Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim met his hero on the rooftop of an old complex.

This was someone he had idolized for a long time. A person that was—to him—the standard. 

Of happiness; through which, he defined the meaning of life. 

Of resilience; through which, he came to accept all of life’s growing challenges. 

An escape he could turn to on hot summer nights, drenched in sweat and tangled in sheets after being woken by a resounding—

Crash.

He had sprung out of bed immediately—his heart thundered in his chest, mind fully alert.

What he found most terrifying, aside from the unusual wake-up call, was the immediate stillness that followed. After all, his house was a complete stranger to excitement. Tim had lived there long enough to accept the mundaneness of it all. 

His life consisted of parents that travelled often, a maid that spoke way too often, and a few buddies who didn’t really get it but tried their best to understand him (and failed, often than not). 

A sudden burglary in the dead of a summer night did not fit the catalogue.

He was almost tempted to believe it was a dream. Or something he had made up in his head. 

Best case scenario, they steal that ugly painting in the living room, he thought. If Mom or Dad ask why I waited until it was stolen to ring 911, I can always cite fear without accusation.

As though sensing Tim’s state of reserved ease, the chaos picked up with renewed vigour.

One ear pressed against the door revealed its source. His parents were in the middle of a passionate argument—their fifth in the past two days. 

He kept a tally. It was helping for the most part.

It wasn’t really helping now. For one, they never threw wine glasses unless things got really bad. An action often performed in Tim’s absence. For another, his name had come up. 

“What about Tim?” Janet said, her voice strung out and hoarse from yelling. 

Tim bit into his cheeks hard, raising an arm to cushion his head against the door.

It’s always what about Tim? It’s never how about Tim? Or where about Tim? Or when about Tim? Or… Tim shook his head. Okay, stop. That’s annoying. You’re annoying.

“Janet, I love the kid. He’s our son…and I’m ready to work past this—”

“Really, cause it sounds like you're moments away from filing for a divorce.”

Jack groaned. “Let’s look past that for a second. Despite my own personal grievances, I’m ready to commit. Especially for Tim’s sake.”

His mother sighed—tired and defeated. “Then we’re on the same page.”

There was some shuffling around for a bit. During which, Tim contemplated on why he felt glued to his door. What was he waiting for? Maybe he doubted his parents’ ability to resolve conflict.

“Yeah, you stand over… yes, there and help me just—”

Then came the sound of wood dragging against the floor as they moved things around—tidying up after a battle long fought.

“Perfecto! Good as new, huh?”

Awkwardly, his mother said, “Do you think he overheard us?”

“Ha! At this hour? A kid his age should be fast asleep.”

That was it! Case closed. Argument resolved. Something they could both agree on. 

Unfortunately, his brain loved torturing him.

Is this my fault?

The question popped up like an uninvited guest with poor social awareness, spawning similarly annoying what-if scenarios.

If they didn’t have me, he wondered, picturing how different his home would be. It was challenging—near impossible. And when the image came at last, he realised that—aside from his room—everything remained much the same as before. From the ridiculous square footage to the ugly living room decor.

Why did they have me? he pondered. This one came a lot easier to him. There were long drawn arguments, back then—much like now—followed by failed counselling sessions. Then a compromise was made when Tim was delivered in the hospital—a healthy, handsome baby that took after both of them. 

They shouldn’t have had me, Tim decided at last.

Sleep would not visit him that night, nor would that abstract concept psychologists termed peace of mind.

But his hero was there.

He sat on Tim’s bed—quiet and almost surreal. Still in that ridiculous suit. Presently going through Tim’s super secret album that should totally still be hidden underneath loose floorboards.

“Nice pics,” Nightwing said in place of a proper greeting.

In light of the absurdity of his situation, a normal person would say, “This is kinda weird.”

But because Tim’s imaginary friend was…well…imaginary, he said:

“Scoot over!” 

And tucked in, he demanded, “Hey, hand over the Robin, Year One album. Yeah, the one you’re sitting on.”

By the time morning light has drifted past his blinds, and the birds have begun their busy chatter, the voices of his parents would have tapered out, and Tim would be long asleep surrounded by pictures of Gotham’s brutal nightlife.

But he knew Nightwing would still be there when he woke up. He must still be there. That is how Tim designed this idolized version of his hero.

In the morning, Tim’s mother would smile at him over breakfast, passing him her coffee mug when Jack Drake wasn’t looking. 

It’s easy to smile despite the bitter after-taste. His mother took her coffee black—one shot of sugar, two shots of creamer.

“I know it’s your favourite. I can’t imagine why Macllvaine left it out of your serving,” his mother said, looking quite proud of herself.

He focused on the heat stinging his lips.

“Tim?”

“Hm?”

Her eyes scanned over the table before settling on his father who read the paper. Tim followed her gaze. “You shouldn’t be kept away from having the things you want. Not from me. Not from anyone.”

What does that have to do with me drinking coffee?

His shoulders tensed up—weighed by the undercurrents of growing tension. He didn’t want to be the cause of another argument.

Tim picked up his fork and shoved some scrambled eggs in his mouth. 

Ugh, it’s so egg-y, he thought before washing it down with coffee. 

“Thank you…it’s like heaven in my mouth.”

His mother smiled and he carefully copied the motion.

In the evening, his father would call him into his study, while Janet busied herself with her journaling. 

Jack would make promises—the impossible ones—the ones Tim knew he couldn’t keep. 

It’s easy to smile, lying through clenched teeth as he responded to his dad’s false bravado.

“I always try my best for you, don’t I?”

Tim looked up from where he’d been admiring the feel of the rug beneath his socked feet—there was something about the pattern that reminded him of the dusty plains of Red Dead Redemption. Maybe Mrs. Mac was right? He played way too many video games. 

“Tim?”

“Of course, I know that, Dad.” And he tried not to sound whiny. A difficult feat indeed. But he’d been standing there for the past 30 minutes listening to similar anecdotes.

Ultimately, his father wasn’t satisfied. 

“I made some slip ups here and there. We all do—”

“Yes, Dad! And I don’t hold that against you.”

Jack furrowed his bushy eyebrows, and Tim stared at that little wrinkle in the space between the two caterpillars, avoiding scrutiny like a plague.

“You always try to make out time for me…” Tim said. His words were a clear-cut reproduction of Jack’s self-pitying poems—sorrowful words that sounded less sorrowful the more he was forced to listen to them.

“It’s not your fault when those plans fall through. It’s not like you intended for it to happen. How could I hold it over your head?” Tim sighed, arms crossed over his chest in “deep thought”. All done for his father’s sake. “It’s just how the real world works.”

And because his father got a strange thrill from being treated like one of Tim’s buddies, he added: “You know we’re still cool, Jack?”

It worked.

Jack regarded him past his drooping reading glasses—cleared his throat in that powerful way only dads could—then took out a wad of cash from his drawer.

“Fourteen is a big age, Tim.” Jack stretched out his arm. Tim focused his attention on the rug again, ignoring the pressing weight in his palm. “It’s a responsible age.” 

And Tim had kept his grin plastered on; all the while his dad jostled him with playful nudges, talking about a ski trip they would (not) take in February if the weather in Oregon permits it.

He wore his smile like a gasmask in a war zone. Only pausing to breathe at night when he could escape through his windows with his camera swinging below his neck.

His parents wanted him to pick a side. They wouldn’t say it outright. No, of course not. The language they spoke— that they had taught Tim to speak—does not rely on words. Rather, it was built on the foundation of mental crucifixion. 

He knew they cared for him, but they were terrible at pretending they cared for each other. And he had to pretend for both their sakes. Behave as though he were clueless, and yet, in the same vain, he must be ready to defend either one of them at any given moment. 

He always knew it would blow up in his face, but not like this. Not in a way completely unrelated to everything. Not in a way completely out of his control.  To this extent, least of all—where he was certain things would happen in the same order in spite of his less than stellar home life.

At present, his totally real, physically present (and not some manifestation of his troubled mind) hero asked him, “What can I do you for, bud?” 

Tim doesn’t ask for help in a way that a normal person should. 

Nightwing balanced on the roof’s ledge, his legs crossed comfortably like he would on a yoga mat. Blüdhaven, bustling with activity, was like a backdrop as he perfected wildness and coolness in the same breath. 

Behind the white lens of his domino mask, the vigilante watched Tim carefully.

“A favour,” Tim said at last.

Nightwing’s head tilted slightly. A wide grin plastered on his face. “Need help saving your cat from a tree?”

Tim frowned, puzzled. “I don’t have a cat.” Then he thought it over. “Even if I did, there aren’t enough trees in Blüdhaven.”

Nightwing huffed something close to laughter. “You’re good! I’m just messing with you.”

“I’m—uh.” Tim squeezed the straps of his backpack to ground himself. “I’m here to conduct a transaction, actually.” 

Nightwing dropped off his perch with a soft thud, then leaned against the ledge—almost convincing in his casual act, but Tim wouldn’t be so easily fooled. “You’re waiting on a customer, then?”

“Just you.”

“So your people back home are aware of this, or you sneak around lousy looking buildings, working through your solo operations alone. Which one?”

“Huh—?”

“You’re here to sell me drugs, right?”

Wow, brilliant job there, man. You’ve thrown yourself smack dab in the middle of an astronomical misunderstanding!

“I don’t sell drugs!” And of course his voice had to betray him, squeaking towards the ending.

“I just want to make sure you’re safe,” Nightwing reassured. “Drug business can get really messy.” 

So yeah, he didn’t believe Tim.

Despite the long shadows that hid them on the rooftop, Tim saw the tenseness Nightwing tried to control working its way through his jaw. 

He turned away, preferring the overpowering glare of the high-rises to whatever this was.

“Do you need help, kid? Are you in some kinda trouble?”

He nearly tripped on his feet as he stepped back. When had Nightwing drawn so close? 

“They’re…” Tim hesitated, then, “they’re not around, Dick. It’s been that way for a while. That’s why I came to you.”

Nightwing just stared at him. Completely still. Perhaps too shocked to process what the teenager in front of him was saying.

Tim saw his opportunity and took it.

“My parents are missing. They’ve been gone since August without a paper trail. The police keep brushing  over the investigation, cause they disappeared out of state and they travel a lot. I know they do, but it feels different this time. I’m stuck not knowing what to do or how to reach them. It’s been nothing but no contact for months! So, I thought I could speed up the process if I had you track them down instead,” he said in one breath. 

“Hey! Hey.” 

Tim clamped his mouth shut. 

“I want to know if you are safe. I understand that you’re worried about your parents. Trust me I do. But you’re my priority right now.”

Tim bobbed his head.

“Awesome, let’s start from the beginning.”

He furrowed his brows. “How far back should I go?”

“As much as you can.” 

But, how much was too much?

As though reading his mind, Nightwing told him warmly, “Too much will always be too little.”

He drew a contrast between what he saw there and his imagination. That grin was way too crooked—the nose, slightly bent. The feeling of discontent was a complete surprise. 

He was quick to shake off his backpack, conscious of the person watching him, before pulling out his phone from the front zipper. 

He surfed through his camera roll, until he landed on a picture taken from the 2000s. The picture had been pulled straight out of his old Canon camera as soon as he figured out how to send a JPEG file over email.

The shot was of two families. Similar—in that both consisted of a husband, a wife and their son. Yet different. In that one family was dolled up for the evening—the circus didn’t call for it, but their status demanded that it was so. While the other family wore bright costumes—they burned like a beacon despite the camera’s awful lighting. The stars of the show.

Tim flipped his phone around.

“I was there that night, remember?” 

Dick frowned—hard—before leaning in for a better look. His skin looked sickly and pale under the phone’s harsh lighting. His expression slightly softened the longer he stared.

“The Quadruple flip. An incredible feat nearly impossible for the most talented of gymnasts. In the history of aerial acrobatics, only one family in the entire world has transcended that barrier.”

Nightwing cringed—Tim could somewhat sympathise; hearing about it this way was kind of awkward. But he had memorised that pamphlet days before the performance—frequently repeating it to himself over breakfast, lunch and dinner. It remained with him now, years later.

“The Flying Graysons. The daredevils that challenged the impossible…and succeeded.”

“Until they didn’t.” Nightwing's pain was palpable though it had dulled over time. “They’re long gone now.”

Tim pulled his phone away. The embarrassment of it all was catching up to him. “Not all of them. The boy in the picture survived.”

“And you know what happened to him?” 

Tim was quick to defend himself: “I’m the only one that has this photo.”

Nightwing sighed. “I’m not accusing you of anything. Sure, your knowledge poses a security risk but you came here prepared to show me that. Determined to make your transaction, I think you called it.” 

The man hummed softly, catching Tim off guard, because it was completely unexpected. “You must be really desperate,” he said at last.

A sudden wave of helplessness came crashing hard. Yes, he was desperate. Completely incapable of solving such a simple problem on his own. He focused really hard on his pair of beat up sneakers—drawing a quick comparison with Nightwing’s light blue boots. Why did such a simple thing fill him with insignificance?

“A kid using his resources to fight through his desperation. I respect that.” 

Tim glanced up sharply. That same lopsided grin. 

Nightwing rolled his shoulders, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Even if it does sorta rub me the wrong way, I’m down. What’s your game?”

The words were spoken with more confidence than he’d mustered the whole night. “Help me find my parents and I’ll keep my mouth shut about your identity.”

Because, as it turned out, Tim loved Jack and Janet Drake far more than any version of Dick Grayson his mind could conjure. Probably more so than even the real version in front of him. And if there was a playing card in his deck to get them out of whatever situation they got caught up in, he was going to use it.

Nightwing seemed to hesitate for a moment. A moment that stretched long enough for Tim to wonder if he was mentally debating leaping off the building and out of this situation. 

Then he nodded once, coming to an agreement with both himself and Tim.

“Okay, kid, let’s go find your parents.”

He stuck out his hand. Tim reconsidered for a brief moment, before reaching out as well. A palm covered in bright blue Kevlar clasped firmly over one pale and slender. They shook on it once. 

This is real, Tim thought.

The deal was sealed.

~*~

Exactly a month later.

Jason Todd was chewing bubblegum near the alley bins.

Tim was ambushed when school let out. 

These two events were not mutually exclusive.

Tim would blame his phone on this one occasion. He’d been checking his messages when it happened. He was confirming with Dick on the details for their next rendezvous: Today. 6PM. Blüdhaven. Dick’s messy apartment.

One second he’s laying his skateboard flat on the pavement, preparing for and dreading the short trip from here to the station. In the next, a bigger teen is roughly manhandling him—smacking Tim’s phone away and kicking his skateboard down the walkway—before dragging him into a tight looking alleyway. 

Their eyes met in a tense dance. One wide with panic. The other red around the edges, focused with a strange intensity.

Tim placed the angry face immediately.

