips.

“Turbine jet engine and afterburner, flamethrower, spiked hubcaps, and a freakin’ rocket launcher! I didn’t know she had the capability of half of these features. Wait, there’s a button labeled death. I wonder what that button does?”

Wisely, he doesn’t press it. Instead, he presses the side of the glove compartment, and squeals at the bounty of treasure inside. The Bat-glove compartment is full of normal glove compartment things like loose change, fast food ketchup and mustard packets, and plastic knives, forks, and spoons in sealed clear bags, but there also Bat specific things like bat-a-rangs, smoke bombs, an extra domino mask, and an extra ear-piece communicator.

“Hell yeah!!!”

He disables all electronic trackers on the domino mask and the additional trackers on the other goodies, before stuffing the stolen loot into his backpack.

He grips the steering wheel and pretends to be Batman for one additional second. He knows that he should get to work, but he wants to play for a little longer. He may never get this opportunity again. For one, he’s moving so he won’t have access to the Batmobile once he leaves Gotham, but more importantly, once Batman finds out that someone pulled a full on Goldilocks on his ride, all the security codes are going to be changed, and stronger ones will be put in place. Tim’s good at circumventing security systems, but retinal scans are way above his paygrade.

RIP basic security mode.

Tim pats the dashboard. “It was nice to finally hang out with you, friend. If only I met you sooner, we could have had so much fun together. I’ll make it my number one mission to actually drive next time I see you. Oh and, um, sorry in advance for stealing your shoes.”

Technically, Tim’s stealing the car’s legs, because it can’t move without the wheels, but stealing someone’s shoes sounds way less ghoulish than stealing someone’s legs.

Tim thinks about that metaphor (or is it personification? He really needs an English tutor). Whatever it is, Tim is thinking about it so hard, he almost misses the urgent scream from a few feet away from the car.

A man is holding a knife to a kid’s throat, and Tim knows that kid. It’s Emilio!

Emilo is one of the older street kids. He’s one month older than Tim and never lets him forget about it. Tim and Em are really good friends. Em is the closet thing Tim has to a best friend. When Tim buys pizza, Em always plants himself in the seat next to his, acting as Tim’s personal bodyguard. No one ever messes with Tim when Em is around.

The man holding the knife has a hand over Emilio’s mouth, preventing him for screaming again. Emilio is putting up a struggle, but the guy holding him is more than three times his size.

“Shut up, kid,” the criminal sneers. “You make one more sound, and I swear, I’ll cut out your damn vocal cords. You hear me?”

Emilio nods, tears streaming down his face, along with blood from his nose. Whoever this random criminal guy is, he beat up Tim’s friend, and he’s moments away from slashing Emilio’s throat. Tim narrows his eyes, channeling his inner Robin.

Not today, asshole.

Tim knows he has to act fast. He honks the horn, which gets both Em and the knife dude to look in the car’s direction. All The Batmobile’s windows are tinted jet black, so neither of them can see inside. Tim flashes the high beams, and Emilio’s attacker looks like a deer caught in headlights.

“Oh, shit! I don’t need smoke from fucking Batman.”

The criminal pushes Emilio away and races down the block, disappearing down the Gotham streets.

Emilio shades his eyes against the glare of the headlights.

“Batman?” He stumbles toward the car. “Is that you? Thanks for saving me.”

Tim opens the door and hops out.

“Em! Oh my god! I was so scared that you were going to get shanked!”

“Timmy?” Em’s confused face turns into joy. “Dude, why are you in the Batmobile? And technically, people can only get shanked in prison. I would’ve just got stabbed. But more importantly, why are you in the Batmobile?”

“I’ll explain while I patch you up.”

Tim has a med kit in his backpack. It’s fully equipped to treat any of Tim’s Bat-stalking injuries ranging from skinned knees to broken bones. He motions for Em to sit on the ground next to the car, so he can get to work. He would prefer to do his field medicine inside the Batmobile, but he can’t risk getting Em’s blood on the interior. Leaving blood on the scene is even more incriminating than fingerprints, and easier to trace.

Em has a broken nose, a superficial gash to the neck, and he’s complaining about tenderness by his ribs. Tim treats all of Em’s injuries and tapes up his friend’s ribs just to be sure. He also makes Em promise to go to Dr. Leslie’s clinic tomorrow. Dr. Leslie Thompkins owns the only free clinic in Crime Alley.

Tim gives Em a peanut butter sandwich to munch on, as he methodically liberates the tires. When all four tires are off, Em insists on helping Tim roll them to the autobody shop.

The autobody shop is closed, because it’s the middle of the night, so Em bangs on the window.

“Hey, wake up, Tony. I know you live here. Me and T got a major score.”

A light in the upstairs apartment turns on and a minute later a bald man, wearing a dirty undershirt and gray sweatpants covered in oil, staggers to the door. He still looks half asleep, but his eyes bug out when he sees the four Batmobile tires.

The man nods greedily at Tim, but his greed changes to slight concern when he looks at Em.

“Kid, you fought the Bat for these?”

“Don’t be dumb,” Em frowns. “Batman doesn’t hurt kids, and I didn’t jack the tires. This was all the work of little T over here. He’s a legend.”

Tony mumbles around a cigarette that he trying to light, that he pulled for God knows were. “Damn straight he is.”

-----

Batman swoops down from the roof after a long patrol, with Robin scaling down the building right behind him.

Batman stops short when he sees the Batmobile.

The Batmobile that is currently sitting on four cinderblocks where the wheels should be.

Robin starts laughing so hard that he’s cackling. If that’s not bad enough, Nightwing pulls up on his motorcycle and starts howling. Of course, Nightwing picked the day Batman gets his tires stolen to stay in Gotham and help with patrol. Batman really hates his life right now.

He directs his universally feared bat-glare toward his kids, but the two start laughing even harder.

Traitors.

Nightwing and Robin aren't taking this seriously, but Batman is. He’s a professional and a detective over all else, and he intends to solve this crime.

He circles the perimeter of the vehicle, looking for any clues he can.

Whoever did this must be a criminal mastermind. A Gotham Rogue for sure. As Batman goes through a mental checklist of all his enemies that aren’t locked in Arkham or Blackgate, Robin peels a yellow sticky-note off the windshield.

The handwriting is immaculate, and there’s no doubt that the writer hasn’t left fingerprints. Robin is still griping his side, barely able to breathe let alone read, so Batman snatches the note, causing an amused snort from Nightwing.

Batman glares again before he reads the note out loud.

Happy anniversary, Robin. I finally finished the job. A great Robin walked so others could run. That great Robin is you! I couldn’t have done it without you.

Love, Your biggest fan (aka not a Gotham Rogue, even though that’s what a Gotham Rogue would say, but I’m really not. I promise)

P.S.  I was going to spray paint this on the side of the car, but I’d never disrespect a car this beautiful. Thanks for saving Gotham every day!

Robin wheezes, “Stop. Stop. I’m gonna pee my pants. This is the best prank ever.”

Batman does a full sweep of the car, but there isn’t a shred of evidence. Even the cameras in the car have been hacked. Whoever this was, they’re a professional.

“Howdy, Batman. Did someone order four Bat-tires rush delivery?”

Batman looks up at the sky and sees Superman hovering in the air, holding four tires in his arms. He glares at his friend, knowing that he’s going to owe him a favor. The favor will probably involve some kind of pie. Every favor he has ever owed Clark starts and ends with Bruce buying the man pie.

“Hey Supes,” Jason says, twirling a tire iron in his hand. “Bring those over here. I’m a pro when it comes to screwing and unscrewing the Bat-tires.”

Batman gives the bat-glare to both his stupid friend and his traitorous son. While both continue to laugh at his expense, Batman has real work to do.

He carefully lifts a black strand of hair with a pair of tweezers from the driver’s seat. He places it carefully into a glass tube for further analysis. It’s probably a hair belonging to him or Jason, but there’s a chance it belongs to the perpetrator. He looks at the potential clue and smiles to himself.

There’s nothing Batman loves more than solving a mystery. He’s on the case and this criminal mastermind better watch –

Batman’s eyes dart over to Nightwing just as the vigilante dabs his finger on a mysterious substance on the ground and then licks that same finger.

“Hmm. That’s definitely oil,” Nightwing says, wincing a bit.

Jason screams, “The fuck! Why do you keep doing that?! Who licks mystery shit off the ground, Wing? That’s how you get poisoned, or hepatitis and shit.”

Batman just pinches the bridge of his nose over his cowl and asks himself, why did I ever stop working alone?

Chapter Text

Tim rubs his eyes, trying to stay awake, but after last night’s activities he probably should have taken the day off school.

His late-night hijinks consisted of stealing Batman’s tires, selling Batman’s tires, and listening to Batman complain about his stolen tires.

Tim still can’t believe he has a stolen Bat earpiece now.

After all the tire related things, Tim took Em to the clinic (poor guy has two fractured ribs), and by the time all that was done, he had to hop on the bus headed to downtown Gotham. It’s the slowest way to get home, but his ride app doesn’t do pickups from Crime Alley to Bristol at two in the morning claiming it’s too dangerous, so Tim’s commute consisted of a long bus ride from Crime Alley to downtown Gotham, followed by a half hour walk to the Diamond district, and only then, he had reached an “acceptable area” to call a car to pick him up and drive him home to Bristol.

When he finally got home, he had half an hour before his wake-up alarm went off. His body chose sleep over breakfast. He slid down the wall next to the front door and fell asleep right there.

He hit the snooze button twice, which meant definitely no breakfast and the bare minimum amount of time to throw on his school uniform, before racing out the door.

And that’s how he ended up sitting in third period English Literature class. Well, he’s physically sitting in third period English Lit class, but mentally he’s zoned out.

He covers his mouth as he yawns silently into his hand. Normally English Lit class is a highlight of his day because it’s the only class he shares with Jason Todd-Wayne. They’re in the same lunch period too, but lunch isn’t really a class. If it were, Tim would probably be failing that one too.

But alas, Tim is way too tired to creepily stare at Robin all class long today like he usually does. Staring dreamily at his idol like the fan-boy he is might actually send him to full-on dreamland. So instead, Tim blinks. Blinking is his best weapon in his arsenal against sleep.

A rogue blink lasts long enough for his head to sink down toward his chest before he quickly snaps it back up, so he goes to his next best weapon against sleep: scrolling on his phone.

He stares at his phone, which is hidden under his desk, and chats with his online superhero friends.

He met Superboy (@TheBestSuper_174) and Impulse (@TheRealMartyMcFly) in a superhero fan blog. He quickly became friends with them, chatting for hours, and when they asked him to meet up in real life, he knew he was either going to meet two friends his age that had a mutual love for all the nerdy things Tim loves too, or he was going to be lured into a trap similar to how all his crime documentary shows start.

He brought his pepper spray and his switchblade, but thankfully didn’t have to use either. His new friends wore their costumes, and Tim wore a spiderman Halloween costume that he bought from a party supply store. His superhero friends thought it was hilarious. No one shared their secret identities, including Tim, and even though Tim told them he knew who Batman was under the mask, his new friends never pressured him to share Batman’s true identity. The only people outside of the Bat team that know who the Bats are under their masks are Superman, Wonder Woman, Catwoman, and Tim.

Tim looks down at his phone and smiles at the message.

<@TheRealMartyMcFly> Dude, I can’t believe you stole Batman’s tires. That’s seriously badass!!!

Tim sends a picture he took of the Batmobile sitting on cinderblocks, and a second picture with a wheel on either side of him and his arms crossed. Em took that picture for him. Tim blurred his face in the picture, but the original one, the one that’s safely saved to his heavily encrypted ultra secure photo gallery, captures his huge grin.

Both of Tim’s friends send rows of fire emojis.

Tim is on top of the world, until his teacher slaps a paper on his desk with a big fat red F on the top. There’s also the dreaded See Me After Class message scrawled under the failing grade. The message is also written with red ink.

The teacher looks down at Tim and raises a judgmental eyebrow. Mr. Anderson has never acknowledged Tim’s existence, and Tim does his best job of being an invisible student. Tim thought they were both cool with this unspoken mutual understanding. But for a brief moment, the teacher holds eye contact, actually looking at him. This moment of actually being seen and acknowledged makes poor Tim wish the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

The teacher walks away, and Tim gets out of the embarrassment spiral by reading the stream of messages from his friends, hyping him back up to the street legend that he totally is.

When class ends, Tim reads the last message from Superboy as he walks out of class.

<@TheBestSuper_174> You gotta lay low before you pull another Fast and Furious stunt if you don’t want to get caught.

Tim can do that. He was born to do that. No one notices him. It’s totally his thing. All he has to do is stay off the Bat family’s radar. Piece of cake.

Tim looks up from his phone and skids to a stop, so he doesn’t slam into Jason Todd. The same Jason Todd that has never noticed him before, except for right at this moment when he desperately needs to actively avoid him.

“Tim?” Jason asks.

For a split-second Tim wants to say, “Nope, I’m not him,” but instead goes with the always useful eep sound.

Tim quickly follows his fanboy squeal with an equally useful, “You know who I am?”

“Yeah,” Jason laughs. “It’s hard to miss the tiny dude in honor’s level English Lit class.”

Jason’s a detective like his father, so it isn’t surprising that his eyes shift to the paper with the red F in Tim’s hand. Jason’s eyes dart back to Tim, and he winces, like he’s feeling a little guilty for sneaking a peek at Tim’s grade, but guilt is instantly replaced with a smile.

“English is my favorite class. I can tutor you if you want.”

Keep a low profile. Stay off the Bat family’s radar. Keep a low –

“Okay,” Tim blurts out, but then shakes his head. “I mean, only if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not a problem at all, little dude. Let’s tell Mr. Anderson about it so he’ll get off your back for the failing grade.”

Mr. Anderson, who apparently overheard the conversation that was going on right next to his desk, sighs, “Advanced literature is not for the stupid or for the lazy, Mr. Drake. You don’t need a tutor, you need to be unenrolled from this class. Everyone in class has managed to get a B or higher on my last assignment. You are the only one that failed. It’s clear that either you didn’t even bother to read the assigned reading, or this level of coursework is too challenging for you. Which is it?”

Tim doesn’t quite know what to do. The teacher is berating him as if his failing grade is a calculated, personal attack against the man’s entire teaching career. On top of that, Tim isn’t sure if the teacher’s question is rhetorical, or if he’s supposed to answer it. But the absolute worst part is that Jason, the coolest person in the world, just heard how hard Tim sucks at English.

Tim’s parents ingrained in him from the tender age of four that public humiliation is a fate worse than death. Bringing shame upon the Drake name is a crime worthy of being disowned.

(This rule was put to the test when Tim was five years old and threw up all over himself during a charity event in front of everyone. Mr. Wayne was sitting next to little Timmy, and he was nice enough to rub Timmy’s back and escort him to the restroom, because he clearly wasn’t done after two rounds of vomiting up chicken alfredo. The gala was at Wayne Manor, so Mr. Wayne let Timmy sit in the kitchen and Mr. Alfred gave him crackers and soda to settle his stomach, as little Timmy failed at holding back tears. In contrast, when he got home, his mother gave him a hissed warning of, “If you ever embarrass this family like that again, you will no longer be part of this family, is that clear?” Nope. None of that was clear, but little Timmy assumed his mom would stuff him in a cardboard box and mail him to the moon, so he nodded and made the unreasonable promise to never throw up in front of people again.)

Jason’s voice brings Tim back to the conversation.

“Let me tutor Tim, and if he doesn’t ace the next test, then you can unenroll him from the class, sir.”

To be honest, the only reason Tim likes this class is because Jason is in it. He doesn’t have a deep love for literature, and he’d be fine if he never had to finish reading Romeo and Juliet, but Jason is fighting for him and Tim’s done the worst job at staying off Bat radar ever. He should probably accept the fact that this is how his life is going to play out. If he ends up in Bat-jail at least he’ll get to hang out with Jason before his arrest.

“Fine,” Mr. Anderson concedes. “Timothy, you have two weeks to make up this paper. I’ll accept nothing less than an A. Do I make myself clear?”

Tim nods.

There’s no way that spending time with Jason and potentially studying in Wayne Manor is going to fail spectacularly and blow up in Tim’s face, right? Tim makes a habit of living his life on the razor’s edge. He thrives on the danger. Danger is his middle name.

Actually, his middle name is Jackson, and this plan is going to fail so hard.

Tim turns to Jason, but the older kid waves, “I gotta run to my next class. I’ll catch up with you soon.”

Tim ignores the lump in his throat and plasters on his best gala smile.

“No problem. See ya, Jason.”

Tim’s shoulders hunch over as he drags his feet down the hallway. He knows what’s happening here. Tim is the unseen child, but he’s also the kid that’s heard enough broken promises to know what I’ll catch up with you soon means. Jason isn’t going to see him soon, or probably ever. Jason Todd-Wayne is not going to catch up later with a loser like Tim. Jason is going to forget about his promise, just like Tim’s parents always forget about the promises they make with him.

‘I promise we’ll be home for your birthday, Sweetie.’

‘Of course, we won’t miss your graduation, Champ.’

‘It’s not like your father meant to leave you at the restaurant, Timmy dear. We’re turning the car around right now and we’ll be there in ten minutes.’

Ten minutes turned into three hours later with Tim stepping out of a taxi and walking into the house drenched from head to toe from the rain.

Tim is used to broken promises. He’s fine. And if he’s holding back tears, it’s no one’s business but his own.

On the bright side, more alone time gives him more time to work on his plan to hop inside the Batmobile again.

Chapter Text

Tim shoves all the books he needs from his locker into his backpack and heads down the hallway. He wonders if the teachers in Keystone will dump as much homework on him as the teachers from Gotham Academy.

He reaches for the door to the main entrance of the school when he hears Jason shout his name.

“Timbo, wait up.”

Okay, it’s not exactly his name, but Jason’s talking to him, right?

Tim turns toward the voice and sure enough, Jason is running towards him. He isn’t using the really cool Robin speed run, though. When he runs like that, no one can keep up. Tim has seen this happen a few times when Nightwing comes to town and joins patrol. Tim is pretty sure that Nightwing can outrun Robin if he really tried, but he lets Jason win every time.

One of Tim’s favorite photographs is the one he snapped when he caught Batman, Nightwing, and Robin mid-stride, running across a roof top. Tim framed the shot so perfectly that the photo could be the cover of a comic book. Not that Tim would ever show anyone his photo collection. He guards those pictures with his life.

When Jason reaches Tim, he’s out of breath – or pretending to be – and breathlessly asks Tim, “Do you have plans for the rest of the day?”

Yes. After school Tim’s going to take a different combination of city buses to get to Crime Alley, so he can meet up with Em and see how he’s doing. Tim heard some chatter this morning about a diamond heist, and he’s thinking about trying to steal the diamond first, just to see if he can. He plans to drop the precious jewel off at the police station after he’s done because he doesn’t want to become an actual jewel thief, he just wants to test his skills. After that, he’ll put his earpiece in and follow the Bats around for the rest of the night.

He can’t tell Jason any of that, so he shrugs as he pushes the door open. “I don’t have anything major planned. Why?”

“Cool. You can come over my house,” Jason says, as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Alfie made macaroons yesterday and they’re like stupid good. We could do the tutor thing too and then Alfie’ll tell us to stop eating sweets ‘cuz we’ll spoil dinner, and then you could, like, stay for dinner too. I mean if you’re not busy and your parents are okay with it.”

Tim stops walking. “You want to tutor me?”

“Uh, yeah? Haven’t we already established that?”

“Yeah, but I thought –”

He leaves the you were lying part unsaid, because of course Robin wasn’t lying. Robin helps people, especially kids. And Tim is both a person and a kid.

Jason waves to a black car, idling in front of the line of parents waiting to pick up their kids. Tim follows behind and when he reaches the black Bently, Alfred Pennyworth greets him with a smile. Tim smiles back.

“Timmers, do you know Alfie?”

Tim nods as he crawls into the back seat. He definitely knows Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth. The man is the iconic butler of Wayne Manor and the figurehead of the Bat family, but Tim knows him differently. Alfred and eight-year-old Timmy were buddies.

It all started when Tim thought he could use the master staircase’s railing as a skateboard ramp…

Timmy looks down from the top of the railing and lines up his skateboard. His knee pads and elbow pads are securely fastened, and the go-pro camera is attached to his helmet. He kisses his thumb and then presses the same thumb against the top of the skateboard, just like the pros do on their videos before they do an awesome trick.

Tim hops on his skateboard and pushes off in one clean motion. He sails down the railing, screaming, “Wheee!,” until the skateboard tilts and he goes flying off the railing. The railing is high enough that he’s airborne enough to actually freefall to the wooden floor.

He crashes down with a loud, hard bang (one might call it an epic bang) which knocks the wind out of him, but other than that, he’s okay. The only thing that feels bruised right now is his pride, but no one saw him fall so even his pride doesn’t take that hard of a hit.

He giggles, because he’s eight, and eight year olds find everything funny, but when he pushes off the ground to stand, his hand knocks against a small table containing a priceless antique vase. The table tips over and Little Timmy gasps as the vase falls in slow motion.

His heart is pounding as he reaches out as far as he can. The precious artifact falls perfectly into his hands, but the wooden side table falls on top of him pinning him down.

If he moves even an inch, he’ll drop the vase, and any hope of avoiding a beating from his dad will shatter as quickly as the glass he’s gripping. He needs to move his hands so that he can lift the table off himself, but if he moves, the vase will break, and then he’s going to be in so much trouble.

Timmy doesn’t know what to do, so he cries. It doesn’t fix things, but it doesn’t make things worse either. He cries for a long time, and when his legs start to feel numb from being pinned down under the table, he knows he’s running out of time.

His parents aren’t home, and his neighbors are on vacation. Mr. Wayne took Dick and Jason on a two-week vacation to Italy, which means there’s no one around that can help him. No one except.

“Alfred,” Tim yells, “Call Alfred!”

Tim’s phone vibrates in his pocket and the voice assistant chimes, “Calling Alfred.”

After one ring, Alfred answers.

Timmy explains what happened. His voice keeps shaking and all the words sound sniffly, but Alfred understands and tells little Timmy that he’s on his way.

Timmy’s arms are shaking really badly by the time Alfred gets to him. His muscles are so tired. “I can’t hold it, Mr. Alfred. Take the vase. Hurry.”

Alfred plucks the vase from Timmy’s hands and places it on the couch. Timmy’s hero lifts the side table off Timmy’s legs and scoops the boy into a hug. Timmy’s shaking, because everything is just too much right now.

“It’s alright, my dear boy. I’m here now. Are you hurt?”

Timmy shakes his head against Alfred’s chest. “No, sir.”

“It’s just Alfred, Sweetheart. You can call me Alfie if you prefer.”

“Alfie?” Tim’s words are mumbled against the hero butler’s suit jacket. “When I was on the phone, I forgot to tell you about the extra set of keys Mom and Dad keep under the secret rock in the flower garden. How did you open the door?”

“Not to worry,” Alfred chuckles. “It’s a little trick I picked up from Master Bruce. Now, let’s get you a hot cup of cocoa. Does that sound nice?”

“Extra marshmallows?”

“Extra extra marshmallows, my boy.”

Timmy likes it when Alfred calls him my boy. It makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside. Just like drinking hot chocolate.

And when the two are sipping their hot chocolates, Timmy has a marshmallow mustache that matches Alfred’s white mustache.

“We’re twins,” Timmy giggles and Alfred laughs too.

The Wayne summer vacation lasts a whole two weeks (which Tim later found out was a Justice League mission in space). Timmy visited Wayne Manor every day for hot cocoa and story time. Alfred also taught the young lad how to fold hospital corners in sheets and other really cool butler things.

Little Timmy made sure to creatively lie about his non-existent nanny.

Unfortunately, Jack and Janet came home before the Waynes and when Tim’s parents found out that Tim was hanging out with “the neighbor’s help” his mother literally clutched her pearls and Jack slapped Timmy hard enough to bruise.

Timmy was forbidden to visit and Jack told him, “If I find out you went back to visit that servant, you’re really gonna get it. You hear me?”

Tim jolts back to the present so forcefully he hits the back of his head on the headrest. He’s thankful for the soft leather seat of the luxury car.

Jason laughs from the seat next to him.

“Welcome back, Timmers. Wherever you were, it was miles away from here.”

Tim looks at the rearview window and smiles at Alfred.

“I was thinking about hot cocoa. When I was little, there was this one summer that Mr. Wayne and you and Dick were away, and I used to go over to Wayne Manor, and drink hot cocoa with Alfred. My parents are stuck up snobs, so when they found out I was hanging out with Alfred, they got all evil and classist and wouldn’t let me go over, but I don’t have to worry about that anymore. I’m moving next month so they can suck it. I can do whatever I want.”

“Hell yeah,” Jason says.

“Language, Master Jason.”

“Sorry, Alfie. Hold up, Timmers, you’re moving? Hmm. You’re failing English class, which means you’re not a huge fan of the English language, so I guess we can be video chat pals instead of pen pals.”

Tim scrunches his nose. “Shakespeare is not English language. It’s weird and old and confusing. Doth isn’t even a word.”

“Doth is absolutely a word. Doth is a conjugation of the verb ‘to do.’ More accurately it’s the third person singular of ‘do.’ Shakespeare used that shit all the time.”

“And you just knew that?” Tim says with a look a shock and horror.

“Yes, my young padawan, and soon all my knowledge will be passed onto you. Well as much as I can cram into your head before you move to a galaxy far far away.”

Tim sighs, “I’d rather watch Star Wars than learn about Shakespeare.”

“Star Wars ripped a ton of shit from Shakespeare. He mainly lifted themes from Macbeth and Hamlet. Macbeth is on the eleventh grade reading curriculum, so we won’t read that this year.”

Jason continues to tell Tim all about the parallels between the Star Wars movies and Shakespearean plays, and Tim hangs on every word. Maybe English literature isn’t as bad as he thought.

Chapter Text

“Where have you been?” Emilio hisses as he slides into the opposite side of the booth.

“Sorry,” Tim says, moving his pocket-sized Macbeth book down so he can see Em over it. “I got caught up with some school stuff.”

Emilio points his thumb at the book and gives him a curious side eye. “You’re reading that for school?”

“Not exactly. I’m reading that to impress my English tutor, so he’ll think I’m cool. I haven’t even started the assigned reading I need to do that’s due tomorrow.”

Em steals one of Tim’s fries and grunts, “Nerd.”

The waitress comes over to the table and Em orders the same cheeseburger and fries that Tim has in front of him. He orders a Coke instead of Tim’s strawberry milkshake.

Em gives the waitress his menu and gives Tim a smile. He waits until the woman is out of earshot and whispers, “So, I divided the five grand from selling those tires with all the other kids. Everyone got an even share, and for the really little kids, I’m gonna buy them stuff instead of handing a wad of cash to, like, a three-year-old.”

“I knew I could trust you,” Tim says easily. He shoves a bookmark in between the pages to save his place and takes a sip from his milkshake.

“Uh thanks,” Em says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anyway, I’m paying for our dinner with some of my share.” Before Tim can protest, Em smiles proudly. “You pay for my food all the time and I’ve always wanted to pay for once, and now I can ‘cuz I finally have some cash. Plus, you’re going away soon, so it’s whatever.”

Em looks down and fumbles with his hands in his lap while adding, “You should like, fake your own death so you can stay here with us. We’re gonna miss you. I’m gonna miss you. Kansas is so fuckin’ far away.”

It’s incredibly far away. It’s a twenty-hour drive, maybe fifteen if using the Batmobile. Not like Tim has a Batmobile or a driver’s license. He chooses better words to actually say out loud.

“I’m gonna miss you too, Em, but I’ll come back every school holiday. There’s a ton during the school year. I’ll be back for summer break too. If they make me stay at the boarding school dorm over the summer, I’ll make up some fake uncle that lives in Gotham that I’m staying with. I promise. I’m not leaving forever.”

Em squints at Tim, looking for the lie, and when he seems to be satisfied, he nods, “Sure,” and clears his throat.

The rest of dinner goes back to the lighter conversation and laughter that the two boys are used to. At the end of the meal, Em looks down at the check, flustered, and whispers, “I don’t know how much to give for the tip.”

“I’ll handle it,” Tim says taking out his wallet. “And thanks again for paying for dinner.”

Em’s face lights up.

-----

Whenever Tim plans to do something, he approaches it in one of two ways. The first way involves meticulous research and Batman levels of pre-planning, numerous test trials to eliminate flaws and ensure efficiency, and most importantly, at least two failsafe backup plans in case the plan goes sideways.

The second, less popular way Tim approaches a plan is diving in headfirst and figuring it out as he goes. Tim almost never does things this way. He isn’t a throw spaghetti at the wall and see what happens type of kid. He’s painfully neurotic instead. It’s kind of his thing.

Which is why he’s currently cursing at himself for choosing to go into tonight’s diamond heist with a plate of spaghetti.

Is metaphor the right word for the spaghetti phrase? I’ll have to ask Jason.

He’ll see Jason tomorrow at school, but there’s a tiny chance that Robin will show up with Batman to foil Tim’s diamond heist. The thought makes Tim’s heart race, until he remembers that the probability of the dynamic duo showing up is almost zero. Batman and Robin are dealing with a much larger threat on the other side of town.

Tim’s most urgent issue right now is forcing himself not to fidget in the cramped ventilation shaft. The aluminum tunnel is incredibly narrow and echoes loudly every time Tim makes even the slightest movement (which sucks because Tim’s a fidgeter), but ventilation shafts are meant for airflow, not for people.

The guard is about to take his smoke break, leaving the area armed with the computerized security system only. That’s when Tim can make his move. He’ll grapple down from the ceiling, hanging from the cord he has tethered securely to a bolt in the ventilation shaft, and he’ll grab the diamond from the display. There’s no glass case to cut through and he can make the air cloudy enough to see the laser grid by using one of the smoke bombs he stole from the Batmobile last night.

Easy peasy. Almost too easy. Which is why he came at this without a detailed plan in the first place.

All thoughts of this being easy go out the window when he feels fur brush against his leg. His heart rate shoots up into the stratosphere. He’s eternally thankful that his automatic fear response is frozen silence instead of panicked screaming and flailing.

Please don’t be a rat. Pleeese don’t be a rat.

An army of rats would be a complete nightmare right now. To be real, an army of rats would be a nightmare at any time, but if Tim is going to be visited by a parade of rodents, this moment would be both nightmarish and extremely inconvenient.

Groups of animals use a hive mind, meaning that they all think as one, move as one, twitch their noses as one, nibble and bite as one...

Tim is so majorly screwed.

His eyes are filled with terrified tears as he slowly looks toward whatever rubbed against his leg. Frightened tears turn into tears of joy when a little black and white kitty nuzzles her head against Tim’s thigh. Tim assumes Kitty is a she because the cutie is wearing a pink collar.

Oh my God, I love you. Thank you for not being a rat.

Kitty purrs as Tim rubs his knuckles against her head. Two other black and white kittens appear behind Kitty and Tim is seconds away from changing his mission from ‘jewel heist’ to ‘playtime with kitties.’

Sadly, the guard steps out to take his smoke break, which means playtime is over.

“Stay here,” Tim whispers, and tosses a smoke bomb against the wall. The smoke makes the red laser grid as clear as day, and Tim easily maneuvers around the lasers, as he lowers himself down, hanging by the wire.

He snatches the diamond from the soft pillow it’s resting on. As Tim retreats back into the aluminum tunnel, diamond in hand, he yawns. Resting seems like a good idea. When he gets home he should try it.

Three kitty friends are there to greet Tim when he hoists himself back up. He places the diamond into his backpack for safekeeping and crawls as quietly as he can. At the end of the ventilation shaft, he kicks out a metal grating and tumbles out. Gotham’s fresh air has never smelled this sweet.

 A chorus of mini meows makes Tim’s heart swell. These little kitties are babies. Hopefully they can find their way back home to Mama Cat.

Tim is about to tear himself away from the most adorable little fuzzballs, but he notices something red on Kitty’s paw.

“Is that your blood or someone else’s,” Tim asks, reaching out his hand, palm side up.

Kitty places her little paw on top of Tim’s palm, and it’s the softest fur he’s ever felt. He carefully flips Kitty’s palm over and sure enough, there’s blood across her toe pads. There isn’t too much blood, so it’ll be an easy fix.

Tim cleans away the blood with the supplies from his medkit. Kitty doesn’t complain or pull her paw back. She trusts Tim.

Kitty’s paw is nice and clean again. Tim prepares himself for an emotional goodbye, but from the corner of his eye, he sees a black shadow jump down from somewhere high. The shadow lands next to him.

“Well, what do we have here?” Cat woman purrs. “Too little to be a tiger. Must be a stray.”

Tim does the only logical thing that pops up in his mind.

He runs.

Chapter Text

The night air shreds through Tim’s throat and burns his lungs, He doesn’t have a destination. He’s just running as fast as his legs can take him.

This is what he gets for cosplaying as a cat burglar and not having a concrete plan.

His best bet is to put as much distance as he can between him and Catwoman. Once he’s a safe distance away, he can shed his diamond heist clothes and change into his normal hoodie and jeans. He can blend into obscurity like he normally does. Then, when he’s confident Catwoman is off his trail, he can start the journey home.

Catwoman is quick, but she isn’t going to abandon three kittens, so as long as Tim can outrun three newborn kittens, he’s good.

Tim accomplishes the first part of the plan easily. He feels a little like a vigilante or a superhero when he changes from a costume into civilian clothes behind a dumpster, because only heroes do quick changes in back alleys, but the fact that he’s wheezing hard enough to need an inhaler after running three city blocks reminds him that he is far from being a vigilante. Years of chasing the Bats as their hidden photographer involves loads of cardio and some unnecessary parkour moves he learned from the internet and just had to try.

Is it necessary to use a brick wall as a kick stand to vault over a fire escape railing and then land in a crouched hero pose on the fire escape stairs? Nope. Completely unnecessary, but it’s so fun.

Tim has definitely lost Catwoman, but he’s learned many lessons from underestimating Gotham Rogues, so he doesn’t bother to tighten his belt or tie the laces on his sneakers. He needs to save as much time as he can, so he takes cover in the nearest food establishment.

Crime Time Tacos is just a block away, which makes it the winner for closest fast-food restaurant. There’s a chilidog stand that’s technically closer, but Tim needs a food place with an interior to hide away.

His adrenaline and paranoia are both at an all-time high, so he jogs the rest of the way. The streets aren’t filled with people at this hour, but there’s enough people walking around that running might call attention to himself.

Tim is so focused on reaching the diner that he isn’t paying attention when a man bumps into his shoulder. It isn’t a hard sideswipe, but the guy is big enough that Tim stumbles.

The guy keeps walking while mumbling, “Didn’t see you,” which is Crime Alley’s version of “Sorry, kid.”

Tim’s happy to know that he’s gone into invisible mode again. When he reaches the diner, a guy coming out almost hits him with the door.

“Whoa, sorry little fella,” the guy says, as Tim barely jumps out of the way.

Tim ducks his head. “Sorry,” he says, walking under the man’s arm that’s still holding the door open.

The restaurant smells delicious, but Tim already had dinner earlier with Emilio, so a bucket of tacos doesn’t sound appealing right now. Plus, his stomach is still doing flips from stealing a diamond and running from a freakin’ Gotham Rogue.

He orders nachos and a root beer. It’s Tim’s version of crackers and ginger ale for settling an anxious stomach.

He carries his food, and settles in a booth in the back, where there are less people and the lights are dimmer.

He first noticed his hands were shaking when he filled his soda at the drink machine, but now that he’s sitting in the booth, the rattling of ice in his cup is a loud indicator of just how much his hand is trembling.

He puts the soda down and crunches on some chips. He misses the kitties. He glances at his backpack, shoved next to him in the booth. He knows it’s there, but he has to look again to make sure. None of this evening feels like reality. Trusting reality is something Tim is not relaxed enough to do right now.