If Dick was Tim’s idol, Jason was a representation of his goals and envy. He was—in a sense—all that Tim wanted to be: confident, charismatic and cherished. He was—in every sense—all that Tim could never be. 

That’s why he’s not sure how to feel when Jason full body slammed him on the brick wall, with enough force for his brain to rattle in his skull. 

A part of him was impressed that Robin had the patience to track down and wait for him to finish his classes. The more logical side was terrified that Robin had chosen to track down and wait for him to finish his classes.

Jason raised him up by the collar of his puffer jacket—the material scuffed against the wall—and his sneakers hovered over the ground.

Tim struggled in his hold. 

“Who the hell are you?” 

He stopped moving immediately, scrunching up his nose at the overwhelming smell of strawberry bubblegum. “Pretty sure that’s my question, dude!”

“What dirt do you have on my brother?“

Jason squeezed tightly and shook Tim like he was a stubborn ketchup bottle. “Well?”

Tim scoffed. He reached under to make a grab at his assailant’s arm, but Jason wouldn’t budge. “C’mon are you kidding me?” Tim bit out. “Do you want my lunch money or something?”

Jason’s grip went slack. Tim could practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“And why make such a show of it in an alley of all places? On a Friday afternoon too, when you could be binging shows on Netflix with a pizza shoved down your throat. It’s so freaking dramatic and weird…”

Jason recoiled slightly, head ducking away in… embarrassment? 

Ha, was this actually working?

“I mean, if you’re that committed to the act just beat me up now and hang me on a flagpole.”

A short pause where Tim let himself relax. 

When would he learn?

“Maybe I will,” Jason replied calmly.

And Tim’s stomach dropped.

Jason drew close and Tim could trace out the bruises on his face—uneven marks concealed by a powder which clashed against his flushed complexion. His was a face burning with controlled rage. 

Think, Tim, what does he mean by dirt on his brother?

The closest Tim had been to Jason had been the drug bust just a few nights ago at the abandoned warehouse. Tim had been watching at a relatively safe distance behind a container. It had been forced open earlier by one of the Bats during their brief investigation of the building (right before the guns went blazing). The box itself contained a strange white powder, and Tim had to put on his emergency gasmask just in case.

Something went wrong during the bust. A few goons escaped in the chaos, and Robin had left the scene early—thoroughly berated by a very annoyed Batman.

But what does any of that have to do with Tim? 

“You know who I am.” Not a question, just a fact. 

Oh.

It’s not about the drug bust.

Oh.

He knew about the deal with Nightwing.

Oh shit.

“I’m in a shit mood right now. And I’m running low on forbearance, so it will behoove you to keep your sentiments to yourself.” Which was an unnecessarily theatrical way of saying he was losing his cool.

Robin has a great vocab when he’s mad, go figure?

And because Tim lacked all self preservation skills, he said: “Hey, you’ve gotta think this over, man. Robin doesn’t hurt kids.”

His heart raced a mile a minute. Waiting—then hoping—then cursing his luck. 

Jason’s grip only grew more firm as time passed.

“Rule #13 of the Crime Fighting Handbook,” he said at last—methodical and toneless in his delivery. “I swear to uphold the law, regardless of the age, race or gender of the apprehended party. I shall not be biased in my enactment of this rule, regardless of the circumstance I find myself in.”

Tim was confused.

“We’re allowed our own personal interpretations, of course…”

Tim Drake thought back to all the minor and major decisions in his life that led up to this moment—

“It’s simple really. Punch first, ask questions later.”

He decided then and there that he would hang up his camera and retire from his job as a “professional stalker” if he survived this mess. 

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson was a god-awful liar.

Jason had made that mundane discovery two weeks ago while seated on the fire escape of his brother’s apartment complex. 

It was a Saturday night. Blüdhaven, in its overwhelming generosity, blessed its residents with noise, air and light pollution. Jason sat on the creaky, metal frame work in a slouch. That way he got to fully enjoy the hum of traffic below, the smog filled sky above and the blinding lights of all the slick and old buildings alike surrounding him on every side. The scenery had real potential. 

Picture this: Dystopian film of the year awarded by the American Film Institute under the Indie Films category. There was one slight issue—that was the star of the show. Himself. Jason’s red nose and puffy eyes would cast better in a coming of age movie where his character was diagnosed with a terminal illness. 

Jason used the sleeve of his sweater to wipe his nose. Sniffled once. He took a deep breath in—regretted it, as the smell of garbage and smoke attacked his senses—letting it out in a great white cloud. 

That shit was not relieving.

He pulled out his cell and opened his contacts. Bruce. Options. 

His thumb, numb with cold, hovered uselessly over the screen. Then, like a knife, Dick’s voice cut through the din of traffic from somewhere in the apartment. “Jason, chop, chop. Are you waiting for Peter Pan to come swoop you away?”

Asshole. Dick didn’t even feel guilty about throwing his kid brother out into the cold. Jason’s thumb flew down in a jab. Tap. Tap. Unblock. Call. 

The phone rang twice.

“Where are you?” The words were spoken in a hurry. Whatever concern Bruce had was lost in that gratingly gruff voice he used on criminals. You know, the one that made him sound like he was on the verge of an aneurysm.

Vegas, Jason almost said just to test Bruce’s reaction. He chewed into his cheeks, transferring the weight of his cell from one hand to the other.

Dick’s insistent yapping—“Jay, let’s get a move on already. Jay, I’m sleepy and tired and have to drive you. So please, stop fucking sulking”— encouraged Jason to speak at last.

“Bruce. Hey. Um, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I…” 

He looked up. His glossy eyes searched for truth in the hanging laundry spread out on the fire escape; he saw Dick’s impatient face instead. His brother stood with his head stuck out of the window, wet curls plastered on his forehead. 

Jason stared at the moving vehicles below. “I need a ride, like, right now,” he said.

Bruce sighed. Again, he seemed to say, like Jason had made a habit out of running away, then calling for a bail out at the first sign of trouble.

“Finally,” Dick said. “Put B on speaker.”

Jason pursed his lips but did as he was told—knowing that Dick was petty enough to call Bruce later if he didn’t have his way. 

“Send the address over, I’ll have Alfred pick you up,” Bruce was saying now, sparing Jason a lecture.

“B, he’s with me,” Dick said, cheery. 

“Dick?” And it was so unfair how Bruce sounded more normal speaking to Dick than with him.

“Yeah, yeah. Long time no see.”

“How have things been, chum?”

Dick winced. “Eh. Life, y’know?” His head bobbed in a way that meant he was shrugging. “Let’s catch up later. I’ll drop your little rebel off at the train station, and he’ll send you the addy when we’re in the car, yeah?”

Jason let the rest of their conversation merge with the noise. He felt invisible—like another landmark in the bustling city as Dick and Bruce tossed stray jabs his way. 

A few minutes later, squeezed in the passenger seat of Dick’s Audi with his duffle bag pressed to his side, Jason grumbled as he gave Bruce the train station address, following Dick’s orders. 

When the call cut, Jason turned to Dick, who was typing the address into Google maps on the car’s navigator. Jason coughed into his jacket, catching Dick’s attention. “Why didn’t you ask B to pick me up from your place?” Want me out of your hair as quickly as possible, I bet.

Without looking up, Dick sighed. “Listen, I didn’t want to bother my guest. You and B can get really noisy with your arguments.” Dick was one to talk. Until this year, he and Bruce had gotten along like a house on fire.

But he didn’t argue with Dick. What was the point? He’d still have to argue with Bruce and, God forbid, possibly Alfred later. Better that he saved his energy.

As the car joined the other vehicles, speeding along the main road, Dick turned the stereo’s knob until he got to the economist station (cause, as it turned out, listening to a British guy go on a tangent about the ever changing American stock market was better than clearing the air with your little brother).

Jason pressed his head to the cool window, watching everything drift by in a blur of colours. His breath fogged the glass. The car was well heated but outside was still pretty cold. It was autumn, at the brink of winter, after all.

The car’s warm air felt almost suffocating—thick with tension and broken promises. The Audi came to a crawl, stopping at a red light. Dick moved to turn the volume up. “Once again DI’s stocks have dropped by a whopping 20%. If you haven’t already, I suggest you sell now,” the radio host said. Dick gripped the steering tight. 

Jason adjusted his bag, then pulled out his phone, seeking to find a reason for all this shit—seeking a distraction, because shedding tears now would be too embarrassing. Bruce had taught him that the best way to overcome a problem was to track its source and unravel the knots from there—so that’s what he did.

He pulled out Dick’s contact, then scrolled through their old messages. Talks of concerts, college plans and dating mishaps—archived and current. 

That had significantly slowed down about two weeks ago.

He focused on the messages from this week. Monday to Friday. One for every day.

Bruce keeps giving me shit for the drug bust! I swear I heard something moving, but he keeps citing the crime fighter’s handbook like I don’t know that shit front and back. I mean, yes, I broke the rules. But I apologised, dammmit!!! (Unread)

Now he’s threatening to bench me. WTAF?! (Unread)

He benched me… (Unread)

It’s kinda cold and I’ve got nowhere to go. Can I crash at yours this Friday? (Unread)

Hey, I’m here???? (Unread)

It was the weather’s fault, Jason reasoned, scrolling down to read older texts. If it wasn’t so fucking cold, he would’ve been far less rash—in less of a hurry to find somewhere. A tent would have done nicely so long as he made the ever stoic, know-it-all Bruce Wayne panic. But looking back, he should’ve never reached out to Dick in the first place. But his brother had been so uncharacteristically nice these past few months. Until now. 

Dick had been quick to go back to his roots the moment Jason pointed out how fucked up the situation was. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.” And that had hurt worse than any whispered insult they threw at each other. So yeah, it was Dick’s fault. For sending that annoying text at such a crucial point in Jason’s depressive spiral.

You can visit anytime. I’m here for you. Always :). An old message, sure. Different circumstances, sure. In the end, he failed to live up to it. 

So maybe it was Jason’s fault, for being so naive? Had to be. What was he thinking running away from home, and straight into Dick’s confusing mess? 

In what felt like a reenactment of Goldilocks and the Jay-bear, the events of the night played out for him, starting with his first encounter with the kid. Jason had made his unannounced arrival to Dick’s place—a bulging overnight bag slung over his shoulder, ball cap tilted over his eyes. In his all black outfit and combat boots, the neighbours probably mistook him for a burglar. 

He made quick work of picking the lock, letting himself in without much flourish. 

A quick look around the cramped apartment revealed that his brother was nowhere in sight. There was the distinct sound of the shower going off—so that’s probably where he had run off to. A quick rinse off after hours of patrolling. 

Jason had not thought anything of it. The real confusion set in when he moved to the sitting area. He kicked past an old pizza box, balled-up socks and a beat up pair of Adidas sneakers (way too many sizes small to be Dick’s). The guy had become a hoarder—figures. He reached his favourite spot at last. His ass hovered over the recliner. It shifted. A beat passed. Then he quickly pulled away, bumping the coffee table as he moved. 

There was a strange lump snoring away on his favourite chair. To add insult to injury, his Wonder Woman blanket was bundled around the stranger. Dick was hoarding people too?! He nearly sat on this person for Pete’s sake! 

Jason crept forward, gripping the strap of his bag, and leaned over. Tossing off the blanket revealed an eerily familiar face: parted lips with red sauce stained at the corners; a pointed nose twitching with each snore; flushed skin damp with sweat; and a tangle of messy dark hair pushed into the grey cushion. 

That was Timothy Drake. Jason squinted. It felt wrong seeing him in casual clothes: a graphic tee matched with baggy, blue jeans. Slung over the backrest was a blue and red puffer jacket—too small to be Dick’s. It was the kid’s. Had to be. The sneakers too.

They only ever encountered each other at those posh, rich people galas. Why was he here?

Jason had blinked once, twice, then shook his head, tossing his duffle on the loveseat across the TV set. His stomach squeezed, then gave a loud growl. He smacked it twice, deciding to refocus his efforts on feeding himself. Maybe hunger and fatigue were making him see things?

But shoving his hand through the cabinet revealed that someone had stolen out of his Pop Tart stash. The last piece had been bitten into—returned to its packet. The audacity.

Jason huffed, closing the cabinet doors slowly. The cereal in the bottom shelves was that nasty sugary brand Dick was obsessed with. Hell would have to freeze over before he touched that stuff. Frustrated, Jason opened the fridge. There was that lasagna he’d cooked last time he was—

It was gone. Only an empty tray remained. Jason blinked slowly like a chameleon. He slammed the fridge door; opened it again. Empty tray. Slam. Open. Scraped clean. Slam. Open. Red sauce lingered on a white surface. 

He dropped to his knees; one hand gripped his chest, while the other squeezed his stomach. His stomach growled. Loud. 

That was how Dick found him—a complete mess on the kitchen floor. 

His brother hovered at the doorway to the bathroom, towelling off his dripping hair; his pajamas hung loosely on his frame. “Are you constipated?” he asked in place of a proper greeting. 

Jason stood up slowly—an arm still wrapped around his stomach—using the cool fridge door to steady himself. 

Dick watched him, looking for all the world unbothered. Then, in a rather matter-of-fact way, he said, “Toilet is clogged, just so you know…” He trailed off, looking elsewhere.

Dick placed his towel around his shoulders. Walked to the sitting area. Stared at the stranger on Jason’s favourite recliner. Then gathered the blanket from the floor, settling it around the intruder until he was wrapped tightly like a burrito. 

And that was the final straw. What followed? Well, they had that argument in the hallway “to allow Tim to get some shut eye” (Dick’s own words). Dick won by default of Jason fleeing to the fire escape. The rest was history.

Turns out finding someone to blame was easy. 

“Why did you kidnap Drake’s kid?” Jason said as the car slowly pulled out of traffic. 

Dick said nothing. Bob’s Roofing did an ad in the background. 60% off all replacement roofs this October. 100% quality and a 10 year guarantee. Call this number now…

“Or did he break in?” Like I did.

Jason sat up. “You never confirmed when I asked.” More like yelled. “If you keep giving me the silent treatment, I’ll tell Bruce.”

Still nothing.

Jason adjusted his hat, pushing up the brim so that his fierce blue eyes shot lasers Dick’s way. “Seriously, I’ll do it—”

An arm shot out, pushing Jason hard into the leather seat. Dick remained still—arm anchoring Jason down. Calm. Terrifying. Then he released him, casually knocking Jason’s hat out of place. 

“It’s for a case,” Dick said at last. “I told you before. You weren’t listening.”

Jason frowned, adjusting his Gotham Knight’s hat once more. What was that? Jason thought, startled.

Then in a far warmer tone that gave Jason whiplash, Dick said, “Sorry. My mind is all over the place. No excuse. I know… Just—do me this one favour, Jay. Don’t mention it to Bruce.” 

Jason scoffed, leaning his head back. Time passed slowly. The car’s engine. The radio host. Dick gripping then releasing the steering. “What’ll happen if I do?”

“Tim would never forgive me. I think… No, I know he would do something rash if things came to that.”

Tim. They were on a first name basis now. Him and the kid.

“Huh.” The snoring, pasta-stained face came to Jason with ease. “Worried that he’ll eat all your cereal?”

Dick grimaced. “He’s like a bottomless pit.”

“Then kick him out.” Like you did to me.

“He’s got nowhere to go.”

“No one wants him.” Jason scoffed. “Figures.”

“Dude,” Dick warned, “don’t be cruel.” 

Silence. Jason breathed through his nose. “What about his parents?”

“Uh.” Dick scratched the nape of his neck. “They’ll be gone a while. I can’t trust him to be on his own right now.”

Jason filed that away for later, choosing to focus on the first part. “What about that cosy mansion a few miles from our place? I bet it’s more comfortable than your hovel—” Dick glared at him, Jason pushed on, “Isn’t it better for him to wait for his parents there?”

“No,” Dick muttered. 

“I mean, I trust you know what you’re doing.”

“Mm.” 

“But if someone else were to find him there, it would…” Jason waved his hands wildly, “raise a lot of questions.” Much like Jason had, shouting accusations that he himself knew weren’t true—finding Dick a suitable target for all his inbuilt aggression. “And I don’t want you to ever be put in that situation. Especially ‘cause you’re a cop.”

Dick was full-on grinning now. “What does me being a cop have to do with anything?”

“Cops are full of shit.”

“O.K.” Dick huffed out a laugh. “I’ll take your word for it. You’re obviously the expert on that.”

Jason thought back to the harsh streets of downtown Gotham.

The policeman who tugged him out of the crowd. Confused, Jason followed as he was read his rights. The crime? Nine-years-old Jason was guilty of obstructing justice or something like that. That was his life before Bruce and Robin and Dick. 

The world needed good cops. Men like Dick Grayson. 

“Just don’t get caught.”

Dick cleared his throat. “Listen, I—”

“If you’re going to say, sorry about how things went down at my place, don’t. You’ll make me puke.” Jason looked out the window, smiling at a toddler who waved eagerly his way before the minivan changed lanes. “Plus, I’m too proud to apologise.”

Dick’s nose wrinkled. “Noted.” He tapped the steering lightly as the car came to a halt. This time traffic wasn’t so eager to let up. The vehicles moved at a snail’s pace. 

A few questions passed through Jason’s head as they moved: Is the kid being hurt at home? Why is Dick being so secretive? Is he mad at me… or am I being extra sensitive ‘cause Timmy Drake stole my fucking Pop-Tarts? 

“What is with this hold up?” Dick groaned. “I know it’s a long weekend, but I didn’t think…” He trailed off.

Jason shrugged. “The buses were delayed in Gotham too.”

“So many people.” Dick stretched his hands over his head, wrapping his arms over the head rest. “Seriously, what’s the hurry?”

Jason eyed a Ford whose driver had been honking non-stop. “Wanna step out and ask that fucker?”

Dick ignored him. “I guess I don’t blame them. Maybe I’m jealous. I’d take any chance to get out of this city too.”

Jason grinned, suddenly excited. He didn’t know Dick felt anything outside of a strong responsibility towards this city. “Really? Where would you go?”

Dick was quick to answer. “Mexico.”

“Oh.” Jason blinked. “Okay?” Not really what he expected.

“To try out the margaritas,” Dick answered before Jason could voice the question.

“You could do that literally anywhere in America,” Jason pointed out.

“Yes, but I want an authentic experience.” Dick fished out his phone from his windbreaker, pulling up a picture from his album. It was a menu written entirely in Spanish. Then he shoved it in Jason’s face. “I was watching the food network recently and this guy, Guy Fieri, was talking about the best place to get one.”

Jason huffed out a laugh. “Okay,” he said, struggling to keep a straight face. Dick had been so moody and busy these days; he forgot the guy still knew how to have fun. Jason swiped his finger to the next picture following Dick’s prompting. A blonde Caucasian guy sipped languidly on a pink drink in a glass up. 

Dick was being very serious about this. “They do other flavours outside of lime. It’s a whole experience,” he was saying.

“Make sure you take me along then,” Jason said, trying for casual.

Dick raised a brow. “You can’t drink, Jason. At least not legally.”

Jason frowned. “I’ll get a mocktail.” I just want to hang out with you, he doesn’t say, suddenly shy. 

Dick shook his head, amused, before continuing, “You know, Mexico still gets sunny days in October.”

“Mm.”

“And the air quality is better there.”

Gotham is shit in that regard too, Jason mused.

“Crazy how you moved from one dump to another,” Jason said.

Dick frowned. Then with exaggerated pomp, he said, “It’s my dump and no one is allowed to talk crap about it.”

Jason rolled his eyes. Yup, there it was. The blind patriotism for Blüdhaven.

Dick copied him, more flamboyant with it as his eyes briefly turned white. He flipped the radio to a loud pop station. Still, it was better than the industrial drill from before. 

As The Weekend finished his song—one Dick sang enthusiastically along to—Jason looked out the windscreen, then stared pointedly at the car plate in front of him. “I’d probably go to Germany.” He awkwardly tugged at his sleeve.

Dick stopped singing at once, face softening. “Cool. What are you gonna check out first?”

“Bruce took me there once for a mission. There was this butcher’s shop that sold meat.”

“That’s typically what butchers sell, Jay.”

Jason doesn’t entertain the jab. “It was a cannibal case.” A pause. “Fortunately, it wasn’t human meat. Anyway, I wanna try some wurst again.” 

Did that sound too stupid? But Dick brought up food and drinks first, so it only made sense— Wait! Why the hell did he mention the cannibal?! Jason adjusted the duffle bag beside him, looking for a new distraction. 

“German sausage.“ Dick bobbed his head, approving. “Good shit.”

Jason’s stomach hurt. It was still empty. Dick hadn’t even asked if he was hungry. Sure, Jason had been too stubborn to complain, but still, usually he would offer his shitty Lucky Charms at this point. Then Jason would protest, rolling up his sleeves as he announced that he would cook for both of them that evening. Later on, he and Dick would sneak out through the fire escape to the city where crime and corruption awaited their eager fists.

And then something occurred to Jason.

“How’re you gonna keep the vigilante stuff away from Tim?” It felt weird saying the interloper’s name out loud. Made it feel more real.

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

Shouldn’t?

“Seriously, dude. Don’t tell me you didn’t consider—”

A phone was buzzing. It sounded loud and obnoxious. It was Dick’s. In a fluid motion, rivalling a speedster’s, Dick picked up the call and pressed it to the side of his head. 

“Yo, Timmy. Had to take care of a family emergency.” Jason scoffed. Was he the emergency in question? Dick continued, “Yeah, I left without even leaving a note, so-rry~.” Dick said, scratching his cheek. 

“Yeah.” Dick’s brows slowly furrowed, hand lowering into his lap. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea, actually.” 

Jason tried to make himself obscure, scrolling through his own phone before opening up Instagram. He liked a post from Barbara. Yes, the Divergent adaptation did not live up to the books. Greatest disappointment of the year.

“Seriously, Tim. Why have you made it your daily mission to throw yourself into danger? Do you have a quota to meet?” 

Jason paused. He swiped too hard, finger slipping off the screen and leading him to a post by Bruce. He was posing near a book stand with one of his lady friends—the author of said book: The Five Things a Child Needs to Succeed in an Ever Changing World. 

Jason stared amazed, leaving a heart on the post like some filial duty. Damn, who showed his old man social media?

Wait, when did Jason and Bruce start following each other on Instagram…?

Dick was muttering some nonsense as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I understand where you’re coming from, kid, I do. But it’s late. Check the time.”

A short pause.

“In what universe is 1:00AM considered early….? Don’t use technicalities on me!”

This Tim guy sounded super problematic. If it was Jason, he’d cook up a mean lasagna and help clean up afterwards. No starting drama that left his host looking like he’s been curb stomped by a horse. Yet, this was his lot in life.

“I get it. Yes, I checked out the station. 88.9 FM right? Mhm,” Dick said, switching the station back to the annoying one. The business drab, Jason noted.

“No, Tim, your mom’s friend wasn’t on the air today… I’m checking now.”

Dick tilted his head, moving the car forward by an inch. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Jason opened the Libby app. The sentences stared back at him—words too difficult to comprehend.

“And how would sneaking out help, exactly?”

Dick sat up, rigid. The seatbelt pulled taut on his cotton pajama shirt. Jason frowned, flipping his phone so that the screen was pressed on his thigh.

“Tim. Tim. Tim… How many times did I say—okay, Tim. Think rationally here.” Dick pointed a finger at the car’s roof. “Remember, if you throw me under the bus, you’re screwed. We’re both screwed.” He said the last part like he was singing a jingle, raising the same finger to match the crescendo of his notes. 

Jason watched on, visibly worried. Was Tim about to set off a bomb or something?

Dick threw his head back. He used his hand to muffle a strong curse. Cupping his mouth gently, he said, “Fine. Fine. Do what you want; you always do. Just make sure you leave your tracker on.” Dick moved the car forward. The traffic was clearing up. 

“Yes, it’s absolutely necessary that you do not turn it off… And don’t go picking any more fights,” he said.

Jason leaned over the separator. “Fights? Plural.” He whispered, harshly.

Dick laughed. It sounded forced—all sharp edges. “Sorry, but, no, I don’t trust you. Not at all.” Dick drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Not after what happened last time.”

Jason fought back a grin. Did he have it all wrong? Was Tim involved in some shady business? That changed things… drastically. 

“I’m driving so I need to… Yeah, you too. Take care—” Dick pulled the phone away, staring confused at what looked suspiciously like a well shot picture of Jason in a domino mask—wild grin and all—Tim’s contact taunted him. He carefully placed his phone into the cup holster. 

“He cut me off,” Dick mumbled.

Jason couldn’t help himself. “Good for you.”

That conversation had been the defining moment. The reason Jason had decided to look into Pop-Tart thief thoroughly. He learned two things: One. Dick Grayson is a god-awful liar. Two. Timmy Drake was a vat of mysteries.

When you actually acknowledged his presence, one couldn’t help but see him everywhere. And, for his part, Jason had questions. 

Like: What exactly was their tiny stalker plotting with that expensive camera of his? And could he send Jason his portfolio, please? There must be at least two cool shots of himself there…

Was Tim immortal? That was the only way to make sense of why he got by with scrapes—though he was caught smack dab in the middle of a gun fight—while Jason, despite all his training, needed three stitches, a cold compress and bed rest under similar circumstances.

Soon, curiosity grew into frustration as Bruce got snappier and Dick brushed him off more. Jason was on the brink of yet another runaway plan—the ticket from Sheila practically burned a hole through his pocket—when the issue of Tim Drake reared its ugly head again. 

Dick had gotten pretty banged up on a mission out of the country. One that forced him to back out of his space mission with the Titans. Worse, when Dick got back, he refused to talk to anyone. 

Jason, Bruce, Babs, Alfred.

Jason took it as yet another sign that life was against him, ignored the warning signs, and pushed on. Then he’d gotten that text. Just as he finished packing his stuff for his flight.

Look out for Tim. I owe you my life. Thanks ;)

Dick’s injury and radio silence was related to Tim. So it was like that…

“Fuck.”

With shaky hands, Jason rushed to his desk, fishing out a cigar pack from his drawer. His emergency stash. Along with miscellaneous items like scraps of paper, a paper clip, so on and so forth, Jason found half a pack of chewing gum. The cigar pack was there too. He hesitated, then took the bubble gum instead—it rubbed him the wrong way to smoke around kids, even evil masterminds like Tim Drake.

He headed straight to the car with a new goal in mind.

When Alfred asked why he was so eager to get to school that day—looking pointedly at Jason’s spare luggage—Jason smiled tightly. “Dick invited me over to his place. Guess I’m excited to see him after so long.”

Alfred smiled at him from the rear view mirror. He could’ve pointed out that they’d met up not too long ago, during Jason’s latest stunt. Or, that Bruce had never granted Jason express permission to go to Blüdhaven. Instead, he said, “It makes me glad to realise how close you two have become these past few months. You’ll see how Master Dick is doing and report to us when you’re back home. Wouldn’t you, my boy?” 

Something heavy settled on Jason’s chest. “Sure, Alf, you can count on me.”

Alfred winked, sly.

~*~

And that was the motivation behind Jason’s ambush of poor Tim. It was almost preordained that their second meeting would be as ridiculous as their first.

“Who the hell are you?” 

The kid went slack in Jason’s grasp, crinkling his nose. It would've been funny in any other circumstance, but then he opened his mouth to say: “Pretty sure that’s my question, dude!”

“What dirt do you have on my brother?” Jason pressed. Why was Dick so willing to throw himself into danger for a kid he hadn’t known half as long as Jason. It was messed up. It wasn’t fair.

Jason squeezed tightly and shook Tim. “Well?” Spit it out, he urged.

The kid scoffed. He grabbed at Jason’s arm, but Jason refused to budge. This was the hill he had chosen to die on.

“C’mon are you kidding me?” Tim whined. “Do you want my lunch money or something?”

Jason’s grip went slack. Wait, is that really what it looked like? Jason was going for intimidating… Damn it!

“And why make such a show of it in an alley of all places?” The brat was saying—much too confident in his ability to snark his way into victory. “On a Friday afternoon too, when you could be binging shows on Netflix with a pizza shoved down your throat. It’s so freaking dramatic and weird…”

Jason recoiled slightly, he ducked his head. 

What would it take?

Tim’s voice sounded like static in his ears. At some point, he cited something about Jason hanging him up on a flagpole. Jason thought about all the sleepless nights he’d suffered recently—it wasn’t purely Tim’s fault, but it was certainly good fuel for his rage.

“Maybe I will,” Jason replied calmly.

Tim’s face visibly paled. He looked even smaller in his blue and red puffer—that same stupid jacket from that night. Jason drew close. He traced out every hint of fear on Tim’s face like an astrologist recording the stars.

He knew how to drive home his point.

“You know who I am.” 

Jason almost slipped as the realisation dawned on Tim’s face. He was so animated, it was kind of adorable—

No, Dick had gotten hurt because of this jerk!

“I’m in a shit mood right now. And I’m running low on forbearance, so it will behoove you to keep your sentiments to yourself.” He almost cringed—where the hell did that come from?

“Hey, you’ve gotta think this over, man. Robin doesn’t hurt kids,” Tim said. 

True, but Tim didn’t know that for sure.

Jason tightened his grip. 