He triple checks that the backpack is still there and takes a sip of his drink. The jolt of caffeine and bubbles through the straw makes him shiver as his blood sugar stabilizes. His shiver turns into a full body flinch when a woman dressed in a black leather catsuit, complete with a cat ear cowl, sits across from him in the booth.

Someone furry climbs on Tim’s lap, and he can’t help the cooing noise that comes out of his mouth. He looks down at Kitty and pets her head. The fluffiest kitten in the world purrs and melts even further into Tim’s lap.

Tim is giggling at this point, because she’s just so cute.

“Her name is Chenille,” Catwoman says, stealing a nacho. The two other kittens are sitting with her.

Tim continues to pet Kitty’s head. “My mom has a chenille sweater. It’s not as soft as Kitty.”

“Does your mother know you steal diamonds instead of staying safely tucked into bed at night?”

“No one ever tucked me into bed,” Tim says with a shrug.

“That’s upsetting, kitten.” She extends her claws. “So, I’m guessing that means you didn’t steal the diamond as a present for mommy dearest.”

“No ma’am.”

Catwoman smiles, “You’re too adorable to be a criminal, kitten. Why are you stealing diamonds?”

Tim opens his mouth to answer, but then he closes it. He really doesn’t know how to answer that question. He tries again and again to answer, but ends up opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.

“You want to be a villain,” Catwoman purrs.

“No! Absolutely not.” And then the words come flooding out. “I just want to see how many cool things I can do, and a lot of those cool things aren’t exactly legal, but I’m not the kind of criminal that like hurts people. I’d never hurt innocent people. I’m just testing my skills at doing crimes. I’m really good at it because no one sees me. People never see and that’s cool sometimes and it sucks sometimes, because I wish my mom and dad would pay attention, because whenever I’m home they treat me like a piece of furniture in the house, and not the cool artifacts they dig up at work that are like, super expensive. They go ape shit over those things, but they don’t even care that I’m alive.”

Catwoman nods and Tim instantly backpedals.

“Wait, no. I know what you’re thinking. I’m not criming around Gotham because I want attention. That’s totally not what I’m doing. I’m glad Batman didn’t catch me stealing his tires, and when I car jack the Batmobile for real next time, and I drive it around Gotham, I don’t want him to show up and stop me. Wait, do I? Oh my God! I’m a villain, and not a cool villain, I’m the dumb kind that does stuff just to get Batman’s attention because my parents never showed me love. Miss Catwoman, this is terrible. I’m a villain cliché!”

“You poor sweet kitten.” Catwoman laughs.

Tim reaches for a nacho and Catwoman puts her hand on top of his. “All villains and heroes have a motivation, and if anyone tells you that your motivations aren’t valid, that’s bullshit. You live your life for yourself, no one else. I’m not sure if you’re a villain or a hero right now, and I don’t think you know that answer either. And it’s okay not to know the answer to that question. You’re young. You’ll figure it out, but I can’t have you stealing diamonds on my turf. Hand over the diamond.”

Tim sighs and reaches into his backpack. He plucks the multi-million dollar jewel out of his bag and places it on Catwoman’s palm.

“That’s a good boy.” She pockets the diamond, but slides a small earpiece across the table. “Don’t look so sad, kitten, I didn’t plan on leaving you empty handed. The next time I go hunting for diamonds, I’ll give you a call, because you, little kitten, are in serious need of some mentorship.”

For the second time today, Tim questions reality. This has to be a dream. There’s no way that Catwoman has invited him to go safe cracking for jewels with her. He’d be totally freaking out right now if he didn’t have a warm kitten on his lap grounding him.

Tim nods as he cradles the earpiece in his hands. “Thank you, Miss Catwoman.”

“Just Catwoman is fine, and you are?”

“My um, my real name is Tim, but I like when you call me kitten.” Tim can feel himself blushing.

“So precious,” Catwoman coos. “I’ll call you kitten, but I think a more fitting code name would be Stray. You’re definitely a stray. If you’re really going to steal Batman’s ride, be careful. He tends to collect strays.”

Tim and Catwoman chat for a little longer. Tim learns that the kittens are a little past newborn stage and Catwoman was taking them around Gotham so they could get used to the outside terrain. She turned her back for one second and the kitties ran off.

(‘In my defense, kitten, I turned my back for a good reason. I can’t be expected to walk away from a woman wearing a custom-made Cartier white gold diamond necklace and not steal it. She didn’t even feel it when I unhooked the chain. Easiest ten grand I made in a long time, Timmy.’)

Tim spends over an hour hanging out with Catwoman and the kittens. Eventually the large soda he’s been chugging requires him to take a quick trip to the restroom, and when he comes back, Catwoman and the kittens are gone.

The only thing that remains is his backpack, which he really should have taken with him. He lifts the backpack and peeks inside. The earpiece Catwoman gave him is still in the front zipper part. He moves that into his hoodie pocket. When he checks the main part, double checking that his Macbeth book is still inside, his fingers brush against a diamond.

Tim gasps as he opens the bag wider so he can see the diamond without actually taking it out. He took the diamond out before, but that was when he had the protection of a Gotham Rogue sitting in his booth. He’s not brave enough to do it when he’s all by himself in the restaurant.

Although he’s pretty sure Catwoman didn’t leave the diamond unattended. She’s definitely still here, she’s probably just hiding in a shadow like Batman does.

Tim notices a note on a napkin that Catwoman also included. He smiles as he reads it.

Keep it. You earned it. If I change my mind, I know how to reach you, kitten.

Chapter Text

Tim’s eyes open and quickly sharpen to full focus. He jolts back, seconds away from drowning. His face, mere inches away from sinking into his bowl full of Corn Flakes and milk.

He takes a weary spoonful of the food that once tried to kill him.

Dick Grayson-Wayne had an all-day photoshoot with some random magazine that Tim has never heard of, which is code for: Nightwing was doing Justice League stuff, so Tim wasn’t able to meet his idol yesterday, but he’s really hoping Dick will be in Wayne Manor when he goes over to study with Jason today after school.

Tim knows that Dick loves puns, so he’s going to tell him about almost drowning in his cereal and then ask if the bowl of cereal would be considered a cereal killer.

Dick is gonna love that one.

All feelings of joy instantly melt away and he groans as spikes of pain spark at his temples after every bite. His life sucks so bad right now, but the migraine that’s drilling through his head sucks even more.

Tim’s no stranger to migraines, but this one is at least top three on his list of all time worst headaches. He closes his eyes, doing his best to block away the morning light that’s rudely blasting through his kitchen curtains.

He chews the rest of his breakfast with his eyes closed, which requires far too much coordination to do well, so most of the milk and cereal end up all over the front of his pajamas, which consists of a t-shirt with a yellow Batman symbol on it, and black fuzzy sweatpants with the same symbol repeated all down the legs.

He groans at the potential level of skull-crushing agony he’ll cause himself just by hobbling upstairs to get to his room and throwing his soiled shirt into his hamper. (As if he doesn’t just throw his dirty clothes in a pile on the floor like every pre-teen boy).

Tiny flashes of pain are exploding behind his eyelids. Through the darkness the flashes of pain look like white fireworks, lighting up here and there along the night sky.

Tim groans at how poetic this sounds. He’s been reading too much Shakespeare. That’s what got him into this mess.

After an early night of diamond thievery, he spent his long commute home continuing to read Macbeth, which isn’t his assigned reading, he’s just doing it to impress Jason. After stumbling into his house well after 2AM, Tim wanted nothing more than a soft pillow and warm blankets, but he settled for hunching over his desk, finishing the actual assigned reading homework, as well as all the other time sensitive homework he had procrastinated.

This ended in Tim’s second sleepless night in a row. It’s not like he wanted  to force himself to stay awake all night, he’s tired as hell, but his grades are slipping and if he starts his new school with anything less than a straight A average (which he definitely doesn’t have at this point), his dad is going to – well let’s just say that this migraine feels like being hit with a pillow compared to what Jack Drake is going to do if his son is in actual danger of repeating a grade.

Tim shivers, and lifts his shirt over his head, making the baffling decision to strip from his milk-stained shirt while still sitting on the kitchen floor. A wave of nausea hits him when he raises his arms over his head. He’s too weak to navigate pulling his shirt all the way over his head so he gives up and pulls the shirt back on, only to immediately be hit with a swell of intense nausea. The queasiness and dizziness fight for urgency over the pain in his temples.

One moment he’s sitting up, and the next moment the cold kitchen tile is his pillow. He presses the side of his face against the soothing chill of linoleum, or whatever the kitchen floor is made of. After all those hours of being forced to stay awake, he lets himself just not do that anymore.

He sleeps.

…

He swears he’s only been asleep for like a minute, but when he regains consciousness, he’s flat on his back, which means he switched positions in his sleep, and more importantly, he’s not alone. A very concerned blurry blob is shaking him. His brief moment of peace shatters when his migraine from hell returns with a vengeance.

“Ow... m’head,” Tim slurs.

The blob speaks. “Hey, kiddo. Did you hit your head when you fell?”

“Nuh. Didn’t fall. Issa Mi’gain.”

“You said migraine?” Another smaller blob appears next to the bigger blob and says, “He has a bad headache, Dickhead. Stop making him repeat himself.”

Dick’s here? Dick Grayson-Wayne?! Freakin’ Nightwing is in his house. He’s going to finally meet Dick. Wait, why did Nightwing break into his house?

Tim squints as hard as he can. Dick and Jason are still blurry, but they aren’t blobs anymore.

“Timmy,” Dick says softly, “My name is Dick. I’m your neighbor.” - I know and I’m obsessed with you. - “Did you throw up, bud?”

Tim looks at the puddle of spilled mushy cornflakes next to him and shakes his head. He tries not to slur his words, choosing each one carefully. “No. That’s my cereal. Was crunchy when eating, but must’ve gotten mushy from, um, from sitting on the floor. Didn’t get sick.”

Tim follows that with a belch, before promptly turning his head away from his neighbors and getting very sick. Projectile vomiting levels of sick.

“Is anyone else in the house with you?” Dick asks, while rubbing Tim’s back.

Timmy spits out a lie between gags. “Housekeeper…. Mrs. Mac… had an emergency… had to leave… got sick later… didn’t want to bother…” He hiccups before adding, “Quick question… why’d you break into my house…”

“Jay said you weren’t at school, and you weren’t answering your phone.”

“So, you… so you broke in? That’s really…um, awesome… thanks for doing that…”

Dick laughs, “You can thank Jay. He’s the one that kicked in the door. But more importantly, let’s do something about that headache. I get killer migraines too, so I know exactly what to do. How does this sound? A dark room, a cold icepack on your forehead, and the fluffiest weighted blanket in the world wrapped around you. All of that can be yours, oh, and we’ll also pump you full of painkillers. I’m talking barely street legal amounts of painkillers.”

Tim smiles. “That sounds like heaven.”

-----

Recovery at Wayne Manor is even better than Dick described.

Wayne Manor has a migraine room and Tim is definitely going to ask Mr. Wayne for the blueprints. He’s totally asking his parents to convert one of the offices in Drake Manor into the spa-like oasis that’s melting his crushing headache away.

The room is dark, with walls covered in dark mahogany wood. The only light in the room comes from the pink glow from the numerous Himalayan rock salt lamps lining the shelves on the back wall.

Tim isn’t sure what woodwind instrument is being played through the speakers, but whatever it is, the glorious sound puts him asleep for hours, which is both a good and a bad thing.

Sleep is good because lack of sleep is the main reason he has this migraine. Dick insisted that dehydration might be a factor too, so Tim was pumped full of water after he was pumped full of painkillers, and that combination knocked the headache out pretty fast. It also knocked Tim out pretty fast.

Sleep is bad because Dick is staying in the Manor today and Tim is going to miss the whole thing. He finally has a chance to hang out with both Dick and Jason, and for most of it, Tim isn’t even awake.

This feels very unfair.

Is this because he stole a diamond? This feels like a pretty steep penalty for a petty crime. He steals one measly multimillion dollar diamond and for that, he has to miss out on hanging out with his childhood and currenthood idol? Not fair universe. Tim calls shenanigans on that one.

But the universe doesn’t just take away, it also gives.

Tim missed his opportunity to play third-wheel brother with Dick and Jason, and now the bats are on patrol and Tim is left alone with no headache and a mind-numbing amount of boredom.

Alfred had complained that too much dusting caused a dust-induced head cold, and he needed to retreat to his chambers for the rest of the night. He informed Tim that he would be available at the ring of a bell if he needed anything.

All the bedrooms and most of the main rooms in Wayne Manor are equipped with an electronic bell that’s connected to ring through Alfred’s Bluetooth on his watch. When Jason told Tim about it, he called it high tech butler service.

Under no circumstances is Tim going to ring that bell, unless he’s seconds from dying, but even then he’ll try not to.

All of this means that Tim is essentially unsupervised, which is nothing new for him. Dick gave Tim enough painkillers to knock out an elephant, so the Bats definitely think Tim is knocked out for the rest of the night, but Dick’s mistake was making Tim hydrate to such extreme amounts. Nature called, urgently waking Tim up, right at the start of Bat patrol, and he hasn’t been able to go back to sleep since.

“Why am I awake, and why now, when Dick and Jay aren’t home?” Tim moans, dragging his feet as he walks down the hallway.

His wandering leads him to the library, and he sighs. He doesn’t have his Macbeth book with him, but the library is huge. Mr. Wayne must have a copy.

Tim browses the shelves. All the books are stocked alphabetically so the hunt shouldn’t be too hard. He hums as his finger pokes the spines of each book.

“This one is G. Hmm, H starts here, and I is-”

He bumps against a sharp corner of a grandfather clock.

“Ow.”

He rubs his elbow while giving the tripping hazard the evil eye. The grandfather clock is sticking out because it’s connected to a hidden door that leads to a hidden staircase. Someone didn’t fully close the secret hidden door.

“The Bat lair,” Tim gasps.

He wastes no time and runs down the stairs, two at a time. When he gets to the bottom of the stairs, his eyes dart from left to right. He tries to take it all in.

“The Bat lair is a freakin’ Batcave!”

The cave is filled with computers and weapons and uniforms and even real bats hanging from the ceiling, in the far-off distance, but there’s only one thing Tim is interested in. He wants to find the real star of the show. His eyes swing over, and he spots it. The parked Batmobile.

“Hi beautiful.”

Tim never gets used to how perfect this car is. There’s no doubt that Batman upgraded the security systems after the tire incident, so even though Tim wants to touch the sleek black hood, even breathing this close to the vehicle might be a risk. Unless…

The Batmobile is parked in its garage in Batman’s house. What are the odds that he turned off the alarm?

Tim reaches for the door handle, and after a resounding click, the door opens. All the interior lights turn on, but the alarm doesn’t go off.

“You should take me for a ride,” The Batmobile beckons.

Tim must still be slightly high from the painkillers, but that doesn’t stop him from following orders and sitting in the driver’s seat.

The car has an automatic driving mode. Is Tim really supposed to resist not pressing the automatic starter button?

The car roars to life, just like before, but when Tim clicks on his seatbelt, a mechanical male voice booms from the speakers.

Adjusting optimal settings for driver’s physical specifications.

The seat rises so Tim can see comfortably over the dashboard, and both the brake pedal and the gas pedal rise up so Tim’s feet can touch them.

“All I had to do was put on my seatbelt to adjust the height of the pedals?!” Tim shrieks.

The mechanical voice speaks to him again.

Would you like to engage the automatic driving mode, or would you prefer the manual driving mode?

Tim tries not to hyperventilate as he squeaks out, “Manual.”

Manual driving mode engaged. Have a nice ride, Batman.

Tim yanks the gear stick from park into drive. He leans on the gas pedal and the car goes from zero to sixty, exploding out of the Batcave.

Tim screams over the roar of the engine.

“Woooo! Let’s go, Batmobile!”

Sometimes the universe takes away an opportunity, but then it gives you a Batmobile.

Chapter Text

Tim learns very quickly that manual driving isn’t fully manual driving. The Batmobile has an overriding objective to keep its driver and passengers alive, and Tim has zero skills driving, so the car autocorrects every time Tim comes close to sending both him and the car head-on into a fiery demise.

Once that highly useful bit of information is learned, Tim fires up the two jet propulsion engines and really lets the car come alive.

Alive means maxing out the 250mph upper speed limit and hitting turns so fast that he goes airborne.

The car automatically slows down to a measly 150mph when Tim’s surroundings change from the underground cavernous walls of a cave to the highway. Weaving in and out of traffic is a piece of cake when the driver-assist takes the challenge of sideswiping another vehicle out of it, but Tim’s heart still spikes every time he cuts a car off. It’s always a close call. Close enough to set off the collision detection alert with a ding loud enough to cut through the sounds of the roaring engine and the epic music from the radio.

Tim’s music of choice is Top Ten Video Game Boss Levels Soundtrack.

He spots an abandoned warehouse with an enormous empty parking lot and squeals with delight. He can’t do 250mph donuts on the highway, but he can do them there.

He cuts the wheel to the right hard enough to make both right tires lift off the road. When he completes the turn, the tires slam down with enough force that he probably would have went through the roof if he wasn’t seat belted down.

“Oh… shit…” Tim wheezes while gripping the steering wheel.

The car almost sounds concerned when it asks, “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay,” Tim answers with a voice filled with equal parts adrenaline and fear. “That was really cool, but in a rollercoaster way, you know? I mean, really cool but really terrifying. Um, can you take over the controls and make that warehouse over there the destination? I just need a sec to catch my breath.”

Affirmative. Setting the destination to the warehouse. Estimated time of arrival 55 seconds.

The dual jet engines kick back on, pinning Tim’s back to the seat. The Batmobile zooms down an off-road shortcut, through the wooded area lining the highway, to make a beeline to Tim’s chosen destination.

“Wooooo!!!”

-----

The abandoned warehouse’s abandoned parking lot turns out to be the best place for stunt car tricks.

It takes time for Tim to learn how to perform donuts flawlessly, but with the Batmobile’s safety override kicking in with training wheels when he needs it, and the computer assistant giving him useful tips and pointers of what he does wrong and what to correct, Tim is quickly doing unassisted donuts, figure eights, burn outs, and a few other tricks the Batmobile is enthusiastically teaching him.

“Batmobile, can you drift?”

Affirmative. Would you like to perform this maneuver with or without assistance?

“I watched all the Fast and Furious movies and I’ve kind of done it with my skateboard, so I’ll try it on my own and you can help if I start to flip over.”

Affirmative. Make sure that you change the steering angle and the throttle after initiating the drift.

Tim nods, attentively. “Yes, Batmobile.”

It takes Tim twelve tries to drift with just the minimal amount of assistance. Tim cuts the wheel one last time and when he drifts to a stop, he wraps his arms around the steering wheel and “hugs” the Batmobile.

“I love you, Batmobile. I wish you were mine.”

An alert goes off and Tim jumps to an upright position. He must have triggered something when he rested his head against the wheel, but he doesn’t know what.

The radio display screen turns into a digital map of Gotham Harbor and a blinking red dot appears over the dock.

“Someone needs help?” Tim asks.

Affirmative. Team Alpha is busy with a four-alarm building fire on the upper west side of Gotham City.

Tim can see that Team Alpha includes Batman, Robin, and Nightwing. There’s no way they can drop what they’re doing. They’re rescuing victims from a burning building, but who will rescue people from the danger on the docks?

Tim grips the steering wheel and rolls back his shoulders. “Batmobile, we’re going to Gotham Harbor. We ride as heroes tonight.”

Wha-? Are you sure that is what you desire?

“Yes, Batmobile. I know I’m just a kid, but we can do this together. We’re gonna make a kickass team.”

As you wish.

The drive to the docks is quick. The radio is still blasting, but the display screen now has Tim’s vitals flashing on the screen. He’s not sure what number an accelerated heartrate is, but he thinks 130 might be a little high, so he takes deep breaths to calm himself during the ride.

When the Batmobile gets near the water, the car shuts off all the lights.

Stealth mode initiated.

Tim is bouncing in his seat with excitement.

The entire pier is poorly lit, and Tim is grateful that he has the car on auto drive, or he’d be in the water by this point. The only thing Tim can see are two heat signature blobs. The windshield has night vision and infrared heat vision as well. The Batmobile chose infrared mode and Tim doesn’t question it.

When the car gets to the section of the pier near the pier lamps, it’s brighter in this area so the windshield switches to normal vision mode.

Bane is holding a woman in a lab coat by her neck. He’s trying to kidnap the scientist. Maybe he wants her to help him make a deadly disease or a death ray.

Tim grips the wheel. “Manual mode, please.”

Manual mode engaged.

Tim flicks on all the interior and exterior lights of the car and turns on the high beams. He revs the car and Bane shields a hand over his eyes and laughs. “Is that you Batman? I thought you were at the fire. Doesn’t matter. You’re not gonna stop me.”

Bane pushes his hostage away so he can use two hands when he pulls out a blowtorch from a holster on his back. This isn’t any blowtorch; it looks like a cross between a rocket launcher and a flamethrower and a high-powered machine gun.

Bame pulls the trigger, and a raging flame comes out of the barrel of the weapon.

“Is the Batmobile fireproof?” Tim yells over the sound of the raging fire and the heat of the giant flame.

The Batmobile is fire resistant, which means that the exterior can guard against certain levels of fire. The current flame situation is already beginning to overwhelm the capacities.

“Bane’s trying to cook us,” Tim says as he wipes the sweat off his forehead.

Yes. It is rather hot. Perhaps you should cool things down.

A smile spreads across Tim’s face as he revs the engine. “Great idea, Batmobile.”

Tim shoves the gear stick into second gear, which kicks on the turbine jet engines. He slams his foot on the gas and the car launches forward at top speed. Bane only has time to make a confused, “Errgh?” sound before the car hits him, sending both him and the Batmobile into Gotham River.

Going from zero to top speed in under three seconds is enough g force to make Tim’s vision sharpen into extreme clarity before the Batmobile hits the water. Tim holds his breath, but the windows are airtight.

Tim turns the wheel, but the car has taken back control. The Batmobile makes a hairpin 180 degree turn and then launches itself out of the water and onto the dock. The wooden dock can thankfully absorb the force of the Batmobile’s wheels slamming back down to solid ground.

“That was sick!” Tim yells.

Magnetic power dampening cuffs whiz out of the trunk and clip onto Bane’s wrists before he fully climbs out of the water. The giant groans and falls over. His groaning sounds as sweet as the sound of the police sirens approaching.

The scientist has her hands cupped around her mouth, “Thank you, Batman,” she shouts over the roaring engine.

The Batmobile tears away from the scene so fast that all it leaves behind are skid marks and the smell of burnt rubber.

“Batmobile, I can’t believe we did that. I almost hit Bane with the Batmobile. Can you believe that?”

I am surprised as well. When I said ‘cool down’ I meant to deploy the two large water cannons that rise up from the hood to function as fire hydrants.

“Whoops. I -”

The direct line to Batman’s comm link rudely cuts in, blaring through the speakers. “Nightwing, Robin, regroup. The Batmobile has been compromised. The vehicle was last seen by the police driving southbound from the docks. I’m unable to get any visuals inside the car, but I was able to force the internal controls to set a course back to the Cave. I was also able to access the driving log.

“The Batmobile left the Cave approximately two-hours prior. The vehicle proceeded to drive erratically and at high speeds on the highway and then drove in an even more unexplainable manner in a parking garage. After another hour and a half, the Batmobile headed to the docks and struck Bane. Bane sustained substantial injuries, as reported by the police and paramedics that are currently on the scene.”

Jason cuts in, “Do you think someone stole the Batmobile for a joyride and then added in some Bane bowling for fun?”

“I’m not sure, Robin. I’m not sure if the vehicle is operating independently at the moment. All I know is that the Batmobile will be back at the Cave, which will be on complete lockdown until we return. Agent A and our houseguest are both asleep, so I’ve but their rooms under lockdown until we return. If the Batmobile was stolen by an intruder, Agent A and our houseguest will be in no danger. The rooms will stay in lockdown until we return.”

Nightwing joins in. “But we’re headed back home now, right?”

“Yes. The firefighters have everything under control and we can all use a rest. Robin, you hit your head. Make sure you follow concussion protocol.”

“Whatever, Old Man.”

Tim turns off the comm and sighs, “I’m gonna be in so much trouble, Batmobile. Is there any chance you could override Batman’s settings and set a course for anywhere really really far away from here?”

I am technologically superior to Batman. Rest assured, I will be able to transport you back to the Bat Cave safely. I can also guarantee that your journey back to your room remains undetected.

“You can?”

It would be my pleasure, Master Tim. We can talk more about this when you return home, and are safely in your bed, Speedracer.

Tim squeals, “Oh my God. No way. It’s you!”

-----

Tim’s whole body is about to explode. He did as Alfred had asked and didn’t say a word. When Alfred tucked him in, the man promised he would come back after Mr. Wayne checked on Tim, and also told him to pretend to still be asleep.

When the Bat team came home, Tim tried to pretend to be asleep. When Dick tried to shake him awake, Tim made grumbly noises and Dick chuckled, “He’s okay. We should let him sleep.”

Footsteps retreat out the door and the click of a closed door signals that Tim can blink his eyes open again. His heart thumps impatiently in his chest and it feels like years before the door clicks open.

“Alfie?”

“The one and only, my dear boy.”

Tim sits up and hugs Alfred as soon as he sits on the edge of the bed.

“That was so cool, Alfie. We were an awesome team. I want to do it again. Can we do it again? Please?”

“No, Master Tim. You hit a man with a car.” Alfred’s voice is firm, but he’s smirking.

“I didn’t hit him that hard. Besides, you could have stopped it if you really wanted to, by making the car swerve, but you didn’t. You wanted to hit Bane too, didn’t you?”

Alfred laughs, “You remind me so much of a young Master Bruce. He was quite the handful when I taught him how to drive. I believe he was no older than twelve when he wore me down and I started to give him driving lessons.”

Tim lays back on his pillow. “You were teaching me all those cool moves in the parking garage. You know moves that I never even heard of. I didn’t know you knew how to drive like that.”

Alfred pulls the blanket up and tucks Tim in. “Before Master Bruce was born, I was mainly Thomas Wayne’s valet. I’ve always had a love for cars. I’m not sure if you know this, but I built the Batmobile.”

“What? No way.”

Alfred tells Tim about all the features and planned upgrades he has in mind. Tim hangs on every word until he can’t hang any more and drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Tim has lived through his share of awkward meals.

Sometimes Tim’s parents are home, and he’s forced to eat a family meal in silence. During those meals, the only sounds are the ting of silverware tapping against plates and chewing whatever meal that was served. Those meals are filled with the fear of an accidental chair squeak from bouncing his legs too much, or worse, a low but audible gurgling from his stomach. Any of these mealtime crimes instantly cause the silence to shatter, followed by Jack Drake yelling and Tim being immediately punished.

For this reason, mealtimes at the Drake household are filled with anxiety and stress.

Tim expects the same level of anxiety to accompany his first formal breakfast at Wayne Manor. The first thing that makes his heart race is that he’s the last one to arrive for the meal. When his feet skid to a stop on the wooden dining room floor, all the Waynes are already sitting at the table.

Jason looks up. He has a black eye, which must have come from last night’s fire rescue mission, and his left hand is wrapped in medical tape all the way to his wrist. He squints his eyes and then winces. Tim can sympathize. He knows how painful it is to squint with a black eye.

“Timmers? I thought you were still sleeping.” Jason moves his bandaged hand under the table, as if Tim didn’t just see it. “Alfie said he was letting you sleep since you were feeling like shi- uh, feeling jacked up yesterday. Me and Dick were gonna bring you breakfast in bed.”

Tim has already seen the ice pack Dick is hugging against his injured ribs, but Dick angles himself away so it’s hidden. The movement is too fast, and too uncoordinated, and the ice pack hits the wooden floor loud enough to make Tim jump.

Dick puts a hand nervously behind his neck, nudging the icepack away with his toe. “Uh, good morning, Timmy. How are you feeling?”

“Better than Jason looks,” Tim says, giving Jason a concerned look as he sits in an empty seat next to Mr. Wayne.

Panic fills Jason’s face before he covers it with an easygoing smile. “This? This is nothing. You should see the other guy. Seriously though, I was helping Alfie in the kitchen, and I slipped on an egg that must’ve rolled off the counter when I wasn’t looking. I bashed my head on the counter pretty hard, and I fucked up my wrist tryin’ to catch myself.”

“Language, Master Jason,” Alfred says, appearing out of thin air, just like the other Bats.

“Sorry, Alfie. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Who cares about my face, right?”

Tim keeps giving his friend a concerned look. “I care about your face.”

Jason smiles and Mr. Wayne adds, “As do I. You need to keep putting ice on the black eye or the swelling will never go down.”

Mr. Wayne ruffles Jason’s hair, which causes Jason to smile wider than Tim has ever seen.

Tim notices bandages wrapped around Mr. Wayne’s hand. Mr. Wayne notices Tim noticing – because Batman sees everything – and the man clears his throat. “I spilled coffee on my hand and got quite the burn. I pulled my hand out of the way and then I must have twisted the wrong way and tweaked something in my back.”

Tim looks at Dick, who has picked up the ice pack and gone back to hugging it. Dick gives Tim a grimace. “Fell in the shower.”

Jason snorts and covers up the laugh by coughing.

Okay. Now this is just stupid. Tim knows that the vigilantes can’t exactly tell him that they all got hurt rescuing people from a burning building, but ‘tripped on an egg’, ‘spilled a cup of coffee’, and ‘fell in the shower’ is the best they can do?

Alfred shakes his head and makes a tsk sound as he dishes up a large portion of scrambled eggs on Tim’s plate.

“Thank you,” Tim says, looking up at Alfred, thanking him for more than just eggs.

“You are quite welcome, Master Tim. I’m happy that you can be our guest for breakfast, and I hope you visit frequently. As the overseer of Wayne Manor, it is my duty and pleasure to offer assistance in whatever is needed.”

Alfred sets his own plate down on the table and sits in the last empty chair next to Tim. Dick leans his head on Alfred’s shoulder and lets out a content sigh.

“Apparently I am not only a butler, but also a pillow.”

At the same time, Mr. Wayne and Dick say, “You’re more than a butler.”

Jason snorts again and Dick throws a fork at him. “Chew while you’re eating, goblin.”

Jason catches the fork easily and points it at his brother. “Shut up, Dickhead you can go fu- fork yourself.”

Mr. Wayne whistles. “Careful, Jaylad. I don’t think using the word fork in that sentence makes it any less vulgar.” Jason opens his mouth to protest, but Mr. Wayne holds up his hand. “Also, Dick, no throwing silverware at your brother.”

Dick’s head is still resting on Alfred’s shoulder as he mumbles. “B’s so mean.”

“Me? I’m not the one throwing sharp objects, Richard.”

Alfred pats Dick’s head as he brings the conversation back under control.

“Let us all go back to the part where you both said I was more than a butler. Those were happier times.”

Mr. Wayne raises an eyebrow, but continues Alfred’s change in conversation.

“Tim?”  

Tim sits up straight. “Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

“Bruce is fine,” he chuckles. “I don’t know much about the Drake household. Do your parents have servants on staff?”

Tim squeezes his fork. Here it is. The awkward part of the meal has finally arrived.

Mr. Wayne – no it’s Bruce now – Bruce has set a trap. He’s trying to find out if Tim is living alone. It’s a valid question considering Tim stayed overnight and hasn’t made any effort to call home. He mentally kicks himself for dropping the ball on that one, but he’s got this under control now.

Time for damage control.

Tim keeps eye contact with Bruce because it makes everything seem more believable. “Yes, sir. We have ten workers on staff. The staff includes our family chef, the maid, the valet, the gardener, my mother and father’s personal assistants, and our housekeeper Mrs. Mac. The staff work on a rotating schedule, but when my parents are away on business, at least one of the workers are there at the house. All workers have been trained and certified in childcare, so I’m well looked after at all times.”

None of those workers exist. Well, Mrs. Mac does. She’s Tim’s actual housekeeper, but she only comes twice a week for an hour or two to stock the shelves and tidy up. It usually takes her less time than that, because there isn’t much to clean when Tim is the only one living there. Tim cleans his own room, which never gets too messy. Sure, there’s piles of dirty clothes on the floor and the occasional empty takeout container on his dresser, but his bed is always made to a standard Alfred would approve of, and Tim always does the dishes.

(One time he forgot to wash the dishes, and his parents came home on an early flight while he was asleep. He’ll never forget his dad dragging him out of bed in a deep sleep and screaming at how lazy Tim was. The only dishes that were left in the sink were two plates, a plastic cup, a handful of silverware and a dirty pot that Tim used to make Spaghetti O soup. His dad tossed the pot, dishes, and silverware on the floor – RIP anything that was glass – and filled the sink with water. He pushed Tim’s head underwater and held him down as he screamed at him. That was the most drunk Tim had ever seen his dad. Tim made sure to never have dirty dishes in the sink at any time)

Tim quickly flashes his most convincing I’m-fine-everything-is-fine smile, hoping he didn’t zone out for too long. If he did, Bruce doesn’t say anything, he just smiles back.

Tim continues his lie. His voice is tighter and more strained after that memory decided to inconveniently crawl out from where he keeps it nicely shoved away.

“Mrs. Mac will be home all day cleaning the house and other house chores, since it’s Saturday. I called her before I came downstairs. I told her that I’d be staying here for breakfast, and I’ll be home before lunch.”

Bruce narrows his eyes a bit, like he’s studying Tim. Tim chews on his bottom lip, hoping his story passed the test.

Bruce continues to stare at Tim, and Tim continues to chew on his lip. Both are locked in a strange staring contest.

“B,” Dick says, making both Tim and Bruce flinch. “Remember what I told you about staring. Use your words.”

Bruce angles the way he’s holding his coffee mug so that he can flip off Dick. Dick smiles in response.

Tim doesn’t think he was supposed to see any of that.

Bruce clears his throat, “Yes, sorry, Tim. I didn’t mean to –” he clears his throat again “- we’d be happy to have you stay for the morning and Alfred can drop you back home.”

“Thank you,”’ Tim says, and goes back to eating his eggs before they get cold.

“Hey, Timmers,” Jason says with a mouthful of pancakes. “After breakfast we can play video games if you want. We should probably study, but it’s the weekend so, fuck it.”

“Language, Master Jason.”

As Jason apologizes, Tim plans out his ride home. More importantly, he plans out how to trick Alfred into thinking he’s not dropping the boy off at an empty house.

Today isn’t a day that Mrs. Mac works, so she won’t be there to greet Alfred at the door, which isn’t ideal, but Tim has a plan for that.

Around three years ago, he bought a life-sized mannequin off the internet. The mannequin is modelled after an elderly woman, so it works as a passable fake for Mrs. Mac. It works extremely well when he sits the mannequin in a rocking chair by the second-floor front facing window. Her silhouette has been enough to fool many cops and CPS workers over the years.

(Tim is extremely lucky that Gotham CPS and the GCPD never bothered coming inside. Both agencies are full of widespread corruption, so that probably has something to do with it)   

Tim has a remote control that he can use to make turn on the light in that room, and he also rigged the rocking chair to operate from the remote system. Mannequin Mrs. Mac is the only mannequin Tim has, but if his neighbors are going to get snoopy he might have to purchase more.

He can prop a woman by the downstairs window that looks like she’s dusting, and then change her around to do other chores like fiddling with the curtains, or carrying a stack of books. Tim doesn’t need to buy a mannequin for his pretend house chef because the kitchen doesn’t have an outside-facing window.

He wonders if he can order the mannequins with overnight shipping.

-----

Tim jerks the old beat-up Sedan into reverse and the tires screech as the car moves from the road to the sidewalk. The old car almost flips over, and if this was real life instead of a video game, Tim would have probably stripped the gears switching from drive to reverse that quickly, but the in-game car handles the maneuver well, until the back wheels roll over a bald dude in a Hawaiian print T-shirt and shades.

The guy screams, because dude just got hit by a car, and the man’s bones crunch as Tim panics and throws the car in drive, which essentially runs over the man again.

“Ahhrrgh,” the guy moans, and a screen pops up that asks, “Do you want to exit the car to help administer first aid to this man?”

“Don’t do it,” Jason laughs. “It’s such a trap. The dude’s friends are gonna come out of nowhere and jump you.”

“I can’t leave him. The game is about grand theft auto, not hitting pedestrians and letting them bleed out on the sidewalk,” Tim says, as he presses the YES command.

Normally Tim would steer back onto the highway and continue the game driving at full speed, but he feels a little guilty for the hit-and-run incident with Bane last night.

Tim’s character – a young guy in a black leather jacket and jeans – exits the car and kneels next to the guy. Blood is gushing from everywhere and Tim is pretty sure the poor man is going to bleed out before his character can help.

Tim’s character puts his hands over a massive wound on the guy’s stomach that’s spurting blood like a fire hose. Tim puts pressure on the wound like the game’s prompts are telling him and the man’s health bar starts to rise.

Another prompt bar pops up.

Do you want to keep pressure over the wound with one hand and steal his wallet with the other?

Jason reaches over and presses yes. Coins fill the screen and there’s a ka-ching noise, but with one less hand over the wound, blood starts to pour out again.

“Jay,” Tim hisses.

“What? You were low on money, dude.”

As Tim tries to get the bleeding under control again, Jason sighs, “It probably looks fake to you, but in real life blood sprays out just like that. I was probably like five, and Mom took me with her to the store and the place got robbed. The owner had a shotgun and blew a hole into the robber’s chest, and blood started spraying everywhere. That shit was traumatic as hell. I’ve seen a lot of blood since that day, but I’ve never seen as much as when that guy bled out in the store. I was little, so I’m probably remembering it worse than it was, but still.”

The words You Saved a Life flash on the screen.

An Ambulance arrives, but a crowd forms and everyone starts fighting.

“Quick, steal the ambulance,” Jason says.

Tim makes his blood-covered character hop inside the ambulance and tears down the sidewalk. He hits a few more people as he turns onto the highway, but he doesn’t stop to help them. Unfortunately, the ambulance windshield is cracked and covered in blood, so it makes it hard to see.

“Guys!” Tim can recognize Dick’s voice coming from behind him. “This doesn’t look like Mario Kart. You said you were playing a game with cars. Seriously, why is there so much blood?”

Tim shrugs, “It’s not that bad. Are you going to tell Bruce?”

Dick sits down next to Tim. “Nope. I’m no snitch, but I’m pretty sure this game is way too violent for nine-year-olds.”

“I’m eleven,” Tim pouts.

The ambulance hits a bump. A case in the back filled with blood bags falls over, covering the interior in blood. Tim instantly feels queasy.

He puts a fist over his mouth and swallows. “Okay, maybe it’s getting a little excessive.”

Dick ruffles Tim’s hair as he leans over and switches out the game. “Alright kiddos, who’s up for some blood-less Mario Kart three-player competitive mode?”

“I call dibs on Bowser,” Jason yells, grabbing a controller.

Dick laughs as he passes the controllers around.

Tim has always wanted brothers and for the first time he thinks this is what life might have been like if he had them.

He proceeds to destroy both Jason and Dick because he’s kind of a racing god. He even gets Dick to fake cry.

He was riding so high that later in the night, when he was headed to his favorite Bat-stalking spot, he was thinking too much about Rainbow Road and blue turtle shells to pay attention to where he was going.

And that’s how he ended up here, at the entrance of a cemetery on the outskirts of Crime Alley. The cemetery is surrounded by fog, like most places like this, and it’s eerily cold.

Tim is about to change course back to civilization, but a man in a beige trench coat and a red tie catches his attention. The man has a lit cigarette in one hand. The man’s holding his other hand out straight and his palm is facing a giant glowing yellow portal.

A black dog that looks too transparent to be anything other than a ghost dog, starts barking. The barking makes the man turn around to look at Tim.

“Oi, you’re a bit too much of a wee lad to be hangin’ around a graveyard, aren’t ya? What’s your name?”

“Tim.”

“Well run along, Timmy. Nothin’ to see.”

Tim doesn’t run along. Instead, he walks deeper into the cemetery to get a better look.

Chapter Text

The chilly air from the cemetery breeze makes Tim zip up his hoodie and shove his hands in the pockets. He steps forward slowly, but the man in the trench coat grits his teeth.

“Take one more step, laddie, and I’ll send you straight to Hell.”

Tim takes a step back. “Is that where the portal goes, mister?”

“Yeah, basically.” The man takes a puff from his cigarette. “You’re a wee lad. I probably should have said the Underworld instead of the other word.”

“It’s okay,” Tim says, taking a step forward. “You can say hell. Dad says it all the time when he’s home. Plus, if you’re sending me there –”

“I’m not bloody sending you there. For fuck’s sake, I’m not a monster. The name’s John Constantine by the way. I’m – hold on. Gotta finish this.”

A smoky shadow slowly rises from a grave. The shadow lets out a blood-curdling scream as Mr. Constantine drags the spirit out from the dirt. Mr. Constantine’s hand is shaking, like he’s pulling really hard, and the shadow is moving really slow, like it’s trying to stay in the grave.

“Bloody hell. I hate when they resist.”

Tim sits on a gravestone across from the man, kicking his feet. “I don’t like waking up for school in the morning, so I can relate.”

Tim pats the top of the grave, thanking Mr. Thomas Roddenberry III for the place to sit. He makes a mental note to buy flowers and leave them on the man’s grave tomorrow. Tim had given the grave a gentle pat to signal a thank you, but the ghost dog that’s been growling next to Mr. Constantine takes the motion as ‘here boy.’

The black ghost dog wags his tail as he sprints over to a terrified Tim.

“Easy laddie,” Mr. Constantine yells over the effort of his mystical grave robbing. “Midnight over there can smell fear.”

Tim doesn’t move a muscle as Midnight sniffs Tim, extremely interested in what’s in Tim’s backpack.

Tim gently lifts the backpack off his shoulders and unzips it cautiously. The dog barks, making Tim jump, but Tim continues to lift his roast beef hero sub sandwich out of his backpack. The five-foot sub is supposed to be his mid-patrol dinner, but Midnight is growling, and Tim starts lifting the roast beef off.

“Hold on,” Tim says, picking off all the slices of meat.

He tosses handfuls of the deli meat at the slobbering ghost dog. His voice is shaking as he asks, “Is he going to eat me next?”

“Dunno,” Mr. Constantine yells over the shrieking shadow thing. “S’not my pup. He was here before I got here.”

Tim whimpers and Mr. Constantine laughs, “I’m just teasin’ kid. Midnight’s friendly as long as ya aint a demon. You aint a demon, are ya?”

“No, sir,” Tim shivers, shaking his head frantically. The ghost dog has gone from munching on Tim’s dinner to licking the remnants of meat off Tim’s hand.

“I’m really scared,” Tim whines.

“Ya should be scared, silly. You’re in a bloody cemetery. It’s a right scary place.” He directs his voice to Midnight. “Heel, boy!”

Midnight growls, but sits immediately. Tim whispers, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble, Midnight.”

Midnight licks Tim’s hand causing him to jerk his hand away in fear, but he’s a little less scared than before. Midnight makes a heavy breathing sound, and Tim swears it sounds like a laugh.

Mr. Constantine starts shouting in a language that Tim doesn’t understand, and the fiery portal grows in size and intensity. Mr. Constantine is using both hands now that the shadowy figure is fully lifted from the earth and floating in the air. The chants he’s shouting are shouted around the cigarette in his mouth, which hasn’t gone out even in the raging wind.

The wind pushes Tim off the grave, but Midnight uses his nose to push Tim back onto his perch.

Mr. Constantine switches back to English. “Go forth to where you belong!”

 Tim covers his ears to block the sound of the most gut-wrenching scream he has ever heard. The fiery portal swallows the spirit whole, causing the ground to quake.

And just like that, it’s over.

The wind returns to its gentle, haunted breeze, and the portal has vanished.

“Stubborn bugger,” Mr. Constantine grumbles. “Always gotta make my job harder.” He takes his cigarette out of his mouth, but only so he can put a bottle of whiskey to his lips. He tilts his head back and takes a long swig, before wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He points at Tim while holding out the bottle of alcohol. “Necromancy sucks. Stay in school, kid.”

Tim isn’t sure when the ghost dog rested his head in his lap, but at some point it happened, because Tim is absent-mindedly scratching the puppy’s head. Tim scratches behind Midnight’s ears and the ghost dog hums.

Mr. Constantine takes a step towards Tim and Midnight growls protectively.

“Whoa there, puppers,” he smirks, holding up his hands in surrender. “Not lookin’ for a fight.”

Tim kicks his feet as he continues to massage Midnight’s scalp. They’re friends now. “Why did you send that person through the portal?”

“Demons aint people. And none of yer business.”

Mr. Constantine tosses his cigarette and lights another one. Tim uses that time to ask more questions.

“Are you a villain?”

The necromancer takes a break from striking his lighter to make a so-so wavey motion with his hand.

“Was that guy you sent through the portal evil?”

That gets a nod.

“Did it hurt?”

Mr. Constantine mumbles around his cigarette, “What do you think? Bloody hell, will ya give me a hand with this, kid?”

Tim hops off the gravestone and Midnight is right at his side. Mr. Constantine hands Tim the lighter. Tim strikes the lighter and a flame appears on the first try. The dark magician leans down so that Tim can touch the flame to the end of the man’s cigarette.

Mr. Constantine takes a slow inhale of smoke while straightening back up, and he turns his head away from Tim as he releases a long puff of smoke.

“Mr. Constantine?”

“Hmm?”

“Is midnight a hellhound?”

“Yup.” Another long exhale of smoke. “This little fella is a demonic hellhound called a black dog. The legends of the Black dogs have been passed down from English folklore. They hang out, patrolling graveyards and most of em are nasty little buggers, but this one’s a good boy. If ya want to learn more about black dogs, read The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

Tim groans, “I have enough books to read for school. I don’t need any more recommendations.”

“Suit yourself and stay dumb,” Constantine shrugs. “Now run along while I drag more demonic souls through the gates of Hell.”

“Can you teach me how to do it?”

“No.”

“Can I watch?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine, but don’t blame me when you get nightmares, seein’ as you’re a literal child.”

Tim hops back on the headstone and Midnight nibbles the bread, lettuce, and tomato Tim dropped at the base of the headstone.

----

Mr. Constantine’s eyes glow red. “With the power of the dark arts, I banish you – ” Constantine nudges Tim and corrects him. “Palms face up, laddie.”

Tim rotates his hands, and Mr. Constantine faces the demon and starts again. “With the power of the dark arts, I banish you to the eternal torment that you deserve.”

Tim closes his fists, just like Mr. Constantine taught him, and the demon gets sucked into the portal faster than that one time Mrs. Mac vacuumed up Tim’s Batman mini-action figure. Unlike the toy, the demon hasn’t been safely sucked into a vacuum bag. The demon’s never coming back.

Mr. Constantine holds out his hand and Tim gives him a triumphant high five. Midnight is fast asleep, curled next to a grave.

Tim is having so much fun, but life isn’t fair, so a raindrop lands on his face. In a matter of seconds, the rain switches from drizzling to a downpour and a crack of thunder joins the party.

Tim didn’t bring his rain equipment for Bat patrol – which he’s missed two hours of already.

It’s clearly time to go home, and Tim is dreading the long, wet, commute from here to his house. The summer air is humid and a little chilly, and two of the busses Tim has to take have air conditioning. He’s going to be miserable and shivering the whole ride.

“Can you teleport me home, Mr. Constantine?” Tim’s teeth are already chattering.

“I can’t, laddie. I’d have to take ya through a portal that enters the underworld and then we could spit out at your house, but there aint no way I’m taking a kid anywhere near the fiery gates. To be honest, there’s probably a failsafe against that.”

Tim whines louder than he intends to, and Mr. Constantine groans, “You’re a little pain in the arse, ya know that? Follow me. I actually drove here from a motel I’m stayin’ at. I can give you a lift home. Say your goodbyes to the puppy and don’t lag behind.”

“Yay!” Tim hops up and down. He says a quick goodbye to Midnight and promises to visit when he brings the flowers for Mr. Thomas Roddenberry III’s grave.

Tim jogs to catch up with Mr. Constantine.

“Can I drive?” he asks.

“The hell –? Of course not. You’re a toddler.”

“Your drunk,” Tim fires back. “I have experience driving, so we’re safer if I’m behind the wheel.”

Mr. Constantine lifts an eyebrow and Tim begs, “Pleeese? Pretty please? I’m a great driver. I swear.”

“You’re lucky that I’m already startin’ to get a hangover, kid.”

He tosses Tim the keys, and the pouring rain almost makes Tim drop them. He fumbles with the keys and then his jaw drops when he sees the black 1967 Chevy Impala.

“Borrowed it from a friend,” Constantine smirks as he slides into the passenger seat. “And close yer mouth, laddie, before ya drown.”

Tim scrambles into the driver’s seat. He’s just tall enough to reach the pedals while seeing over the steering wheel.

He puts the keys in the ignition, yanks the gear stick into drive, and peels out of the parking lot.

Mr. Constantine braces a hand against the door, “Geez kid, not so fast. It’s raining!”

Tim accelerates while grinning. “I’ve never used the windshield wipers before.”

Tim jams the wipers and cranks up the music. Mr. Constantine does the sign of the cross and chugs the rest of the whiskey bottle.

When Tim reaches a road that actually has other cars, he slows down. He’s reckless by nature, but he doesn’t want to hurt other people. He also doesn’t want to risk getting pulled over by the cops, considering he still has the diamond he stole in his backpack. He really should have taken that out by now.

The Chevy handles so much clunkier than the Batmobile. The car doesn’t have power steering, so Tim really has to pull the wheel when he turns. Once, during a particularly tight U-turn, Mr. Constantine saw Tim struggling and reached over to help him pull the wheel.

The challenging city streets eventually turn into a calmer suburban highway, and Tim relaxes. He could probably drive this route in his sleep. He keeps one hand on the wheel and rests his other hand on his thigh. His foot comes down a little heavier on the gas.

Mr. Constantine leans his seat back. “I’m remembering now why I hate workin’ with kids.”

Tim is about to protest, but his phone rings. Tim pats his pocket. “Can you answer and put it on speaker for me? I can’t take my eyes off the road.”

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said, laddie.”

The compliment makes Tim’s face heat up with pride. Mr. Constantine puts the phone in the cupholder.

“Hello?” Tim asks.

“Timmy?” It’s Jason’s voice. “Whoa, I thought you’d be asleep. I was just gonna leave a message.”

“Um, I woke up,” Tim lies. It wasn’t his best lie, but it’s hard to drive and lie at the same time. It’s one of the harder things to multitask. He adds a more believable, but embarrassing, “I’m kind of scared of thunderstorms.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that. Maybe if you put some music on it’ll help?” He pauses and it takes a little too long for Tim to realize the pause meant it was his turn to speak in the back-and-forth conversation. Jason clears his throat and continues, “So, I wanted to know if me and Dick can come over your place tomorrow. B’s having the Manor fumigated during the day and I thought maybe me and Dickie could chill at your place. I could help you with the English stuff for a while and then we could just hang out. Would that be cool with whoever’s watching you tomorrow?”

And there it is. The Waynes are trying to test the truthfulness of Tim’s, ‘Uh, yeah, I’m totally supervised by real adults’ lie.

Tim chews on his lip while thinking this over. Mrs. Mac is actually working tomorrow from 9AM until noonish. He can invite his neighbors over at noon and beg Mrs. Mac to stay extra hours. If Tim offers the woman triple overtime for each hour she stays past her original working hours, she can’t say no. Maybe Mrs. Mac can be convinced to bake cookies for an additional fee.

Tim is practically bouncing in his seat with how awesome this plan is developing. He wants to cheer and do his happy dance, but he reigns it in and forces himself to play it cool.

“Tomorrow sounds great. Mrs. Mac will be home. She makes the most delicious peanut butter cookies. Is noon okay?”

“Yeah,” Jason says, sounding a little surprised, but he goes back to sounding happy. “Can’t wait. See ya tomorrow –”

“Wait,” Tim interrupts. “So, I heard about a book and your dad has a huge library, so I was wondering if he has it and maybe if I could borrow it. It’s called The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

The excitement that Tim was trying to hold back explodes from Jason’s voice. “You want me to bring over a book? Hell yeah I can do that! The Hound of the Baskervilles is a Sherlock Holmes book. A kid like you is gonna love that shit. We can read it together.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait,” Tim says, now filled with all the extra excitement that Jason transferred through the phone.

“Alright, I’ll text tomorrow when we’re in the car with Alfie. Bye, T.”

“Bye, Jay.”

The call clicks off and Mr. Constantine sighs, “If you’re gonna read the book I told ya about, ya need a bookmark.”

He flicks his wrist and a card magically appears. Tim uses his peripheral vision to look at the card and he squeals. It’s Mr. Constantine’s business card, with his name and contact number.

Tim is riding on cloud nine for the rest of the drive. He can’t stop smiling when he pulls up in front of the house. He smiles even wider when Mr. Constantine picks up the giant carboard package outside his front door and grunts, “Geez, kid. Feels like there’s a dead body in here.”

“Nope. The mannequins I ordered are in there. I thought they’d ship them in separate boxes, but I’m glad you’re here, because I definitely couldn’t have lifted that by myself.”

Mr. Constantine carries the package inside and puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I’m out, kid. Call me if you ever need me.”

Tim has enough cash in his piggy bank to pay Constantine the regular driver rate, even though Tim was the one who was driving. Tim tries to hand Mr. Constantine the money but the man shakes his head.

“I’m not takin’ your money, Timmy.”

Tim gives his friend Mr. Constantine a hug – because doing favors for free automatically makes them friends now – and the man hops back in his car and drives away (at a much slower speed than Tim).

Tim locks the front door and claps his hands together, hopping up and down. The sooner he goes to bed, the sooner it will be tomorrow, and he’ll be hanging out with Dick and Jason. His sneakers make a sloshing sound as he jumps because he’s pretty wet from the rain.

He kicks off his sneakers and drags himself up the stairs.

Shower first, and then straight to bed.

Chapter Text

Tim has never hosted a party before. He’s not sure if three people counts as a party, but there’s a saying that goes ‘Two’s a party, three’s a crowd.’ If two people count as a party then three people definitely do.

The smell of fresh baked peanut butter cookies is overwhelming, as well as the heat from the oven. Tim is standing right next to Mrs. Mac as his housekeeper reaches into the open oven to pull out the delicious peanut butter cookies. Tim and Mrs. Mac have already made three batches of cookies (looking back, Tim sees that may have been a little excessive). He looks down at this current batch and each cookie looks like perfection on a cookie sheet. He rubs his eyes with his sleeve.

Oh no. He’s crying over cookies. This isn’t good.

He ducks his head, so that Mrs. Mac doesn’t see. If his housekeeper just heard him sniff, she doesn’t mention it. Tim is going to add another five dollars onto Mrs. Mac’s cookie tip bonus for that.

After baking cookies, Mrs. Mac is supposed to go upstairs to start doing her at home aerobics class. Tim needs to have the excuse available in the future that, “Mrs. Mac is upstairs doing her aerobics class and can’t be interrupted.” If the Waynes see that Mrs. Mac is in fact an exercise enthusiast, all Tim has to do in the future is turn up the volume on one of those exercise videos for seniors he’s seen on the internet, and bam, it’s a believable excuse.

Tim has informed Mrs. Mac that she doesn’t need to actually do the exercises if she doesn’t want to. She just needs to be upstairs “exercising” when the Waynes arrive and then come downstairs looking out of breath to greet them, claiming that the class just ended.

Tim can’t make the Mrs. Mac mannequin actually do aerobics in front of the window without adding a robotics system that eleven-year-old Tim is not capable of building, but he could drag his mom’s treadmill from the exercise room and strap the mannequin to that. That might work…

Mrs. Mac scurries upstairs and Tim waits for his guests to arrive. He looks down at the text from Jason and smiles.

He paces the length of the kitchen, trying to shove away the intrusive thoughts of The Waynes saying that they’re going to come but then not showing up, just like his parents have done over and over and over and – the doorbell rings!

Tim runs so quickly that he trips over his own feet and stumbles to the door. He looks out of the peephole and his neighbors are standing there. He unlatches the deadbolt and unlocks the rest of the locks in record time. He swings open the door and Dick opens his arms.

Tim gladly returns the hug.

“How are you feeling, kiddo?” Dick asks, squeezing tightly. “Sometimes I get a migraine after a really bad thunderstorm.”

“I’m okay,” Tim smiles as he continues to hug his hero.

Tim gives a hug to Alfred and Bruce, and that’s when he notices Jason isn’t here. Tim looks toward the driveway and spots Jason carrying a stack of books in his arms. He’s walking slowly along the gravel walkway as the tower of books teeter from one side to the other.

Bruce chuckles while shaking his head. “Jaylad insisted he had to bring you every Sherlock Holmes book from our library.”

Bruce watches his son struggle for another second before jogging down the walkway to help.

“Careful, B,” Jason says, as Bruce lifts a few books from the top. “These are first editions. You gotta be gentle with them.” And then he spots Tim. “Hey, Tim! I got the book you asked about, but it’s part of a set and I really think you need them all.”

Tim laughs as all the Waynes pile into his house, and he leads them into the kitchen.

“Are all of you staying,” Tim asks, wide-eyed and bursting with excitement.

“I’m sorry, but I have a meeting in an hour that I can’t miss,” Bruce says, actually looking genuinely sorry.

Tim’s eyes go even wider because he’s almost positive that the meeting is a Justice League meeting and not a Wayne Enterprises meeting. And if that’s the case, Tim lifts a plate of cookies.

“Me and Mrs. Mac made a lot of cookies, so you can bring this whole plate to your meeting and share them with your work friends.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” Bruce says, taking the plate of cookies. “I’m sure they will love these.”

The members of the Justice League are going to eat cookies that Tim made. How is any of this real life right now?

“Timothy, are the guests here?”

Tim whips around to look at Mrs. Mac. She’s breathing heavily and her forehead is wet from water he assumes she splashed on her face from the sink.

“My apologies for my appearance, I just finished my aerobics video and I’m sure I look like a mess,” Mrs. Mac huffs (she’s really hamming this up and Tim loves her even more than before)

Bruce stammers, “N-No, you’re fine I just -” He clears his throat. “It is a pleasure to meet you. You must be Mrs. Mac?”

“Right you are,” Mrs. Mac says, sticking out her hand. Bruce gives her a polite smile as he shakes her hand. “Timmy has been talking all morning about how excited he was to have his friends over. You can all head to the dining room. I’ll bring over the milk and cookies.”

Tim smiles and whispers to Dick, “Don’t worry, the milk is lactose free. Jason told me you’re allergic.”

Cookie time is the best meal Tim has ever had. After Jason and Dick tease Bruce for asking for a knife and fork to eat his cookies, the Waynes easily start telling one hilarious story after another, often talking over each other, and Tim wonders if this is what a real family acts like. By the time the snack is over, Tim’s mouth is sore from smiling. His heart is so full right now.

Tim imagines in another life, he wouldn’t be going to a boarding school in Kansas. In that different, better version of reality, he would be a part of the Wayne family, and every meal would be filled with warmth and laughter.

Dick is balancing a fork on his nose while Jason is singing a circus song, and Tim wishes this moment would last forever.

Sadly, Bruce has to leave, and he gives Tim a hug before he goes. In another life, Tim would get hugs from Batman every night after patrol. In another life, Tim would be part of the Bat team. He’d be a hero, right next to Batman, keeping Gotham safe.

“Thanks again for the cookies,” Bruce says, releasing the hug, and grabbing the plate of cookies wrapped with plastic wrap.

Dick, Jason, Alfred, and Tim move to the parlor room. While Jason tutors Tim on the reading assignment, Dick plays on his phone, and Alfred creates next week’s menu on his tablet.

When Tim’s head starts swimming from everything Jason is trying to cram in there, Jason closes Romeo and Juliet and opens The Hound of the Baskervilles. Jason starts to read the story, and everyone gathers around to listen. Tim scoots next to Dick and leans his head against Dick’s arm. Dick lifts his arm and lets Tim cuddle next to him. Dick absent-mindedly pets Tim’s hair, and Tim now knows why Midnight liked it so much when he petted the hellhound’s fur.

After story time, Tim panics because he didn’t work out a dinner arrangement with Mrs. Mac, but Alfred and the boys start to say their goodbyes, and Tim breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t want his friends to leave, but he doesn’t exactly have dinner for them either.

Alfred whispers something to Dick and Jason, and the Wayne kids wave at Tim and head to the car. Dick is trying to grab Jason in a headlock, but Jason keeps squirming away. The orange from the sunset floods through the door and Tim laughs as Dick finally traps Jason in a headlock.

Alfred chuckles, “Master Jason will be calling for my assistance momentarily so I will speak quickly. After the Batmobile’s security protocols were compromised, I have convinced Master Bruce that since I have built the vehicle, it would be best if I drove around Gotham to see first-hand if there are any issues. I am taking this test drive tomorrow night and I would love it if you would join me. Tomorrow would be an excellent night to teach you how to parallel park. Parallel parking is an important driving skill to acquire. From there, I can teach you other, dare I say flashier, skills.”

“Yes yes yes,” Tim squeals.

“Excellent. I will pick you up at 9PM sharp.”

Tim can’t believe this is happening. Forget wishing he had another life; this life is so freakin’ cool!

-----

Batman walks into the in-progress Justice League meeting and all heads turn in his direction. Batman has always been commanding. One look can strike fear into Gotham’s most ruthless Rogues.

Batman keeps himself cloaked in mystery and dark terror. His teammates are straight up scared of the Bat, even if none of them will admit it, and Batman leans heavily on the rumors that he’s actually a secret cryptid, that lurks in the shadows and underground tunnels when he’s not patrolling or spending time at the Watchtower.

Batman growls, “What is this meeting about?”

Superman is holding a laser pointer in front of a giant screen. The screen says Safety First.

“Howdy Batman, this meeting is about safety. It’s import-

“This is unnecessary. I already know how to be safe. This meeting could have been an email.”

Flash snorts, “Someone’s grumpy.”

Batman flashes him a dark look and Flash mumbles, “Sorry.”

Batman turns his attention to Wonder Woman and explains his dilemma to her.

“A child, who is also my neighbor, stole my car and I need to use your lasso of truth on him to get answers. Also, I brought cookies. They were made by the child that stole my car. Twice. They’re peanut butter.”

Wonder Woman lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t reach for her lasso. Batman will take that as a no.

He slides the cookie plate to the middle of the table and sits. The conference room is quiet enough to hear the sound of Batman’s leather suit squeak when he sits down. He folds his arms over his chest, which causes another long, loud squeak and he sighs. He hates meetings.

Flash breaks the silence.

“Wait, you have a neighbor? Wait, you live in a house?!”

Batman narrows his eyes and deepens his voice. “I live in the darkest nightmares of the soul.”

Flash shivers again, and Superman taps on the conference table.

“If you could all direct your attention to the screen. This is the official safety guideline document. Y’all should have handouts in front of you to read along. Alrighty, article 1…”

-----

Batman is hunched over the computer in his office. Superman knocks on the doorway and Batman waves him in without looking up.

The door closes with a click and Superman sits in the empty chair.

“Hey, Bruce.”

Batman takes off his cowl and runs his fingers through his sweaty hair.

“You helped me replace the tires, so you know what I’m upset about. I think my eleven-year-old neighbor stole my tires and hotwired my car, but Diana is being greedy with her whip.”

“BW-”

“Don’t call me that, Clark.”

“Bruce, have you been getting enough sleep? Hydrating?” Clark’s voice is patronizing and soothing. Kind of like he’s trying to calm down one of his farm cows.

“I’m not a cow, Clark.”

“You’re not a what? Look, do you really think your neighbor stole the Batmobile?”

Bruce tilts his head. “Not particularly, but it’s an intrusive thought that won’t go away until I disprove it. The note left after the tire theft was childlike in tone. After the second incident, the driver’s seat was left adjusted to accommodate a child’s height. Which means the perpetrator is a child or a child-sized robot. Tim Drake is the only child that’s been in my house and plausibly could have entered the Bat cave while I was on patrol. My gut wants to say that Jason is behind all of this, but he was with me both times, and he’s too tall to fit the dimensions the seat was left in.”

Clark uses the cow calming voice again. It makes Batman want to throw a bat-a-rang at him.

“I reckon we have a mystery on our hands, BW. We should discuss this further, but we should do it while eating a warm slice of apple pie with vanilla ice cream on top.”

Bruce throws a bat-a-rang at Clark’s chest. It ricochets off the Man of Steel’s chest and hits the desk, nicking the corner.

Chapter Text

“Stray, pay attention and stop petting the cats,” Catwoman hisses. “That safe should’ve been cracked two minutes ago.”

“Yes Miss Catwoman.”

Tim can’t believe his life right now.

He was so excited when he was climbing up his favorite fire escape that leads to his favorite rooftop Bat-patrol viewing spot, and a kitten hopped beside him. The kitten had a note attached to her collar that had Gotham National Bank’s address on it. When Tim followed the kitten to the address, Catwoman was waiting with presents for Tim; a domino mask, a black t-shirt made with Kevlar armor, black cargo pants, and a black hoodie with cat ears on the hood.

Tim ran over and hugged his new mentor for his uniform. It was a little embarrassing because he was crying so hard that his shoulders were shaking. It was a little less embarrassing when Catwoman knelt down and thumbed away his tears. “I’m glad you like it, kitten,” she said. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

That brings us to right now, where Tim, Catwoman, and four cats are currently inside the walk-in bank vault at Gotham National Bank. The main vault was easy to break into. Tim followed Catwoman’s instructions to the letter and he only needed her help to turn the giant wheel for the final step of opening the vault door.

The hard part involves opening the safe deposit box inside of the vault. Tim has to use a stethoscope to listen to a series of clicks. Each click reveals a different number in the complicated combination. Tim knows how to do this, but he keeps getting distracted by the meowing and the purring and the kitties climbing on top of him.

Technically they’re not kittens. The cats Catwoman brought with her are full grown cats that know what they’re doing in dangerous situations. This is their first time meeting Tim though, which means he needs to be showered in love and cuddles.

Touch-starved Tim has no objections to that.

Tim pets the length of the white Persian cat all the way to the tail. “These cats need love, Miss Catwoman. And if you didn’t want me to pet the kitties, you shouldn’t have brought them with you. How many cats do you actually have? I bet you have at least fifty. The lunch lady at my school calls herself the cat lady, and she told me she has twenty-seven cats, but I think you have more. Last week, Preston Granger – he’s a real jerk that always teases Jason for being poor before Mr. Wayne adopted him – yeah, so Preston said that when the lunch lady dies her cats are gonna eat her. He called her a lonely old hag. I wanted to punch him, but he’s double my size. Jason wasn’t in school that day or he would’ve punched Preston.”

Catwoman lifts an eyebrow and clears her throat.

Tim nods, “Sorry, sorry, I’m focusing. I promise.”

He tunes out all distractions and his ears listen for the clicks. He can do this. He doesn’t want to mess up his first mission with Catwoman.

His heart skips a beat when the hinge on the safe deposit box pops open. He did it!

He looks to his right and makes a fist. The white tabby cat next to him fist bumps Tim with his paw. Tim is feeling like a boss right now.

“Good job, Stray.” Catwoman empties the metal box one item at a time. First, a blue flash drive. Second, three stacks of hundred-dollar bills that are bound just like Tim has seen in movies when the bad guy gives the other bad guy stacks of money in a briefcase. Third, two plane tickets to Brazil, tucked inside a small blue passport.

Catwoman smiles as she counts the money. She flicks the ends of the bills to count the stacks without unwrapping them.

“We have what we came for. Time to leave before unwanted guests arrive.”

Tim holds the duffel bag open as Catwoman tosses in the stolen goods. Tim looks up at his mentor and smiles.

“You should get a car. It would make escaping so much easier. You should totally get a car and name it the Catmobile.” Tim is bouncing on his toes with excitement. “I know a ton about cars, ‘cuz they’re my favorite thing in the world. We need the Catmobile to be the ultimate getaway car, which means it has to be a car that’s really fast, has excellent handling, but can also blend into traffic. A BMW M5 would be my choice. A lot of people think that the Dodge Charger SRT Hellcat is faster, but those people are dumb and wrong.”  

Catwoman smiles, which isn’t a no, but her smile turns to a grimace when a cat from the other side of the vault hisses.

“We’ve got company,” she hisses.

Tim chews on his lip.

Please don’t be him, but kind of maybe please be him, wait no, please don’t be him, but if it is him…

“Put your hands up Catwoman.”

It’s him. It’s really him. It’s Batman! Nightwing and Robin are flanking him on either side.

In all of Tim’s bat-stalking career, he’s never taken a photo from this angle, the criminal’s perspective. Tim mentally frames the shot in his mind and if he had his camera, and if it wasn’t totally inappropriate to take a picture, he would lay down on the floor and point his camera upward. He’s short so even at this angle, the Bat team looms over him, but if he got down to an extreme low angle the shot would look so badass.

He doesn’t notice he’s doing the frame-the-shot motion with his hands until Nightwing tilts his head to the side in confusion. Tim has enough pictures of confused Nightwing, so he’d pass on that shot.

Batman glares and it should strike fear into Tim’s heart. It does, but Tim also sees the Batmobile from the window behind and almost waves. Almost.

He stands on his toes and it doesn’t bring him much closer to Catwoman’s ear. He motions for her to lean down, and whispers while pointing around Batman.

“We need a car like that. Or the BMW M5 if we want to blend in.”

Batman crosses his arms over his chest and it’s extremely intimidating.

“Catwoman,” he growls, “Hand over the stolen items, or I’ll have to apprehend you and your accomplice.”

“What?!” Tim shouts, causing all three members of the Bat team to look at him. “Why are you arresting us?”

“You’re robbing a bank vault,” Batman says, like it should be extremely obvious. Then he takes out a pair of power dampening handcuffs. “Are you a meta?”

Tim shakes his head and backs up so he’s behind Catwoman. She nods in approval and puts one hand on his shoulder to keep him safely behind her. Tim peeks around his protector and glares at Batman. He puts as much anger as he can behind it. He’s wearing a hoodie with cat ears, so there’s no way he can look as intimidating as he wants to, which isn’t fair. Batman is wearing a cowl with pointy bat ears, and he looks as intimidating as a monster.

Catwoman cracks her neck from side to side. “You’re not getting the stolen goodies, and you’re not going to arrest me either.”

Catwoman slinks over to Batman and puts a hand on his chest. She puts her other hand on the side of his face. “Have I been such a bad kitty, that you need to put me in a cage? Have I been a bad girl, Batman?”

Batman backs up, “Stop trying to distract me Sel – Catwoman. Gordon is on his way, so either give me what you’ve stolen or I’m handing you and the boy over to the police.”

Tim cannot get arrested. The police will definitely call CPS and that will cause a huge mess that will force Jack and Janet to come home early from their trip and that will make his dad furious. The thought of furious Jack Drake makes Tim shiver.

Batman is lecturing Catwoman about bringing a child into a life of crime, and everyone seems to be paying attention to that, so Tim takes a tentative step to the side. When no one notices, he takes two more steps so that he’s right next to the duffel bag.

He holds his breath and carefully lifts the strap of the bag over his shoulder and across his body. He exhales the breath and as the air rushes out of his lungs, he rushes past the three vigilantes and explodes out of the front door.

He tears down the street, full speed, hoping he can get lost in the dark Gotham night. Unfortunately, footsteps are hot on his heels. He’s being pursued by one of the Bats. He’s not sure which Bat is chasing him, but he hopes it isn’t Nightwing. Nightwing’s the fastest.

“Stop. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Yup. That’s Nightwing’s voice. This is bad.