“Rule #13 of the Crime Fighting Handbook,” he said at last. Bruce would weep at Jason’s fluency in his delivery of pure bullshit. “I swear to uphold the law, regardless of the age, race or gender of the apprehended party. I shall not be biased in my enactment of this rule, regardless of the circumstance I find myself in.”

Tim was confused. Understandable really.

Jason worked around it. “We’re allowed our own personal interpretations, of course. It’s simple really. Punch first, ask questions later.”

One thing was for sure, he was going to get to the bottom of this once and for all.

Jason released Tim, watching as he dropped like a sad sack of potatoes, struggling to right himself. He almost felt bad. Almost.

They left the alley together. Tim moved like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. While Jason tried to appear bigger than he was as he puffed out his chest.

In what had to be pure luck—surely, the universe was on Jason’s side in this one instance—a student only passed by when they had straightened things out. Jason was still in the clear.

They walked side by side on the busy sidewalk.

Jason eyed Tim’s bulging backpack and skateboard—which he had tucked into his arm. 

“Where are we headed?” Jason asked.

Tim looked at him. We? he seemed to question with those dewy eyes. 

Yes, we damn it.

Jason tapped his forehead. Tim jerked back. “Oi. I asked you a question.”

Tim looked at the gravel pathway—a red dot had formed between his eyebrows from Jason’s assault. “Dick invited me over.”

Of course they still speak. Envy lay its hold on Jason’s heart. He managed to rein it in. 

“Cool. So we’re taking the bus.” Jason considered the state of his finances. Bruce had blocked all of his cards. Credit and debit. Jason slung an arm over Tim’s shoulder. The guy shrivelled up at his side..

“Yo, Timmy. I’m gonna need you to purchase my ticket.”

That same look. Bug eyes; mouth gaping. Jason was starting to expect to see a lot of that from Tim. He jostled the kid. “C’mon, we’ve got to get a move on so that we don’t miss it.”

Tim adjusted his bag. “We’ve still got time,” he grumbled. But he was far more docile after Jason’s successful intimidation session.

A short trip via train, five blocks down a dangerous looking part of town, then passing the revolving doors of the bus terminal led them to an important discovery: They had about two hours before the bus departed. 

According to the lady working at the booth, they had arrived way too early; she looked between Jason and Tim with thinly veiled worry. She was probably wondering why Jason was speaking on behalf of them both, yet it was Tim’s card that had carried out the purchase when the POS was presented.

“He’s my cousin from Germany.” Jason squeezed Tim, still by his side, then released him to take his passport back from the sale’s rep who had scanned it with far more intent than necessary. “He doesn’t speak much English.”

The lady’s smile brightened. She spoke in a language Jason didn’t have the first clue about aside from the introductory classes he’d taken with Bruce. And, Tim, always full of surprises, actually answered her. Fluently too. 

They’d made a new friend out of it—Hannah. 

She was even kind enough to point them to a restaurant serving chilli dogs at half the price when Jason’s stomach jumped in to throw its two cents in their conversation—a loud growl that left Tim mortified and Jason chuckling. 

In the end, Jason promised to stop by Hannah’s half sister’s cousin’s girlfriend’s butcher’s shop when he eventually visited Germany again. Tim drooped his head as Jason waved goodbye enthusiastically for the both of them.

Now their orders were spread out between them on the restaurant’s square table. Tim had gotten the burger meal that came with a side of fries and an iced drink. Jason had exploited Tim for all that he was worth, getting nearly half the menu. The manager, pleased with their purchase, had insisted on giving them a discount. Jason had waved him off, saying to take out the money and put it into a charity instead.

Now Tim glared at his meal while Jason stuffed his mouth. 

“She was nice,” he said conversationally through bulging cheeks.

Tim slammed his fists on the table, cup spilling over with the motion. The patrons stopped their conversations to watch them. 

“I’m sick of this. Tell me why you’re doing this, Jason Todd!”

Jason leaned away—instincts kicking in. From Tim’s perspective, Jason certainly seemed like a tool.

“Is it because I know your stupid secret?” the kid continued.

Jason waved wildly, looking all around him. Everyone had turned back to their meals when they realised Tim and Jason were just two highschoolers getting into a spat. He sighed in relief. Which turned out to be short-lived.

“I don’t care if you beat me up. Go right ahead.”

Okay, so maybe Jason had taken it a bit too far.

“Do it, you coward!”

Jason looked towards the drenched table. The soggy buns of his chilli dog. The drops that had stained his own jeans. Then up at Tim who had balled his hands into tiny fists. 

Jason couldn’t help it, he burst into laughter. Was this the same guy he had agonised over? Tim was just… Tim was—

Watching him. Horrified.

Upon managing to control himself, Jason said, “Hey, Tim. You’re actually a pretty funny guy.”

“Huh?”

Jason stretched out a hand over the mess on the table. A peace offering. “We got off on the wrong foot last time. Let’s try to get along. Okay?”

Tim wrinkled his brows; he smacked Jason’s hand away and picked his stuff up from the floor—skateboard cradled close and backpack resting on his slumped back.

He spat out, “Hell no!”  Then took his leave, jacket billowing behind him like he was walking through an explosion in an action film.

“Sorry for the mess,” Jason yelled as he grabbed his stuff too. 

Jason was quick to follow Tim out, laughing as Tim nearly slammed the door in his face in his haste to leave.

Chapter Text

Three weeks ago.

“…Body was discovered on 9th street following a string of events that may be tied to the recently deceased crime lord, Mark Desmond…” 

The sound of glass shattering cut into the report. Dick groaned. 

The reporter continued, impartial to Dick’s suffering, “The victim has been identified as a Blüdhaven local, Charity Baker, the heiress of…”

With precision, Tim pointed the remote at the TV and changed the channel.

The colours warped before refocusing on a dark cityscape familiar to him. Sirens went off in the distance. 

Tim watched the screen with intent. “That’s Gotham.”

A voice called out from behind him. It was Dick. He sounded out of breath. “Checking to see if your parents made the news?”

Tim forgot to answer, too focused on the reporter.  

“I’m at the scene of the most recent vigilante sighting. For those unfamiliar with this part of the city, this is the westside of Crime Alley.” The camera panned out. Trash filled the streets. The buildings were old, telephone wires sagging, graffiti covering every square inch of free space. 

Then the lens refocused on the distraught reporter. 

“We received word from one of the working girls that some rough looking men armed with knives and guns—likely members of a criminal gang—had shown up earlier in the night with moving trucks.”

The woman held onto herself tightly, visibly shivering under her thin, yet stylish, waistcoat. Tim watched as one of the homeless people stood aside and welcomed her to draw closer to the fire they had lit in a drum. She shook her head, no. The person shrugged, continuing on as before.

Behind Tim, there was the sound of glass being swept up—clink, clink—drawers opening and closing—boom, boom—heavy footsteps moving along smooth tiles—thud, thud.

“…A quick on-ground testing revealed that the substance found at the site did not fall under any known illegal substances in the city’s current roster of banned drugs. The case left notable investigators, like Detective Bullock of the GCPD, concerned.”

Tim tilted his head. “Dick, were you able to pocket any of the evidence from the crime scene?”

“Seriously, Tim?”

Tim pursed his lips, choosing to ignore the sting of disappointment. He had no right to be upset.

“I’m surprised the police have already raided the place so thoroughly,” Tim said, watching as the screen revealed a yellow tape barrier which separated the viewers from the crime scene. People in white jumpsuits crouched low examining the scene. Men and women in the GCPD’s standard black uniforms guarded the premises.

“… A potential witness has also been listed,” the reporter was saying now. “According to our source, a figure with a small stature, whose age may be anywhere between a teenager or young adult, was found escaping the building with the vigilante, Nightwing—”

“Oi, lady, you’re not ‘sposed to be here!” a man’s voice slipped into the segment, the owner of which was revealed to be an officer when his holster and dark uniform appeared on camera. “This is still a crime scene. You and your pals need to get outta here.”

The woman wrinkled her proud nose—red from the cold. “These individuals,” she gestured at the homeless people, “are not with me.”

Tim changed the channel. 

“…Gotham and Blüdhaven have declared a long weekend, scheduled for next week, in an attempt to work around the onslaught of strikes affecting top corporations like Drake Industries, Solar Nite, amongst many notable others whose main contributions drive the economic force of both sister cities.”

The news anchor—a dark skinned man in a tan suit—adjusted his papers, faced the camera, and smiled in a way promising trouble.

“My name is Adeyemi Bamgbose, and you are watching Penny Pinchers. The Economist Times for the lame man. Joining us today is Bruce Wayne—a major shareholder of Wayne Industries. Bruce is here to hopefully help us shed some light on the matter.”

The camera panned out to reveal Bruce in his well-to-do suit. Whoever was in charge of makeup had been overly generous with the powder—Bruce resembled a ghost. A mug sat in front of him on the wide desk he shared with the anchor. 

Tim quirked up a brow. “Your guardian’s on TV.” 

Shouldn’t he still be recuperating after how tonight went? Tim did not say. It was implied.

“It’s a rerun. They’ve aired this one before. Earlier in the week. Helps them boost their viewership,” Dick said.

Despite the countless other things they could report. Like the missing CEOs of Drake Industries. 

“That’s smart of them,” Tim said, making sure to hide his snark. “Mr. Wayne looks awkward as hell, though.”

Dick grunted. “The PR will be good for him.”

Tim focused on the TV again.

“Thank you for joining us, Bruce—ah—I can call you Bruce, right?” the host said.

Then Bruce smiled—pearly whites on display—and said, “The pleasure is mine, Adeyemi, and, of course, there’s no need for formalities,” yet his stiff shoulders—made stiffer by the suit’s padding—and his grip on that poor, empty, mug was nothing short of a cry for help.

“So if we were to take the projections as facts, what would you make of this, Bruce?” 

A new image appeared, splitting the screen in half. Bruce and the host on one side, the graph on the other. 

Tim recognised the stocks for DI immediately. It had fallen by 5% since he’d last checked. Right next to it were companies his parents had been working closely with in the first quarter of the year. 

Their performance was significantly better.

“Ah, the famous line graph,” Bruce joked.

Adeyemi laughed. “Not just any line graph. Some experts say these are the premature signs of a crashing stock market.”

“I wouldn’t take it that far,” Bruce corrected. “Solar Nite is an energy based company. As we know, energy has always been a scarce resource, especially clean energy. Now, in comparison, DI sells pharmaceutical tech—”

“I see where you’re going with this. We’ve seen many tech startups springing up in the US these past few years. All it takes is a google search to find your niche interest,” Adeyemi said.

Bruce hummed appropriately. “Exactly, regardless of external disruptions—such as strikes, increased production costs, to name but a few—an energy based company—especially one that benefits from the scarcity and artificial barriers posed by permits—would still fare better in the long run when compared with industries like DI with far more competition in the market.”

Adeyemi smirked. “Competition like yourself?”

Bruce chuckled. It looked forced. “Well, I wouldn’t pretend like Wayne Enterprises hasn’t benefited from the, uh, current situation.” Bruce took on a considering expression. “But you have to consider diversification. W.E. is involved in so much more than just everyday technology these days. In fact, we’ve made some recent investment into the space program being directed—”

“Funny you should mention that,” Adeyemi rifled through his papers, “In the most recent quarter, DI’s financial report points to the company’s investment in areas outside of their core pharmaceutical products. And, yet, they’ve seen negative returns when trying to follow the business model you just proposed.”

Bruce’s jaw twitched. “Mr. and Mrs. Drake are certainly business savvy, and I mean no disrespect in saying this, but their first mistake was in partnering with companies in which they derive no mutual benefits.”

“I disagree,” Adeyemi challenged, “I think it’s sensible to partner up with Solar Nite. W.E. did, and enjoyed a massive reduction in their production costs just this quarter alone.”

Bruce smiled, tight. “Well, one can’t make sense of DI investing in a toy or landscaping company in the same way, now can we?”

And they both laughed.

Scene.

Perhaps, the real joke here was that Dick had told Tim something similar once. It was the third day after they’d struck their deal, and Dick, who was working with his computer in Blüdhaven, was gathering enough information on Jack and Janet to formulate a theory for their disappearance, while Tim struggled through his History homework in Gotham per Dick’s insistence that the case shouldn’t stop Tim from living his life. 

Tim had claimed defensively that his parents were very open to innovation in any field. “I don’t see a need to dig up slanderous information on them, Dick! My parents’ business dealings are clean on file.” 

And Dick had been quick to let it go, directing his attention to textbook slander in its most honest form:

“Let’s focus on their close associates then, you mentioned you suspect your mom’s friend of having an affair with your dad, and that played a major role in their arguments…”  

Tim’s mom’s friend, Regina Kumar worked as a broker for Solar Nite and often had segments on the radio for investors looking into buying shares. Tim realised then, watching the anchor and Bruce chat animatedly on one half of the screen—with the chart occupying the other—that Dick had already connected the dots. He was probably already looking into it behind Tim’s back. 

Perhaps that’s also how Dick came to find out about the drug trafficking connection without Tim explicitly telling him.

The long shadows on the rug settled at last. “C’m ‘ere!” Dick called out, breaking Tim out of his thoughts. 

Tim looked away from Bruce Wayne, who was talking about the importance of companies rising up to cover some of the shortages on behalf of the competition, to face Dick. 

Dick had taken a seat on the barstool, visibly shaking with the effort. His costume was a mess of tears of varying proportions mixed with traces of blood. His long mullet was held up by a hair clip to keep it out of his face. Whatever task he was set to embark on required the utmost care.

Tim ignored all the warning signs in favour of the items spread out on the island:

Alcohol, a lighter, cotton wool, antiseptic wipes, a cool compress, bandages, aspirin, a needle and a thread.

A needle and a thread. 

The sight alone shook him to his core. Tim swallowed, then looked away as he turned the TV off. Reluctantly, he placed the remote on the coffee table, slipped out of his jacket and tossed it over the head rest. 

“I sterilised the counter top, so it should be ready now,” Dick said.

Tim wrapped his arms around himself as he approached. The injury on his waist throbbed; more so from the sight of the apparatuses. A needle and a thread. After all, the cut was shallow. Or so he had thought.

Then why was it that Dick was prepping that sharp, glinting object with alcohol? Wool rubbed the tip, then the roar of a bright flame came from a lighter as it was properly sterilized. 

It all gave off a sinister aura.

“Scared?” Dick asked conversationally as he passed a thread through it with practiced ease.

“No—!” Tim stumbled. The offender? A pair of old shoes left out near the sitting area. Annoyed, he kicked it away.

Under his breath, Dick said, “Don’t be afraid, I’ll hold your hand if it’s too much for you.”

Tim gingerly took his seat beside Dick, gripping the sides like an anchor. The feel of wood in his palm was a welcome distraction. “While doing my stitches? How would that even work?”

Dick smiled at him funny. “Rest easy, smart ass,” he said. “The stitches aren’t for you.” 

Tim sighed, releasing his grip. “That was a stupid thing to joke about, Dick.”

“Who said I was messing around?”

Confused, Tim watched as Dick dropped the needle. Slowly, like peeling back the layers of an onion, he took off the top half of his suit—the disco disaster suit, light blue with gold accents—then zipped off a thin lined vest with a deep V neck-line riddled with bullet holes. He grumbled pitifully as he did so—voicing cusses that would make Tim’s mother wrinkle her pointed nose in disgust. 

Underneath, his skin was pale and slick with sweat. His chest was wrapped in a blood soaked bandage and, when he tore that off, a deep, ugly gash revealed itself. The cut—an angry red—made a path from his sternum to his ribs (with traces of shallower cuts near his clavicle). Patches of dried up and free flowing blood, and splotches of blue and yellow, surrounded the area. 

The smell of copper was nauseating. 

Tim’s eyebrows knit together. 

“That needle. It’s for me,” Dick said through clenched teeth. Yes, that much was obvious.

Panicked, Tim stretched out an arm then reeled it in just as quickly. Clenching his fist as it rested on the island uselessly. He wanted to help, but his knowledge of first aid was limited to treating sprains, scraped knees, glass cuts and bruises. Injuries one would get from skateboarding, parkour and stalking. Y’know? Normal teen activities.

The risks were higher now. This was Dick’s life on the line. 

“How did you manage to keep all the blood contained?” Tim asked carefully. How did he not bleed out? How was he even still talking? 

“Doctor… Leslie…,” Dick sighed—beads of sweat dotted his forehead as he wiped it down with a clean rag soaked in alcohol—“should really patent these bandages. They’re as good as surgical glue.”

“…”

Dick started stitching with a far more chipper disposition after he had successfully applied what Tim assumed was numbing cream—a small tube that appeared from his medical kit and disappeared just as quickly. “Not for you,” Dick made sure to add with a note of warning.

Tim’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Why didn’t you stop by a safe house in Gotham? Coming all the way back to your place is just—”

“Would you try running away if we were still in Gotham?”

Tim would try running away regardless of where they were stationed. “You said that knife barely scratched the surface,” he said, “that’s like two or so layers deep.”

“And you promised not to go to the drug bust. So I guess we’re both liars,” Dick said—Tim didn’t have a choice. It was his first breakthrough in this case. His only breakthrough—“Safe to say, we owe each other a heart-felt apology,” Dick continued, completely unaware of Tim’s jumbled thoughts. 

“Sorry for lying about the severity of my injuries,” Dick said, “Your turn.”

The white of one half of his mask narrowed as he winked. And…

Tim stared.

Why was Dick like this?

“Sorry,” Tim said.

“More heart!”

Tim huffed. “Sorry for getting caught up in something I had no business getting caught up in…” He shook his head, then rested his cheek on his fist—eyes picking apart the scars littering the old canvas that was Dick’s skin. “And getting you involved in my mess. That wasn’t cool of me.”

A pair of white dominos scanned Tim’s face. Whatever he saw there made him nod with satisfaction before diving head first into his work. “All’s well that ends well.”

“You weren’t supposed to get hurt,” Tim pressed, “I just needed to confirm something, so why did you show up?”

He needed to confirm if those shipments being moved around—those unlabelled drugs—had anything to do with his parents. After all, the warehouse was listed under Jack’s name; the date and cost for the shipment recorded in Janet’s ledger. Some would argue that’s concrete proof, but Tim wasn’t satisfied. What if they were framed? What if Dick started treating this missing person case as a criminal mastermind case? 

Tim owed it to his parents to prove that they were innocent. 

“I’m a vigilante, Tim, it’s kinda my thing to get into other people’s business. You, on the other hand…” Dick’s tone made Tim cringe away, “I’m just glad you weren’t seriously hurt.”

Tim sighed. “It would have been better if it were me. Now you’re down for the count.”

Dick grinned, mirthless. “Is that how little you think of me? I’ll bounce back from this in a few hours.”

“I’m not even worth half of you,” Tim corrected. “You pieced together Regina’s involvement and—”

It was Dick’s turn to cringe. A jerky motion that made his hand slip—the needle had to be pulled out and the stitch redone. 

Tim caught himself, quickly adding, “My worth, by that, I meant, like, in relation to this case. I know my worth in general. I mean being human has to be worth something.” Tim had to be worth something.

Dick graciously let the moment pass. “I’ll finish up here and then we can get started on your injuries. Don’t beat yourself up. I’ve suffered worse.”

“Cool.” Tim forced himself to be still even as the needle passed through damaged skin, and blood seeped out in strained amounts. “I’m not worried. I’m not hurt either.”

He was nauseated. His fault. He didn’t deserve this. Dick’s kindness. 

“We’ll see about that last part,” Dick said. His voice tethering on the edge of a whisper.

“I’m just annoyed. I let our lead get away,” Tim said. 

He disrupted Batman and Robin; let their lead get away too. He’d been nothing but an impediment to this investigation. Maybe Dick should turn him in for a crime: obstruction of justice. Then Jack, Janet and Tim could reunite in prison.

Dick stretched out crimson stained fingertips, groaning softly. “Will you help me with the antiseptic wipes?” 

Here Tim was feeling sorry for himself while Dick was literally trying to keep himself from bleeding to death.

“Sure, sure.” Tim set them out, apologising as he pulled way too many at once, and then again as it fell on the floor, and then again when his head connected with Dick’s strong chin in their combined effort to pick it up.

Dick laughed it off. And Tim was starting to doubt if his vocab extended past, “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“On the topic of turning you in for a crime, that would be counterintuitive to our agreement, no?” Dick said. 

“You wouldn’t need to worry about me threatening you anymore,” Tim pointed out. “You wouldn’t even need to consider my sensitivities either.”

Dick paused. “Sensitivities?”

“The affair thing, I think, might actually be useful. I stopped you from pursuing that line of reasoning when you brought up Regina—”

Dick snorted. “It’s okay. The drug trafficking ring isn't a complete bust yet. They have another shipment happening out of the country—Canada. Lets lean on it.”

Tim swallowed. “You’ll be too far to call for backup. Are you gonna—?”

“Tell Bruce. No.” Dick looked so sure despite the pain etched into his face. “I can handle it alone. And I’d be breaking our deal if I didn’t.”

Dick graciously did not mention that Tim had broken their deal tonight. Honestly, Dick gave Tim too much grace at times.

Tim picked up the Advil bottle and shook it like some fidget toy to distract himself.

“By the way, you look a little pale there,” Dick said in that sly way that suggested he knew exactly why, but wanted to hear it directly for some vindictive reason.

Tim looked at him, saw the needle and the thread, then looked away and shook his bottle some more. “I’ve seen worse. Been to the ER a couple of times when I messed up a move at the skatepark,” Tim said, playing it cool.

Dick did that humming thing that meant he was listening but wanted more info. Tim wondered how he could play this up.

“Beyond that, I once saw this lady get her head bashed in. It was like mashed potatoes mixed with red beets spilling out of her ears. I haven’t touched mashed potatoes since. That scene kept me up for weeks; way worse than-I guess-this.”

…

“Wow, uh, that would probably keep me up too.” Dick’s voice sounded strained. He looked between Tim and the task at hand—the needle and thread. “Even as a vet—no it doesn’t matter who you are—that shit’s haunting.” 

Damn. Maybe Tim should’ve stuck with the skateboard story?

“Especially for a kid,” Dick continued. “Have you talked about this with anyone?” 

This being a bank robbery. A baseball bat was involved. A woman got her brains blown out with a powerful swing.

Tim caught himself. “There was no need. It’s Gotham, so I'm kinda desensitised at this point. Plus, it wasn’t anything too serious.” 

“You saw a woman die, Tim. In person.” 

“No! Not in person. It was on-on the news. Obviously. It was everywhere for a bit.” Tim dropped the Advil bottle. He stared at the label. “Just one of those petty crimes that ended really badly for the victim. There was even a meme about it.” 

It felt important to mention that last part. Maybe, then, Dick would stop looking at him that way. The same way he did two weeks ago, when they met on the rooftop of his apartment complex.

“That’s how I first found out about it, come to think of it,” Tim said. 

“That’s seriously messed up.”

“Yeah, there was a TikTok. It got taken down some time after it was posted.”

The blood had been edited into colourful strings of confetti. That TikTok got 2.3M views. The poster had edited the song “Bodies” into the clip. One of Tim’s classmate’s had liked the post. Rajit Kumar, Regina’s kid. Tim’s mom’s friend's kid. He blocked the guy on everything. TikTok. SnapChat. iMessages. Gmail. Everything.

“Jeez,” Dick said.

“Yeah,” Tim said.

“What the hell is wrong with people?” 

Tim shrugged.

“You really saw it there. Not when you were following Batman and Robin around?” Dick pressed. 

“That’s not all I do in my free time,” Tim said, sounding defensive. Sure, Dick had supporting evidence to back that accusation, but do it with tact at the very least. “I’ve got other things going on besides following the dynamic duo like some abandoned pup, y’know?”

“Dynamic duo… Abandoned pup…” Dick chuckled. “I mean,” he struggled through his laughter—all performance, really—“Okay, fair. ”

(Of course, that marked his second time seeing it. Tim had first borne witness to the senseless violence in the evening two years ago. He was at the bank with his dad, who wanted to show him how bank loans worked—they were waiting in line at the time because Jack had forgotten to book an appointment. Tim didn’t mind. Sure, he already knew enough about loans thanks to his mom, but it was nice. It was nice spending time with Jack.)

“Crimes happen everywhere, I just happened to find this one on a social media platform,” Tim said.

(Three masked felons had shown up demanding money from the bank tellers. Two others secured the premises. One employee didn’t work fast enough. Then the bat came swinging.)

“How did it end? Batman and Robin sent those perps straight to Arkham, I bet.” Dick wiggled his eyebrows, trying to find humour in the terror that once held Tim hostage.

(Her blood was spilling past the cracked separator and down the white desk. It reminded him of that time cherry flavoured soda spilled on his computer—no, not quite. Soda was sticky. This was worse. 

And there was Robin, newly arrived. He had swooped in through the sealed glass doors in a shower of glass shards; the force of a wrecking ball in his steel-toed boots. His breathing was erratic.)

“The victim was dead by the time they arrived,” Tim said. 

Dick sobered up—finally getting it. This was Tim’s messed up coping technique going head to head with Dick’s messed up coping technique. One of them had to be honest about things. 

Nothing was said. There was the hum of a refrigerator, the buzz of kitchen lights, the needle and thread, then:

“The victim got their head bashed in.” Dick sighed deeply, disturbed. “And you saw all that in a TikTok. That is seriously effed up.”

“We’re moving in circles here.”

But Dick wouldn’t let it go, of course not. 

“Jason told me a similar story once. He said he felt like shit. Blamed himself. That there was a kid there…”

(Robin was looking Tim’s way. Tim saw the same terror reflected on the vigilante’s youthful face. The difference between the two of them became clear in that brief moment: one could hide his fear behind a mask, while the other—)

“Small world,” Tim said.

“So the kid really was you.”

Shit. “No, no. I wasn’t there, remember?” Tim said, truly channeling “the-art-of-gaslighting” as he brushed Dick off. 

“Jason always felt he owed that kid an apology. Shame, I thought he’d finally get the chance.”

Tim’s hand squeezed into a fist until the pain steadied him. “Would you rather I was the kid? So that I can get the first hand trauma that would come with being a direct witness to that scene?”

“Shit, Tim, that’s not—”

“Yeah, I know.” Tim scoffed.

Dick looked (unrightfully) scolded.

Gaslight. Gatekeep. Girlboss. 

Good job Tim.

(Tim remembered how his hands shook, his phone wouldn't hold still, as he took pictures of Robin throwing an uppercut at the guy who swung the bat. Then Batman—a dark silhouette—threw a batarang to stop a pistol from going off, barely saving Robin from certain death; from getting his brains blown out, too.

Others were recording around Tim, but to their credit, they knew to duck for cover. His dad had wrestled him down. “What were you thinking, Tim? It’s not safe!” 

He remembered how blurred the pictures came out in the end. He did not remember how he got home.)

Tim pushed past the memory and the bitter after taste it left. “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it to be honest,” Tim said—really twisting the knife in, thinking it would dissuade Dick from further addressing the topic—the lie came as easy to him as breathing, “It really was a small case, at least, compared to what you usually work with.”

After all, only one person died.

Another pause. Longer this time.

The hum of the fridge, the sound of an emergency vehicle’s horn blaring as it drove past the building, Dick watching Tim, Tim squeezing his fist until his fingernails pierced through his skin—

“It wouldn’t be too late when we find them—your parents. We’ll find them for sure.” 

Dicks words were like light in a dark tunnel. 

Tim released his grip, then looked to his right where Dick sat watching him. He noticed for the first time: that the needle had been set aside; that the thread—in a zig-zag pattern—covered the suturing site; that Dick was unrolling a white material.

“I’m not going to fail you,” Dick said as he finished applying the last of Leslie’s grade A bandages.

And that was just… Of course, Dick would make that kind of promise and Tim would accept it at face value. His mouth felt dry.

“You’ve got this covered so maybe I should, uh.” Tim searched for an escape. “Go back to monitoring the news—”

“I have it recorded.”

“I also need to get started on my homework—”

“It’s a Friday, Tim. I thought we could just hang out here for a bit. I want to check out your injuries too—” 

“I’m not going far.”

“It’ll be quick,” Dick insisted. “We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

“Not like I’ve been good company.”

“You stuck around this long. Even though I’ve been teasing you for the most part.”

Tim’s ears turned red. “Oh, well,”—He felt guilty, it’s his fault— “What do you even want from me?”

Tim watched intrigued as Dick’s white domino stretched and thinned out—the wrinkles on his forehead moving into different shapes. Then at last, he took off the mask. It sounded like velcro as it pulled along his skin. Glue residue remained and a red outline where the mask was once affixed. 

Blue eyes shone. Earnest and determined. 

Very seriously, Dick said: “I need to know how you’re doing, Tim. And if there’s anything I can do to help.”

The night they met, Dick had said something similar, hadn’t he? I’m asking if ‘you’ are alright. Tim felt his shoulders slump. “Okay,” he said, “let’s talk.”

Dick’s lips quivered into his first genuine smile. 

“How did it make you feel seeing that?” Dick asked him gently. “Seeing those other things too. I know there were other things. Did it give you nightmares?”

Tim said nothing. Dick didn’t push.

He stood up with a wince. Tim joined him. 

They walked to the fridge together. Dick opened the top half. Cool air blew past. A square container filled with frozen lasagna sat between a bag of unopened vegetables and a bag of ice. Tim raised a brow as Dick retrieved the lasagna and the ice pack.