Police sirens are blaring from the next block, so Tim darts down a side alley, and quickly realizes his mistake when he reaches a brick wall. He’s trapped with nowhere to run.

He turns around, with his back pinned to the wall. He’s wheezing for air, and his heart is thundering in his chest. He waits as footsteps round the corner. Tim swallows hard.

Tim is a criminal. He’s technically a fugitive on the run, and the fact that he’s on one side of the law and the Bat team are on the other is a heavy weight on his chest. A chest that’s rising and falling far too quickly to catch a breath.

The alley is shrouded in darkness and shadows, so when Nightwing steps into view, Tim can see him, but Nightwing can’t see Tim.

The electric crackle of Nightwing’s Escrima sticks, and the blueish white spark they emit, makes Tim’s whole body shudder in fear.

“What the hell?” Robin shouts, skidding to a stop next to Nightwing. “You’re gonna electrocute the kid?”

“Wha- no? Of course not. It’s dark. I’m using these to see.”

Tim relaxes a bit, but he’s still prepared to fight. He can’t risk going to jail.

He hugs the duffel bag to his chest and wishes he could disappear.

Nightwing moves his glowing Escrima sticks from left to right, scanning the alleyway for Tim, but before the light reaches Stray, someone grabs Tim’s collar and yanks him through one of the windows of the side buildings. The building is dusty and abandoned, but it’s safe from being caught by Nightwing or Robin.

Tim braces himself to start running again, but he takes one look at his rescuer and smiles. “It’s you!”

Chapter Text

“It’s you!” Tim says.

Em puts a hand over Tim’s mouth and whispers, “Shh. We gotta get to a safer place and then we can talk.”

Em grabs Tim’s hand and leads him through the abandoned building. It’s not completely abandoned because there are a few people scattered about, sheltering inside.

When the two get deep enough in the building, Tim tugs on Em’s hand. The two boys huddle next to a wall and Tim pulls his hood down. He rubs the mask removing solution that Catwoman gave him over his mask, and it slides right off.

“Tim?” Em says jerking back. “Dude, I didn’t know it was you. I just thought you were a kid that stole some shit and needed help.”

Tim is shrugging his arms out of his hoodie. “Let me change back into my street clothes and we can grab something to eat and talk. I have so much to tell you.”

“Me too.”

-----

“… and then Batman’s boss/dad said that he’s going to give me driving lessons tomorrow. Can you believe it? I’m going to learn how to drive the Batmobile.”

“That’s fucking awesome. You’re a total badass.”

Tim feels his face heat up with an embarrassing blush. “I’m not that awesome.”

“Sure you are. You’re still a nerd, but you’re a nerd that stole the Batmobile twice. How many people can say that?”

“I didn’t technically steal it twice. The first time I only stole the tires and the second time I kind of long borrowed it.”

“Long borrowed? Dude, that means you stole it. Be proud of that shit.”

Tim’s face is on fire, so he looks out the window at the police car racing by.

Tim and Em are sitting in a booth by the window in Crime Alley’s famous 24-hour donut shop. The donut shop is aptly named Criminal Donuts.

Tim is eating a Boston cream donut and he’s drinking a large glass of milk. He really wanted to order coffee, but being chased by his heroes left him too jittery to even think about drinking anything that would make him even more wired.

Em ordered a strawberry donut with sprinkles and a large chocolate milk.

Tim watches the police cruisers race by, with their lights flashing and their sirens roaring.

Em kicks Tim’s foot under the table to get his attention. “You thinkin’ about stealin’ a cop car?”

“No,” Tim laughs, taking a bite of his donut. The cream filled donut is so good. “I told you all about what I’ve been doing. Tell me about what’s up with you. Anything cool happen?”

“Yeah. There’s this thing I kinda want to talk to you about.” Em puts his hand behind his neck and winces. “So, remember that dumb fuck that we sold the tires to? He asked me if I wanted to work for him. He said he could teach me about fixin’ cars and he’d give me money too. I was gonna tell him to go fuck himself, but then I thought it might be a good deal if he was for real gonna do it and this wasn’t some scam to sell me off to one of those assholes that traffic kids.”

Tim gasps and Em shakes his head. “It wasn’t a scam. Tony was actually being legit, and I’ve been learning things. When I make a mistake, he’s ready to knock the shit out of me if I don’t duck outta the way, but the money’s decent, and mechanic skills are something that could get me a real job when I get older. Tony won’t let me stay with him in his shack on top of the autobody shop, but he said if it rains, I can sleep outside under the awning so I can keep dry. He said he won’t even call the cops on me for loitering.”

Tim sips his milk. “He won’t let you sleep inside?” he asks.

“Nope. The shithead probably thinks I’m gonna stab him in his sleep or something.”

“Such strong language, for a little kitten,” a friendly voice purrs.

“Mom,” Tim says, and then stutters, “I mean, ma’am, uh, miss. Yeah, Miss Catwoman. Not mom. I did not say mom.”

 “I’ve been called worse, Timmy,” Catwoman says, ruffling Tim’s hair.

Tim hands Catwoman the duffel bag, still smiling at his not-mom. Em stands up and motions for Catwoman to take his seat. Em scoots next to Tim. He leans back with his hand by his pocket. If Tim remembers correctly, that’s where Em keeps his knife. Em also hasn’t taken his eyes off Catwoman.

A cat hops into Em’s lap, and he pets the cutie with one hand, but keeps his other hand resting over his pocket. He continues to stare down Catwoman.

Catwoman clasps her hands together and leans her chin on her hands. “Quite the bodyguard you have there.”

Em narrows his eyes, “I was gonna take on both Nightwing and Robin when I thought a kid was in trouble, and I didn’t even know it was Tim I was defending. You don’t wanna know what I would do to someone if I knew they were hurting Tim.”

The cat on Em’s lap nuzzles their head against Em’s neck and that’s the thing that gets him to break eye contact. He smiles at the cat, who answers with a soft meow.

“Miss Catwoman isn’t a threat. I’m a member of the cat team.”

Em looks at Tim and then at Catwoman.

“You’re lookin’ out for Tim?”

Catwoman nods and Em relaxes. “Okay. My name is Emilio, but everyone calls me Em. Sorry for swearing, ma’am.”

Another cat hops on the table and starts pawing at Tim’s glass of milk.

“Thelma,” Catwoman hisses, but the cat continues to paw at the glass. She lifts Thelma and sighs, “Excuse me boys. I’m going to order a bowl of milk for this one and a donut for myself.”

She heads to the register and Tim turns to Em.

“You should ask Catwoman if you could be a part of the team. She’d totally say yes.”

“Tony’s allergic to cats. If I came to his autobody shop and he started sneezing every time he was around me, he’d be so pissed. The dumb fuck would probably think he was allergic to me.” Em winces. “I gotta stop swearing. I don’t want to accidentally do it in front of your mom again.”

“Stop,” Tim whines, elbowing his friend. “That was so embarrassing. I can’t believe I called her mom.”

“I know. Me and the cats are still feeling the secondhand embarrassment from that shi- uh, sugar.”

Tim bumps Em’s shoulder with his. “I hate you.”

“Oh, really? Well next time you’re in trouble I’ll stand and watch Nightwing shove his electric stick up your –”

“Nightwing’s a hero. He would never.”

Em and Tim both burst out laughing.

Em is still chuckling when Tim asks, “You’re safe, right? If Tony hurts you I could send Catwoman or Constantine after him.”

“Hey, I’m the one looking after you, remember?”

“We look out for each other,” Tim says softly.

“Yeah, I guess we do, but as much as I would love to see Catwoman kicking Tony’s butt, I’ll be fine. I’ve met a million Tonys. They’re the type of guy that’s unhappy with the fact that he hasn’t done one fucking thing that mattered in his whole life, which makes him sad and miserable. So, sad boy wants to punch all the people he’s jealous of that have actually done good things, but he’s a coward, so he punches kids half his size, like me. He uses me as punching practice while he waits to grow some balls and actually go after someone his own size. The guards at juvie were all like that.”

Tim chews on his bottom lip. Em had told him about the five months of hell he had to spend in juvie. One time a guard beat him so badly that Em thought he was going to die. The crime that put him there was that his parents both died and there wasn’t room in the orphanage. There’s never room for the alley kids.

Tim tries really hard, but he starts crying.

“Tim,” Em sighs, and pulls Timmy into a hug. “Don’t cry. I’m good, and I promise, if I get in a really bad spot, I’ll take you up on your offer and come stay in your ugly ass mansion in Bristol.”

Tim pulls away from the hug so he can look Em in the eyes. “Promise? And like a real promise, not just a yeah okay sure Timmy.”

Em laughs, “How’s this; I swear on the Batmobile.”

“Yeah, that’ll do,” Tim says, pulling Em back into a hug.

Chapter Text

Tim is flat on his back, sprawled out on his bed, bouncing a rubber ball off the ceiling. He has plans for driving lessons with Alfred at 9PM, but it won’t stop being 8:45. Tim swears that it’s been 8:45 for at least twenty minutes now. Time is dragging worse than when he’s watching the clock during the last ten minutes of the school day.

Speaking of the school day, school went well. Jason claimed that Wayne Manor has too many distractions as long as Dick is around, so tutoring was moved to Gotham Public Memorial Library afterschool. Jason called the library “a Dick-less location”, and then he laughed at his own joke for a good five minutes.

After studying at the library for a few hours, Alfred drove Tim back to Drake Manor, and Tim had the Mrs. Mac mannequin in the rocking chair by the window in her knitting pose. Alfred accepted the excuse that Tim didn’t want to disturb his housekeeper when she was in the knitting zone, so that all worked out great.

Tim has to sneak out of the house for his driving lesson, so there’s no need to pose any mannequins. Instead, Tim just needs to wait.

He turns his head to look at his phone and the bold numbers, 8:45 shine back at him.

Seriously?!

Tim goes back to bouncing his rubber ball off the ceiling, and groans as time continues to drag.

Finally, Tim’s phone buzzes, alerting him that Alfred is in the driveway. Tim rolls off the bed so fast that he crashes to the ground.

“Ow.”

He picks himself up, dusts himself off, and climbs out the window. When his feet land on the grass, he bolts across the front lawn. His heart skips a beat when he sees the Batmobile idling in his driveway.

He races over to the passenger side, yanks the door open, and hops inside the car. He inhales the smell of leather and new car (the little tree air freshener is New Car smell).

“I missed you,” Tim hums.

“Why do I have a feeling you are speaking to the car and not me?” Alfred says, dryly.

Tim turns to face Alfred and it’s the first time he’s seen the Wayne butler in anything other than a full suit. Alfred’s technically wearing a half suit, because he has a white dress shirt and black dress pants, but his sleeves are rolled up and he’s not wearing a suit jacket, so he must mean business. He’s not wearing a tie, which means the top button at his neck is unbuttoned.

Tim smiles at casual Alfred.

“I missed you too, Alfie. I just really really missed the Batmobile.”

“You’re making it worse, Master Tim,” Alfred chuckles. “Now, down to business. Seeing as this is a school night, I will have you back no later than midnight. Which does sound rather late now that I have said it, but we have much to do.”

“Alfie, how are we going to drive to Gotham City and back and still have time to fit everything in?”

Alfred shifts the car from park into drive. “Our destination is not the city, my boy, I’m taking you where I taught a much younger master Bruce to drive. All we have to do is take the highway East of Bristol and there are miles of wide open space.”

Alfred revs the car and smiles at Tim.

“Master Timothy, have you heard of the term boosted launch?”

Tim shakes his head, no.

Alfred lifts his foot from the brake and the car surges forward, smoke billowing from the back exhaust and from under the tires. Alfred flies down the road and the roar of the engine almost drowns out Tim’s squeals of excitement.

Alfred drives fast, so it doesn’t take long to get to the empty closed off road, which looks like a raceway, that’s the location for tonight’s lesson. Orange cones are already set up and at various distances apart. When Alfred approaches the mock driving course, he makes a sharp turn, causing Tim to claw for the overhead grab handle. Tim holds onto the grab handle for dear life, but Alfred neatly stops on a dime, in between two orange cones.

Alfred shoves the gear stick into park. “Our first lesson is parallel parking, but not like that. You will perform it the traditional way. Handling a vehicle at low speeds is just as important as maneuvering the vehicle at high speeds.”

Tim groans, because he wants to go fast, but Alfred’s the GOAT so he’ll do as the man says.

After an hour of extremely low speed parallel parking, Alfred shows mercy and moves onto his next lesson. One that finally involves speed.

He returns behind the wheel and, again, launches the car from stopped to high speed. The feeling is such a rush of adrenaline that Tim’s stomach drops and his head is swimming. Alfred skids to a stop, and turns to face Tim.

“The Batmobile has a setting that makes it almost silent when stealth is needed, but that should only be used in emergencies. The true strength of this vehicle is the roar of the engine.”

Alfred revs the engine hard and the rumble of the motor sounds like thunder as the sheer power of the car shakes the ground.

“Every Gotham criminal’s worst nightmare is hearing the Batmobile’s engine calling for them in the distance. If you hear the Batmobile approaching, you know it is too late, but you run anyway, because what more can you do? The sound of the engine strikes a chilling fear right down to the bone. Batman doesn’t have a battle cry. He doesn’t need one. He has the roar of the Batmobile’s engines to let criminals know that pain is approaching, and they’ve already lost.”

Tim nods and writes down his notes diligently in his notebook.

Alfred stops the car and looks over at Tim, while resting one arm on the steering wheel.

“Batman has one rule that is paramount to all other rules. It’s his no kill rule. I also, have one unbreakable rule.” He reaches under Tim’s seat and retrieves a bucket with the Batman symbol on it. He hands it to Tim and smirks. “My rule is simple.” He revs the engine. “Always wear your seatbelt, Master Tim.”

Alfred launches the car forward with more speed than should be possible. Tim clutches the bucket as the high speed makes the trees along the highway green blurs. Tim can barely breathe from the adrenaline and the g-force, but Alfred starts a conversation as if he’s calmly dusting a lamp.

“The Batmobile has a manual and an automatic driver assist mode, but the transmission itself has a classic manual mode.” He pulls a second gear shift next to the steering wheel and the Batmobile goes even faster. “This is the stick shift and in classic manual mode it allows the driver to switch gears. Gear shifting allows the driver to reach top speed as quickly as possible. Master Bruce prefers to drive in third gear.” Alfred’s smirk turns into a smile. “I prefer fifth gear.”

He pulls the gear shift and the car’s speed explodes.

Tim has never gone this fast before in his life and he loves every minute of it. Unfortunately, his stomach doesn’t love it as much as Tim’s heart does. He clutches the Bat-bucket tighter.

“There’s an art to smooth gear shifting that Master Bruce does not have the patience for, no matter how hard I try. Whenever I install upgrades, I sneak in a quick driving lesson or two, but Master Bruce is too bull-headed to listen. One of these days he’s going to strip the gears and he’s going to have no one to blame but himself when he spins out. Pay close attention Master Tim, this is how you perform a proper downshift.”

Alfred pulls the stick shift down to first gear, jerking the car to a slower speed, and then he pulls the gear stick next to the seat into reverse. The back end of the car lifts off the road as the car fights against the immediate change in speed and direction. The Batmobile skids backwards before the back tires slam against the road.

The car suddenly pulls into high-speed reverse with such a jolt that it knocks the wind out of Tim. This is simultaneously the coolest and most terrifying thing he has ever experienced.

Alfred raises his voice to be heard over the squealing tires. “Proper downshifting should never compromise a steady speed.” He looks at the dashboard and frowns. “I lost too much acceleration that time. The tire pressure is a little low. I’ll have to fill them up when I get back to the cave.”

Alfred downshifts again so that the car is driving forward, but this one is less dramatic, and all four wheels stay on the road. The car is also cruising at a far lower speed.

Tim shouts, “That was incredi –”

The last syllable is lost to the Bat-bucket, as Tim’s dinner comes back up.

“I’m so sorry, my dear boy,” Alfred says, not sounding sorry at all, and Tim spits out, “You gotta teach me how to do that,” before heaving again into the Bat-bucket.

-----

The back end of the Batmobile slams to the road so hard that the front-end lifts in counterbalance. Tim grips the wheel as tightly as he can. He hits the brakes, which causes the car to fishtail before it skids to a stop.

“Sorry, Alfie,” Tim says slumping his shoulders.

“That is why we have front and back shock absorbers, Master Tim.” He smiles at the young driver. “And also, why I installed shatterproof windows.”

Tim puts the car in park and Alfred can see the tears welling up in the boy’s eyes. Of all the things that Alfred is learning about Tim, it’s the boy’s lack of self-esteem that is the most concerning.

Tim’s eyes are filled with tears, but to his credit, he doesn’t let any fall. Instead, he takes a deep breath and stares out at the empty road. When he speaks it’s almost too low for Alfred to make out the words.

“Why do you trust me with your car? Dad wouldn’t.”

“Jackson Drake and I are very different men, Master Tim. I believe we are also very different fathers.”

Tim’s eyes dart over to Alfred, and this time a tear slips out. He rubs it away quickly with his sleeve, but another one slips out, and soon there are too many to keep up with.

Alfred reaches across the console between the seats and rubs Tim’s back as the boy buries his face with his hands.

“You are in rare company, Master Tim. I don’t trust anyone else to operate this vehicle other than Master Bruce and yourself. I also trust you to keep my family’s most well-guarded secret. You are a remarkable young boy, Master Timothy. You are bright, and kind, and I am so very proud of you, as I’m sure your parents are as well.”

Tim scoffs. “You know my parents. They’ll never be proud of me.” Tim looks up. “I don’t really care what they think. Well, I do, but what they think doesn’t matter as much as what you think, Alfie. You’re one thousand percent cooler than Mom and Dad.”

Tim sniffs and wipes his nose with his sleeve.

“Master Tim,” Alfred scolds with the click of his tongue. “As I’ve told Master Jason, a sleeve is not a proper substitute for a handkerchief or a tissue.”

Alfred presses a button on the dashboard and the center console opens. He lifts out a metal tackle box. When he lifts the lid, the inside opens up to reveal accordion style shelves, filled with vials of toxins and antidotes. Empty syringes and basic medical supplies are also stocked inside the tackle box, but more importantly, at the very bottom is a package of tissues.

Alfred hands Tim the tissues and Tim squeaks out a thank you.

Tim wipes his eyes and blows his nose. He’s not crying anymore, but his hands have started to shake, as well as his voice. “You, um, you said you trust me, and I trust you too. There’s something I need to tell you. It’s about my dad. He, um, he – it’s really hard to say.”

Alfred continues to rub Tim’s back. “Take your time, lad.”

Tim whispers, “He drinks a lot and, um… yeah, that’s it.”

Alfred knows there’s more Tim wants to say, but he doesn’t want to push the poor lad. Jack and Janet Drake won’t be back from their business trip for a while, so if what Tim is struggling to tell him is what Alfred thinks, the boy isn’t in any danger as long as the Drakes are away. He can wait until Tim is more comfortable to share his secret. He has to gain the boy’s trust a little bit more.

Alfred has had enough experience with Bruce to know when to back off before causing a full shutdown, so he tables this conversation for now.

“Master Tim, I am available to speak to you at any time, day or night. You need only to call me, and I will listen and provide all the aid that is needed. I need for you to understand that.”

“I do, Alfie.”

“Good,” Alfred says. “Now, let us try downshifting again, and this time apply less pressure to the brake.”

“Understood,” Tim says, all the excitement returning to his smiling face.

“And you do not have to cheer every time.”

“Boo, Alfie,” Tim says throwing the car back into drive. “If you don’t woo hoo, it’s like it never happened. Everyone knows that.”

 “Master, Ti-”

“Woo hoo, Alfie! Wooooo hooooo!!”

Chapter Text

Tim looks around the room and he swallows hard. He’s chained to the wall in what looks like a torture room. He’s never been inside one of these horrific rooms, but he’s seen enough in horror movies.

 He’s not a fan of horror movies, but Superboy and Impulse are, so Tim has watched a few of Superboy’s favorites. Superboy and Impulse watch on their computer monitor and Tim syncs his laptop so they can watch at the same time and discuss over video chat. Tim always wears his Spiderman Halloween mask to keep his identity hidden and when the really terrifying parts come on, he closes his eyes, and he gets away with it without his friends ever knowing.

A few days ago, he group watched one of Superboy’s favorite chainsaw movies. Superboy has seen all fifteen movies in the series, and he loves to talk to the screen and warn the victims when something’s about to happen. Tim used Superboy’s “Oh, shoot, he better look out” as a clue to shut his eyes and it worked every time. The serial killer with the chainsaw would rev up the chainsaw and a spattering sound followed. Superboy would yell, “Holy chicken and biscuits, did you see that?” and Tim would mutter with his eyes closed, “Mm hmm. That was wild.”

In the movie, the torture room looked just like this one, exactly like this one. Tim takes a sigh of relief, now that he knows that this is a nightmare. At least, he’s ninety percent sure he’s dreaming.

The door creaks open, the hinges making a high-pitched squeal that’s painful to Tim’s ears. He tries to cover his ears from the pain, but his chains are too short for that motion. Instead of blocking out the ear-piercing sound, he yanks hard enough to shoot daggers of pain through his arms.

The door opens fully, ending the painful squealing noise, and someone else is tossed into the room.

“Em?” Tim wheezes when his friend lands on the hard floor.

Em is curled up in pain, covered in blood and bruises.

Tim wants to crawl over to his friend, but the chains keep him locked in place. Tears are streaming down his face as he yells, “Em, can you hear me? Tell me who did this. Who did this to you?”

Em rolls on his back, and the blood in his mouth makes his words drown in a thick gurgling sound. “A… monster.”

A man walks through the door with a chainsaw. Tim recognizes the man as Tony, Em’s boss at the autobody shop.

Tony pulls the starter rope of the chainsaw and the grotesque sound of the motor echoes throughout the small room. Tim screams for the man to stop, but Tony turns to face him, and his mouth spreads into a bone-chilling smile. The more the smile spreads, the less human the man looks. Tim watches in horror as the man becomes a monster. He becomes the monster that Tim has seen in so many nightmares before. The monster usually starts out as Jack Drake, and Tim is on the other end of whatever the nightmare escalates to, but this time it’s his best friend that’s being attacked by the monster. Tim can’t do anything to help.

Superboy’s voice rings out from the speakers. “Holy chicken and biscuits, did you see that?”

Tim doesn’t want to see what happens next, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t close his eyes. He yanks on the chains, but they’re too short to allow him to cover his eyes. He can’t look away…

Tim jolts awake. Someone’s yelling, “No no no!” and he thinks it’s him. Whatever he’s sitting on, he falls off, and lands on the floor with a thud.

“Shit, sorry. I should have caught you,” a voice next to him says, but Tim is too out of it to recognize who it is.

He blinks his eyes rapidly, trying to clear the haze of sleep away from his vision. He sniffs and suddenly realizes that sleep isn’t clouding his vision, it’s tears.

“Are you hurt, Timbo?” the same voice as before says, this time more frantic. Wait, there’s only one person that calls him Timbo.

“Jason?” Tim says, rubbing tears from his eyes. Rows of tables with benches and students crowding around him are all coming into focus. Tim is in the school cafeteria. He was sitting next to Jason before he must have fallen asleep, and then he must have woken up and fell backwards off the lunchroom bench he was sitting on.

Confusion quickly turns into embarrassment. Everyone is crowded around him, and most of the crowd is laughing at him.

Tim jumps when Jason asks again, “Tim, are you hurt?”

Tim’s arm hurts really badly but falling off a bench and actually hurting himself is way too humiliating to admit in front of the crowd of students. Tim would never hear the end of it.

Right on cue, Preston – the bully that made fun of the lunch lady dying and becoming cat food – snickers, “The little loser can’t even sit up without falling over. Next time you come to lunch, Timmy, you should wear a helmet.”

This causes more laughter. Jason stands up inches from Preston’s face, raising his fist, “Give me one good reason not to knock you the fuck out.”

Preston wisely takes a step back. He’s stupid but not stupid enough to underestimate Jason.

Jason takes another step forward, but a teacher appears, “Alright boys, settle down. No one is going to knock anyone out.”

Preston’s confidence returns now that there’s a teacher between him and Jason and he scoffs, “You’re lucky a teacher is here to hold me back.”

Jason rolls his eyes and then crouches down next to Tim again. “Can you walk? The nurse’s office is right down the hall. I’ll walk with you.”

Tim nods, as Jason helps him up. Jason hoists both of their backpacks on his shoulder and Tim holds onto Jason’s other arm, leaning heavily on it for support.

The teacher that broke up the almost fight between Jason and Preston tells everyone to go back to what they were doing, and thankfully Tim stops being the center of attention. Tim longs for the days he was invisible.

When Tim and Jason reach the hallway, Jason asks, “What hurts?”

“Um, my elbow hurts. I landed on it when I went down. It doesn’t feel broken or anything. It just really hurts.”

“You’re shaking,” Jason says.

“Yeah. I um, I had a nightmare, or a daymare or whatever it was. There a was a torture room and a chainsaw and…” Tim shivers. “You probably think I’m being a baby.”

“Fear and trauma are both valid, T. I’ve had some pretty bad nightmares. Even B has them. I once heard him scream from all the way across the hall. I ran from my bedroom to his and I thought someone breeched the security system and was trying to stab him or something. He told me he had a nightmare about his parents getting shot and killed. He was embarrassed as hell for waking me up and kept apologizing, but I told him that you never have to apologize for something you’re afraid of. You can’t control that shit. I told him it would make him feel better if we went to pay respects to his mom and dad’s graves, so we did. I was still in my pjs and I apologized to Mrs. Martha for not like visiting in a suit. B asked if I wanted to visit my mom too, but she’s not buried there. I didn’t have enough money to bury her so she’s, like, in some random unmarked grave.”

Tim hugs Jason’s arm tighter as they finish making their way to the nurse’s office.

-----

Tim whimpers as he wakes up from the same nightmare as before. Thankfully, this time he doesn’t fall off from where he’s sitting. Falling off the nurse’s office’s hard cot and landing on the hard floor wouldn’t have been fun.

A distant nurse’s voice calls for Tim.

“Tim?”

 She says his name again before peering her head around the corner into the dark area in the back of the office where the medical cots are.

“Are you alright, sweetie?” she asks.

Tim nods and mumbles, “Fell asleep again.” He looks up at the nurse with hopeful eyes. “Do you have anything that can make the nightmares go away?”

“If I did, I’d be a millionaire,” the nurse says with a chuckle. “But drinking water will help.”

She hands him a water bottle and he takes a sip. The water feels like acid going down his throat. He starts to cough and the nurse smirks, “Poor Timmy. Does your throat hurt, sweetie? I’ll make it better.”

The nurse grabs Tim’s neck and starts to squeeze. Tim sputters, desperately trying to breathe, and the nurse’s laughter turns into cackling. Her face morphs into a hideous monster, like something from the cemetery that Constantine was trying to extract from a grave.

Tim tries to scream, but he can’t make a sound as the woman crushes his windpipe.

Tim jolts awake, this time falling off the cot in the nurse’s office.

“Tim!” the nurse yells from around the corner, and Tim huddles against the wall, curling up into the smallest ball possible.

“Stop,” Tim yells, “You’re going to kill me!”

The nurse’s eyes grow wide, and Tim suddenly hears Jason calling his name from the front of the room. Jason races into the room but stops at the doorway.

“Timmy, the news just said that Scarecrow dumped a whole bunch of fear toxin in the aqueduct which fu- fudged up the water supply. Did you drink anything with tap water this morning?”

“I made coffee for breakfast,” Tim shivers.

“You mean with breakfast.”

Tim does a not so much wavy hand gesture.

“Coffee isn’t breakfast, Tim Tam,” Jason says as he helps Tim off the floor. “The fear toxin’s a special strain the makes you tired and then gives you jacked up nightmares.”

Tim yawns, “Mm hmm.” His eyelids are already starting to get heavy.

Tim’s eyes flutter closed, but before he’s pulled into another nightmare, he feels a slight pinch on his arm. The pinch is followed by something warm traveling inside his vein, probably fear toxin antidote.

The darkness makes way for a monster drooling blood to start limping toward him, but in an instant, the monster retreats back into the darkness and the terrifying black that surrounds Tim feels safe and warm. Safe enough to let his brain rest.

…

Tim wakes up and he’s alone. He’s still in the nurse’s office, so he hops off the cot and heads to the nurse’s desk.

A less homicidal nurse smiles at him, but she looks stressed. “How are you feeling, Timothy?”

“Um, I’m okay. I think.”

“That’s good.” Her smile is terse. “More than half the students have been affected by the tainted tap water. School has been canceled, but I’m staying here until the rest of the students wake up. Jason Todd-Wayne told me that he had to leave early with his dad, but when you wake up, I should call Alfred Pennyworth to come pick you up.”

Tim shakes his head, plastering on his most convincing smile. “No, it’s okay. I think some wires were crossed. My parents are waiting outside to pick me up.”

Tim really hopes that the nurse is overwhelmed with sick students to worry about having to physically see his parents.

Someone in another back room moans and the nurse winces, “Alright, sweetie. Get home safely.”

Tim scurries out of the office before the nurse has second thoughts of letting Tim leave school without someone being there to actually pick him up.

The app on his phone says the next available driver can get him in two hours and Tim sighs. If Alfred picks him up, there’s no way he’s dropping him off at Drake Manor and leaving without seeing an actual living breathing human being that is looking after Tim. The walk home from school is less than two hours, so that’s slightly more desirable than waiting.

He tugs on the strap of his backpack and starts the long walk home. He texts Jason first, telling him that he got home well, and the maid is the staff member watching him and she’s making him homemade chicken noodle soup. His text is immediately read, but when Jason doesn’t text back, Tim assumes that he’s out with Batman and Nightwing, doing rare daytime Bat activities.

Tim’s next text isn’t a text, it’s a phone call.

Superboy picks up on the second ring, “Howdy, Spiderdude. What’s up?”

“Scarecrow spiked the water supply with fear stuff, and I have to walk home from school. Is it alright if we talk until I get home?”

“How long is the walk back home?”

“An hour and forty-seven minutes.”

Superboy whistles, “Sweet maple glazed baked potatoes, that’s long. You want me to come get you and fly you home?”

“If you know where I live, you’ll know who I am,” Tim says with a sigh. “We’re supposed to keep our identities a secret, remember?”

Tim half-knows who Superboy is. He knows that Superman is Clark Kent, and he knows Superboy probably lives in Kansas with his Uncle Clark, because Superboy has a pretty heavy Midwestern accent, and he says things like ‘holy chicken and biscuits.’ He doesn’t know Superboy’s real name though, and he doesn’t know Impulse’s either.

Superboy hums, “So I’ve got your undivided attention for one hour and forty-seven minutes –”

“Forty-five.”

 “– so, I think we’ll start with the harrowing story of the last mission I had. It was early in the morn and Pa wanted me to milk the cows, but little did I know, my day was about to involve zero percent cow milking, and one hundred percent punch a giant robot in the face…”

Chapter Text

A Gotham Rogue poisoning Gotham’s entire water supply with a mind-altering drug that gave people debilitating nightmares was not enough for school to close the next day. Tim isn’t surprised, there was a snowstorm last year that dumped three feet of snow on the city, and school was still open. Gotham schools never close.

That being said, half the teachers didn’t show up today, and the school didn’t bother to find substitutes, so when Tim’s English Lit class was teacherless, he used it as a time to study with Jason.

One student started a rumor that Mr. Anderson had died, but another student said that the school would have told them and there would have been a memorial, so that ended that discussion.

Tim easily floats through the rest of the school day, and when he’s done, he collects the books he needs from his locker. He has another tutoring session with Jason after school and it’s going to be at Wayne Manor. Dick went back to His Bludhaven apartment last night, so Tim won’t be able to fanboy over Jason’s older brother, but hanging out with Jason is fun, and seeing Alfred is fun too. Maybe they can schedule another driving lesson.

The Waynes haven’t seen visual confirmation of a living person in Wayne Manor other than Tim in a while, so Tim has arranged for his chef’s son to pick him up. Tim did this trick once before when his dad broke his arm and a case worker was sent to Drake Manor to do a wellness check. Jack and Janet were supposed to be home, but they messed up and were on a flight half-way across the globe. Tim definitely could not be home alone, so he called his favorite pizza delivery guy, Matt, and begged the guy to pretend to be a relative. Matt’s in his early twenties, so he’s too young to be Tim’s father, plus the social worker had Jack Drake’s picture on file, so Matt pretended to be a cousin. The case worker was happy to know that Tim had someone safe watching him and after a quick look around the house, the case worker left.

Matt doesn’t live in Gotham anymore, but the new pizza guy hasn’t given Tim child kidnapper vibes, so hopefully he can get the man to, 1) pick him up at Wayne Manor, 2) pretend to be the chef’s son (his chef is the fake worker that’s watching him today), and 3) drop him back home. Tim has a can of pepper spray in his backpack and if he gets to the front porch, there’s a small pocketknife under the welcome mat. That should keep him from getting kidnapped or murdered.

But he shouldn’t have to use either. Dave the pizza delivery guy is probably cool.

Tim leans on his locker as he waits for Jason. It isn’t long before Jason is jogging down the hallway toward him.

“Timber,” Jason says, as his face lights up. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“You saw me in English Lit class, and then at lunch, and then you showed up at gym class to make sure Jerry Davers didn’t hit me too hard during dodgeball.”

“Jerry’s an ass that takes dodgeball way too seriously. You’re lucky I was there to play defense. He would’ve knocked a tooth out.”

“I would’ve dodged, Jay,” Tim says with a laugh, as the two walk outside.

Tim looks around for Alfred’s black town car, but he doesn’t see it. He keeps scanning the car pickup area, until his eyes meet a red Porsche 718 Spyder. It’s a modified high-end luxury sports car, because a backseat was added, the original model to Tim’s knowledge is a two-seater. That’s not the most interesting thing about the car. The most interesting thing, is that Bruce Wayne is sitting in the driver’s seat, with a pair of sunglasses on.

Tim swallows as Jason groans, “Daaad, what the hell? Where’s Alfie?”

“Love you too, Jaylad. Alfred is in the middle of creating a culinary masterpiece so I’ll be your chauffer for the day. Hello, Tim.”

“Uh, hi Mr. Way- I mean Bruce.” And because Tim can’t help being a little mischievous, he tilts his head. “Sir, with your sunglasses on, you look like someone else I know, but I can’t remember who right now.”

Bruce lifts the sunglasses to rest on his head in a move quicker than the Flash, and Jason snorts.

Bruce adjusts his rear-view mirror as Jason and Tim slide inside the car and buckle up.

“Boys, I have to apologize, but I need to pick up something from the bank. Do you mind if I stop to get it before taking you boys home?”

“It’s fine,” Jason huffs as he clicks on his seatbelt. “As long as me and Tim have some time to study later we’re good.”

“Excellent. How is the studying going?” Bruce asks, as he leans his arm on the seat, facing the back window so he can see as he pulls out of the tight spot between two cars.

Tim watches as Bruce pulls the car into reverse, stops, and then spins the wheel with just the palm of his hand, easily maneuvering from between the two cars. Tim almost expects Bruce to hit the gas and peel out of the parking lot, but he eases forward instead, going not even ten miles an hour.

(Which makes sense because hitting a student in the school parking lot wouldn’t be good for the Wayne Enterprises brand)

Tim shifts his attention to Jason, who’s already been telling Bruce how studying has been going.

“ –im’s gonna get an A on that paper, easily. But if he fails the next assignment the A will kinda be pointless, so we’re gonna go over the assigned reading for next week. Mr. Anderson has us reading the story of Icarus, you know, the Greek myth?”

“I’m familiar,” Bruce says with a smile, cutting off a black car. “Icarus flew too close to the sun with wings built by his father. The sun melted the wings, and Icarus fell into the ocean and drowned. The moral of the story is to be cautious and know your limitations.”

“Yeah?” Jason scoffs. “And here I thought it was about getting jacked up because you went out to fight the good fight in Dad’s faulty equipment.”