“Is that thing edible?” He asked as Dick set the food out on the counter. 

“It should last up to three months,” Dick reassured him. “Jason promised me.” 

Dick tossed the ice pack at Tim who caught it, grunting when the soreness near his gut flared up.

“Put that under your bruise,” Dick told Tim as he pulled out some Pop-Tarts from the cabinet. 

“Want to eat some junk while we wait?” Dick asked him. Tim bobbed his head. Getting junk at the Drake household was a miracle and a half. Sneaking out also came with that benefit, but he’d still never turn down free food when it was offered to him.

They sat on the couch together. Dick threw a blanket over them. Tim picked at its fraying end—an oversized Wonder Woman stared back at him. 

“This looks tacky as hell. My mom would cry if she saw your decor,” Tim said. 

Dick snorted then turned on the TV. Tim sorted through his thoughts.

“Back when I was Robin,” Dick started, his words sounding rehearsed. “Yeah, those first few days, thinking back, the cases really were like child’s play. Alleyway muggings. Pick pockets. Cats stuck up trees—” 

“What trees?”

Dick sighed. “There are parks in Gotham, Tim.” Dick sat up, groaning as he adjusted his posture. “It was simpler, for sure, but there are still certain cases that slip past the psyche—that shouldn’t in theory. Like seeing a woman get bruised by her partner, and knowing you can do nothing to truly stop it, because you have no control over whether or not she chooses to go back to them. Or, having to put kids in a foster care system that will fail them. Or, seeing someone get shot at, knowing you should’ve—could’ve—stopped it. But you…”

Dick broke off. The TV light only served to harshen his features. 

This might get bad really quickly. Tim has no clue how to go about comforting adults. Fortunately, Dick was more emotionally stable than himself.

“I think it’s those reminders of my powerlessness really. It’s horrific. Despite the mask. The cape. The gadgets. And if it’s not powerlessness that stops me from saving those people, then what am I?”

Tim remembered: 

The fear reflected on Robin’s face hidden behind his mask. Him charging on, fist flying, brave, regardless.

“A hero,” Tim said at last. “Because you tried—you keep trying—despite the fear.”

Tim always wished he had a shred of that. It was that childish part of him that thought he could stop his parents from arguing—that thought he could save them when they first went missing. 

Dick said nothing, letting the tenseness get drowned out by the news report on the TV.

And as they waited for the lasagna to thaw out— an ice pack pressed to Tim’s stomach, Bruce’s controlled voice serving as background noise from the speakers— Tim slowly recounted the dreams that woke him up at the dead of the night. 

Those he tried to capture and trap permanently behind his camera lens. Those that escaped him and kept him awake in an inescapable cycle. 

And Dick, whose eyes never drifted away from the screen, came to learn and understand Tim’s messed up perspective. 

How it was that Tim readily embraced Gotham’s nightlife. All the safety and relief that a single picture could offer him.

That was three weeks ago. That interaction. The drug bust—which must have been the spark to what came next. 

~*~ 

Present Day.

Tim had been thrown a curveball, leaving him utterly still and partly numb. 

His speech bubbles felt smaller—he, himself, was barely there. 

And it was all because of his resident guard dog.

Tim was a smart guy. High IQ. Brilliant deductive skills. It didn’t take him long to figure out the cause of Jason’s sudden bout of strangeness—well, beyond the whole, secret identity reveal thing.

Jason had been sent by Dick to harass, no, keep Tim out of trouble; Dick being too out of commission to do it himself. Despite the wrongness of Dick’s choice, Tim had to admit that it was uncanny just how well Jason played the part: guard dog.

First, Jason barked a lot. He would shout, “Tim. Timbits. Timmy. Tim-[insert-word-here],” for no other reason than to see how many new names he could come up with. 

Now, compared to the “punch first, ask questions later” dilemma from nearly an hour ago, this wasn’t any better. Dare he say, this was worse.

Tim was coming to understand that Jason was a guy of excessive gestures. His violent aggression at Tim’s school had simply morphed into friendly aggression as they ‘strolled’ the busy streets of downtown Gotham. 

Why the sudden switch? 

Maybe he assumed remaining in Tim’s good graces would make his work easier? Maybe training under Batman came with its special brand of weird? Maybe dogs needed a good sniff at you before they were ready to play nice?

Who could say for sure?

This was just how things were. No parents. No Nightwing. Hello, Jason. Get fucked Tim. 

“Timbits, should we grab some skewers off this old lady? I didn’t finish lunch,” Jason was saying. 

Smoke whiffed through the air. Meat sizzled as the fat melted into oil. The warmth of the grill felt pleasant in the surrounding chill. 

Jason watched him. He looked innocent enough in his beanie (a sunflower sewn at the brim). His navy blue jean jack shook as the gales came sailing by, perpetuating that air of normalcy. But Tim knew better. 

Go right ahead, Tim said at last, tone completely neutral, his speech bubble not quite solid yet.

“I’m broke,” Jason admitted and Tim had to purchase that too, counting the bus ticket and the money Jason had used on chilli dogs, gummy bears and all the other crap from that restaurant. 

How was it that the son of a billionaire was short on cash? And why was Tim paying for things, despite the initial fear factor no longer in play? Tim had stopped asking questions when it came to Jason Todd. At least, he tried to.

They were on the move again.

“Timmy, you’re walking too fast! I know you’re trying to overcompensate because of your tiny feet, but c’mon.” 

Tim slowed down and Jason used the opportunity to loop an arm around Tim’s. Like a dog taking to a leash. In this case, Tim wasn’t too sure who was wearing the leash and who was holding it. Jason dragged him along— two sticks of beef and peppers in his free hand, because he had forgotten that one of them was for Tim—and Tim followed, tugging only to change directions when he deemed it necessary.

They stopped at a crosswalk. The signal said “Wait.” Jason read it as a cue to start a conversation. 

“So, how long’ve you known Dickson?” 

Dickson? Tim muttered confused. 

“Richard, John, you know who I’m referring to.”

Tim shifted uncomfortably.

“I was thinking it over, Tim-Tim,” Jason said, pausing to chew off more meat, “Dick isn’t the kind of guy that’s held hostage somewhere in need of saving. Least of all by a tiny criminal like you…”—he swallowed—“Ah, you’re allowed to take offence; I’m not taking it back. So, I figured that you guys must be friends, just like we are now.”

When did we become friends? Tim asked him.

Jason disregarded the question. “Dick does a lot for people, cause he’s nice like that. But he doesn’t let himself get walked all over unless it’s someone very important to him doing the walking—that’s why I get away with being an asshole on most days.” Jason waved his sticks, stained with sauce, to emphasise the importance of his nonsense. His travel bag, bouncing on his hip, shifted around to hit Tim a bit too. “When did you become important to him, Tim-Tim?”

Tim said nothing.

The sign changed to “Cross”. A woman on roller blades dodged them as she zoomed by. Tim envied her. Her escape was so swift.

I guess it’s because of the deal we struck, Tim said at last when it was obvious Jason wouldn’t let up on this. Dick does well under pressure, he added. 

Jason appraised him in a way that drifted between, “should I hit you?” or “should I pretend I didn’t hear that last part?” Tim was vying for the first one, for the record. He predicted Jason would be easier to handle in his blind rage, especially now that Tim understood the source of his anger.

Jason nodded, settling on a decision. He stretched out his arm. Tim flinched. “You’re a really funny guy,” Jason praised him, patting Tim’s head. The sticks nearly got caught up in Tim’s tangle of black hair.

Tim pulled away. Jason’s arm around his held him in place.

“I’ve said that before, haven’t I? Wanna know why?” Jason’s grin looked caught between innocent and demented. The sunflower on his beanie seemed to smile too. 

What was with this guy? Sunflowers and strawberry bubblegum and demented smiles—

The traffic light counter was on 12. 

They only had 11 seconds to cross. 

10. 9.

“It’s because you remind me of my old man. A Real. Manipulative. Son-of-a-gun…” 

6. 5.

His smile was gone. “And it’s always fun catching him off guard.”

2. 1.

“Could you settle on one mood? This shit is hurting my brain,” Tim said. His speech bubbles had been jarred back to life by Jason’s tough guy act.

“Wait!” an automated voice said. That same red hand was back on the crosswalk signal.

Jason dramatically tossed his head back. “Aw, men. Looks like we have to wait again.” He adjusted his bag. Then did a quick once over, looking from the commuters waiting at a bus stop nearby, to the stores where people from their early teens to late 70s lounged around. “Where are we going by the way?”

“Somewhere that wards off nosy bastards like you with obvious personality disorders.” 

Jason just smirked. “Cool.”

They watched as cars drifted past them. The red hand—the pedestrian light—seemed to pierce through Tim’s eye sockets, going past his brain then out the other end of his skull. He readjusted his hold on his skateboard. It was tempting, throwing it down and zooming through the traffic. Guard dog be damned.

Tim really needed to get the flashdrive off Macy before—

“We’re getting a bit far from the bus stop, aren’t we?” Jason said conversationally. “Must be going somewhere far, huh?”

“Do you have Google Maps?”

Jason blinked. He took out his phone from his jacket, opened up the app and passed it to Tim.

Tim inputed four letters and handed it back to Jason.

“H. E. L. L. Is that an acronym for something?” Jason murmured. Realisation clicked. “Seriously, don’t even try to pull a fast one on me. I’m doing Dick a favour here, you brat.” 

He tugged Tim once. 

Annoyed, Tim relented. “There’s a pharmacy nearby. I have a package waiting for me.”

Jason gave him a look. He slowly released Tim. Tim’s arm dropped to his side. 

“Are you ill?” Jason asked.

Tim rubbed at his temple. “Sure, yeah, whatever.” He wasn’t. No way he was going to let Jason in on his plans.

“What the hell, man?!”

“What are you getting mad at me for now?” 

“You should’ve told me you’re sick!”

The crosswalk turned white. Tim ignored it, rounding to properly face Jason. He anchored himself down with the weight of his skateboard. The absurdity of the situation called for it. 

“How is that my responsibility?” he said. He made sure his voice came out levelled. Jason really stirred up his more confrontational side.

“If I knew you were feeling like shit, I wouldn’t have smacked your head on a wall.”

Tim scoffed. “Yeah, because you gave me so much room to be vulnerable with you.”

“All it takes is two seconds max to say, “Hey, man, I’m this close to puking my brains out.”.”

Gaslight. Gatekeep. Girlboss. Point for Jason.

“Y’know there’s something really screwed up with your logic,” Tim said.

“Nah, dude. It’s just not morally right. I mean, would you hit a guy wearing glasses? Shit is expensive.”

“What does that even have to do with me—?”

The traffic light counter was on 12, some distant part of Tim noticed. 

They had 11 seconds to—

“I would,” Tim backtracked.

“Huh?”

“I would hit a guy with glasses.” Tim jabbed a finger at Jason. Jason stepped back. “If it were you.” Again. “In a heartbeat.” Then once more for good measure. “For a penny.”

Jason smacked his hand away. “I’m worth more than a penny. At least do it for twelve bucks.”

“What am I supposed to do with twelve bucks?!”

“You can get a Big Mac, some nuggets and a cherry coke and maybe even leave a tip, so that your server doesn’t spit in your food.”

Tim felt like his vein was about to burst. “Who cares, man? Stay on topic. I’m trying to make a point here.”

Jason frowned. He crossed his arms over his chest, sticks pointing up like antennas. “I’ll let it slide. If Dick knows how to give a make-a-wish kid a pass, then I can too.”

Tim smacked himself. On the face.

“Wait!” The automated voice said. The red hand symbol was back. Across them, a group of middle schoolers waited to cross to their end.

Jason cussed. “Stupid fucking thing doesn’t last longer than a second.”

Tim puffed out air, slammed his skateboard down, steadied himself on the board—knees spread apart—put one foot on the pavement; he was just about ready to make his escape then—

A school bus flew by them in a blur of black and yellow, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. 

He slowly picked up the board again.

Jason told Tim, who was still reeling from the embarrassment of like three seconds ago:

“Your face looks a little red. If you’re feeling extra sick. You let me know, okay? Don’t want to get caught up in an accident, this is a new jacket.”

Under his breath, Tim said, “I’ll definitely make sure to puke on you.”

“Are you thinking now or in the near future?”  

“I’ll do it right now,” Tim warned.

Jason raised a brow. Waiting.

Checkmate. There was no way Tim was going to regurgitate a meal to prove a point. They both knew that. 

The longer they waited, the hotter Tim’s cheeks felt. The wind drifted past them, spreading the smell of weed, piss and car exhaust—cooling Tim’s face— moving Jason’s jacket.

The crosswalk sign changed at last.

“I’m feeling better now,” Tim choked out. 

They walked together in silence. Tall buildings of varying shapes and widths—the love child of some idealistic architect and a poor civil engineer—drew closer the further they went. Tim knew around the corner, old dilapidated buildings stood with sagging telephone wires brushing dangerously close to its eaves, and wandering druggies leaning against its walls. Crime Alley. 

This picturesque urban paradise of skyscrapers and billboards advertising Invisalign and landscaping companies and Bob’s Roofing were a mere coverup for the city’s illness.

They reached a bin overflowing with trash. Tim could see the man-made park some paces away, hidden behind a grocery store. Maybe if there was a cat stuck up one of those trees, he could convince Jason to—?

Yeah, he was just grasping at straws now. 

Jason stood on the toes of his sneakers, then tossed his skewers like he was shooting a basketball through a hoop. Tim watched, silently impressed, as it soared through the air, slipped past a small gap surrounded by cardboard boxes, plastic bags and cigarettes before falling into the metal bin.

“That was super sweet, brah!” a new voice yelled over.

Jason bowed for the young hipsters smoking near a café entrance. They clapped for him. One of them offered him an e-cig. Jason made discrete motions at Tim and mouthed, “Got a kid with me.”

Tim looked past Jason’s shoulder. The pharmacy wasn’t too far away. Maybe he could make a run for it while Jason was distracted—?

Then Jason was looking in the same direction as Tim.

“You see where that false barrier is?” Jason said, pointing at a shipping container and some warning signs that would be typically found at a construction site—“Men at work”—some blocks down. It obstructed his view of the next street over.

“Yeah, it’s kinda a shortcut to the more interesting part of town. There’s a sign ‘round there whose street name is covered in too much graffiti to make out. The drug mart's a few blocks over. Bet it looks the same as I remember it,” Jason said.

Tim frowned. “You know the area?”

Jason snorted. “Of course, do you even know who you’re hanging with right now?”

“A tyrant.”

Jason wagged a finger. “A street kid. My mom used to send me on errands to pick up some of her medication back in the day.” His finger fell at the reminder. Then he tugged at his beanie. “Eh, Doc Thompkins clinic isn’t too far away too. Maybe I should go say, hi.”