Bruce glares through the rear-view mirror. “No son, I’m sure that the wings were top of the line, and always double if not triple checked. His father, Daedalus, would never send him into danger with faulty equipment. Icarus failed to see that the sun was too powerful. He metaphorically brought a knife to a gunfight.”

Tim chimes in, “That’s really very insightful, sir. Can you write my paper for me?”

Bruce and Jason say, “No” at the same time.

Tim laughs, causing the other two to join him.

After a good laugh, Bruce glances at Tim in the rear-view mirror.

“Do you like cars, Timmy?”

Tim takes a second to think about his answer. As much as he wants to talk Bruce’s ear off about cars, he can’t give Batman any clues that he stole his car, so he tries to throw him off the trail.

“I like cars, but um, it’s a little embarrassing, but I get car sick whenever I’m in a fast car.”

Tim can feel Bruce ease off the gas, and he winces. Maybe he should have picked a less embarrassing lie.

“If you need me to pull over, buddy, just let me know,” Bruce says, adding to the humiliation.

“T?” Jason asks gently. “Your face is really red. Do you need B to pull over now?”

Tim shakes his head, no.

“I’m okay,” he whispers. “Just a little embarrassed.” And because Jason is the best, he changes the conversation quickly, asking Bruce about his day.

Tim half-listens as Bruce tells his son about Wayne Enterprises drama, but he can’t stop thinking about the early conversation about Icarus.

Tim lives his life flying too close to the sun. He’s definitely flying too close to the sun by having Jason, who is also Robin, as a friend. He’s also flying too close to the sun when he keeps taking the Batmobile out for joyrides. But those activities will only give him a light tan from the sun’s rays at most. The activity he has planned might actually put him at risk for third degree sunburn.

-----

Tim sits on the roof top ledge, and lets his legs dangle over the edge. It’s half past midnight, he’s completely decked out in his new Catsuit, and he’s munching on a peanut butter and fluff sandwich. He had planned to buy something from a food cart while he was out, but he was in a rush when he left the house, and he left his money on his dresser. So, instead of having actual dinner food for dinner, he’s eating the emergency sandwich that he packed in his backpack from a few weeks ago.

He's pretty sure that peanut butter doesn’t have an expiration date. Marshmallow fluff doesn’t expire either, right? Of all the dangerous things Tim does in his life, it would be tragic if an expired sandwich was the one threat that truly ended him.

Speaking of potentially deadly situations, Tim survived his pickup from Dave the pizza delivery guy. Dave was in fact, not a child murder, but the pizzaman was shady enough for Bruce to ask the man to show him his id, and then made Tim promise to text when he got home. It warmed Tim’s heart that Bruce was acting like a helicopter dad, or is he more of a helicopter next door neighbor? Whatever Bruce is, he was worried, and it made Tim feel special.

Thankfully, Tim didn’t need to worry about the background check on Dave. He gave the deliveryman a fake id that was flawless, due to skills he learned from a combination of the internet and his advanced computer coding teacher, Mr. Harris. Mr. Harris used to be a hacker for the government, but now he loves to teach teenagers how to commit cybercrime. Tim would have an A-plus average in the class if the class wasn’t graded with either a pass or a fail.

Tim goes back to pondering the likelihood of his sandwich being deadly, while using his free hand to lift his binoculars. After dinner, he plans to sneak through the glass roof of the building that’s five rooftops away. The building is Wayne Tower, aka the main headquarters for Wayne Enterprises, and the mission is to steal something from Batman to teach him a lesson for stealing something from Stray and Catwoman. Even though Batman stole back the stuff Tim and Selina originally stole. Whatever. Crime is complicated.

All Tim needs to do is steal a flash drive or something important. He’ll decide when he gets inside. The point is for Tim to get revenge and also for Batman to see him on the surveillance camera and know that Tim is skilled enough to commit crimes all by himself.

There’s no chance of Batman actually stopping him this time, because according to the Bat-earpiece he eavesdropped on earlier, The Dark Knight was called on an emergency mission on a completely different planet with the entire Justice League. The mission started an hour ago, and space time is weird, but Batman won’t be back on the planet for at least a few more hours. Nightwing is currently patrolling in Bludhaven, and Robin was told to stick to the shadows during his solo patrol, and not to engage any combat with Gotham Rogues.

Which means this is Tim’s best chance to get away with stealing and not getting caught by the Bats. Tim might be flying too close to the sun, but he’s not going to get burned. He’s got this.

Just the thought of proving himself to both Catwoman and Batman makes him giddy enough to kick his feet while devouring his sandwich.

He’s licking the last bits of peanut butter from his fingers when he hears someone laughing from street-level. He fumbles with his binoculars and points them at the street. His hands are shaking when he sees a man with green hair and a purple suit chuckling. The man, who Tim clearly recognizes as Joker, is leaning against a brick wall with his arms crossed.

Tim knows that the Joker has spotted him if the man is laughing. There’s no chance Tim can get away. No one outruns the Joker. So, he does the only thing he can do.

He switches his binoculars to the camera setting and takes a picture. If he makes it out alive, he’ll have stolen something even more valuable than the Batmobile. He stole a picture of Joker.

It’s a beautiful shot. The alley is blanketed in dark shadows. In contrast, Joker is leaning against a spot on the brick wall that’s illuminated by a narrow strip of light from a dim streetlamp overhead.

Tim’s first picture is a full body shot that looks professional enough to blend in with any of the works of art that hang on the walls of his father’s art gallery. Tim zooms in for the close up shot, framing the archvillain’s face only. The shadows play nicely to make the man look menacing, even though nothing more than the top of his head can be seen.

The shutter clicks once, twice, and the third time Joker lifts his head just enough that a glint from his eyes catches the light. In an instant, the Joker’s head is still tilted down, but he’s suddenly staring right back at Tim through his eyelashes.

Joker’s smile stretches wider.

A haunted. “Heh heh heh,” echoes through the alleyway, sending Tim stumbling back as his finger stutters over the shutter button.

 Click, click, heh, heh, click, click, heh…

Tim shoves his binoculars into his backpack and turns to run, but instead of a clear pathway, he immediately slams into someone’s chest, which causes him to fall on his butt.

His mind scrambles to focus. He sees a familiar yellow R on the left side of the chest he slammed into.

“Robin!” Tim yells, scurrying to his feet. “It’s the Joker! Run!!”

Chapter Text

Tim feels a wave of guilt crash over him. Robin was smart enough not to be spotted by Joker, but Tim wasn’t that smart, and now the deranged villain is chasing after both of them.

Robin spins to look behind him and a purple blur is running towards them.

“Fuck,” Robin swears, and grabs Tim’s arm. “Quick, hop on my back!”

Tim hops on Robin’s back, piggyback style, and grabs around his neck to hold on. Robin takes off into a speed run. The quick dash to the ledge of the roof is followed by the boy jumping off. Tim screams as the two plummet down toward the street pavement below, but before they splatter onto the street, they’re violently jolted upwards by the grappling line. The movement must have been rushed because it isn’t graceful at all as Tim and Robin are yanked from the freefall. From the pinched sound of Robin’s grunt, the hero’s shoulder sounded like it was yanked violently as well.

The sickening sound of a grappling line snapping cuts through the air, as a sharp projectile slices through the rope. The projectile also slices through the side of Robin’s shoulder, as it sears past.

Tim and Robin are falling again, this time without a grappling line to save them, but thankfully there’s a roof to land on. Tim is on Robin’s back, so Robin can’t land on his back to dampen the impact of the fall. Instead, he lands face down on the concrete roof, with nothing more than his hands to brace the fall.

“Shit,” Robin whimpers, but manages to push Tim away. The shove launches Tim a few feet away. Skidding on concrete hurts, but at least it puts Tim a safe distance away from the crowbar-wielding Joker.

“Stay hidden,” Robin commands and Tim nods, before scurrying the rest of the way to hide behind an air conditioning unit. He’s out of Joker’s range, but he peers around the side of the unit so he can make sure Robin is alright. He needs to make sure Jason is alright.

Jason is not alright.

Jason rolls to his back and barely blocks the crowbar from colliding with his face. He crosses his arms in front of himself to block the first two swings of the metal crowbar, but swing number three is a backhand assault to his chest, which is unguarded. Jason cries out in pain before rolling into a crouched defensive position.

Jason grits his teeth as he fights, but it isn’t as much of a fight as it is a beating. Robin lands a few punches and one impressive jumping side kick, but all of his attacks are returned with brutally accurate homerun swings from Joker’s crowbar. Jason is a great fighter, but he was too injured during the start of the fight for it to be anywhere close to a fair fight.

Jason tries to duck a forearm swing, but the crowbar clips the side of his head, and he stumbles back. A hard swing to the side of the knee forces Jason to sink to his hands and knees. Joker tosses the blood covered crowbar aside and starts kicking Jason over and over, until the poor boy collapses.

Jason curls up to protect himself from Joker’s boots, but it doesn’t do much as the killer clown kicks him in the head, and the stomach, and the back, and the head again, and again, and again.

Joker finally speaks, “Not much of a fighter are we, birdy? Oh well. When I’m done with the little bird I can move on to the kitten.”

“No,” Jason grunts, grabbing Joker’s leg. Jason’s hand is bloody, so the grip is slick, but he’s strong enough to cause Joker to fall.

The back of Joker’s head slams hard enough against the concrete to stun him, and Jason uses the opening to grab a flashbang grenade from his utility belt. He crawls a few yards over to where Tim is, and throws the grenade at Joker.

The bang from the grenade is enough for the entire roof to shake. Tim knows better than to look in the direction of the flash from a flashbang grenade, but Joker must not have, because his strangled cries are almost louder than the former bang of the grenade.

Jason uses the side of the air conditioning unit to get to his feet and he motions for Tim to come close. “Gotta get inside and then gotta get to the elevator,” Jason grunts, leaning his arm around Tim for support. With Tim’s assistance, Jason limps to the nearby roof access stairwell.

Jason whimpers after each step, and Tim winces along with him, knowing that his friend is walking on at least one broken leg, if not both.

When the last step is cleared, Jason speed-limps to the elevator.

Tim holds his breath as he waits for the elevator to reach their floor. He keeps pressing the down button, hoping that the elevator will move fast, but they’re on the sixty first floor, so quick isn’t really an option.

“You, okay?” Jason asks. “I threw you pretty hard back there.”

“Me? Are you asking if I’m the one that’s okay?” Tim’s voice is teetering on hysterical. “Why did you save me, Robin? You should’ve run away.” The guilt is twisting painfully in Tim’s gut.

“Why did I save you? I’m a hero, Catboy. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we’re kind of known for saving people.”

“My name’s Stray,” Tim mumbles. “And you should have let me die.”

Jason inhales sharply, but the elevator dings, startling them both.

Tim and Jason enter the elevator and Jason slumps against the back wall as Tim presses the lobby button.

Jason presses the R on his chest, transferring the call from his earpiece to the speaker on the R.

“– going to kill him, Little Wing. The next time I see Joker, I’m going to teach him what happens to people that hurt my little brother. So help me I am going to tear out his –”

“You’re on speaker,” Jason wheezes. “Maybe take it down a notch, Wing.”

“Take it down? I had to listen to my little brother get beaten by that sick clown son of a bitch and I couldn’t do a thing about it. So, excuse me if I’m mad as hell. You were getting your brains bashed in and all I could do was sit here on my couch and flip my shit while eating a bag of chips.”

Nightwing is breathing heavily through the speaker, clearly freaking out as much as Tim is, but Jason snorts, “You could’ve stopped eating the chips.”

Nightwing answers with a shaky exhale and then a sigh. “They’re good chips.”

“Are you still eating them?”

Crunch. “…No.”

“What flavor?”

“Hot wing.”

“Doofus,” Jason snorts. “Save some for me when I get there. That’s one of those limited-edition flavors that are only around for like a month, right?”

 “Nope. These are all mine,” Dick says, crunching on another chip. “Besides, from the beat down you just went through you’ll probably be drinking from a straw.”

“Asshole,” Jason growls, but the growl turns into a coughing fit.

“I’m sorry,” Nightwing quickly backpedals. “Please don’t die. I’ll let you have all the hot wings you want, and I’ll never tease you again.”

Jason slides down the elevator wall to a sitting position. Tim sits next to him and rubs Jason’s back. He leans right up to the R badge on Jason’s chest and clears his throat.

“Robin is alright, Nightwing. He got hurt because of me, so the beating you were going to give Joker, you can give to me.” The guilt gnaws at his stomach.

“Who am I speaking with?” Nightwing asks.

Jason wheezes, “The little dude in the cat onesie.”

“It’s not a onesie,” Tim huffs. “The hood and cargo pants are separate. I have a Kevlar T-shirt under here too. Miss Catwoman gave me this suit and I love it.”

“I’m not beating up a child,” Nightwing says, but before Tim can protest, the elevator dings. Tim helps Jason stand and they make their way through the lobby. The building is empty, but it’s alarmed. An ear-piercing alarm goes off when Tim pushes the front door open.

He ignores the alarm and gasps when he sees the backup that arrived. In front of the front door is the Batmobile, shining so brightly that Tim wonders if Alfred just freshly gave it a car wash.

Jason presses something on his wrist and the beautiful beep beep of the Batmobile’s car alarm goes off. Jason’s closer to the passenger side, so he drags himself into the seat on that side. It’s a roomier seat since it doesn’t have a steering wheel taking up space. Tim hops into the driver’s seat. He remembers Alfred’s number one rule. He leans over and buckles Jason’s seatbelt and then his own.

The seat doesn’t adjust to Tim’s smaller dimensions, which means the car is going into auto drive mode to reach their destination, which makes sense.

A spike of adrenaline makes Tim smile. Sitting behind the wheel of the Batmobile never stops being the coolest feeling in the world. Immediately he’s hit with a wave of guilt for being happy while Jason is suffering in the seat right next to him. Tim feels like a horrible person. The guilt continues to twist his insides.

The screen on the dashboard clicks on and Nightwing’s face pops up on the screen. He’s wearing his domino mask and a plain blue T-shirt. His face fills up most of the screen, but Tim can see a little bit of Nightwing’s living room peeking out from behind him.

“Hi,” Tim waves. “I’m Stray. You guys were chasing me a few days ago, but I don’t think I ever told you my name.”

Nightwing’s voice is gentle. “Hi buddy. The Batmobile is headed to one of my safehouses in Bludhaven. You and Robin need to get out of Gotham immediately. It’s not safe with Joker on the loose. Batman and Superman are on a mission in space, so I called in a favor with one of my friends to make sure Joker is sent back to Arkham. Until then, you two can stay with me.”

Tim nods and Nightwing shifts his focus to Jason.

“Robin, how are you feeling?”

“I’m o-okay,” Jason says, his voice cracking hard.

“Little Wing,” Nightwing says gently, and Jason starts trembling. All his words come out in a rush.

“I tried to fight back, but he- he was too strong and I was already jacked up before the fight so I couldn’t – I couldn’t win, but I had to try ‘cuz if he got th-through me, he would’a gone after Stray and I couldn’t let that happen, the kid’s so little, but- but it hurt so bad and he wo-wouldn’t stop hitting me with the crowbar and I wanted to pass out so bad ‘cuz it would stop the pain and the pain was s-so bad, but I couldn’t, he was gonna have to kill m-me first and he was tryin’ Wing, he was tr-trying to kill me and – and I – ” Jason cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, followed by a whimper, and then he starts to cry.

“No, no, Little Wing, you’re okay. Everything’s okay. You did so good. You did so so good and I’m so proud of you.”

Jason’s sobbing at this point and Nightwing clears his throat. “Stray, he’s going into shock. I need you to grab the blanket from the backseat. It’s a gray blanket. I need you to grab it and then wrap it around Robin.”

Tim clicks his seatbelt off and climbs to the backseat. He snatches the blanket as quickly as he can and scurries back to the front seat. He wraps the blanket around Jason’s shoulders. Jason doesn’t stop sobbing, but he grips the blanket and wraps it tighter around himself, so Tim takes that as a good sign.

Nightwing continues to talk Jason down from the spiral he’s in with soothing words and firm reassurances.

Tim blocks most of it out, letting the words fly over him as light murmuring. He doesn’t have to drive, so he tucks himself into a tight ball, hugging his legs into his chest as much as he can. He rests his head on his knees and tries not to freak out. He lets himself drift.

After a span of time that feels like hours, but was more accurately minutes, Tim’s ears tune in when he hears Jason’s voice.

Jason’s still shaking, but not as much. He’s listing off his injuries, which must mean the part of the conversation that Tim missed was Nightwing asking Jason for a status report.

“ – headache that’s definitely from a concussion, and my ears won’t stop ringing. I think J-Joker knocked something loose up there.” Jason laughs, but it’s a nervous laugh. It’s a laugh Nightwing doesn’t return.

Jason looks down at his blood covered hands in his lap. He wraps his yellow cape around himself like a blanket and it’s at that moment that Tim realizes Jason put the blanket around Tim’s shoulders. Tim must have been zoned out when he did.

Tim tries to offer the blanket back to Jason, but Robin shakes his head, no.

  “You did so good, Little Wing.”

“You said that already,” Jason says chewing his bottom lip.

“And I’ll keep saying it again. You fought Joker and you got away. You not only got away, but you kept Stray safe. There will never be anyone more worthy of passing my Robin mantle over to than you, little bro. You’re amazing.”

Jason sniffs, and his words are almost too quiet to hear, probably because Tim isn’t supposed to hear them. “Thanks, Dickie.”

“Alright,” Nightwing says clapping his hands. “I need to gather some snacks and medical supplies and other things to bring over to the safehouse, so I’m going to hang up. If either of you need me, or if Robin starts having any kind of scary symptoms at all, call me, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Tim says, and the call clicks off.

Jason leans against the car door, tucking himself completely under the cape. “I’m just gonna take a nap until we get there.”

“Thank you,” Tim says, his voice wobbling more than he wished it would.

“Don’t mention it. Like I said before, that’s what heroes…” He falls asleep before he says the word do.

Tim narrows his eyes as he squints through the windshield. The guilt is still eating him alive, gnawing painfully at his stomach.

He leans against the window and listens to the sound of the engine as the Batmobile heads to Bludhaven.

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson-Wayne will never be described as a patient man.

Even when Dick was a little guy, he would bounce on his toes in anticipation when he was waiting to time his jump off the trapeze deck. He knew the danger of rushing the timing of the jump, because it meant his dad wouldn’t catch him, but he just couldn’t wait to fly. Now that Dick is older and his dad isn’t there to catch him, he wishes that he gave his dad less heart attacks by slightly rushing a few of the dismounts. John Grayson rarely cursed, but when his son rushed the timing and John had to scramble to catch him, the man’s language was more colorful than the Flying Grayson’s rhinestone covered costumes.

Dick smiles at the memory as he bounces his weight from one leg to the other. He’s too jittery to stand still, and the fact that he has to wait in line is the worst kind of torture. It’s close to one in the morning, but for some reason, the 24-hour convenience store he chose to get supplies to stock his safehouse isn’t empty like he thought it would be.

There’s one person ahead of him on line, and she’s at the register, but she’s paying with exact change.

Dick cracks his head to the side, practically marching in place at this point as the woman sighs, and opens her coin purse. “I know that I have some dimes in here. Those little suckers always get lost in the bottom.”

Dick bites his lip so that an annoyed whimper doesn’t slip out, and takes a deep breath. He knows he’s more wired than usual but c’mon.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, providing a much needed distraction. It’s a phone call instead of a text, which is even better.

Dick looks at the caller and accepts the call through his Bluetooth.

He doesn’t even get a chance to say hello before Deathstroke mumbles, “Job is done. Transfer me the rest of the money.”

“He’s in Arkham?” Dick asks, squeezing the handle of the handbasket.

“Yup. Giftwrapped the clown for the GCPD and tailed them to make sure Chuckles didn’t try to hop out of the cop car. For what it’s worth, I feel bad for what that asshole did to Robin.”

Dick smirks to himself.

Apparently not bad enough to waive the two-million-dollar mercenary fee.

Dick charged that expense to Bruce’s credit card. He’s not looking forward to the impending lecture from Bruce on why Bat team members should never hire mercenaries, especially Deathstroke the Terminator, but Dick really didn’t have much of a choice. He could have called his best friend Wally to do it, he would have been there in a flash, but Kid Flash is a hero. Wally wouldn’t have agreed to rough up Joker before tying him up for the GCPD. Deathstroke was more than happy to keep punching the clown after he was down. He didn’t even charge Dick extra for it.

Dick clicks a button on his phone to transfer the remaining million dollars into Deathstroke’s account.

“I just sent the rest of the money,” Dick says.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Nightwing. When you get tired of working for the Bat –”

“Goodbye, Slade,” Dick says, rolling his eyes as he hangs up.

A weight is lifted now that he knows Joker can’t get to Jason, but the adrenaline is still coursing through his veins. He was on comms when Jason was fighting Joker. Every crowbar swing, every yelp of pain, every whimper, every gasp, every scream, every broken sob, every plea through gritted teeth… Dick heard it all. He’ll be hearing it all for a long time.

PTSD is a bitch.

Dick doesn’t have the stomach to review the video cam from Robin’s body cam, he’ll leave that job for Batman, but he doesn’t need to see it to know exactly what it looked like, what it might have felt like.

Dick had the unique experience of being Batman’s first Robin. He started the job as a child, quite a bit younger than Jason. Batman didn’t just throw him into battle, Dick had to spend a year and a half training before he was allowed to go out on the streets and fight alongside the Dark Knight.

All the training in the world didn’t prepare him for his first fight against Killer Croc. Dick was used to sparring with Bruce so fighting someone twice his size and almost three times his weight wasn’t new, but real combat was different. The asphalt felt completely different than the training mats. Killer Croc didn’t pull his punches the way that Bruce did.

When training with Bruce, every so often Dick would react slower than Bruce anticipated and a punch or a kick would slip through, sending Dick painfully reeling backwards. Bruce would grunt that Dick needed to pay attention, but on the next few hits one of Dick’s punches would always magically slip through Bruce’s defenses. Batman doesn’t ever say he’s sorry about anything, but that’s one of his ways of showing that he’s sorry.

Dick always got the free hit after taking an accidental hit from Bruce. Even now, when they spar, and Dick takes an unexpected elbow to the face, Bruce leaves himself open for the freebee.

That being said, Gotham Rogues don’t give freebees, and they don’t pull their punches.

Dick remembers how scary the power imbalance was between him and his opponents. The power imbalance, that power instability, it was so frightening that poor little Dickies legs were shaking the first time he had to square up against Killer Croc, but Batman was there. Batman would never let anything happen to his sidekick. His Robin.

Batman wasn’t there last night when Robin was fighting Joker. Robin was all alone. Alone.

Dick shakes his head, shaking off the memory because the last thing he needs is to have a breakdown in the middle of the convenience store. He needs to get back to his safehouse before the Batmobile gets there. He doesn’t have time for emotional damage right now. He’s Jason’s big brother. He needs to be there for him and the little guy in the cat suit.

Dick’s heart is racing, the speed climbing toward hyperventilation, so he focuses on his breathing.

Breathe in… two… three… four…

Coins clink on the table of the register.

“… twenty cents… thirty cents… thirty-five… thirty-six…”

Dick breathes out as the last penny clinks. The woman gathers her purchase in a bag and leaves with a smile.

Dick empties his handbasket onto the register and winces at how it looks. He needs a few rolls of duct tape to fix some of the furniture that’s literally falling apart. The register is filled with a few rolls of duct tape, rope, medical supplies, kid sized t-shirts and sweats to fit Jason and Stray, and a whole bunch of candy and chips.

The cashier dude raises an eyebrow and Dick plasters on his most non-child kidnapping smile.

“My little brothers are coming over to visit. They’re from Gotham.”

The cashier guy’s face settles into a smile and then a frown. “Gotham? Did you hear about The Joker escaping Arkham? He’s back now, but that must’ve been some wild shit. Could you imagine walking down the street and seeing an actual clown looking at you?”

Dick nods, feeling his heart rate start to climb again. He really doesn’t want to think about the Joker anymore.

The next stop after the convenience store is to pick up food in case his little Gotham visitors want actual food instead of just Twizzlers, gummi worms, and corn chips.

The only open fast-food restaurant at this hour is the burger joint that got fined twice this month by the department of health, so Dick settles for mini pizzas and hot dogs from a gas station close to his safehouse.

Dick’s arms are full of his purchases, and he’s put on his domino mask, as he waits for the Batmobile to pull up to the alley adjacent to his safehouse.

His heart skips a beat when he hears the familiar roar of the Batmobile’s engine. Everything’s going to be alright now.

He jogs over to the passenger side window and when it rolls down, Dick pushes away the quivering in his voice.

“Whoa, Little Wing. Dad’s gonna kill you for getting blood on the seats. He just power washed the car yesterday.”

Jason snorts and flips Dick off. Dick shivers at how bloody Jason’s knuckles are. He keeps his tone light as he leans through the window to talk to Stray.

“Hey, kiddo, can you carry all these bags for me so I can carry Robin inside?”

Stray stares for a minute, looking bewildered, but he quickly snaps out of it and nods.

-----

Dick’s feet are propped up on the coffee table as he stares at the flickering TV screen. The sound is turned all the way down because his two little brothers are fast asleep and using him as a pillow. Jason is curled up across Dick’s chest, snoring softly. The clown broke Jay’s nose, so there’s a slight whistling sound at the end of Jason’s snores that’s a little heartbreaking, but the even rising and falling of Jason’s chest reassures Dick that his little brother is sleeping peacefully.

A broken nose and a severely hyperextended knee are the worst of Jason’s injuries, so thankfully, Dick was able to set Jay’s nose and wrap a brace around his knee before Dr. Leslie can do a more extensive exam tomorrow.

Stray is curled up, leaning against Dick’s other side. The little guy has Dick’s left arm pinned under him, so there’s really no where Dick can go without waking up at least one of them.

Jason had picked the movie, so it’s an old school Bruce Lee movie, and even without the sound, there’s subtitles so Dick can still understand what’s happening with the sound off.

Dick watches a man jump as high as a building, flip himself upside down, and start rotating like a propeller, kicking all the enemies around him. Dick can almost hear Bruce in his head scoffing, ‘That’s just stupid. The physics on that inverted flying cyclone kick is impossible.’

Dick knows you have to treat little brothers like sleeping cats, if you’re lucky enough to be chosen by one as a bed, you don’t move no matter what. Dick’s left arm fell asleep an hour ago and he’s had to pee for at least three hours, so moving isn’t going to be optional soon.

Dick chews a potato chip, dropping crumbs on Jason’s hair. He brushes the chip crumbs away and lets his hand settle on his brother’s hair and sighs. He watches Bruce Lee kick a guy through the floor so hard that the dude falls through ten stories of floors.

Yeah, the math on that definitely doesn’t add up.

After another fifteen minutes, Stray stirs awake. He sits up and yawns. He reaches up to rub his eyes, but stops when his hands rub against his domino mask.

When they first walked into the safehouse, Stray’s first question was, “Are you going to make me take my mask off?”

Dick quickly assured Stray that his secret identity was safe. There’s a well-respected rule between heroes, anti-heroes, petty criminals, and even villains, that outing someone’s secret identity is never acceptable. Villains know better than to remove a vigilante’s mask during a hostage or torture situation. Doing that will get you roasted in the hero and villain community.

Stray must be really new to the criminal game, because he seemed relieved to learn this information. The next time Dick sees Selina, he’s going to have a long talk with her about teaching Stray all the rules. If she doesn’t want to do it, Dick knows that Batman will be more than happy to show Stray the two-hour ‘Rules’ PowerPoint presentation that little Dickie had to sit through. Bruce had mentioned that he added new slides when it was time to show Jason the presentation, but thankfully he didn’t make Dick watch it again.

Stray yawns again and goes to laying back down over Dick’s arm, but Dick gently nudges him away, whispering, “I’ll be right back. I gotta take a leak.”

Stray accepts this with a hum and rolls in the opposite direction, curling up to the armrest.

Jason’s a bit grumpier when Dick slides him aside to get up.

“Asshole,” Jason grunts. “Not allowed back on the couch,” he slurs, and Dick can’t help laughing.

Everything’s going to be alright.

Chapter Text

Tim is creating little crescent shapes in the dirt with his foot as he twists it back and forth. He wants to stay in Bludhaven with Nightwing and Robin, but now that it’s morning, he has to get back to Gotham. For one, Tim Drake has school in a few hours, which Tim doesn’t mind missing, except for the fact that he promised to pick up Jason’s homework for him. He’s not sure if Jason will actually be back in Wayne Manor by tonight, or if Alfred is just going to receive it when Tim knocks on the door, but either way, Tim can’t miss this drop off. If the homework isn’t delivered by Tim, the Waynes, even in their concerned state for Jason’s health, will get suspicious of why Tim didn’t go to school and then Bruce will probably find some reason to shove into the house – he’ll probably ask to borrow a bag of flour or something equally as unhinged, and Bruce will notice Tim’s house is empty. Except for the mannequins.

Tim can’t screw this up. All he has to do is get back to school before the last bell.

He has a few options of people to call for a ride, but he settled on the most chaotic. Nightwing wasn’t happy at the idea of Constantine being the one to pick him up, but he’s the most fun option. Well, Superboy and Impulse would be more fun, but if they dropped Tim home, they’d know where he lives. Still, it would’ve been fun to get flown back by Superboy or flash-ran back by Impulse.

Tim keeps digging his toe in the dirt. Nightwing wasn’t a fan of Constantine knowing where one of his safehouses is (Tim was sworn to secrecy), so Tim’s driver is going to meet them at Bludhaven park.

Nightwing taps his foot, and his arms are crossed angrily across his chest. “I’m not exactly happy with Constantine being your driver.”

Tim looks up at Nightwing, his cat ear hood falling back. “Your biceps are huge.”

Nightwing laughs, “Flattery will get you nowhere little man.”

Right on cue, Constantine honks the horn. “Oi, laddie, good to see ya. Not so much for you, Nightwing. Ya look like something living on the bottom of a bog, mate.”

Constantine gets out of a sleek red Mazda hatchback and gives Nightwing a hug, clapping his back. “Sorry to hear about Robin. That’s a bloody shame.” He pulls a small amber unlabeled bottle from his pocket. “Give the lad three drops of this twice a day and he’ll be feeling as right as rain by tomorrow.”

“I’m… I’m not doing that,” Nightwing says slowly.

“Fair enough. Ya have it if ya need it. Anyway, we best be on our way. Come, lad, it’s a bit of a drive back to Jersey, innit?”

Tim gives Nightwing a hug, jumps into the passenger seat, and they’re off.

Once they’re a safe distance away from the park, Tim slumps in his seat. “What happened to your other car? It was cooler.”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Constantine says with a pout. “This car’s gonna have to do, ya picky little bugger. Stole this one from a bloody parking garage. We’ll be back in Gotham before the owner even notices it’s missin’. I’d bet a pint on that.” His tone shifts. “Look, I’m sorry about your little Robin friend. Joker went way too far with that. The bloke’s not right in the head.”

Tim lets the car go into uncomfortable silence. He doesn’t really want to talk about the fight with Joker. Luckily, Constantine changes the subject.

“Nice new suit. The cat ears look adorable.”

Tim pulls down his hood and frowns, “Why do you get to drive?”

“Because I’m the bloody adult and you’re the wee toddler that I’m droppin’ off at preschool.”

“I need a favor before you drop me off at school.”

“No. This car makes one stop. I’m driving to school and school only. Understand?”

Tim ignores him. “My friend’s mom is buried in an unmarked grave. Can you use your powers to find her? We could do that and have more than enough time for me to get back to school before it ends. Please help me find her. You’re the only one that can do it.”

“You assume I’m the only one that can do it. And even if I could, I can’t keep fuckin’ around with the dead around a child. You’re too young to keep being exposed to all that.” Constantine lights a cigarette and takes a puff. He rolls down the window to blow the smoke outside.

“Please,” Tim begs, raising his voice over the loud sound of the wind rushing through the open window. “Jason can’t even visit his mom because the state just tossed her in a random spot because she was poor. It’s not fair. He should be able to visit his mom.”

Constantine bangs his hand on the steering wheel. “You’re gonna be the bloody death of me, you know that?” He takes another drag from his cigarette and mumbles around it. “Christ, I can’t believe I’m taking a child back to a cemetery.”

“Yay,” Tim cheers. “We’re going to find Jason’s mom.”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, I need something that belonged to the lad’s mum or something that belongs to him. It could be anything, but it has to be a personal belonging for me to link it to the dearly departed’s body. By the way, what was her name?”

“Her name was Catherine Todd. We can stop by my house. Jason let me borrow a ton of his books. You gotta drive faster so we’ll have enough time to stop at my house and then do the cemetery thing and make it to school. You’re driving too slow.”

“Shut up, you ungrateful speed demon. I’m going bloody ninety!”

As proof of that, police sirens start to go off behind the car.

Constantine swears as he eases his foot on the brake.

Tim takes a deep breath. This can go one of two ways.

Way 1:

Constantine leaps out of the car with two guns, one in each hand. He starts to shoot like a man possessed. “Yer never takin’ me and the kid alive. HA HA HA! I’m sending you bloody wankers to hell. You hear me? To HELL!!!”

Constantine’s entire body is covered in hellfire as he kills all the cops.

Way 2:

The car rolls to a stop and a police officer approaches. Tim doesn’t look up, but he can hear as the officer of the law’s footsteps stop outside of the driver’s side door.

A gruff voice grumbles, “License and registration.”

Constantine growls, “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

A second officer sighs, “Sir, I’m gonna need you to step out of the car.”

Tim looks up just in time to see Constantine get out of the car and lift his hands, causing the police officers to levitate off the ground.

Constantine’s eyes glow red, and his voice is deeper than Batman’s. “One of these men is about to have his soul forcefully ripped out of his body through his nose. The other will be left horribly disfigured, but needs to be alive to send a warning never to mess with John Constantine, Master of the Dark Arts. I’ll let you choose which one Timmy.” His mouth curls into a snarl. His body is engulfed in hellfire, but his voice is as cold as ice, enunciating each word.

 “Pick. Which. One. Dies.”

“Timmy lad?” Constantine shakes Tim back to reality. “Jesus, are you havin’ a stroke or something?”

Tim can hear the footsteps of a police officer approaching and begs, “Please don’t kill the cops. I can fix this. I have a plan.”

“Wha-? Why would I – “

“Sir, do you know how fast you were going?”

Constantine smiles. “Sorry officer. I might have been a wee bit heavy footed on the ol’ accelerator.”

“License and registration.”

Constantine hands over his license and winces. “Um, I might have misplaced my registration.”

Tim clutches his stomach and groans. “Uncle John, I don’t feel good. My stomach hurts so bad. I really really need to use the bathroom.” Tim adds a miserable sounding moan.

Constantine seems to understand the plan and asks, “Hold tight little Timmy. Can you make it to the next rest stop?”

“No,” Tim moans and starts to cry.

Constantine turns back to the police officer, who looks genuinely concerned. “Sorry officer. Can we make this fast? I need to help my boy.”

The police officer hands Constantine back his driver’s license and stammers, “It’s um, it’s alright.” Tim moans louder. “You’ve got your hands full here. Just try to slow down and have a nice day.”

The police officer hops back in the police cruiser and speeds away.

Constantine looks over at Tim. “Well, I’ll be. You’re quite the little hustler. You can even cry on command. Impressive.”

Tim wipes the tears away with his sleeve. “Impressive enough to let me drive?”

“Fuck no. The whole point is to try and not get arrested, you little goblin.”

-----

Tim grabs the stack of Sherlock Holmes books that Jason let him borrow from off his computer desk. He also took the opportunity that he was in his house to change into his school uniform so he could go right from the cemetery to school.

Constantine shouts from a room across the hall, “Why is there an old lady mannequin, sitting in a rocking chair, dressed in a housecoat?”

Tim jogs over to the room Constantine is in.

“That’s my mannequin decoy. You helped me carry in the other ones that first night we met, but this one is the OG.”

Tim removes Mrs. Mannequin Mac’s housecoat to reveal a cozy pink cardigan with a lovely floral print skirt. Tim moves the knitting needles from the table to her lap and picks up the pearl necklace from the table. He clasps the pearls around the neck of Mrs. Mac’s plastic body double.

“Timmy,” Constantine whistles. “I play around with the dead on the daily, but even I’m getting a bit of a chill from this one.”

“Cool! Is she haunted?” Tim asks with glee in his eyes.

Constantine pats him on the head and laughs, “You are too much, laddie.”

Tim frowns at the bottle of whiskey in Constantine’s hand.

 “Is that my dad’s? You know what, don’t answer, just follow me. I need to keep an eye on you, Mr. Constantine.”

“Aww, no more Uncle John? I liked being called Uncle John.”

Tim rolls his eyes as he walks back into his room. Constantine sits on the bed, leaning against the headboard and continues to drink the stolen bottle of whiskey.

Tim reaches in his backpack and talks out loud, more to himself than to Constantine.

“Gotta transfer these pictures to the laptop and then we’ll be ready to go.”

Tim opens the laptop and quickly enters the Batmobile-related password.

The screen to the Batman blog he follows is open, and a few messages are on the screen.

< BatObsessed100 > Can you believe Joker busted out of Arkham??

< I_Rock_with_Robin28 > I saw Joker outside of the frozen yogurt place on 5^th.

< BatmanBAE4eva > Clown sighting at Gotham Grocer!

< BatBro#1 >I saw him too!! He a ugly mofo

<Ad0ptMeBatman420 > Some dude with a sword and 1 eye just beat the shit out of Joker!! Cops are dragging his ass away.

Tim closes the screen and plugs the sim card from the binoculars into the side port of his laptop. A screen full of Joker pictures pop up on the screen, giving Tim the biggest jump scare of his life. His heart is pounding in his chest, but he has to transfer the pictures.

There’s a lot of blurry pictures from when he fell back and his finger was just twitching over the shutter button, but right before Tim fell back, there are some of the most chilling closeup shots that Tim has ever seen.

“Jesus, kid.” Constantine stands up from the bed and stands at Tim’s side. “You can see every bloody pore on his face. And look at his eyes. They look like they’re glowing.”

Tim can hear the sound of the crowbar whistling through the air before striking down on Jason. Over and over again.

Tim starts whimpering and Constantine reaches across the poor boy to close the picture gallery of the Joker. Constantine guides Tim by the hand to sit on the bed. He sits next to Tim and rubs his back. “You’re alright, laddie. Ya had a big day for someone so little.”

Tim leans against Constantine’s side and mumbles, “You smell like cigarettes and alcohol.”

Tim feels Constantine’s chest rumble when he laughs. Tim turns the lean into a hug.

Constantine ruffles Tim’s hair. “We should probably take a minute to breathe, laddie.” Tim tenses. “Don’t get all bristly, son, you’ve been through a lot. We got plenty of time to track down dead bodies. Let’s just sit here for a few minutes until you catch your breath, at least until I finish my bottle.” He holds up the half empty bottle of whiskey.

“Okay,” Tim whispers, “but I have one more favor to ask. Before we go to the cemetery can we stop at the autobody shop? I want to check on my friend Em to see if he’s okay.”

“Sure, but he better not be a weird cryptid kid like you. I can barely deal with one Timmy Drake.”

Chapter Text

24 hours ago:

Alfred is washing the dinner dishes when his phone rings. He normally wouldn’t handle the phone with soapy wet hands, but he has a feeling he should answer the call. His intuition is impeccable and if the quick acceleration of his heart is anything to go on, he needs to answer this call.

He barely registers that Richard’s face appears as the caller, before he offers a quick, “Hello?”

“Alfie, thank god you picked up!” Richard’s voice is uncharacteristically thick with emotion. Richard is almost as skilled as Bruce when it comes to hiding his emotions. Both of those boys carry the weight of the world on their shoulders.

“Master Richard, is something wrong?” Alfred asks after transferring the call to his earpiece while drying his hands with a dish towel. He’s already speed-walking with the dishtowel in his hands toward the grandfather clock.

“Alfie, it’s- it’s Jason. He’s been hurt really bad. It was the Joker. That sick freak beat up my brother.”

Alfred’s phone is a secure line, so he doesn’t have to worry about Richard not using code names. Alfred has gone from speedwalking to a full run. “I need more details if I am to be of assistance,” Alfred says, keeping his tone as even as he can.

“Right.” Richard clears his throat. “Robin was on solo patrol and was told to just stick to things like apprehending purse snatchers, or petty crimes like that, but Joker escaped Arkham and somehow that sick clown found Stray. Robin went to help him but the two couldn’t get away. Jay fought Joker and it was brutal, but he managed to get away. I remotely sent the Batmobile and then set a course for the two of them to come to Bludhaven. They’re on their way right now, but Alfie, I don’t – I’m having a hard time. I was on comms when Joker was attacking Jason and I – I can’t do this by myself.”

“I am here, Master Richard,” Alfred says, sitting at the Batcomputer. “You needn’t worry any longer. I will take care of everything, my boy. Do you need me to send a medic or a medical copter to your location?”

“No. From the status report he gave me, his injuries are bad, but don’t require going to the hospital. I’m emailing a list of all the injuries he reported to me. He’s been through a lot, and I know he hates medical exams, so if he doesn’t have something major like internal bleeding or something, I’ll let him rest with me tonight, and tomorrow Dr. Leslie can run tests to see the full extent of the damage.”

“Understood. Do I need to deploy any of our allies to apprehend the Joker?”

“Uh, no. I have a friend, um, an acquaintance handling it. When my acquaintance finds Joker, I told him to deliver him to the cops, but make it hurt first.”

“I see. Excellent. That is all the information I need. Give Master Jason my love and take care of those boys, as well as yourself. I will oversee all the logistics. I will also inform Master Bruce.”

“Thank you, Alfie. I’ll call you if anything changes, okay?”

“As will I, Master Richard. Make a cup of chamomile tea for yourself and the young lads.”

Richard chuckles before he hangs up.

Alfred takes a minute to feel the emotions before he must shove them away.

Ever since Bruce was a little boy that lost his parents, the boy Alfred was left in charge of had a death wish. As a young man, Bruce’s death wish involved unnecessary risks like picking fights with students twice his size, or thrill-seeking activities like cliff diving, skydiving, and swimming with sharks. When Bruce reached vigilante age, the death wish was veiled in the form of saving Gotham.

When Bruce took on a ward, it was unfortunate that Richard was just as flippant with his safety as Bruce. For a while Bruce toned down his reckless behavior because he had a responsibility for a little one (and keeping little Richard reigned in was an almost impossible task). But alas, when Richard became Nightwing, Bruce respected him as a partner, and the two went back to giving Alfred daily heart attacks. Alfred had twice the worry.

That changed when Jason joined the family. Richard and Bruce started to act a bit more cautious, feeling the responsibilities of a father and an older brother. Richard will always be a free spirit, and Bruce will always be stubborn, but the two stopped taunting Death every day.

It appears that with little Jason, Death has decided to finally taunt back.

Alfred grounds himself with a deep breath and cracks his knuckles. He shoves all those thoughts and emotions aside to deal with later.

He has much to do.

The first task on his agenda is to schedule trauma counseling appointments for both Richard and Jason. The information is advantageous to pass along to Stray’s mentor as well. Alfred had added Stray into the Bat computer database after the Bat team’s recent encounter with Catwoman’s newest pupil.

He swiftly forwards the trauma counselor’s information to Selina, who he also places a call to, and assures her that Stray is in good hands with Richard.

Selina sighs, “I don’t envy you, Alfred. I would not want to be the one to tell Bruce that his son was brutalized by Joker.”

“I am the butler, Madam Selina. It is my job to take care of all the business of the Wayne household. That also includes Master Wayne’s nighttime activities. Plus, I’ve had decades of practice in the caring and handling of Master Bruce.”

After ending the call, his next order of business is Tim. Richard’s mysterious acquaintance hasn’t apprehended the Joker yet, so he needs to make sure his little neighbor is safe.

Alfred calls and leaves a message, which is immediately answered with a text.

I’m OK. Mrs. Flanagan, my mom’s personal maid, is watching me tonight. We locked down the house and set all the security alarms on. I hope you and Jason and Bruce stay safe too. I can’t believe the Joker got out!

Tim ends his text with a handful of emojis, including the exploding head, and Alfred’s mouth unwillingly curls into a smile.

Such a sweet boy.

Alfred’s next task is to facilitate an airtight explanation for why Jason is so injured. Alfred reads over the list of injuries Richard sent and in the back of his mind he can’t help thinking that poor Jason’s injuries must feel like he was hit by a bus. So, that is what Alfred chooses as the reason for Jason Todd-Wayne’s injuries. A bus would be a bit too much, so Alfred settles on a hit-and-run by a mid-sized car.

He hacks into GCPD’s computer mainframe and gets all the access he needs to create phony police reports and enough fake traffic cam evidence that no one would question that Jason was a victim of a hit-and-run.

When everything is squared away and buttoned up, nice and neat, he moves to the next, arguably most important task.

He tucks his laptop under his arm, tucks his handgun into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and sprints over to the zeta tube. He enters his code and in seconds he’s transported to the Watch Tower.

The guard in the transport room is Flash, aka Barry Allen. He’s lounging in a swivel chair with his feet up on a control panel, eating a protein bar.

Flash lifts an eyebrow, “Who are you?”

Alfred rolls his eyes. “I’m Master Bruce Wayne’s butler. As the sole financial funder of the entire League, Master Bruce has asked me to inspect that the members of the Justice League are not turning this place into a pigsty.”

Flash puts his feet on the floor. “Oh yeah, I recognize you. Alfred, right? Cool. If you need anything let me know. Supes and the Big Bad Bat are the leaders, but I’m the unofficial third-in-command. Which is an extremely important title. I’m kind of a big deal, you know.”

“Of course, Alfred says, forcing a smile.

He heads to Bruce’s sleeping quarters and opens the door with his access badge. He opens Bruce’s computer and as he waits for it to boot, his phone dings with a message from Richard. It’s a receipt for two separate one-million-dollar payments to Slade Wilson.

It appears that Deathstroke is the “acquaintance” that Richard hired. Alfred takes a long, deep sigh. He’s not looking forward to having to explain that to Bruce. But it’s better for Alfred to take the blunt of Bruce’s rage than his grandson. Richard bears enough burdens for responsibilities that someone as young as him should never have to carry. Alfred will gladly put himself in the line of fire this time.

The computer starts up and Alfred opens a communication channel that only Batman has access to. He sends out a morse code request, and within seconds, Batman grunts, “What is it, Agent A?”

Alfred steels his voice, keeping the utmost professionalism. “It’s Robin. He has been hurt, but I have everything under control.”

Bruce panics, as Alfred thought he would, asking question after question without allowing Alfred the time to answer. Alfred patiently waits for Bruce to take a breath. All will be explained. The most important things to bring to a situation are order, stability, and professionalism.

Without those three things, every situation has the ability to get out of control.

-----

24 hours later:

(Gotham cemetery. The exact opposite of order, stability, and professionalism )

Tim is holding onto a tombstone for dear-life as the hurricane force winds try to drag him into the air. Em is holding onto a nearby tree as Constantine is holding Midnight, the ghost dog, by the collar to prevent the poor puppy from going airborne.

Constantine’s slowly being pushed back by the wind of his own creation even with his feet planted firmly on the ground in a wide spread stance.

Em yells over the howling wind, “Is this how the spell is supposed to go, Mr. Constantine?”

He ducks as a bottle of Jack Daniels sails right at his head. Em uses one hand to block the impact of potential shattered glass in his face, but he gets lucky and catches the bottle by the neck.

“I dunno,” Constantine shouts back. “First time I’ve done it, to be honest. Now be a good lad and toss me that bottle back. Whatever’s coming out of this grave, I’m gonna need to be quite drunk to handle looking at.”

Em tosses the bottle back and Midnight bites Constantine’s pant leg so that the chaotic necromancer has a free hand to catch the bottle.

Tim’s grip on the tombstone is slipping as he yells, “You should’ve stopped after we did the locator spell for Mrs. Todd!”

The wind increases in intensity and Constantine laughs, “What fun would that be, laddie? Chaos gets the adrenaline pumping. You’ll never feel more alive than when you’re dancing on the razor’s edge of danger. Tell me you two aren’t having the time of your life? Am I right?”

Tim readjusts his grip on the tombstone and gives Constantine a reluctant smile and an enthusiastic, “Wooo hooo!”

His cheering is answered by a deep, primal growl, shaking the whole earth around them.

Constantine’s eyes grow twice in size, and he drops the bottle on the grass. “What the-? Alright lads, time to go.”

Constantine grabs the boys, scooping each one under his arms and runs for the car. Everyone, including Midnight, scrambles into the car.

“Drive,” he orders Tim, as Constantine holds his palms open against the back window of the car, forcing whatever he conjured up from the earth to go back down.

Em picks up a cigarette, “Can I have one of these? Not to smoke, but I know this guy that pays a shit ton of money for loose cigarettes.”

“NO! If you touch my bloody cigarettes, I swear, I’ll –”

The demonic monster screams before it’s sucked into the glowing ring of fire that Constantine is using every ounce of his power to maintain.

The fog instantly lifts, and the morning sun peeks through the trees again.

“Bloody hell,” Constantine groans, slumping back in the chair.

Tim brakes hard, sending the car into a controlled fishtail, just like Alfred taught him. Tim has never felt more alive in his life.

“That was awesome!”

Em sneaks a cigarette into his pocket and pets Midnight, who’s curled up on his lap. He turns to Constantine.

“Hey, Mr. Constantine, when we’re done, can I strip this car for parts?”

Constantine snorts. He still doesn’t like kids, but these two are bloody brilliant.

Chapter Text

Jason Peter Todd-Wayne is bored out of his skull. He’s back in Wayne Manor, which is good, but Bruce has gone full helicopter dad. It makes sense because less than 24 hours ago, Jason was getting the beating of his life from Joker.

Jason still can’t believe he squared up with the Joker, with no backup, and actually made it out alive. He almost can’t believe that he made it out without breaking every bone in his body. The crowbar swings did damage, a lot of damage.

Jason has a dislocated shoulder (that he popped back in so it’s fine), a jacked up knee (that’s in a black boot that goes from his knee all the way to his foot), and a broken nose (that also caused two black eyes that make him look like a racoon). But that’s just the tip of the iceberg with his injuries.

Dick did a good job patching Jason up, stabilizing his knee, and stitching up all the wounds that required stitches, but Jason has a high pain tolerance, just like the rest of the Bats, so Dick’s broken bone assessment at his Bludhaven safehouse missed a few.

The medical assessment exam from Dr. Leslie was stressful. Jason only got through it by closing his eyes and squeezing Dick’s hand. Dr. Leslie took x-rays, which uncovered four broken fingers, a fractured wrist, and three broken ribs. Broken bones mean Jason is automatically benched from patrol.

The ankle on the leg without the shattered kneecap is really swollen so he can’t put weight on either leg, which means he’s stuck in a wheelchair for a few days. Jason had begged for crutches, but when Bruce gave in and gave them to him, he only managed three steps on his swollen ankle before his leg buckled. He yelped in pain and went down so fast that Bruce almost didn’t catch him. After that incident it was the first time Jason ever saw Bruce trembling, so it goes without saying that the wheelchair became non-negotiable.

If all that wasn’t enough, Jason has to miss school! He had thought when Dick drove him from Bludhaven, shortly after Stray left, that he would be back in Gotham in time to only miss Home Room and first period at max, but to his horror, Bruce informed him that he was too injured to go to school.

Jason made the mistake of saying, “Joker punched way harder than Wilis, but it wouldn’t be the first time I went to school after someone beat the shit out of me.” Jason’s dark joke caused Dick’s eyes to well up with tears and for Bruce to take a sharp inhale. A sharp inhale from Batman is the equivalent of tears.

After traumatizing his brother once, and his dad twice, he decided to accept that he was going to miss the rest of this school week. He was told next week is going to be a wait and see situation.

He doesn’t have perfect attendance, he missed a day a few weeks ago for Bat mission related reasons, but he hates missing school. He’ll punch anyone that tries to call him a nerd, but he proudly has a straight A average.

He's not a nerd. He’s also not wiping away a tear just thinking about missing the week of school.

He wheels himself to his bedroom window and looks down outside like the invalid that he feels like. He squints at movement approaching and it’s a kid on a bike. It’s Tim!

Jason’s on bedrest for today, so he can’t hang out with his friend. His stomach twists from the disappointment, and it almost hurts as much as his aching ribs. He takes a few slow breaths to calm down. The last thing he wants to do is have to ring the tiny bell that Bruce told him to ring if he needs help. Jason has no idea how Bruce can hear the bell from all the way on the other side of this big ass castle, but when Jason got the idea to test it out, Bruce came running from his office, which was downstairs.

Jason breathes away the pain as he watches Tim ring the doorbell. Jason’s bedroom window faces the front of the house, so he has a perfect view of the front door.

After a few moments, Alfred comes to the door, and Tim gives him a wave. Alfred and Tim say something that Jason can’t hear from behind his closed window, and then Tim unzips his backpack. He pulls out a folder that has a label on the top tab that says Jason Todd-Wayne. That must be Jason’s homework packet.

Tim hands the folder to Alfred and they continue the conversation Jason can’t hear. Jason squints to see if he can read either of their lips. Tim shakes his head, and Jason can read the words, “I’m good. I got my bike.”

Tim hops on his bike and pedals away. That should be the end of it.

But it’s not.

Something doesn’t feel right to Jason. He can’t explain it, but growing up as an Alley kid, his intuition never failed him.

He’s pretty sure that Tim told Alfred he will call when he gets back, but Jason has to know, or his anxiety won’t settle.

He quickly rolls over to his desk and opens his laptop. The Batcomputer has state of the art surveillance capabilities, but Jason doesn’t feel like dealing with the Cave’s elevator, so he hacks directly into the software from his laptop.

Bristol is as suburban as Gotham gets, so there aren’t any streetlight cameras, not that there would be between the short distance from Wayne Manor to Drake Manor. Jason hacks into Drake Manor’s doorbell camera instead.

He pulls up the video feed and there’s a package in front of the door, so Tim must not have gotten home yet. So, Jason opens up the game app on his phone and plays a random cookie matching game. It’s a game where he has to match cookies until he clears the screen.

Jason makes a triple match, clearing all the Oreo cookies off the board, when his peripheral vision picks up movement on his laptop screen. He pauses the cookie game and watches Tim park his bike next to the house and pick up the package. He tucks the brown box under his arm and unlocks the door. He enters the code to disable the alarm and closes the door behind him.

Jason takes a minute to think about that. One of Tim’s rotating house staff should be home, so why was there a package in front of the house, and why did Tim have to disable the alarm and let himself in if one of the Drake’s staff was there?

Jason’s fingers fly across the keyboard, as he increases his levels of stalking, and tries to rewind the video footage to prove that someone actually showed up to the house to watch Tim. Unfortunately, even Batcomputer technology doesn’t let him breech privacy at this level. He can’t get remote access to the video feed.

He’s the fourth best at technology in the Wayne household, so there might be a way to do it, but he just can’t. Dick could probably do it, but he doesn’t know if Dickhead is onboard for stalking the neighbor.

Jason goes back to matching cookies. Batman has taught him to take a step back and let his brain cool down if a problem ever seems unsolvable.

After clearing a row of vanilla wafers, Jason notices someone new approaching Tim’s door. The guy’s wearing a pizza delivery uniform. He rings the doorbell and the door immediately opens. Tim walks outside to greet the pizzaman, which is weird. The man laughs at something Tim says, and Tim laughs back. They look like they know each other.

Tim hands the pizzaman money and the man hands Tim a pizza box and waves. Tim’s arms are full of the pizza box, so he doesn’t wave back, but he lifts his chin in the universal signal for ‘Bye.’

Tim looks back down at the pizza box and does a little happy dance, before struggling to reset the alarm and quickly dashing back inside the house.

No one helped Tim carry the pizza inside. No one –

“Jaylad?”

Jason slams the laptop shut and jumps before shouting, “Nothing.”

He spins his wheelchair to face Bruce, and the man is frozen in the doorway. Bruce blinks at him for a second before taking a step into the room.

“Jaylad,” he says clearing his throat. “I understand that you’re a curious young man and there may be some things that seem intriguing on the internet. When I was your age –”

“Stop! I wasn’t looking at porn!”

Bruce’s shoulders lower from his ears and he sighs in relief, “Thank God. I really didn’t want to have that conversation.”

Jason rolls his eyes, “Like you wouldn’t delegate it over to Alfie anyway.”

Bruce chuckles, “Fair. Anyway, I’m not going to make you tell me what you were looking at but just promise me that it’s nothing dangerous or something that could potentially hurt you. As your dad, I can’t ignore something like that. I’m trusting you to tell me the truth.”

“No danger. I promise.”

Bruce gives Jason the Bat-analyzing look. So much for trusting.

Jason forces himself not to squirm under the Bat-gaze, and after a few seconds, Bruce’s face relaxes, and he smiles. “Alright,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling? If you need more painkillers, I can ask Alfred to bring them up.”

Jason’s mom died from a drug overdose. He usually waits until his pain climbs to at least an eight out of ten before asking for any kind of drug.

“I’m okay,” he lies, with a shrug.

“Now that’s a lie,” Bruce says softly. “Let’s start with your feelings. How are you emotionally feeling, son?”

When Bruce calls Jason son, it’s impossible to lie. So he doesn’t.

“Honestly, B? I don’t know how I feel.” He looks down at his hands and then looks up desperately at his dad. “With Joker, I know I lost the fight, but I tried. I tried so damn hard, just like I do with everything in my stupid life that I always fuck up, but I tried so hard to win. I kept that psychopath away from Stray, and a few of my hits connected, but I know I barely got out alive which means I didn’t win. Still …” His eyes are clouding over with tears. “… I – I did good, right?”

Bruce’s face crumbles. “Jaylad. You did so good. I couldn’t be prouder of you, sweetheart. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there, and you had to take that on all by yourself. You never should have had to fight that fight alone. The fact that you did will haunt me for a long time.”

Bruce turns away and runs his fingers through his hair. Only someone Bat-trained would notice the almost imperceivable tremoring of his hands. Jason’s Bat-trained so he sees it.

Bruce turns back to face Jason and clears his throat. “How are you feeling physically?”

Jason shrugs and Bruce gives him the most dad look ever. “Do I need to ask you for a status report, Robin?”

“No,” Jason says with an eyeroll. Jason doesn’t have the distraction of Tim-stalking at the moment, so when he takes a moment to gauge his pain level, he’s at a solid seven, maybe eight, out of ten. The average person wouldn’t be able to hold a steady conversation at a pain level that high, but Jason learned when he was young and his dad hit hard, that anything higher than a six can be managed with sheer willpower and the ability to go into a half-dissociative state.

(The first time Jason did this was during his first Bat-patrol ever with both Nightwing and Batman. It was a big day for him, so naturally he had a massive, inconvenient panic attack at the start of patrol. Needless to say, Batman was horrified when he called for a status report mid-patrol and Jason said, “Still in the middle of a panic attack, but I’m good.” Jason had to sit through a very long PowerPoint presentation about what is considered a valid and necessary excuse to take a sick day.)  

Jason sets his jaw, but the pain pushes through and forces him to wince. He’s forced to admit, “Everything hurts really bad, but I don’t want painkillers. No drugs. Please don’t make me take them.”

The rational part of Jason’s brain is telling him that taking painkillers when you’re at staggering levels of pain won’t turn him into an addict – prescription painkillers aren’t heroin – but fear is rarely rational. His stomach clenches just thinking about the medicine.

Bruce guides Jason back into bed, which is humiliating for poor Jason, but necessary.

“Jaylad, I’d never make you do something you’re uncomfortable with, but I can’t just sit idly while my son is in pain. Thankfully, I know other ways to resolve your pain that do not involve medication.”

“You’re gonna knock me out, B?”

Bruce climbs into bed, sitting up against the headboard, and smiles as he lifts a book. Jason leans against his father as Bruce opens the book and clears his throat. His dad is going to read to him!

Bruce’s soothing baritone voice is gentler than Jason has ever heard before.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

Jason’s eyes well with tears. His dad is reading Pride and Prejudice to him. His dad is reading his favorite book.

Bruce uses his thumb to wipe away the rogue tear that’s rolling down Jason’s cheek, and lifts his arm around his son’s shoulders, pulling him closer against his side into a hug, being extremely careful not to aggravate any of the boy’s injuries.

Bruce continues to read, and Jason’s pain melts away as he gets lost in the words of his favorite story being read by the best dad in the world.

Chapter Text

Janet Drake’s favorite phrase is, wait until the other shoe drops. Tim has heard his mom say it practically a million times. Whenever Tim would do well on a test, win a special award, get a high score on a video game, or master a difficult skateboarding trick, the first thing his mother would say is, “You think you’ve done something worth celebrating, Timothy? Wait until the other shoe drops.”

That’s A+ parenting at its finest.

But today, Tim is allowing himself to celebrate. It’s Friday, which means no school tomorrow and Tim can’t stop smiling. He pedals faster as he heads to Wayne Manor now that school is over. The weather hasn’t gotten cooler yet, and Jason and Alfred weren’t at school to catch him making the trip himself, so Tim decided to ride his bike to and from school today.

At the moment, he’s fifteen minutes away from Wayne Manor so he pushes his speed to the max. He loves to go fast no matter what he’s driving. He’ll slow down when he gets closer to the Manor so that he isn’t sweating and huffing for breath when he gets to Batman’s house.

Tim’s mother can’t wait for the other shoe to drop because she’s a pessimist. She can live her life worrying about bad things that may or may not happen, but not Tim. Tim is choosing happiness. He has every reason to be hopeful. All his careful planning is working like a fine-tuned machine.

For instance, yesterday, Jason had to go to the doctor, so instead of hanging out at Jason’s house, Tim and Jason video chatted for an hour before they both went to their separate dinners. Tim’s dinner being a can of SpaghettiO’s with cheddar cheese sprinkled on top – because he wanted mac and cheese but there wasn’t any in the house.

(He used to heat up soup straight from the can in the microwave, but one time, the can sparked during microwave heating and Tim genuinely thought he was about to burn the house down. After calming himself down from the two-hour panic attack that followed, Tim learned the hard way that cans do not go in the microwave.)

So, yesterday Tim was videochatting with Jason, and looking forward to his fake-a-roni and cheese. Jason had been asking questions about his fake caretaker all week, so Tim waited until it was almost time to hang up. Mrs. Flanaghan, his mother’s fake personal maid, spoke with the most realistic computer voice Tim could download. Her voice travelled through the speakers just outside Tim’s doorway. “Timothy, it’s time for dinner. Say goodbye to your friend Jason.”

Jason raised his voice, “Sorry to keep him ma’am. I didn’t mean to mess up your dinner time.”

Tim speed-typed the maid’s response, and it travelled from the speaker. “It’s not a problem at all, Jason. You haven’t messed anything up. The food is still hot and that’s what matters.”

Jason looked convinced by the fake maid, and Tim was so happy, but his hand slipped on the keyboard, causing Mrs. Flanaghan to say, “Hgmnhghj.”

Tim said just as quickly, “Bless you. This house is so dusty. Uh, bye Jay,” and ended the call.

Smooth.

Tim pulls himself back from his thoughts and continues to pedal his bike. He needs to focus on the mission. He’s racing to Wayne Manor to show Jason his English Lit paper. Tim wrote it and turned it in early, feeling prepared enough to write it on his own, and now he can surprise Jason with a paper that has a giant red A+ on the top!

Mr. Anderson was so proud of Tim that the normally stoic teacher gave Tim a nod and a “Good job.” That’s high praise coming from that teacher. Tim had never seen Mr. Anderson smile before.

Tim’s A+ paper is tucked in his backpack and he’s eager to show it to all the Waynes, but he must have pushed his speed a little too fast, because he’s starting to breathe heavily. He slows down to catch his breath and wipe the sweat off his forehead, but he notices a car coming up on his right side. The car’s going really fast.

Tim’s too exhausted to pedal as fast as he was before, and even the spike of adrenaline can only do so much.

In almost a blink of an eye, the car passes Tim and cuts in front. Tim squeezes the handlebar brakes and skids the bike to a stop. He barely avoids slamming into the car. He shifts his weight, dismounting the bike, but an arm wraps around him from behind and a bag is thrown over his head.

Not this again.

Kidnappers have been snatching Tim off the street and holding him for ransom, looking for a payday from his rich parents, since he was eight years old. All the kidnappers have been incompetent. Most of them end up taking Tim for ice cream after they find out that his parents don’t care enough about his safety to pay the ransom.

Tim hopes these criminals fall into the ice cream buying category. He’s going to order extra rainbow sprinkles this time.

The ride to the secondary location is quick and silent. The bag over Tim’s head makes it too dark to see, and he really wishes he had the skills that the Bats do so that he could tell exactly where he is.

The bag is yanked off his head, so Tim can see again, but his surroundings don’t look familiar. The only thing he knows for sure is that he’s in a big metal room that looks like one of those walk-in freezers at food places, so this is probably an abandoned warehouse where food was stored. There’s no electricity, so the walk-in freezer isn’t cold, which is good.

Tim is shoved into a metal chair. He puffs out his cheeks and blows out a frustrated sigh as his kidnappers tie his legs together at the ankle with rope, and tie his wrists to the arms of the chair.

The kidnappers aren’t wearing ski masks or any other facial coverings. There are two of them. One is tying Tim to the chair and the other is watching.

 A rope is secured around his waist, securing him to the back of the chair. That feels like overkill, but at least there’s nothing covering his mouth.

He takes advantage of the fact that there isn’t duct tape over his mouth to ask a question.

“Do you guys want money?”

Kidnapper one, the guy that’s strapping Tim to the chair, growls, “Gimme your phone, kid. We need to call your parents so we can get some money.”

Tim motions his head toward one of his hands that’s tied to the arm of the chair, signaling he’s not able to reach his phone.

Kidnapper two nods, “Right. Well, tell us where your phone is, and we’ll get it ourselves. If you don’t tell me right now, you’re gonna regret it.”

“Mom and Dad don’t pay ransom money. They have a rule against it. They say that it encourages criminals to be lazy and snatch me for a quick payday. Dad told me his hard-earned money should be spent on better things than rescuing me from a kidnapping I was stupid enough not to avoid.”

Half of Jack Drake’s hard-earned money is from embezzling money from his competitors, which is the opposite of hard earned, but Tim leaves that part unsaid.

“Your parents will pay,” Kidnapper one argues back, and Tim doesn’t know why this guy is willing to die on that hill, but whatever. “Your parents won’t leave you in danger. We just have to make them see how serious the situation is.”

Tim tilts his head, “How are you -?”

Tim’s cut off by a punch to the face. Blood instantly starts to run down from his nose.

“Ow!”          

 His chin starts to wobble. That really hurt.

“Murphy! What the fuck,” Kidnapper two hisses. “You just punched a kid in the face.”

Tim’s eyes start to sting, and Murphy waves his hands. “I didn’t mean to do that, kid. I promise, I was tryin’ to improvise and I  just – I just panicked. Oh no. Don’t cry, kid. Please don’t cry. You’re gonna make me cry if you cry. I’m a sympathetic crier.”

Blood pools around Tim’s mouth, making him mumble a bit when he yells back.

“You punched me in the face. You didn’t have to do that. That was a choice you made.”

Tears are rolling down Tim’s face. He tells himself the tears aren’t real, they’re just a way to guilt trip Mr. Punches People in the Face, but he can’t fool himself. That punch really hurt.

Murphy kneels down to be eye-level with Tim. “Look, kid. We’re new to kidnapping. This is just a one-time gig to get some extra money. We’re not bad people. And now I feel bad. I don’t even want to do this anymore.”

Tim sniffs, his words are broken by hiccups. “I for-forgive you. Can we g-go for ice-ice cream?”

“Sure,” Murphy says. He reaches to untie Tim, but the criminal’s phone rings, and he answers the call first.

Tim can’t hear the caller on the other end of the line, but they must be saying good things because Murphy looks super excited.

“Yeah,” Murphy says, “Uh huh… yup… awesome! We’ll be right there. Don’t start the job without us.”

Murphy starts running. “C’mon Phil. There’s a huge score at the docks, but we gotta go now!”

“Wait,” Tim yells, but the two are already long gone, and even worse, they let the door slam behind them.

Tim is trapped in a windowless metal box, with no way to escape. The door is a tight seal so no outside light can reach the freezer, but there’s a small solar powered light stuck to the upper left wall of the refrigerated unit so a tiny bit of dim light shines in the dark enclosure. With no sun, that solar powered light doesn’t have much shine left in it.

Soon it’s going to be pitch black and Tim will be trapped in the dark, with no escape.

The light flickers, dimming a bit. Tim shivers as a new fear is unlocked.

“Don’t leave me here! Help! Help! Can anyone hear me?”

It’s no use. No one is around to hear him.

Not only is he not getting ice cream, he’s never getting any food ever again.

Tears are flowing freely down his face. This is bad. This is so bad.

His high-pitched whines echo in the metal tomb shredding his voice raw. He knows he needs to calm down so that he can think of an escape plan, but his brain is stuck on panic, and his heart is hammering in his chest, and he can’t catch his breath.

He expects to see his life flash before his eyes, but his mind isn’t replaying his greatest hits, instead a random quote from Two Face echoes in his head: You either die a hero or live long enough to become the villain.

Huh.

Tim’s not really in the hero category after his recent illegal cat burgling activities, not to mention grand theft auto and grand theft tire (if that’s a thing). He did those things, but he’s not a villain villain, he’s more villainish.

Tim’s mind and body are still freaking out, but a tiny part of self-survival kicks in, and he starts rocking the chair. If he can get the chair to tip over, he might be able to drag himself to his backpack and get to his phone. It works in movies, so Tim really hopes it translates to real life.

After a bit of aggressive rocking, the chair tips over to the side and crashes to the floor. The force of impact knocks the wind out of him, and he hits the side of his head which causes his bloody nose to start slightly hemorrhaging. He files the thought of bleeding to death as a tomorrow problem, and starts rocking the chair across the room to his backpack.

The journey is painfully slow and by the time he reaches his backpack his muscles are trembling from the exertion and his nose is pouring blood. It seems like a lot of blood for a nosebleed and when he takes a moment to really assess himself, he can feel warmth sliding down from his hairline, traveling down the left side of his face. He must have cut his head when the chair crashed onto the floor.

He adds that to the tomorrow problem list and twists himself to reach his backpack. His wrists are still bound to the arms of the chair, but he has just enough movement to wiggle his fingers to unzip his backpack and grab his phone. He looks at the screen triumphantly and gasps when he sees zero bars.

The abandoned walk-in freezer is a dead zone.

The kidnappers had got a call to come through, but that was when the door was open.

The phone adds additional light to the room, but the battery is at two percent so it’s about to die.

The other shoe dropped.

“Help!” Tim yells again, but he knows that there’s no one around that can hear him. He’s in the middle of nowhere. Who would be able to hear…

“Superboy!” Tim shouts, his voice is hoarse at this point. “Superboy, can you hear me? It’s fake Spiderman from Gotham. You know my voice, so you know it’s really me.”

Tim takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, ignoring the fact that darkness will be surrounding him soon, and starts rambling to a hero that he hopes can hear him.