“You should do that. I’ll wait here.”

Jason gave him a look. 

Tim kept a perfectly straight face.

“Not really your best performance, bud.” Jason nudged Tim then took one step in the direction of the pharmacy. 

He would, of course, live to regret saying that. 

For now, Tim was happy to follow along. He discreetly checked the time on his phone. They had about an hour before the bus to Blüdhaven departed. Perfect. 

Chapter Text

Mom and I used to walk down this very street back in the day, Jason mused.

It’s nice-ish. Street lights with a 50-50 chance of being on at night. Streets with that touch of old that makes me feel like I’m in a Jane Austen novel; probably more of a reflection of the city’s priorities (or lack thereof) than its tastes though. Barely a change in these rundown stores. I bet the patronage hasn’t changed much either. Poor people tend to stay poor after all. So yeah, it’s not necessarily nice to look at, but nostalgia softens the rough edges.

Subconsciously, he took Tim by the scruff of his jacket and pulled him close—stopping him short of ramming into a moving cart.

I’ve counted more than one person with their belongings pressed firmly to their side—Tim-Tam would benefit from learning from them. Shame, he looks like the proud type. I bet he’ll scoff if I point out that that stupid jacket of his makes him stand out like a sore thumb. 

His boots make a weird crunching sound. Like glass shattering. Looking down, Jason saw a smashed up, empty syringe with an opening wide enough to fit a needle. But the needle was missing. His stomach churned uncomfortably. He forced himself to look away.

That spooked me… Is that? Yeah, that’s the third person I’ve seen high off that shit—maybe not as dangerous as some sober guys I’ve encountered in this area. Still, I didn’t realise how terrible the drug problem was—is. That hasn’t changed much either. 

Tim tensed up beside him when they got into a crowded part of the precinct. It felt more like a plank was pressed to Jason’s side rather than a person.

Despite his high and mighty act, this kid seems particularly angsty around the homeless people. Doesn’t seem to matter to him if they’re misty eyed or sober, he treats ‘em like you would a cockroach roaming around. 

Jason watched Tim flinch away, drifting impossibly closer to dodge someone on the street.

Is Tim classist? 

Jason froze up at the thought, then scoffed, spooking Tim who was surely still wary about Jason’s mood swings.

Huh, wouldn’t really surprise me. Can’t imagine his parents taught him any better. What sort of people are they…?

Jason dodged a bike about to hit them, shielding Tim in the process. The driver veered off the sidewalk and back into the traffic without sparing an apologetic glance back. 

Asshole.

Jason watched on unimpressed as others spat out curses at the guy.

If I had my tools, I’d jack that asshole’s tires. Reminds me a bit about how I met Bruce…

Come to think of it, Boss rarely has us cover this area when we patrol unless it’s unavoidable; says the east side is too close to the residential area, and he doesn’t want to spook any children (speaking from experience?).

Maybe it’s an excuse and the real reason is that he can’t stand the insurmountable violence—the prejudice and injustice—the reminder of his own limits? 

Wait… Bruce ‘accepting’ he has limits? 

Nah, too much of a stretch.

Maybe it’s ’cause I grew up here— and if we got caught up in a fight as Batman and Robin, I’d be too distracted staring at the yoghurt shop Mom and I used to drop by on Sundays.

Maybe Boss’ worried I’ll start missing the 7 bus that goes past those tall towers all the way to my old place. I’d start thinking about the cement stairwell leading up to room 350. Behind that squeaky door with the shit lock? The flower wallpaper that smelled like sour milk, cigarette ashes and that lavender air freshener Mom plugged into the wall. There’s that spring calendar that Mom’s had up since the day we first moved in too—same year and all; she always forgot to have it changed. I can see it now: right by the coat rack. It sucks just thinking about it.

Bruce can be… thoughtful sometimes. 

Huh, that’s a surprising revelation. 

It's nostalgia. Has to be. 

Same reason I picked up my smoking habit again. Nostalgia is a poison as much as it is a—

“Why are you doing that?” Tim asked.

Jason blinked out of his stupor. “Doing what?”

“Spacing out. You were spacing out just now and that time before too.”

This kid and his snark. 

“Says who? Can’t a guy think in peace?” 

“You weren’t just thinking though.” Then Tim did that thing where he squinted, turned his head and looked at Jason funny. “Were you monologuing?”

Oops. 

“What do you take me for, a B-level villain?”

“But you had your second face on for a sec there.”

“My… second face?”

Tim looked around, paranoid, then told Jason: “It’s the Robin face.” He nodded, looking all serious. And that just made it harder to take him seriously. 

Tim went on to say, “I bet if I could read your thought bubble, it would sound like Doc. Manhattan’s POV—with all the introspection and the weird time jumps. Major comic book core.”

Jason blinked. “Wait. Who?”

“Y’know, the walking-talking-blue-nuclear-bomb in Watchmen? Greatest comic book of all time. It’s got the big squid ending that has people split on its reviews till date.”

Jason felt like he was missing a lot of context. “What’s a watchman?”

Tim sighed, head falling back dramatically. “Never mind.” 

Then his face took on another look. By now Jason had a decent collection of Tim’s face catalogue—this was his grinch expression (all mischievous but too comical to be taken seriously— a true B-level villain in the making).

“Ah, sorry for cutting you off. Just continue as before.”

“Isn’t this getting a little too repetitive? You try to escape. I clock you. You try to escape again. I clock you.”

Tim deflated like a sad balloon. 

Jason did not buy it one bit. “My brother sent me a text saying to look out for some kid called Tim Drake, and he would owe me his life.”

“…Look out for me?”

“Yeah.”

“You attacked me though!”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever, moving on. I figured you were the cause of his injuries—”

“Not entirely—!”

“Wanted to rattle you a bit so that you’ll know that things wouldn’t fly over with me as easily. I also felt like you deserved it after all that you put Dick through.”

Tim looked pained. “My opinion of you keeps dropping by the minute. Did you really think I wanted Dick to get hurt?”

It did sound ridiculous hearing it out loud.

“Yeah, not my proudest moment,” Jason said; tone too brusque to be apologetic. “Your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

Jason sighed and pulled them into a corner of the street. 

Tim struggled for a moment. Finally, he whispered: “Did Dick tell you everything?”

No. Not enough to satisfy Jason at least. 

Jason kept a straight face, weathering through Tim’s prodding stare. “He told me enough. There was an email he sent with some info on the cartel case the two of you were working on…”

Tim did that shuffling thing. 

“…Dick’s been in contact with that Macy chick—you know Macy right—your parents’ ex-secretary or something like that…”

He was moving enough to catch the attention of people walking by—even the crackheads looked concerned.  

Jason broke off midway. “Do you have anxiety? What is this?”

“What’s what?”

“The shuffling.”

Come to think of it, he had done it on the way to the train station too—feet sliding instead of rising as he walked. He did it on the train when his plans to ditch Jason on the platform fell through—more with his hips, swishing back and forth on the seat. He did it when they were waiting to cross the street—much like right now. He was always shuffling. Weird.

“You need to take a piss; about to shit your pants; or all in one go?”

Tim paused. “No! And I don’t—I don’t shuffle.” Then he started shuffling more—feet skidding on the asphalt as though it were frozen solid. He moved like a penguin from happy feet. Jason wouldn’t be surprised if he broke off into a song number. Hopefully it’s a good one.

“That thing you’re doing with your feet. Why do you do that?” Jason gestured at Tim’s shoes. “Stop. Just let me finish, I’m not planning on killing you or anything.”

“I…”

“Yes.”

“I…”

“Yes?”

“I think I do need to use the washroom.”

Jason sighed. “Fine. Whatever.”

Tim stopped moving, held onto his chest with a vice-like grip and squeezed. 

“What now?”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t know! Just leave me alone.”

Jason reached out then paused. 

“Tim, be honest with me, do you suffer from anxiety?” 

Tim shook more. Jason placed his hands on Tim’s shoulder and forcefully held him still—Bruce would be disappointed with his less than conventional approach in handling what looked like a traumatised victim. 

“Is it me?” Jason asked. If it’s him, then he really shouldn’t be gripping this kid’s shoulders… “Should I extrapolate myself from your general vicinity?”

Tim breathed in through his nose and held it in there long enough to fuel Jason’s concern. Still, Tim managed to choke out: “I might be a sh-shuffler, but you’re a dictionary when you’re tense.”

Well, fuck that! It’s not like he could help it.

“What helps calm your nerves?”

Tim shook his head. 

Jason forced himself to remain calm. “Come off it, lad. Regale me with tales of wisdom. I wish to be of service.”

“Y-You…can start by releasing me.”

“Dick advised against such deportment, especially in matters that concern your person.”

Tim still managed to mock him despite his tensed up, shuffling state. His face said, I’m dying here, but what the hell are you on?

Well, sorry that the Literary Snob Spirit, or whatever the fucking medical term for his ridiculous condition was, possesed him at the most inconvenient of times.

“You have a proclivity of sprinting off when you feel cornered,” Jason said, “and I feel like we struggle to make a lot of headway in this particular avenue so…ugh—”

Jason swallowed his annoyance down as Tim laughed, like stopped jittering and started jerking around like popcorn kernels under high heat. Laughing and laughing…

Jason was sure he resembled a fish with his blubbering mouth. He let go of Tim and pointed at himself. “Is this what I need to do? Speak like a snob to ease the fear which casts you in shadows of bereavement?”

Tim giggled. “I don’t—I don’t even know what that means.”

Jason stood there unmoving as he watched Tim struggle to catch his breath, lose it, then catch it again and lose it in random intervals. 

And, yeah, Jason kind of got it now—why Dick was willing to shoot himself in the foot for this weirdo. 

Shit.

~*~

Macy wasn’t at Walgreens when they arrived. 

Go figure. Tim was insistent that they waited for her though—that she was an old employee that had some info Tim (and Dick) were banking on to give ‘em a breakthrough. He didn’t seem to mind that they were short on time, or that his insistence on waiting looked suspicious to Jason and did not in fact improve their on and off relationship (or whatever the hell defined escorting someone you like/dislike to a Walgreens for a medication they may or may not need).

It was reasonable to say that what Tim was waiting for had to be extremely important. 

So of course Jason used the time to organise the stuff Dick had told him with the stuff he already knew; he had it listed in chronological order in his brain, like B would instruct him to when things were bat-shit confusing:

• The relevance of Macy—once a personal assistant of Janet Drake at DI, now a pharmacist at Walgreens in Crime Alley (who had something Tim NEEDED);

• The relevance of Tim’s mom’s friend, Ms. Kumar—who works as a broker and analyst for Solar Nite and part time as a radio host ‘cause her husband’s business went bankrupt, and money is so important (what’s a broker do? Jason didn’t know? Didn’t want to know!)—and Tim’s dad’s affair; ‘cause poor people drama meant domestic abuse, but rich people drama meant national level crime syndicate;

• The disappearance of Jackie and Jan Drake at, what?, shit o’clock when they should’ve been boarding their next plane to Gotham City for a conference with DI’s shareholders over their recent decisions to buy shares into unrelated industries, or some other boring business related reason;

• Tim’s discovery that his ma and pa were missing when the mail he sent bounced back at the end of summer vacay, then his multiple reports to police stations in Gotham that were lost in the paperwork void, then, that one time he used the bat signal only to get told off by B (shocker to Jason, thinking back on it, again! When did that happen?! Why did no one tell him?? What is wrong with this family? For fuck’s sake), and his subsequent deal he struck with Dick of all people;

• The drug bust at the warehouse in Crime Alley, which happened three weeks ago that B and Jason had narrowed down to “none of the known operations in the Narrows, the Diamond district or elsewhere in crime-central Gotham whoop-dee-doo”. The drug bust he realised now is connected to Jack and Jan (how did Bruce not piece it together, c’mon???); 

• Tim’s apparent thing for getting into fights (plural—when, where and how?) which Jason found out, what two weeks ago?; 

• Tim still following him around for the next two weeks, following that discovery despite his own pressing shit, like dude c’mon, there’s multitasking, then there’s whatever the fuck Tim was doing; 

• Dick’s stunt in a warehouse in Nova Scotia of all places that left him banged up (from US to Canada, okay multinational operations for the effing win)—about a week ago; 

• The strange upward and downward spiral going on with the Blüdhaven-Gotham economy that even had B scratching his head at times ‘cause—“The stock market fluctuates, but never to this extent. I knew I shouldn’t have relied on my intern for the script… I need to have a meeting with Lucius later.” This one could fit anywhere in the timeline though. (Jason didn’t get it either to be quite honest.);

• And how Tim Shuffler and his strange family of Drakes were connected to all of this. (SUPER IMPORTANT!!)

• He forgot to add. How the hell was Bruce still not in the know? Not interrogating Dick. Not… anything but chill. How even???

• Needed two bullet points: 
• How? 
• Even?  

Wow, that was a lot. Jason needed, like, a nap and a smoke. Or chewing gum. Chewing gum would help. He shoved his hand into his pocket, pulled out the packet, slipped the lid off…

Balled up foil paper with pink, sticky remnants. 

Empty. Also, gross.

Jason bit into his cheek, swallowing the metallic taste pooling in his mouth, before asking:

“Will you die if you don’t get what you need right now, kid?”

“You could say that. Someone will die for sure.”

Damn, B would def get along well with this ball of positivity, Jason thought. He huffed, adjusting his weight on the uncomfortable plastic chair. The air smelled like medicine, pinesol and stale coffee. The floors were too squeaky. Chairs too.

After some time had passed:

“Does it have to be her who gives it to you?” Jason asked carefully.

“Well it can’t be anyone else.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re not Macy.”

“Oh, really?”

Tim looked up from his phone, pushed close to his chin in an attempt (key word: attempt) to hide his correspondence with Dick.

“If you’re sick of waiting, you can leave,” Tim said.

Jason huffed. Again. “Leave, he says. Go where, I says?”

“Dunno…  Actually, I have a few suggestions—” 

(H.E.L.L. Tim had written once. On Jason’s phone.)

“Keep it to yourself.” Jason scoffed to emphasise his point.

“You huff and scoff so much,” Tim said. “If you’re asthmatic, I think they do inhalers here too. You just need a prescription…”

Jason ignored Tim’s spiel on the benefits of getting these things checked out by a professional, first, to consider him. The man. The source of his unease. 

The man at the desk watched Jason and Tim with dead-tired eyes. Sagging bags under red-veined whites, bruised and permanent. He handled the prescription medications, but always seemed to find a reason to simply turn and stare at them.

Jason felt bad that he and Tim were hanging like tormenting shadows in the waiting area, used as a vaccine lineup in the pharmacy. That this guy had to watch them the whole time too, ‘cause security was too busy guarding the entrance from old men coming in for their medication and bubbly high-schoolers, dropping by to pick up cosmetics or chips and dip.