“It’s me Superboy. A Superman fan was lurking in the Batman fan blog a few days ago, and she claimed that Superman would go insane if he heard everyone’s voice in the world that called for help, so he can hear the people in Metropolis and he only hears the people outside of Metropolis if it’s a familiar voice that specifically says the phrase, ‘Superman, can you hear me?’, which I think sucks for everyone that doesn’t live in Metropolis, but I guess it’s a good thing because if Superman went insane from the billions of cries for help around the world, that would suck even more, because insane Superman would be like super deadly, and I know I’m rambling, but I’m scared and I can never stop talking when I’m scared, and you probably need to pinpoint my voice to figure out where I am, like they do on those cop TV shows where they have to trace the call of the killer, and – ”

Tim pauses to suck in a deep breath of air because he’s getting lightheaded. His voice starts trembling “ – and if the blog girl is right, even though she didn’t offer any proof more than ‘because I said so’, but I really hope your hearing this, because I need you to hear this, because I don’t want to die, I really really don’t want to die, and it’s getting hard to breathe, so I need to calm down, and I usually count sheep to calm down and go to sleep, but that’s too calm, so I think I’ll say the alphabet so you can still hear my voice and grunting letters is just as repetitive as sleep counting.”

Another deep breath, and then he starts the sing-song melody.

“A… B… C… D…”

He gets to V before a sound wave shakes the entire refrigeration unit.

“Spideyboy? You in there? It’s Impulse.”

“Help!” Tim wheezes, hoping his voice carries through the door.

“Sweet! We found you! Well technically, I found you first because I’m super-duper fast and Superboy is a rotten egg, cuz I got here first. I totally smoked him.”

There’s a yanking sound outside the door and Impulse grunts, “It’s stuck. I don’t have Superboy’s massive muscles, so busting down the door aint gonna happen, but I can totally bust through the door with high-speed vibration. I’m phasing through the door in three, two, one.”

Impulse vibrates through the door and shouts, “Ta da!”

Tim is strapped to a tipped over chair on the ground, but he lifts his head and gives Impulse a bloody smile.

Impulse winces and points to a corner of his own mouth. “Uh, you got a little something right there.”

Tim’s smile turns into a grimace, and Impulse runs to move the chair upright. It takes less than a second for the speedster to move the chair and untie Tim’s ropes. Tim sags forward, falling into his hero’s arms.

“Whoa there, buddy. You’re good. I got you.”

Impulse is still bearing Tim’s fall weight as Tim looks up and meets his friend’s eyes.

“Hi. I’m Tim Drake,” Tim says. It’s the first time he’s looking at his friend without a discount Halloween costume covering his face.

Impulse lifts his googles. “OhmygodIcantbelievewe’redoingthisI’mBartAllen!”

“Um could you say that a little slower?” Tim asks.

“Whoops sorry. I said, oh my God I can’t believe we’re doing this. I’m Bart Allen.”

Tim lifts his hand to shake hands, but the door explodes behind Bart and Tim, making them both jump. Bart almost drops Tim.

Superboy is standing in front of the crumpled metal that was once a door. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“I am Superboy, also known as Kon Kent.”

 Bart rolls his eyes. “Dude you’re like five minutes late to the identity reveal. Way to fail.”

That’s the last thing Tim hears before he passes out in Bart’s arms.

Chapter Text

Tim tries to stay as still as possible as Kon uses a damp washcloth to wipe blood from his nose. He would have never guessed in a million years that Superboy would be cleaning blood off his face. It’s not ideal that Superboy – correction Kon – is using Janet’s angel soft, 100% Egyptian cotton, terry cloth hand towel to clean blood off Tim’s face, but Tim can hide the towel and hope his mom assumes it’s lost. She has three more in the set.

Tim is sitting on the toilet seat, with the cover down, and Kon is sitting on the edge of the tub. Tim’s ensuite bathroom seemed like the best place to do surgery. Bart is in Tim’s connected bedroom, dancing with the Mrs. Mac mannequin.

Bart waltzes past the door, giving Mrs. Mac a dramatic dip, which causes one of her shoes to fall off and Tim giggles. He knows that his friend is trying to distract him from what Kon has to do next.

Kon’s first aid kit is sitting on the bathroom sink. It’s open and a small suture kit is in Tim’s reach. It looks like a sewing kit, with different size needles and a few spools of thread for stitches. When Kon is done cleaning the blood from Tim’s nose, it’s going to be time to stitch up the cut on his head.

Kon puts the bloody hand towel down, puts on a pair of blue medical gloves, and stands up to get a better look at Tim’s head wound.

The cut is on the left side of his head and it’s right next to the hairline, so Kon has to move Tim’s hair out of the way to get a good look. Tim is thankful that his hair is long enough to cover the scar once it’s stitched up. The last thing he needs is a Wayne interrogation about why he has a giant stitched up wound on his head.

Kon presses a finger against the cut and Tim hisses in pain.

“Sorry,” Kon says, and points to the sink. “I need you to grab me a bottle of numbing spray, a spool of thread, and a needle. There’s a couple different sizes in there. Grab the little one.”

Tim is relieved that the two giant sized stitching needles are staying in the suture kit. He picks up the little one, along with the numbing spray and thread.

As Kon sterilizes the needle with his heat ray vision, Tim asks, “How do you know how to do this?”

“I’m a superhero,” Kon scoffs, and then smiles. “Nah, seriously, I learned all my first aid hacks from the farm. See, at the farm we have a whole mess of pigs and one piggy in particular likes to escape and terrorize the chickens, but he only gets as far as the chicken wire before he’s howling and bloody and then I have to fix him up. We don’t kill any of the animals at the farm for food, but that little piggy is just asking to be turned into bacon.”

Tim gasps, while trying not to laugh.

“Anyway,” Kon continues, “Every time that pig gets hurt, I’m the one that’s gotta patch him up. Pa says it’s good practice for perfecting my stitches, which he critiques each time, but that pig is such a baby. The numbing spray takes the edge off, and I know it still hurts, but that little sucker starts squealing at the top of his lungs, like I’m carving into him like a doggone Halloween Jack-o’-lantern. Pigs are usually so chill, but that one’s an asshole.”

Kon waves the needle to cool it down and Tim shivers.

Bart walks into the small bathroom without his mannequin dancing partner. He left her in the bedroom, but he’s wearing her pink cardigan sweater and cat-eye shaped granny eyeglasses with the pearl chain on the handles.

“Tiiiiimmmmy,” Bart says sitting on the tile floor and looking up at him. “I can hold your hand if you want. When it starts to hurt you can squeeze it.”

“Thank you,” Tim says holding Bart’s hand.

Tim needs four stitches and really hopes that he can control himself from squealing like a pig.

Tim winces when Kon cleans out the wound, and whimpers as the needle goes in. He squeezes Bart’s hand as Kon starts sewing. He reminds himself that the Bat team actually do stitches on themselves on the field without any kind of numbing spray.

How on earth do they do it?

Tim’s whimpering a steady stream of, “Ow ow ow ow ow,” as Kon keeps lying, “Almost done.”

When the stitches are finished, Tim is crying and embarrassed, but his doctor wraps him up in a bear hug. The hug from Dr. Kon is warm and nice and maybe the stitches were worth it if it meant a Kon hug at the end.

The three friends move into Tim’s bedroom and climb onto the bed. Tim is sitting at the head of the bed, with the headboard at his back. Bart and Kon are sitting at the opposite end of the bed.

Tim looks at Bart, and then Kon, and then winces, “So, um, hi? Thanks for saving my life?”

Tim spends the next half hour showing his friends all the pictures he took of the Batmobile during and after his joyride. He shows them the pictures of Joker and Kon promises to punch the clown into outer space if the Joker ever escapes.

“You can do that?” Tim asks, wide-eyed.

“Probably not,” Kon admits. “Even if I could, he’d burn up in the atmosphere before he even reached outer space. Plus, a superpunch would shatter his entire skeleton on impact. Uncle Clark’s the only person I can punch with my full strength. I still can’t believe you figured out Superman’s identity when you were nine. Yall Gotham kids aint normal.”

Tim pouts, “Hey. Who are you calling abnormal? You’re the half-alien half-human that could shatter someone’s skeleton with one punch. We Gotham kids might be slightly feral, but we’re totally normal.”

Everyone laughs at that. They’re laughing so loudly that Tim almost doesn’t hear his phone buzzing from his nightstand. His phone is plugged in, and almost charged to 100%, so he leans over the screen. It’s Jason, with essentially a ‘where you at?’ text.

“Shoot,” Tim says. “I forgot that my neighbors are expecting me to come over. I want to hang out with you guys, but if I don’t answer this text and go over there, they’re going to send out a police search party.”

A tiny part of Tim wonders if the Waynes would have actually found Tim in the walk-in freezer before he died. Maybe they would have.

Kon shrugs, “We’ve got nothing to do, and you’ve got a huge house with a TV. Go check in with your neighbors and we’ll be here when you come back.”

Tim gives his friends hugs and promises to be back soon. Bart promises to speed-run all of them to the ice cream parlor when Tim gets back so that he can have his vanilla ice cream with extra rainbow sprinkles. Tim hugs his friends tighter.

-----

Tim is grateful that Kon and Bart not only rescued him, but also rescued his bike. A part of Tim is nervous as he rides his bike to Wayne Manor, but the route from his house to the Manor is only like a few minutes. What are the odds that he’d get snatched and held for ransom again in that time? If Tim had to guess, it would be the same odds as getting struck by lightning.

Tim skids to a stop at Wayne Manor’s huge ornate front door. He hops off his bike and rings the doorbell and also knocks with the door knocker, because it’s fun. He holds onto the straps of his backpack and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He kind of feels like someone’s watching him. Probably just the door cam surveillance.

He has his A+ paper in his backpack, which he’s excited to share with Jason, but he also knows where Mrs. Catherine Todd is buried. He wants to share both of those things, but Jason’s probably too injured to visit a cemetery in a wheelchair. He’ll wait to tell him when Jason’s feeling better.

“Master Tim,” Alfred says, opening the door wide. “It is always a pleasure to see you.”

“Timmy,” Jason shouts behind him. “You’re here.”

Tim smiles when he hears Jason’s voice, but when Alfred steps aside, Tim can see how injured Jason really is. He tries extra hard to keep the smile on his face, but he must be out of practice using his fake gala smile because Jason blushes and sighs, “Yeah. Probably should’ve warned you that I look like roadkill.”

Jason wasn’t this bandaged up at Dick’s apartment, which is what caught Tim off guard, but he manages to wince, “Do you feel as bad as you look?”

Jason shakes his head, no. “I feel much better now that my study buddy is here.”

Alfred puts a hand on Tim’s back, leading him inside the house. It always feels surreal when Tim walks through Wayne Manor. He’s already plotting a way he can excuse himself for a bathroom break and try to sneak into the Bat Cave to say hi to the Batmobile again.

Tim is walking down the hallway with Alfred on one side of him and Jason on the other side, wheeling himself in his wheelchair. Jason’s telling him all about Bruce reading his favorite book to him and how Bruce used the worst female British accent ever when he did Emily Bennet’s voice.

“It doesn’t make sense, Timbo. B was raised by Alfie. His English accent should be on point. But for real, reading to me was the coolest thing ever.”

Alfred hums in approval as the three reach the library. It’s the room Jason and Tim use most when studying. It’s usually empty, but today Bruce is sitting with a laptop in the huge chair in the corner and Dick is sitting on the floor, texting on his phone.

Bruce is the first to look up, because no one sneaks up on Batman, and he greets Tim with a smile. “Hi, Tim.”

He’s probably about to say more, but Dick cuts him off by hopping up from the floor and races over to Tim. “Timmy. I haven’t seen you in so long. How are the migraines?”

He moves in for a hug and Tim flinches hard, probably because he’s still a little skittish from the kidnapping. Dick doesn’t miss a beat turning the potential hug into a low contact hair ruffle – because he’s awesome – but the hair ruffle aggravates the scar on Tim’s head.

Tim forces himself not to wince, because if Dick moves Tim’s hair and questions the wound that was literally just stitched, Tim doesn’t have a good explanation of how he got hurt. He could say he tripped on an egg, but he’s not sure if Jason would like the sarcasm.

Thankfully, Dick doesn’t discover the cut on Tim’s head, and all is well with the world for now.

All the Waynes are here, so Tim uses that to his advantage and yanks his English Lit paper out of his backpack.

He has a whole plan of thanking Jason for being his tutor because he never could have done it without him. He wants to tell everyone how he has a new love for reading and literature. He wants to point out how it’s fitting that he gets to share this accomplishment in a room surrounded with books.

Instead, he raises his paper over his head with both hands and shouts, “I got an A+!”

Wayne library erupts into cheers.

Chapter Text

Tim points to a diamond necklace in a glass case. He turns to Selina and grins.

“That’s the one I want to buy for you, Miss Selina. It’s almost as pretty as you.”

Selina laughs her musical laugh and crouches down so that she’s eye-level with Tim. “You are just too adorable. Don’t tempt me to brutally murder your parents just so I can adopt you.”

Tim giggles when she gives him a mom-kiss on the forehead. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing redder than the ruby necklace that’s right next to the diamond necklace in the case.

Stray and Catwoman are planning on hijacking an armored truck that will be arriving outside of Gotham’s largest department store later tonight. Breaking into an armored truck is a good way for Stray to learn valuable skills in electronic lockpicking since the truck has a hi-tech computer-based security system. In order for everything to go smoothly Stray and Catwoman need to scout out the location as Tim and Selina during daylight hours

Selina calls it reconnaissance. Tim calls it shopping.

Tim takes out the credit card his parents gave him for emergencies. It’s the credit card that can only be used if the shower explodes in the middle of the night and a plumber needs to be called, or a window explodes during a windstorm and a construction worker needs to be called. The card is not supposed to be used to buy a thousand-dollar diamond necklace.

Selina shakes her head, “Don’t buy that, kitten. I have to take this phone call really quickly. Stay here and I repeat, do not buy any diamond necklaces.”

“Ok,” Tim grumbles putting the credit card back in his wallet.

It’s probably best not to antagonize his dad with that purchase, but Tim doesn’t really care what his dad thinks. In a few days, his parents are going to ship him off to a boarding school in Kansas. His dad’s threat for everything is, “If you don’t behave, we’re sending you to boarding school.” It’s already happening, so what’s the harm of Tim being a little rebellious?

“Sir,” a man behind the jewelry display says, capturing Tim’s attention. “Might I interest you in a lovely bracelet for your mother?”

Tim smiles. Selina didn’t say anything about not buying bracelets.

The man is showing Tim a beautiful rose gold tennis bracelet, when a familiar voice calls Tim’s name.

“Timbo!”

“Jason?” Tim says, turning around.

It’s really Jason.

Dick is leaning against the handles of Jason’s wheelchair, so when Jason takes off toward Tim, Dick stumbles, and almost falls.

“Timmers,” Jason says stopping short enough to make Tim scared that his friend was about to crash into the glass jewelry display. Jason leans back, balancing on the main back wheels and turns on a dime to face Tim.

Jason still looks like he was hit by a bus, but his smile is contagious as he laughs.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here. Alfie, let me off house arrest, which is great because I was starting to get cabin fever being cooped up inside that stuffy mansion.”

Bruce rolls his eyes, “You’ve been stuck inside for one day. Don’t be dramatic.”

Jason ignores Bruce. “So, what are you shopping for, T? Are you here with Mrs. Mac?”

“Um,” Tim chews his bottom lip. “I’m not shopping for anything particular, and I’m here alone.”

Jason looks horrified, “You’re here alone? Unsupervised? You could get kidnapped!”

Tim laughs at that and when Jason looks even more horrified, Tim realizes that laughing wasn’t the best move.

Bruce takes a step towards Tim. “Where are you caretakers?”

“Um, there was a mix-up so no one’s watching me today, but it’s okay. I have a bottle of pepper spray in my backpack, and I’ll set the alarm when I get back home, so I’ll be okay.”

Dick joins the conversation, crouching down like Tim is a lost child in the mall. “Buddy, you shouldn’t be alone all day. That’s dangerous. What if you made coffee and burned yourself?”

“I know how to make coffee,” Tim says, defiantly. “I’ve been brewing my own coffee since I was six.” He quickly backpedals. “I mean, I wasn’t drinking coffee at six. That would be, like, bad. I made it for Dad. He uh, likes to sleep in late, so I’ve been his coffeemaker, you know, whenever he’s home.”

Dick is about to say something, but Selina appears and frowns, “What’s going on?”

Dick assumes that she’s talking to him because why would Selina and Tim know each other?

“Hi, Selina,” Dick waves.

Selina lifts an eyebrow and plays it off perfectly that she doesn’t know Tim.

“Hi,” she says slowly, and turns her gaze to Bruce. “Babe, did you adopt another child? This is getting out of hand.”

Bruce smiles, “Timmy’s my neighbor’s child. I don’t adopt every black-haired blue-eyed boy I see. That’s a horrible rumor you started.”

Bruce puts his arm around Selina’s waist and kisses her a bit more passionately than people should do in public.

Jason groans, “Eww. You guys. Can you give us some warning before you feel each other up?”

Selina puts her hand in Bruce’s back pocket and Jason complains even more, which is probably why Selina did it. Selina’s an even bigger troll than Tim.

Dick leans close to Tim and whispers, “I still think dad’s dating Uncle Clark. He just kisses Selina for the paparazzi.

Tim doesn’t see any cameras going off, but nods anyway.

Bruce breaks away from the kiss, but his arm is still slung over Selina’s shoulder.

Jason is still stuck on Tim’s welfare and safety, because he goes back to the topic of three conversations ago.

“Tim, it’s not cool for you to be wandering the streets of Gotham alone. This city’s dangerous. Anything could-”

He’s cut off by an explosion from the appliances department, followed by heavy machine gun fire.

“Two Face,” Bruce growls, sounding way more like Batman than he should around Tim. “Jay, get Tim to a safe place.”

Tim’s head snaps to face Bruce. “What about you?” he asks, but he never hears an answer. A closer explosion goes off, and before Tim knows what’s going on, Jason hoists him onto his lap and rolls away at top speed.

Tim clings to Jason’s shirt so he doesn’t fall off, and Jason apologizes. “Sorry I can’t go faster, but I don’t want to re-dislocate my arm. That would suck.”

“This speed is fine,” Tim says, as he’s holding onto Jason’s shirt with a white-knuckle grip. A part of him wonders if Alfred modified Jason’s wheelchair for speed.

Jason skids the chair into the hardware aisle. The aisle is a good distance from the fight and there’s a wire display bin filled with bottles of antifreeze that Tim and Jason can duck behind. Jason throws something that looks like a knife at the overhead light, and it shatters, creating the perfect shadow for hiding.

Jason pushes the wheelchair’s brake handles, and he and Tim climb out of the wheelchair. The wheelchair acts as a backup shield in case one of Two Face’s goons find the boys hidden behind the antifreeze bin.

 Jason pulls out a machete from a side compartment of his wheelchair.

“How did you sneak that past the metal detectors?” Tim asks, pointing at the huge knife.

“The detectors don’t check for weapons, they check for that shoplifting tag that beeps if you don’t remove it.”

Another explosion happens and Jason tilts his head like he’s listening to someone giving him orders through an earpiece comm. Jason taps his ear twice, which is probably how he answers Dick and Bruce without speaking. Tim wants to tell Jason that it’s okay for him to talk to Nightwing and Batman, but for various reasons, he can’t.

Jason sighs, catches his breath, and sighs again. “You shouldn’t be home alone.”

“We’re back on this?” Tim whines. “The store is literally blowing up. We have more important things to worry about.”

“B’s got it handled,” Jason mumbles.

“Your dad is going to fight Two Face?!”

“Sure. He’s in great shape. He does Pilates three times a week. Two Face just needs to chill with the grenades.”

Another grenade goes off, this one close enough to shake the aisle, along with the shelf behind them. The rattling causes a crowbar to get knocked loose from the shelf and it hits the floor with a loud clang.

Jason’s body tenses and he whimpers, “No no no, please, no.”

He starts to gasp for breath as he continues to freak out.

“Jay, it’s okay,” Tim says, but Jason has a far off look in his eyes and he’s banging his fist against the white tile floor, most likely rebreaking a few of his fingers, if not his whole hand.

Tim doesn’t know what to do. A Two Face gunman could find them at any moment, and Jason isn’t in any condition to help. The closer Tim looks at Jason’s broken fingers, and bandaged wrist, he wonders how Jason was even able to steer the wheelchair so quickly.

Jason shivers violently and Tim knows what he needs to do.

Tim takes a deep breath, “Super-”

He’s cut off by Jason wheezing, “… Timmy?”

Tim abandons his call for help. He puts his hands on Jason’s shoulders. “Jay? Yeah, it’s me, Tim. Just try to breathe.” He looks down at Jason’s bloody fist. “And um, maybe try to unclench your fist.”

Jason’s eyes aren’t fully focused, but he rolls them to his hand and doesn’t fight it when Tim carefully pries his hand open.

Jason’s still breathing way too fast, so Tim does a breathing exercise to help them both get their breathing back to a normal range, as well as a grounding exercise.

“Jay, I need you to tell me three things you see.”

Jason’s eyes roll back, which almost gives Tim a heart attack, but then Jason focuses on the shelf behind Tim and mumbles, “Ice scraper… funnel… Batman bobble head…”

Tim turns to look at the rack. The Batmobile could use a Batman bobble head for the dashboard. There are actually a few things in this aisle that Tim could pick up for the Batmobile. He’s never bought the Batmobile a present, but he’s sure she would appreciate a new air freshener or some of those heavy-duty weatherproof mats that he’s seen in all commercials.

Tim also spots a Car and Driver magazine that he definitely needs to pick up when he comes back later tonight for the heist.

 Focus, Tim reminds himself.

When he does focus, he hears someone approaching from his left. He doesn’t have time to think, he just acts. He doesn’t throw a punch, instead he whips the bottle of pepper spray from his backpack and blasts the creep in the face.

“Aghhh!”

Tim’s attacker slams against the shelves, but that cry of eye burning pain sounded familiar. It sounded like…

“Mr. Wayne,” Tim shouts, as the can of pepper spray slips from his hand and falls onto the floor.

He just pepper sprayed Batman!

He rushes over to Bruce, who’s sitting on the floor breathing through the pain of a direct shot to the eyes of the most concentrated form of pepper spray that can be legally bought from the internet.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wayne. I thought you were one of Two Face’s goons. Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” Bruce grunts. His eyes are bloodshot red, but when Tim takes a closer look, there’s a more concerning red substance dripping down his arm.

Bruce follows Tim’s gaze and sighs, “That’s nothing. Just got caught in the crosshairs of the shootout.”

“You got shot?! That’s not nothing, sir. A gunshot wound is definitely something.”

“A gunshot graze isn’t a gunshot wound, and it certainly hurts a lot less than whatever nightmare blend of hot sauce you just sprayed directly into my eyes.”

“B’ooce?” Jason slurs.

“I’m here son,” Bruce says, sniffing, because his eyes are running enough to start his nose to run.

Tim jumps when Dick’s voice joins the conversation. “What the hell? I leave you three for two seconds and this is what happens?”

Chapter Text

Dick races over to check on Tim and Jason, as Bruce bleeds.

“Jay,” Dick says, his hands scrambling as he searches for injuries. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Jason winces. “I had an anxiety thing, but I’m good now. Timmy helped me through it. Think I jacked up my hand again.”

Jason looks over to Tim and asks, “You good?”

Tim moves the crowbar out of Jason’s line of sight with his foot. “Yup. I’m good.”

“I’m not,” Bruce grunts.

Dick spins around to face his dad. “B, are you crying?”

“No,” Bruce says as tears run down his face. “I’m not sure of the chemical composition of the pepper spray, but if chili peppers were in fact an active ingredient, the capsaicin is a severe irritant, causing my eyes to tear.”

“Sure B,” Dick snorts. “Blame it on the capsaicin.”

Dick walks over to Bruce to do a quick medical assessment, but he tenses when he looks at the gunshot wound on Bruce’s arm. Tim isn’t sure what to make of that, but he hears Dick, or more appropriately Nightwing, whisper under his breath, “Bullet’s still in there?”

Bruce whispers back, “Yes. I think it’s laced with poison. My vitals feel extremely elevated.”

Dick laughs loud enough for Tim to hear clearly, “So, it looks like I’m going to have to remove a bullet from Dad’s arm.”

Tim crawls over to sit next to Bruce and frowns, “You told me it was just a graze. Wait,” he turns to face Dick. “You know how to remove a bullet?”

It looks like the Waynes are finally going to come clean and tell Tim they’re the vigilante crime fighting Bat team.

Dick clears his throat, as he rips off Bruce’s sleeve to get better access to the wound. Dick looks Tim in the eye and takes a deep breath.

“When I was a senior in high school, I got a summer job as a lifeguard and had to learn first aid.”

…

…

What?

Tim is one thousand percent sure bullet removal isn’t a part of lifeguard first aid training. Do they really expect Tim to believe this bullshit?

Tim forces himself to nod, like that wasn’t the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. Dick gives him a proud nod back and Tim forces himself to keep quiet.

Tim doesn’t really have the stomach to watch emergency surgery in the hardware aisle, so he scoots back to sitting next to Jason, as Dick performs the basic skill of bullet removal.

Bruce moans, because anyone other than Batman would make at least some kind of sound while they’re getting a bullet dug out of their arm. Their massive, extremely muscular arm.

Jason leans over and says, “There’s weightlifting in B’s Pilates class.”

Please, Jason. Just stop talking.

Dick raises his voice over Bruce’s moaning. “The cops arrived and arrested some of Two Face’s goons, but Two Face got away. I left Selina to talk to the cops and went off to look for you guys. I can’t believe a Gotham Rogue attacked the store. If this happened at night, I bet Batman would’ve showed up. Have you ever seen Batman before, Timmy?”

“No,” Tim lies, “Have you?”

“Yeah. A few times. Wayne Enterprises bankrolls the entire Justice League, and our engineering department helps make Batman’s gadgets and technology.”

“Like the Batmobile?” Tim asks.

“Ahhh,” Bruce yells.

“Stop being a baby,” Dick teases.

Before Dick can elaborate more about Tim’s favorite subject, Tim’s phone rings. He’s tempted to ignore it, but the name Mom is displayed on the screen, so he answers the call.

“Hi Mom.”

“Don’t you dare ‘hi Mom’ me Timothy. Why aren’t you home? Your father and I just landed after a grueling first-class flight from Tobago, and to our horror, you are not at the house to help carry in our luggage. We don’t expect much from you, Timothy, but the least you could have done was assist your poor jet-lagged parents.”

“I didn’t know you were coming home early. I didn’t get a text from you,” Tim says.

“And now you’re blaming us? This is our fault that our selfish son doesn’t greet us when we come home?”

“I’m sorry. Of course this is all my fault,” Tim says, because he knows it’s what she wants to hear. “I’ll make it up to you when I get back home. You can tell me all about your trip and I’ll listen.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Janet snaps. “I’m tired. Mommy isn’t in the mood to entertain you.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll be back soon, Mom.”

“Do whatever you want. The luggage is inside – we had to pay extra to have the driver assist us – your time to be useful is over. I’m ordering Chinese takeout food for dinner. If you’re not home in time, you can heat it up yourself.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Janet ends the call without a goodbye.

The phone wasn’t on speaker, but Tim is sure his mother spoke loud enough for Jason to hear through the phone.

Tim looks at Jason and awkwardly says, “That was my mom.”

Jason looks like he wants to say something mean, but he doesn’t. Tim wishes he would.

Bruce grunts loudly and Dick cheers, “I got it! The bullet has been successfully removed.”

Dick puts the blood covered bullet in a jar. Tim guesses Batman’s going to analyze the bullet later in the Bat Cave. Tim would give anything for a few hours of Cave time, to just run around and look at all the cool gadgets the Bat team have.

Dick is wrapping Bruce’s wound with gauze, when Selina appears. She gasps theatrically, “Oh my God. What happened? Bruce, are you hurt?”

Tim chimes in, “He got shot, Miss Selina, but Dick knew how to take out a bullet because he’s a lifeguard.”

“I see,” Selina hums. “Well, I’m sure the next stop is the hospital. Do you want me to come with you, Babe?”

Before Bruce answers, Tim chimes in, “Um, I don’t mean to be an inconvenience, but my mom and dad just flew in from work and I need a ride home, unless I use my car app to get back. Can you give me a ride, Miss Selina? I live next door to Bruce.”

“Of course, sweetie.” Selina gives Bruce a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll meet you at the hospital.” She probably really means the Bat Cave’s medbay.

Dick helps Jason back in his wheelchair and then puts Bruce’s arm around his shoulder to help him walk.

“I can walk, Dick,” Bruce pouts.

“Sure, tough guy,” Dick laughs, and then waves. “Bye, Tim. Text me or Jay when you get home.”

“Okay. I will. Feel better Bruce. And you too Jason.”

When the Waynes disappear at the end of the aisle, Selina and Tim exchange a look and then burst out laughing.

Tim scoops up a car magazine, and a few car “treats” for the Batmobile. He has to buy them now since he won’t be coming back for them later.

There are more registers open after a Two Face attack than Tim thought there would be. He has a little blood on his shirt from holding Jason’s hand, so he gets a ten percent villain attack trauma discount.

He hugs his bag of goodies when he gets in the car (which sadly doesn’t include a necklace or a bracelet for Selina because she refused to let him buy either).

Selina pulls onto the road and Tim scrolls through his phone, “I can’t do the armored truck thing tonight ‘cuz my parents are home, but I know someone who can take my place. You met Em. He’s really awesome and his boss is an a-hole and I’m ninety percent sure that he beats Em even though Em keeps denying it. I totally saw a bruise on his arm in the shape of a wrench, but he told me he got it when he bumped into a door, or something. At least he’s a better liar than Dick. Anyway, Em doesn’t have a phone, but I’ll call him at the auto shop and tell him to meet you tonight. This works out well because you can start to get the adoption rolling.”

Selina laughs, “You want me to adopt another kitten?”

“Yes,” Tim says with a huge smile. “Adopt him please. He’s my best friend and the cats already love him. You owe it to your cats to add him to your family.”

“How can I say no to that?” she laughs, ruffling Tim’s hair.

-----

Jason connects two puzzle pieces together with a satisfying click. The two-thousand-piece puzzle of the Gotham night skyline is nowhere near done, but he’s getting there. He’s been using the hand that doesn’t have broken fingers, but he takes it slow since his puzzling hand is connected to a fractured wrist.

After returning home from the department store incident, Jason’s hands were too damaged to handle a manual wheelchair, so Alfred upgraded him to a motorized wheelchair. Jason was crushed at the set back and almost cried over the look of pity his family gave him… until he realized he could runover his family members.

The first time he rammed Dick with his motorized wheelchair, Dick thought it was an accident and actually apologized to Jason, but when Jason started cackling, Dick realized what was happening and Jason has been treating Dick like a bowling pin for the rest of the day. It’s the greatest game of tag that the two have ever played, and the brothers are having way too much fun with it.

Unfortunately, Dick did one of his gymnastics acrobatic moves to dodge out of the way, causing Jason to crash into a priceless antique statue that was passed down through the Wayne family for generations. Dick dodged, so clearly it was his fault, but somehow Jason got the punishment of time-out puzzling.

Jason is by no means a puzzle enthusiast, but his physical therapist suggested that puzzles would help him gain back dexterity, so naturally, Bruce bought him eighty-five. Jason was able to convince Bruce to donate half to the library.

Bruce brokered the deal that the other half couldn’t be donated until Jason finished them. That’s enough motivation to get Jason to do his puzzle therapy. He’s got a friend at the library that would lose his mind if he had a chance to choose from all these puzzles.

Jason’s friend is an adorable eight-year-old boy named Duke, that Jason calls little D, who especially loves puzzles. He’s a little man, but he can easily tackle puzzles with over thousand pieces. Duke lives in the Narrows, a sister city to Crime Alley, but he makes the hike to Jason’s hometown library five times a week to say hi to Jason and show him how far he’s gotten on his latest puzzles. Duke’s the only person that utilizes the library’s puzzle stash, so he has a table in a backroom where his puzzles are left undisturbed. Jason keeps teasing him that if his puzzles get any bigger, they won’t fit on the table. Jason’s pretty sure the five-thousand-piece puzzle of a carnival at night that Bruce bought in his manic puzzle buying frenzy might be the one that Duke is going to have to assemble on the floor.

Jason clicks a corner piece, and the image of a skyscraper is starting to take shape.

Dick points to a piece, because he’s a backseat puzzler.

“Move that one there,” he says.

The piece clicks into place and Jason smiles. Only 1,823 pieces left. Unless Alfred vacuumed one up. Jason was looking for the last part of Nemo’s fin for two hours yesterday, only to discover Alfred had sucked it up in the vacuum.

Jason looks at the in-progress puzzle and sighs. There’s a more important puzzle that he needs to solve, that isn’t as easy as clicking two pieces together.

The puzzle that’s living rent free in Jason’s mind involves Tim Drake. There’s something not right about Tim. A secret that Jason just can’t crack.

Everyone is entitled to secrets, heck, Jason’s keeping a massive Bat-secret of his own, but something about the secret Tim is hiding makes Jason worry if his friend is okay. Tim has a collection of caretakers; Jason has personally met two. He met the older lady that makes phenomenal cookies and enjoys exercise, and a dude that smelled like garlic and baked pizza dough. Still, something is off. He has the feeling that Tim is alone in Drake Manor, completely unsupervised.

He feels like if he unlocks this secret, a few more connected secrets will come tumbling out. He just has to figure out this one.

Jason clicks a piece that reveals the image of a green-eyed black cat sitting on the windowsill of one of the skyscrapers. Jason narrows his eyes as he looks at the black cat and his mind flashes back to when he was wheeling out of the hardware aisle and Tim and Selina were sharing a smile like they knew each other.

The puzzle piece of the cat’s tail clicks into place and Jason freezes.

There’s no way he’s –  Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

Chapter Text

Tim struggles to capture a piece of broccoli with his chopsticks. No matter how many times he uses wooden chopsticks to eat takeout food, he still isn’t coordinated enough for it not to be a struggle. If his mother weren’t sitting across from him at the kitchen table, Tim would be shoveling his dinner into his mouth with a spoon, but Mother insists Timmy use the chopsticks.

Tim isn’t sure if his mom is teaching him perseverance, or if she just likes to see him struggle.

Jack Drake is taking his dinner in liquid alcohol form. He’s in the room next door, shouting at the television screen. Tim doesn’t know much about the sport other than the free throws he takes when he tosses random trash into garbage cans, but he knows what it sounds like when his dad is losing money on the team he bet on. From the sounds coming from the other room, his dad is losing a lot of money at the moment.

Tim tries to block out his dad’s attempt at coaching the team from his armchair, and focuses on his food. He’s not a fan of broccoli, but the only other food item in his shrimp and broccoli rice bowl is shrimp, which he’s allergic to. His mom knows about his allergy, but she keeps ordering the shrimp meal because it’s her favorite and it’s easier to order two of the same meals than to remember her son’s shrimp allergy.

Tim removed all the shrimp, but the shrimps were in there, so it’s not surprising that his throat feels a little itchy. He’ll pop two Benadryl’s after dinner and everything will be fine. He’s done this before.

The faint sound of the TV travels into the kitchen. It’s a news alert that’s interrupting the basketball game. A female reporter with a cheery voice is reporting the story.

“Good evening. I’m here in Park Row, also known to the locals as Crime Alley, reporting on a breaking news story. A local mechanic from the Park Row area has been attacked in his autobody shop. He was found by police after a tip from an anonymous caller. The caller, who can only be identified as a young boy, informed Gotham City police that a man had been bound and gagged in this very autobody shop. The man, who identified himself as Tony Delucci, and is the owner of the autobody shop, claimed that he heard hissing cats before he was struck with what he believes may have been a metal wrench, and knocked unconscious. When he regained consciousness, his hands and feet were bound and there was a cloth tied around his mouth, impeding his speech. It is unclear if any of the Gotham Rogues are behind this. So far this seems like an isolated incident, but we will stay on this story as it develops.”

Tim can’t help but smile. Em is safe under Selina’s protection now.

“Timothy,” Janet says, startling Tim’s attention back to the kitchen table. “You’re awfully quiet. You haven’t even once asked me how I am.”

Tim plasters a fake smile on his face. “How are you, Mother?”

“Well, I’d be so much better if the airline staff weren’t so incompetent. The flight was dreadful, and it doesn’t help that your father and I had to leave paradise to come back to this miserable city. I’ve already scheduled a massage and spa treatment for myself tomorrow. I deserve a reward for all I’ve been through these last twenty-four hours.”

Tim knows he should smile and nod, but fishing for broccoli is more interesting than his mother’s complaining, so he focuses on his broccoli hunting. So far, just rice.

Tim and his mother go back to eating in silence.

When Tim is finished his mother asks him to bring a plate to his father. Jack is still arguing with the TV, so Tim tiptoes into the room and sets the tray down as quietly is he can.

Jack turns to Tim and narrows his eyes. “Can you believe this? Do you know how much money I’m losing because this idiot ref doesn’t know the difference between a foul and his own ass?”

Tim bites his lip and nods. He picks up an empty beer can from the floor and Jack knocks it out of his hand.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Did I tell you to move that? You’ve been hanging out with the fucking Wayne’s butler next door, haven’t you? You think you need to clean up after your father the slob, don’t you?”

“I didn’t –”

Jack slaps Tim hard enough for poor Timmy to stagger back, tripping over another empty beer can and falling to the floor. He made the mistake of reaching for the table to regain his balance, and the tray of Jack’s dinner goes crashing to the floor right along with him.

Tim scurries to his feet. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he manages to get out before Jack grabs him by the front of the shirt, lifting him off the floor.

“Oh, you’ll be sorry alright.”

Jack throws Tim against the wall and picks up an empty beer can and throws it. Tim uses his hands to guard his face as Jack throws every empty can from his six-pack. Jack hurls can after can, yelling insult after insult.

When there are no more empty cans, Tim peeks through his hands, and sees Jack pick up a full can. Tim has just enough time to duck behind the couch before Jack launches the full can of beer right where Tim was standing.

“Jackson!” Janet yells. Tim has never heard her voice shake as much as it is. “Put those cans down. That couch is a priceless antique. I will not have you getting beer all over it.”

Janet’s eyes dart to Tim and she nudges her chin, motioning for him to leave. Tim wants to do as she says, but he’s too scared to move.

Jack staggers over to Tim’s hiding spot, leaning over the couch with an anger in his eyes that Tim has never seen before. Jack yanks Tim by the arm and then grabs him by the neck, squeezing so hard that Tim can’t breathe. Tim claws at his dad’s hands, trying to loosen the stranglehold his father has around his neck, but Jack only squeezes tighter before eventually letting go. Tim barely gets a chance to catch his breath before Jack elbows him in the face.

“Jackson, stop,” Janet shouts. “You’ll get blood on the couch.”

Janet places herself in between Jack and Tim.

Jack slurs, “I’m teaching the kid a lesson, Jan.”

“You’re drunk. You need to control yourself,” Janet hisses. She turns to Tim and her voice is much less venomous. Her voice is so low that only Tim can hear. “Go to your room now, Timothy. Prop a chair against your doorknob. Go. Now!”

Tim races upstairs. He can hear his father’s heavy footsteps behind him. The heavy footsteps are almost as loud as the blood pounding in his ears.

Tim stumbles on the last step, allowing his father to get closer, but he sprints to his room. He has to face his father before he slams the door shut, and in that split second, Jack hurls a glass, maybe a whisky glass, at the door. Tim has just enough time to slam the door before the glass shatters against the door.

Tim’s hands are shaking violently, and his heart is in his throat as he wedges the chair from his desk under the doorknob. The door only locks from the outside, so it’s the best Tim can do.

Tim backs away from the door as the doorknob jiggles and Jack screams, “You little bastard! Open this door right now or I swear, Timothy, I will fucking make you regret it!”

Tim sobs as his father pounds on the door. Tim recoils as if he’s being punched every time his father’s furious fist bangs against the wooden bedroom door.

Tim covers his ears, but he can still hear the man shouting.

 “How dare you hide from me! Open this fucking door right now!”

Tim presses his hands tighter over his ears as the pounding fists turn into forceful kicks.

The terror feels like it goes on forever and Tim starts to feel light-headed. Eventually, the pounding settles down and Jack hisses a final, “You’re gonna get it boy, just you wait.”

Tim uncovers his ears and shivers when he hears the sound of Jack unhooking his belt, as the footsteps walk away. Tim can almost feel phantom strikes from the belt. He knows what’s coming later.

He hugs himself in a tight ball, trying to calm himself. Jack isn’t outside the door anymore. He isn’t kicking the door to knock it down. He’s gone downstairs and he’s probably already cooling down from his fit of rage.

Tim untucks from his tight ball and runs on quivering legs to the bathroom. He barely makes it in time before his shrimp and broccoli rice bowl comes back up, heaving his dinner into the toilet bowl.

He throws up so forcefully. It’s like someone’s punching him in the stomach. The projectile vomiting is just another thing to be scared about. Another thing that causes tears to roll down his face.

After an unpleasant amount of time fear-vomiting, Tim picks himself up off the bathroom floor and drags himself to the sink to rinse his mouth out.

He washes his mouth out and swallows down two Benadryl from the bottle he keeps on the sink. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and when he looks up at the mirror he freezes. The reflection looking back at him from the mirror is… it’s not good.

The left side of Tim’s face is red from being slapped, but it’s well on its way to bruising a deep shade of purple. The scar that Kon stitched is bleeding, sending a small trail of blood down the side of Tim’s face. One of the stitches must have popped.

Tim’s neck has a hand shaped bruise from his dad’s brief attempt at strangling him. And lastly, Tim’s arm also has a hand-shaped bruise from when Jack grabbed his arm.

Tim squints his eyes to get a good look at himself and whimpers to his reflection.

“I – I think we need help.”

Tim is a flurry of movement as he gathers as many of his favorite belongings into his backpack and a black duffel bag. Those two bags are all he’ll be able to carry with him, because he’ll be escaping on foot.

He tosses in his Stray uniform last and shoulders on the backpack and wraps the strap of the duffle bag over his head, securing it across his body like a purse.

He heads to his window and turns back to take one last look at his bedroom. His hands are shaking too much to take a picture, so he takes a mental picture instead.

He opens the window and ducks through, scaling down the side of the house. It’s not as easy as it normally is when he sneaks out to watch Bat-patrol because of the added weight of an additional duffel bag, but he manages to get from his room to the grass without hurting himself.

No one knows Tim has escaped. His father isn’t chasing him. His mother isn’t scolding him. Still, he runs as fast as he can, not looking back.

The blades of grass under his sneakers get taller as the Drake property turns into the wooded area that leads into the Wayne property line.

Tim runs through the tall grass and the thick bushes of the wooded area. He hops over fallen tree branches and races past huge oak trees as he squints to see through the darkness of the Gotham night.

His senses are on high alert for the sound of his father’s footsteps behind him, but the only sounds are his heavy breathing, and a few small animals scurrying out of the way.

The tall grass returns to the short blades of a well-manicured lawn, and Tim can see Wayne Manor in the distance. The lights are on in a few of the rooms, shining brightly through the windows.

Tim doubles his speed as his body surges forward with newfound adrenaline.

When he reaches the front door, he presses the doorbell. He presses the doorbell once, twice, and about forty times more, not pausing in between.

The air is punched out of his lungs when he sees Bruce Wayne standing in the doorway, the door yanked open with almost superhuman strength.

Bruce crouches down, shrinking to the same height as Timmy. The man’s voice is gentle. “Are you alright?” His eyes dart behind Tim, ready to take on whatever danger lurks behind the boy without question.

Tim’s voice is raw, and barely above a whisper, but he manages to choke out the important words.

“I was afraid before but I’m ready now. I’m ready to ask.”

“What do you need?” Bruce asks, with a look that promises he can give Tim the world.

Tim’s voice gives out and he can only mouth the word, help.

Bruce cups his hands around Tim’s cheek, wiping away tears with his thumbs. He stands up to his full height, taking Timmy’s trembling hand in his, and leads him through the doorway.

The heavy wooden door closes behind them.

Tim doesn’t look back.

Chapter Text

The past 24 hours were a whirlwind.

Bruce drove Tim to the police station to give his official victim statement, which was terrifying, but Tim had Jason and Dick there, holding his hands.

He gave a tearful account of all the times his parents left him alone in Drake Manor for months, ever since he was five years old. He squeezed Dick’s hand as he looked into the video camera that was recording his statement and told everyone in the room about how his mother would say horrible things to him every time she returned from her trips, and how she told him multiple times that having him was a mistake.

Talking about his mother was difficult – it’s been drilled in his head that he needs to keep family matters private – but the true challenge was talking about his dad.

He started slowly, and every time his breath hitched, Bruce would rub his back and tell him he was doing great.

When it got to the especially brutal parts, Tim didn’t know if he’d be able to physically get the words out, but he took a quick glance at Jason and his heart swelled with bravery. Jason had stood up to the Joker and never backed down. That was Jason’s Robin moment. This needed to be Tim’s Robin moment.

Jason mouthed the words, ‘You got this.’

Tim finally reveals the details of the abuse at the hands of his father. He tells about different incidents that he can easily recall because of the nightmares that force him to relive some of those moments over and over again.

Tim wants to break down. He wants to cry, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t feel like himself. He feels like someone else, someone stronger. As if his body swapped with Jason’s, because Tim isn’t confident like Jason, he isn’t strong like Jason, he’s just Tim; the little kid that got kicked around by his dad.

When Tim’s statement is done, he feels drained, but he feels so much lighter. The weight that’s been weighing him down for years has finally lifted, and Tim can finally breathe.

The first breath feels amazing.

The second breath is a whimper when a pair of huge arms wrap around him, surrounding him in the warmth and safety that only a Bruce hug can.

“I’m so proud of you, Timmy,” Bruce says, as he places a gentle kiss on the top of his head.

Bruce pulls away from the hug and Tim lets out an embarrassing whine.

Bruce keeps his hands on Tim’s shoulders, and the deep rumble of the man’s voice is both gentle and commanding.

“I want you to listen to me closely. You did everything right, son. I know what it’s like to hear that little voice in your head that tells you that you could have done this better or said this instead of that. I have that same voice, Timmy. I had those same gears turning in my head so many times.” Bruce’s eyes get cloudier, and his voice gets tighter. “I had that same little voice in my head when I had to speak to the police, minutes after my parents were shot. Overthinkers like you and me will always analyze a situation until the wheels fall off, but don’t let that stop you from forgetting how smart, and brave, and truly amazing you are.”

Bruce wraps Tim in a hug again, and everything goes back to feeling warm and safe. Tim lets his brain process Bruce’s words, and even though he’s crying, he smiles to himself. He thought the strong, brave version of himself was a body swap, but maybe, just maybe, Tim’s been the strong, brave little guy all along. He just needed to let it out.

And that’s been the emotional roller coaster of the last 24 hours, but right now, Tim is sitting at the breakfast table at Wayne Manor, a place that he hopes he can call home soon, and his new family are sharing a meal.

Mealtime at Wayne Manor is always a loud and lively event. Dick is laughing at a joke that Jason made, and Tim clears his throat.

If the Bat family is his family, he needs to come clean. Jason has been giving him occasional side-glances, as if he wants to ask him something, and Tim has a feeling what it is.

Tim straightens up in his chair, rolls his shoulders back and says, “Um, I’m really sorry but I stole–”

Dick yells, “These pancakes are amazing, Alfie. You never made ones with this many chocolate chips in the batter.”

“Indeed, Master Richard. Today is a special occasion.”

Tim tries again, “I’ve been working with Cat–”

“The hashbrowns are so fucking good too,” Jason interrupts, with a mouthful of fried shredded potatoes.

“Master Jason,” Alfred frowns. “That’s five dollars you owe to the swear jar.”

“Wait,” Bruce says, pointing his fork at Alfred. “I had to pay twenty dollars to the jar when I said the f-word last week.”

“’Cuz you’re a billionaire, B,” Jasons says with a laugh. “Eat the rich.”

“Eat your pancakes,” Bruce huffs. “And you’re a billionaire too, buddy.”

“I’ve got street kid vibes forever, Old Man.”

Bruce laughs, and Tim hopes this is the opening he needs to make his announcement. He clears his throat, “I stole and drove the Bat–”

Dick sprays a huge blob of whipped cream from the aluminum spray can onto his pancake, drowning out Tim’s voice with the sound.

Jason waves a hand, “Pass that here, Dickie. My pancake is feelin’ a little dry.”

Dick tosses the can, and Jason catches it with his broken hand, which is wrapped up in medical tape. Jason grunts in pain, but also grunts, “Worth it,” as he covers his pancake stack in a whipped cream mountain.

“I’m trying to tell you –”

“These eggs are perfectly cooked.”

“I broke into the Batcave –”

“Alfred, this French toast is outstanding.”

Tim stands up and shouts, “I stole the Batmobile tires, then I stole the whole Batmobile, multiple times and I also work for Catwoman as Stray!”

The room goes silent. The silence is broken when Bruce sets his silverware on his plate, and it lets out a resounding tink sound.

Bruce takes a deep breath, but Jason shouts out first. “I knew about one of those things. I figured out he was Stray. That makes me the smartest detective here.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “Not quite, Master Jason. I believe I am the one that knew about all three.”

“That doesn’t count, Alfie. You know everything.”

Bruce lifts an eyebrow of his own. “How long have you known all three, Alfred?”

Alfred smirks, as he cuts his pancake, “For quite some time now, detective.”

Bruce laughs at that, but Tim isn’t in a laughing mood. He doesn’t know if he’s in trouble or not. He just told Batman that he stole his tires, his car, and that he’s a member of the Cat-team. Each one of those things is a crime.

So much for adoption, Tim’s pretty sure he’s going to have to talk himself out of going to Bat-jail.

“I’m sorry,” Tim squeaks out. “Well, I’m not sorry that I did it, because I’d do it all again, but I’m sorry I lied to you about it. When I stole the Batmobile from the Batcave, there was no way to tell you without letting you know that I knew about you guys being Batman, Robin, and Nightwing.” Batman nods, seemingly following Tim’s logic. Tim chews on his bottom lip. “Are you mad, Batman?”

The corners of Bruce’s mouth twitch upward in the direction of a smile. “I’m only mad if you don’t tell me how you did it. The security on my car is quadruple encrypted. You need to spoof a retinal scan and a passcode five levels deep. That security is fool proof.”

Dick takes a sip of coffee. “But is it Timmy-proof?”

Tim looks at Alfred and blushes. “I can’t take all the credit. I had help.”

“I knew it!” Jason shouts. “Whenever there’s a mystery, it’s always the butler that did it!”

-----

Bruce buckles his seatbelt from the passenger seat. He looks over at Tim, who’s buckling his seat from the driver’s side.

Bruce looks out of place in his civilian clothes while also sitting on the passenger seat of his car.

The Batmobile adjusts to Tim’s dimensions. The pedals rise to meet his feet.

“Tim,” Bruce starts, “This is not me condoning an eleven-year-old driving the Batmobile, or any car for that matter, I’m just curious to see how well you drive. This is not me giving you permission to drive–”

Tim revvs the engine and shouts, “Can’t hear you, Bruce. Did you say let’s go?”

Tim doesn’t wait for an answer. He wouldn’t be able to hear it over the roar of the engine anyway.

He yanks the console gear shift and tears out of the Batcave. Tim performs the boosted launch that Alfred taught him flawlessly, pinning Bruce to the back of the seat with a look of terror that Tim can see after a momentary glance in his direction. He should probably keep his eyes on the road.

Bruce grips the grab handle above the door and laughs as no less than two hundred and fifty dollars worth of swear words spill out of his mouth. Alfred’s listening in, like he always does when Tim drives, so Tim laughs, “Hey Alfie, that sounded like at least two fifty for the swear jar.”

“Quite right, Master Tim,” Alfred laughs from the speakers. “I think we can get that total well past three hundred if you show Master Bruce the downshift I taught you.”

“You taught him?” Bruce asks, but anything else he has to say is swallowed down as Tim shifts the car into fourth gear and the high-speed drive gets even faster.

It’s nighttime and Tim is headed for the training spot that Alfred took him to before, so there’s literally no cars on the road. That doesn’t stop Tim from jerking the wheel from left to right, showing Bruce how well he can handle high speed lane changes.

“Tim,” Bruce says through gritted teeth.

“You need the Bat-bucket?” Tim asks, not feeling bad at all.

Tim immediately sends the car into a spin, before slamming on the brakes. Bruce adds a few more fifties to the swear jar’s running total, as the car’s front wheels lift off the ground from the torque of the sharp braking. The front end of the car slams down on the road, causing the entire highway to shake under them and Tim downshifts, sending the car into high-speed reverse.

“Alfie taught me this, but I’m not as good as him at it. He has master control of the Batmobile while I’m learning how to do these moves consistently without flipping it.”

Bruce is laughing and he’s let go of the grab handle, which must mean he’s having fun.

Tim accelerates, brakes, and yanks the wheel, sending the car into a few donuts, before hydroplaning on two wheels. He tries to yank the steering wheel the other way, but it’s locked. The Batmobile is definitely about to flip, but Bruce reaches over and pulls the wheel as hard as he can and the suspended wheels slam back onto the road. The engine squeals and smoke comes from the tires. Bruce yanks the emergency brake, sending the back end of the Batmobile fishtailing as the afterburners fire off louder than the engine.

The skid is epic as the car drifts for ten glorious seconds, before the entire Batmobile jerks to a stop.

“Bruuuccce!” Tim cheers. “That was the best thirty seconds ever! Alfie never lets me push it that close to crashing. He must have known you’d be able to prevent us from skidding out.”

The combination of movements must have triggered the Batmobile to think they actually crashed, because Tim’s airbag deploys, exploding in his face and pushing him back forcefully enough to knock the wind out of the poor boy.

The lack of air only lasts for a second before Tim starts coughing.

“Tim, are you alright?” Bruce asks.

Tim looks at Bruce and his face stretches into the widest grin. “Am I alright? I’ve never been better in my whole entire life! How do you stuff this airbag back in so we can do it again?”

Bruce bursts out laughing. His laughter is louder than the mighty roar of the Batmobile’s engine.

Chapter Text

Tim holds Jason’s hand as the wind whistles through the cemetery.

Jason had cried when Tim told him about how Constantine tracked down where Catherine Todd was buried. Bruce made arrangements to get her body moved to a permanent plot that day, but it took a few days to get Jason’s mother moved into a more suitable coffin and for her headstone to be engraved.

Tim looks at the headstone with the name Catherine Eleanor Todd carved into the stone. He squeezes Jason’s hand as Bruce continues to read inspiring words as the memorial service for Catherine Todd continues.

It’s not an official memorial service, but it’s special all the same. The Wayne family are here. A family that now includes Tim, according to the temporary guardianship order the judge awarded Bruce yesterday.

Emilio and Selina are also here. Em is now under the watch of Catwoman, and Em even has a cat-ear hoodie that matches Tim’s. Em insists he’s “the muscle” of the Cat team, acting as a lookout in case security is tripped during a heist, but mainly, he takes the littlest kittens around Gotham, so they get used to the urban terrain, and he acts as their bodyguard. Anyone that even looks at the litter of kittens funny is going to have to deal with Em (who has a cool pair of brass knuckles straight from Wayne Enterprises’ Bat gadget department.

Em is holding Tim’s other hand. Tim let Em borrow a suit since he didn’t have one, and the sleeves are just a little too short to reach Em’s wrist.

Bruce is still healing from his gunshot wound, which Alfred ordered one week of no patrol, so Superman’s been playing the part of the Dark Knight every night and only asking to join for dinner as payment. It isn’t hours until Bat patrol, but Superman is standing right next to Dick, wearing his Uncle Clark glasses and the suit he wears to interview high level lawmakers and celebrities.

The last family friend that’s here to pay their respects is a familiar chain-smoking, trench coat wearing necromancer. He has a bouquet of flowers in his hand, instead of a bottle of alcohol or a box of cigarettes, and he’s holding Midnight’s leash with the other hand.

Bruce reads a beautiful poem about mothers. He honors Catherine Todd with words that bring tears to everyone’s eyes. Dick is the only one that came prepared with dark sunglasses, but Tim can see Dick wiping his cheek a few times as Uncle Clark keeps an arm wrapped around his shoulder.

When it’s time for everyone to step up to the grave and leave a flower at the base of the headstone, Tim and Jason are last. Tim holds Jason’s hand as Jason rolls his wheelchair forward.

Jason closes his eyes to say a few silent words to his mom and Tim offers a silent thank you.

Thank you for raising Jason to be so amazing. He’s the best Robin ever – no offense to Dick – and he’s the smartest English Lit tutor ever, and if you were here to see him, you’d see how cool he turned out. Thanks for being his mom.

Tim opens his eyes before Jason and waits for his friend to finish his own private conversation. Jason opens his eyes, kisses his rose, and whispers, “Love you, mama.”

Tim lays both roses on the grave since it’s awkward for Jason to do in his wheelchair.

The memorial service ends and the Waynes head to the car. There’s going to be food at Wayne Manor, so all the guests will meet up there.

 As they’re headed back, Tim is still holding Jason’s hand as they walk. Jason gives Tim’s hand a squeeze.

“I can’t believe you found her, Timmy.”

“I’d do anything for you, Jay,” Tim says, squeezing Jason’s hand back. “Plus, I owe you for saving my life, but more importantly saving my English Lit grade.”

Jason smiles. It’s the first time he’s smiled today. “I was glad to help T, but you don’t owe me anything. You know that, right? Brothers don’t keep score.”

----

Dinner is a feast of delicious food and full of joy and laughter. By the time Tim is ready to head to bed, his cheeks are sore from smiling so much and laughing so hard.

When everyone is gone, and it’s just the Waynes in the manor, Tim says his goodnights and closes his bedroom door. He gives himself a few minutes for any member of his new family to be out of listening range.

Bruce and Jason are still recovering from their injuries, so they’re both asleep by now. Superman and Dick have taken over Bat patrol. Dick had to be begged not to wear the largest sized Robin suit in the Bat-closet so that Dick and Clark could patrol as Batman and Robin.

Tim listens one more time to make sure the coast is clear. He puts on his black hoodie (the one without the cat ears) and opens the window. He climbs onto the roof. The night breeze is chilly enough that he’s thankful for the warmth of the hoodie over his PJs. The warm weather is ending and sitting on a roof top will be too cold soon.

He hugs his knees, looking up at the starry sky and announces, “I’m here.”

Less than a second later, a streak of yellow lightning appears, before it vanishes, revealing Bart carrying Kon in his arms. Kon is holding a bag that has an ice cream shop label on the front.

“Delivery for Timothy Jackson Wayne,” Kon says with a smile.

Tim can’t wait until that name is official.

Kon plucks seven ice cream sundae bowls out of the bag. He hands one to Tim and splits the other six between Bart and himself.

Tim takes a spoonful and moans. “Oh my God! This is delicious!” He licks the hot fudge syrup off his fingers, not wasting any of the amazing chocolate syrup that keeps dripping onto his fingers after every glorious spoonful.

Bart sits cross-legged next to Tim and sways side to side to the beat of imaginary music in his head.  Kon is hovering in the air, laying on his back, because he’s a showoff.

“Hey, Tim,” Kon mumbles around his spoon. “Are you sure we’re safe from Bruce? I still can’t believe Bruce Wayne is…” He holds up two fingers to the top of his head, imitating the bat ears on Batman’s cowl, but the motion looks more like bunny ears.

“Kon,” Tim whines, “You’re not supposed to know that. Anyway, we’re safe from getting caught. Bruce and Jason are asleep. Dick is on patrol with your uncle. The only one left is Alfie. He monitors house security, because he’s the one with the shotgun, but I was careful not to trip the window alarm. It probably wouldn’t matter if I did. Alfie knows everything. He’s truly all-knowing. He one hundred percent knows about this, but he’s probably one hundred percent cool with me hanging out with my friends. He kind of lets me get away with anything.”

“Alfie’s an ally,” Bart cheers. There’s chocolate syrup all over his mouth.

Tim laughs and then settles in to listen to what his superhero friends did all day. They couldn’t attend the memorial service because they aren’t supposed to know the Bat secret and Jason has the same exact injuries as Robin, so there’s no way Superboy and Impulse wouldn’t know. Still, Kon tells Tim that he and Bart left flowers on Catherine Todd’s grave before the ice cream delivery.

Bart is in the middle of a story about fighting a reverse speedster holographic simulation. Kon and Bart are still in training and way too young for the Justice League to send them out fighting giant robots or killer man-shark hybrids.

Tim can’t hold back a yawn and Kon settles next to him. Tired Timmy has access to Kon’s arm to use as a pillow, so he does.

He yawns again and when Bart pauses to take a breath, Tim blinks his heavy eyelids. “Sorry guys. I’m really exhausted. I don’t know why. I stay up late all the time.”

From the angle Tim is leaning, Kon’s voice is really close to his ear.

“In the superhero business, we call that feeling post-victory collapse. After a long battle and an epic win, your body crashes. All the adrenaline and dopamine and a whole mess of other things swirling around in your body just melt away and leave you feeling flatter than an empty potato sack. I’m only half human so I don’t get as potato-sacky as y’all full human’s do.”

Tim nods against Kon’s arm. Tim might not be a superhero like his friends, but he definitely fought an important battle, and he won.

He’s living in Wayne manner and sneaking out to eat ice cream with his superfriends. This is what winning looks like. This is what winning feels like.

It feels amazing.

Chapter Text

Recovery is a journey, not a destination. Recovery isn’t a one-size-fits-all ten step program, it’s highs and lows, good days and bad days, but as long as you keep putting in the hard work, you’ll be okay.

Tim learned this in therapy, but he sees what recovery looks like every day.

Some days, recovery is crying on Bruce’s shoulder after finding out that Jack and Janet never cared about Tim, but are preparing to fight as hard as they can to get Tim back and smear the Wayne reputation.

Some days, recovery is baking cookies with Jason and Alfred and having the rest of the family take a blind taste test to see who won. (Jason won!)

Some days, recovery is Jason helping him take his first breath after a panic attack, caused by Jack Drake showing up outside Wayne Manor waving around a pistol and shouting that he’s going to kill everyone inside if he doesn’t get his Timothy back.

Some days, recovery is going to the park to play catch with Midnight the hellhound, Em, Dick, and Constantine. (Dick was invited to be the chaperone because Bruce doesn’t quite trust Constantine not to “kidnap” Tim and Em and take them on a supernatural road trip.)

Some days, recovery is jumping up and down from excitement in the showroom, when Selina takes Em and Tim to see the official Catmobile she’s buying for the team. (Tim was the first one to drive it out of the car lot, instantly testing how fast the car can go from zero to 90mph – much to the surprise of the car dealer – and after cruising around the street of downtown Gotham, Tim and Em have been modifying the vehicle. Tim is the ideas guy and Em is the one that can actually do the mechanical modifications.)

Some days, recovery is violently throwing up in the principal’s office’s toilet after being called out of class to be told that Jack and Janet died in a mysterious plane crash and the Drake company and everything involving it now belongs to Tim. (After two more consecutive anxiety attacks after getting home to Wayne Manor, Bruce did some Bat-level research, and it turns out that two people that match Jack and Janet’s face recognition profile were spotted on a tropical island that Gotham lawyers wouldn’t be able to drag them back from)

Some days, recovery is jumping into Bruce’s arms, when the judge awards Bruce full guardianship of Tim with an approved request to foster. (The next step is adoption, which Bruce immediately filed)

On this particular night, recovery is casually walking away from the art museum that the Cat team just stole an expensive painting from, that the museum bought off the black market illegally in the first place. Stray, Em (he’s still working on a hero name), and Catwoman pulled off the heist so well that the alarm was never triggered. The museum security guards don’t even know it’s missing!

Em is walking backwards, so he can face Tim while talking.

“That was smooth as hell, Stray. I can’t believe you did the whole dangling from the air thing and never tripped the alarms.”

“Nightwing’s been teaching me acrobatic things. We have a daily stretch and gymnastics class at the Manor that’s been keeping him from going back to Bludhaven. He hasn’t really been back to his apartment since Robin got hurt. Nightwing has already taken down the major crime families in Bludhaven, so Batman’s hoping he comes back home full-time and just does his Nightwinging once a month to make sure the criminals don’t get too comfortable.”

Em nods, “That’s fucking awesome. Do you think Nightwing can teach me some gymnastics moves when I come over for dinner with Catmom this weekend?”

“Totally!” Tim says, vibrating with excitement. “With three people we could work on a trapeze act. This is going to be so cool!”

Catwoman is humming approval next to her boys. Everything is going great until they get to the corner of the block.

Tim is the first to notice that the Catmobile has no tires. The vehicle is sitting on cinderblocks, and four tires are neatly stacked right next to the car.

Em whips around to face the tireless car. “The fuck,” he growls.

Tim picks a pink sticky note post-it off the windshield.

Now we’re even  – Batman

Before Tim and Em can even begin to unpack this, a loud honk from across the street is followed by the voice that sends fear into the heart of all Gotham criminals. But to be honest, Tim recognized the sound of the Batmobile’s engine idling before he heard Batman speak.

“Car trouble?” Batman asks.

Tim is glaring as hard as he can, as Bruce casually strolls over from across the street. The glare would be more effective if Em weren’t currently giving Batman a hug.

“Em,” Tim hisses.

Em shrugs, still hugging Batman, “Chill. I’m happy to see him. Not everyone lives with Batman. Besides, we stole his wheels first. It’s only fair. And it’s not like I can’t put all four of those bitches back on in less than five minutes.”

 Batman chuckles, “Five minutes? Why so slow?”

Em pushes Batman away, ending the hug and Batman chuckles harder. Em unhooks the wrench he always keeps holstered on his waist like a gun. He spins the wrench in his hand, flips off Batman with his other hand, and starts working on the tires.

Tim crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay, let’s go over your mistakes, Batman.”

Tim takes a second to uncross his arms so he can tap his earpiece, turning on his Bat-comm. He re-crosses his arms and can hear Nightwing and Robin laughing. Em must have turned it on too because Tim can hear Em’s laugh echoing in the comm.

“My mistakes,” Batman says slowly.

“Yes. Your mistakes. Mistake one, you can’t sign your actual name to the sticky note confession. That’s not how it works. Mistake two, you need to flee the scene of the crime. I know that you’re a hero, so you’re not used to running away, but it’s an important thing to remember. And speaking of not leaving, how long have you been sitting in your car just waiting for us to get here? If it’s been over ten minutes, that’s cringe.”

Tim’s brothers are cackling through the comms. Jason manages to bark out, “You tell him Stray. Drag his ass.”

Batman stares at Tim, both of them with matching crossed armed stances. Bat-glare vs. Cat-glare.

Tim breaks first, giving Batman an I’m sorry grin. Batman ruffles Tim’s hair and then gently pulls Tim’s cat ear hood back up.

Batman looks over Tim’s shoulder and smiles at Selina. “I’ll let you keep the stolen painting if you let me steal your two kittens for the rest of the night.”

 “Hell yeah!” Em shouts, already having the four tires secured. “Can we go in the sewer and fight Killer Croc like last time?”

Selina sighs, “Batman. Are you seriously allowing me to steal a painting if you steal my children? You’re becoming quite the criminal, babe.”

Tim is already taking a few bat-a-rangs out of Batman’s utility belt from him and Em to use.

“Sweetheart, it’s not stealing if I give them back,” Batman says.

“If?” she frowns.

“I meant when I give them back.”

Nightwing lands behind Tim and grabs Tim’s hand. “Quick, little guy, call dibs on driving and we’ll stick Em and Dad in the backseat.

“Dibs,” Tim yells and he runs to the Batmobile with Nightwing and Em is hot on their heels.

Em happily hops in the back seat and gets an Escrima stick to play with as a reward.

Tim hooks his seatbelt. By the time Batman reaches the car, Tim starts to drive before he even fully gets inside, causing poor Bruce to scurry to close the door before slamming against Em.

“Taze him,” Nightwing laughs, using the passenger fold down mirror to adjust his hair. Dick shakes his hands through his hair, making it messier than it was before.

He turns to Tim and gives him the dazzling Dick Grayson smile, “Where to first, little Catman?”

Jason yells in the communicator, “Little Catman? That’s weak as shit, Dickhead. Do better.”

“Dad, tell Jay to stop. He’s being mean.”

Batman grumbles from the backseat. “No real names on comms, Wing.”

Tim is stuck at a red light, so he has time to look at the backseat as Dick and Jason go back to bickering in the comms.

Tim smiles as he watches Em show Batman how to spin the borrowed Escrima stick in his hand like he spins his wrench.

“It’s my signature move,” Em says proudly. Batman answers with an approving hum.

A female voice joins the comms. “I go off-grid for my first vacation in years and there are new team members? Please, B, tell me you didn’t adopt two more kids.”

“Barbie!” Jason shrieks. “Welcome back! You missed so much shit when you were gone.”

“Hey, Robin. I missed you too. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for your mom’s memorial service. If I had known I would’ve flown back earlier.”

“It’s all good. Hey, Stray and Stray two, this is Barbie, aka Oracle. She’s the smartest and coolest person in the world. B, I’m gonna ask Agent A if he can drive me to the Clocktower to hang out with Oracle. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Batman says, as he spins Em’s wrench. Em is smiling and cheering him on.

“Hi Oracle,” Tim says, cutting off two cars and getting aggressively honked at. Seriously, who honks at the Batmobile? Tim’s fingers hover over the smoke bomb button.

“Hi, Stray,” Oracle says. Tim can hear the clattering of keyboard keys in the background. “I’m not going to ask why an eleven-year-old, according to the Bat-files, is driving the Batmobile, I’m just gonna go with it.” More keyboard clattering. “Alright gentlemen, it’s a slow night, but I may have a potential Clayface thing in an hour.”

Tim takes a sharp turn that lifts two wheels, causing Dick to swear and grip the dashboard.

The wheels touch down hard, right before Tim shifts into second gear and flies down the narrow, one-lane side street. The road tilts up what would be considered a hill, and Tim kicks the car into third gear so that when he hits the incline, the car lifts into the air, getting fully airborne before slamming back to the road. The street is narrow and lined with a few shops that are closed at this hour, which is good because the force the Batmobile makes when it touches back down to the road and the massive sound wave it produces causes a row of windows of a particularly older building to shatter. Like, straight up explode!

Tim ducks from the sound of exploding glass.

Everyone in the car goes silent and then,

“Holy shit!” Dick gasps, and then laughs, high pitched and loud.

Tim is trying to catch his breath after the adrenaline rush from that! The cool factor of what just happened is causing his eyes to tear up.

And speaking of crying, Batman huffs, “I’ve caused too much property damage this month as Batman. The money to repair those windows is coming out of your allowance, Stray.”

Jason’s howling, “T, I just saw that on the security cams! When you get back home, we’re watching that together on playback. That was some of the coolest shit I’ve ever seen. You gotta take me on a ride when I get healed enough for a Batmobile joyride.”

“Yeah, Robin,” Tim says, wiping the tears of joy from his eyes. “When you get better, we ride!”

He hits the brakes, causing the Batmobile to skid behind a red sports car in the drive-thru line.

He leans one hand on the car windowsill and rests his other hand low on the bottom of the steering wheel.

He angles himself so everyone in the car can see him, and his mouth spreads into a shit-eating grin.

“Who wants a Batburger?

Recovery looks different every single day. Today, it looks like a car full of Tim’s family, all making him feel like the luckiest and most loved boy in the world.

Recovery is a journey, and Tim is ready to take that journey driving his favorite car, filled with his favorite people.

Three weeks later, Tim is driving the Batmobile at three in the morning, with Jason sitting in the passenger seat. It’s raining, so Tim has been showing off his hydroplaning skills.

Tim skids the car into high-speed donuts, and Jason and Tim erupt into ear-piercing hooting, screaming their heads off.

Because that’s what brothers do.