No, what he felt, as ridiculous as it sounded, was worried. 

He knew they resembled suspicious hooligans who were here for a quick break in and entry—pocket that baby food there, Tim-bro; pile up on tampons, too, you never know when it’ll come in handy!

At least Jason did. Even with Bruce Or Alf around, he was profiled immediately. It was insane. Like you can’t shake the stench off where you come from. Or, more like, people just never grew to love your smell—as normal as it was (or as normal as Dick claimed it was, anyway. But what did Dick’s word count for these days?).

Still, he knew that Tim was too in-his-own head to note the intention behind that levelled glare—beady eyes narrowing past super thick lenses. And the manner in which the worker punched in instructions from his chunky keyboard. (Each click held a promise of retribution; each clack, a promise of the cops coming around to take your dad away, while you waited pathetically next to the cough drops aisle.)

“Keep watching Mr. Mo like you’re a ‘90s bully with a shit home life, and he’ll think that you’re actually gonna try to steal something,” Tim whispered. 

Jason jolted. The chair squeaked. A lady in the vaccine line-up sniffed. 

Tim watched him carefully; those focused eyes were perhaps looking for a weakness. Tim was always looking for a weakness. An out. He was just real terrible at pretending like he wasn’t.

“I know him and he knows me, kinda, but not really… Doesn’t know me, you know?”—(nope, Jason had no clue what that meant, but go off Tim)—“So I could cover for you.” 

Tim smirked. “Though I won’t, if it comes down to it,” he finished.

Tim tilted his head. Hair flopping dramatically. A token from his time spent with Dick, most likely. He wiggled his eyebrows. Wiggled. And tilted his nose up. The ceiling light was not doing him any favours. 

What a silly kid.

Jason felt his defences drop at once. “Oh, so you’re not completely clueless.” He slouched into his chair, man-spreading with his legs wide apart, hands stuffed in his pockets. He smirked as Tim pulled away to give him room. And chuckled when Tim dialled back to man-spread, posing his own unique challenge.

He knew they looked ridiculous. Tim knew they looked ridiculous. He had to! 

“If you know how things are here, then you oughtta know that it’s stupid to wait around for Macy.”

“How so? You’re not unknown. You know? You can call up Bruce if things get weird here—”

“I can’t…” No.  “I won’t. I refuse to.”

Tim dropped his phone on his lap. “You talk like it’s a life or death thing…” His tongue skidded over his lips and then he bit into it, gnawing as he thought. Finally, he said, “Like you don’t have a dad you can depend on, which is weird ‘cause you do. Bruce is dependable.”

He didn't know what to do with that thing hidden behind Tim’s weary tone, so he pretended that it wasn’t there. 

“Oh, where do I start the tales of my woes and tumultuous beginnings, young Timothy? Such a tale requires patience to be received in all its untampered glory—”

“I’m all ears.” Tim switched off his phone and pocketed it. He twisted so that they were facing each other properly now. His shoes knocked against his skateboard, which was shoved underneath the chair; the graffiti coated board poked out slightly (crazy how security let him pass with it in tow; Tim was slippery like a snake). 

Without blinking, shit was unnerving, Tim said: “Tell me. Who you are. Please?”

Jason frowned. “Uh, okay? But you have to tell me some stuff too.”

The kid seemed to consider it. A slight shift in his eyes and then the shuffling. The chair squeaking and the man at the counter glaring. At last, he slowed down and finally tilted his chin up and down. One. Two. 

So this was happening. 

“I’ll cross-reference with what I know,” Tim was saying now. “Bruce Wayne picked you up from the streets on a winter night. Yay or nay?”

“I’m not a fucking stray doggo he found starving on a cold February, like some Lady and the Tramp shit,“ Jason said. He pushed his knees out more, so they clacked against Tim’s, who had his pressed together neatly due to the strange angle he sat to address Jason. 

He blinked in that way that meant he was making a mental note. “I dunno, Jason. Doesn’t fit on file… Guess we can debate the dog part later.”

Something hot stirred in his chest. “The hell does that mean—”

“He had you training for ballet before he had even finalised the adoption process.”

Ballet??

“I’m flexible, Timster. But I ain’t that flexible.”

Tim raised a dark brow. Think. He said. Think. Ballet equals…

“Ohhh.” Jason craned his neck around, pushing his fist to his mouth as he let out an excessive cough. “Yeah. I did that shit for like uh…” Jason scratched behind his ear.

“Six months, give or take, before you were officially a Wayne,” Tim said. “Seven months and three days before the Daily Planet was publishing it all over—”

“And four months before I got to break into my prima flats.”

Tim shook his head. “He had you dancing so early… Almost as soon as he found you. I mean, you—you never failed an audition.”

“I’m a rare talent, he said.” Jason squared his shoulders in pride.

“Dick’s a rarer find though,” Tim said, prodding him with his eyes. “He had all that experience with the trapeze. I bet the shoes were a perfect fit on his first trial. Didn’t even need to break them in like you did. Yet he waited a whole year and a bit.”

Jason sat up suddenly. The chair squeaked. The lady nearby stood up slowly as she was called to get her Flu shot. “What’s that supposed to mean—?”

“Why did he want you specifically?” Tim shook his head. “I don’t get it. What makes you so special?”

Jason took one slow breath in. Then one out. Okay. Jason understood bullet point # 7 now. Why has Tim still found time to follow them around?

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Tim. But, my dad—my boss—B is wayyy too old for you.”

Tim’s face turned flush. “I’m not into your dad!”

Several heads spun to face them. The woman taking her Flu shot. The nurse readying to administer it. A person buying cough syrup. The man at the desk ringing it out for them. Then one by one, they looked away.

Tim swallowed, his lips shaking. “He’s-he’s not my type. What the hell?!”

Yeah, cause him being his type was the issue here. 

“I don’t want him… Not like that…” Tim finished in a whisper, ducking his head in his bid to escape, his arms rested uselessly on their shared arm rest.

“You can’t have him regardless. So stop,” Jason wrinkled his nose, “pursuing.”

Tim looked up. His blue eyes looked glassy. “I’m not pursuing!”

“You stole my Dick and now you're tryna steal my dad!”

This time the silence was louder. More awkward. Some eyes remained fixed on them. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead.

Jason swallowed thick. “Stop trying to fucking steal my dad, my D—brother. My life! Stay the fuck off you greedy, prig! Aren’t you satisfied? You’ve got everything. Never wanting anything. Nice home.” He gestured at Tim. “Nice fucking jacket.” Then at the graffiti board sticking out below them. “Nice toys.” 

Jason smacked his chest, rising up. The chair groaned now, sliding away. “Never had to work for it. But me? This is all I’ve got, okay? This is it for me, man. So hands off!”

“Um—excuse me boys,” the drone of a voice that had seen better days, cut into their argument. Jason watched startled as the man behind the desk, beckoned them over with a wave of his hairy hand.

“Mr. Mo! Is your sister in now?” Tim said, standing to his feet.

Mr. Mo, who Tim-liar, happened to know better than he implied, smiled softly. That did such wonders for his scraggly face. It was incredible. Worthy of an infomercial, where the side-effects of “whatever Mr. Mo took to have that smile” would include death, heart palpitations or liver failure. 

Anyway, when they stood across for him at the “Prescription Drop-in” section, the man, Mr. Mo, told them:

“She wouldn’t be able to make it.” He slid a package on the counter. An inconspicuous grey parcel from Canada Post (but they didn’t live in Canada, so why???). “Told me I should give this to you—only and only—if you came with your uncle, Mr. Grayson, or your older brother. I can see one of those requirements were fulfilled.”

…

Jason rounded on Tim. “Dick is your uncle?!”

Tim looked elsewhere. At his shoe. He was shuffling again. Feet brushing the rectangular, black carpet. “That’s what the fabricated papers say,” he mouthed so that only he and Jason could ‘hear’. He raised his head slightly; his eyes said, let’s talk about this later. 

Like Jason was in the wrong for his totally valid reaction.

Honestly, how much shit could happen in one month…?

“Also, did that guy just call me your older brother. When did that happen?”

Tim shrugged, grabbed the package then rushed back to his seat to grab his board. Then he paused, looked over his shoulder and waited—waited—for Jason to catch up.

“The bus is leaving soon, Jason. And I still haven’t had a chance to pee yet.”

Like that last part was Jason’s fault. Honestly.

Ugh—This shit was hurting his brain.

~*~

Jason missed the bus to Blüdhaven. And it wasn’t his fault. So don’t go saying, “aha, he missed it cause he forgot to charge his phone today.” (Which was partially the reason, but not really. He had it on 10 percent when he left home. 10 percent on a recent model phone was as good as two to three hours. Usually.)

It was Tim’s fault. Not his fault. Tim’s. Not Jason’s. Tim’s fault. Who did this to him? Tim.

There he was, seated on a bench at the bus stop as he stared at the empty space where his ride was supposed to show up—had shown up, denied him entry and zoomed off.

Bus to Blüdhaven? Off in a trail of smoke. Tim’s head, poking from the back window as he waved cheekily at Jason. The gray cloud of exhaust fumes still hung in the air, reminding him of the bus’s presence (absence?) and how much Gotham was contributing to the world’s sure demise to global warming, but that was unimportant. 

Again. Whose fault was it that he could not take the global warming bus out of Gotham to Blüdhaven? Not the bus’s fault. Not global warming either. It’s who’s fault? Almost there. Starts with a T and rhymes with a “fuck him”—that annoying little punk switched Jason’s fucking ticket while he was waxing Germanic poetry to Hannah the ticket seller, so now he has to wait for toworrow’s midnight effing bus. Fuck!

So, who’s fault is it? Not Hannah’s fault. Not the midnight bus’s fault. Not tomorrow’s midnight bus’s fault. C’mon; almost there. It’s ding ding. Tim. It’s Tim’s fault. 

Jason was broke. Cashless. Credit-less. Debit-less.

His phone was dead. Battery-less. Communication-less.

He forgot to pack his power bank and charging cord. 

He was tired, hungry (two skewers could only last him so long) and upset. 

Once again the crumpled up ticket to Ethiopia—he’s flying Economy; got the window seat—burned a hole in his pocket. Why not just leave now? Up and at it? Board the damn plane? He still had the back-up funds. The cash he was saving—that he absolutely would not cash-in except to convert his dollar to birr or summon a taxi to get to the airport—that he absolutely would not touch under any circumstance, because this annoying kid was not worth it, and Dick could handle him by himself, had been handling him by himself. 

So why?

Why?

Why was Jason seated at the bus stop, squeezing his duffle tight, breathing heavy and-and—staring at the wad of bills wrapped up in an old shirt, peeking at him through a gap in the zippers? Why was he pushing the cloth aside and running his fingers along the paper’s creases? Why was he counting out 10, 30, 50 up to 60 dollars? No, no! 

Why were his stupid feet up and moving, dragging him away from here and toward the ticket office again? Why is he banging on the glass window? It’s closed, damnit. He knows it’s closed. He knew even if it were to open, he’d still need to take the midnight bus. By the time he got there, to Dick’s homely place, it wouldn’t matter. Dick didn’t need him there. He had it handled. Tim didn’t need him. He had made it explicitly—fucking—clear that Jason can go fuck off elsewhere!

He should go elsewhere. Another continent. Sheila Haywood, his mom that didn’t want him at some point but had a change of heart when he contacted her, wanted him there. And he wanted to be there with her. But—But—

That stupid kid. Why did he have to look like prime pickings for a quick stab and flee? Why did he have to look so stupid earnest and excessively mischievous and-and such an obvious no-gooder? He was obviously not gonna go to Dick’s place; especially not now that he was left to his own devices. Jason knew. Tim knew. They both knew.

Stupid. So fucking stupid. He was stupid as fuck for being blindsided like this. Fuck!

Jason smacked the window again. Each time it rattled, he felt emboldened to smack it more. The lights were dimmed in the tiny office space he could make out. Undim damnit. Undim. He pushed his face into the glass. He wondered what abomination the person at the other side would see? Would it scare them into action? If they were even there at all.

Tim had unintentionally used such a face on him, but it was terrifying for a different reason, because someone from a soft, homey, mundane background like Timmy Drake should not—could not—yet, had understood what it meant when your fucking parents ignored you. Didn’t matter the cause: alcohol, drugs, unresolved trauma or too-cozy-elsewhere-to-send-a-greeting-card. Fuck those pieces of shit! Fuck ‘em even if they were being held hostage. Fuck those guys. If a kid thought Bruce Wayne of all people was doing a better job than you—and you had the excuse of being kidnapped to boot—then you weren’t even decent-ish parents. You were…

Fuck!

Fuck!

Whose fault was it? Not- fuck! Tim—No-Fuck!

”Open, damn it open. It’s a Home Alone Christmas special and a damn kid is on a bus to Blüdhaven without his guardian. His parents never took out the time to make him understand the importance of Ohana which means family; means we need to stick together! So open this damn stupid thing before I force it open myself, and I mean it—”

“Fucking hell kid, what the hell is your damage?!”

Jason rounded. Then shifted the weight of his bag. He eyed the guy in front of him. First the blue hat with that fishing logo on it, then the zipped up jacket that barely supported a bulging beer gut. The bottom were shoes: Blundstone or whatever they were called. 

“You work here, man?” Jason tilted his head to the booth where his hand prints and a huge ring of condensation had formed from his assault. “Well? Starting a shift soon?”

The guy frowned. Heavy eyes sank into a sun-beaten face. “Uh. Yeah. Uh-huh.” The guy stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of his boot cut jeans and leaned back slightly. “So what’s happening? You got robbed, kid, or…?”

Kid? So he was the kid now, huh?

“Practically,” Jason said, pushing off his beanie to run his fingers through his curls—it felt dry, he had greased these same strands just that morning, but autumn weather said, “you fucking thought so,” and a loose nail caught on it on his pinkie finger, and it fucking sucked when it pulled out. But he didn’t complain.

“My friend got stolen. Nabbed right from under my nose.”

The guy hummed, sympathetic. “Lost a friend to senseless violence too. What you gotta do is keep on moving.”

Jason shook his head, shoulders slumping. “Listen, man-uh-sir, thanks for the advice but that’s not…”

“Here.”

Jason watched, confused as a beefy hand covered in puncture wounds stretched out towards him holding a freshly printed ticket. 11:30PM ticket to Blüdhaven.

“What are you—?”

“Take it. The booth isn’t scheduled to open for another two hours or so. So take it now.”

Jason knitted his eyebrows, gingerly taking the glossy item. He did a proper look at the guy, who watched him with far less enthusiasm. No way he was just gonna accept kindness for what it was in Gotham of all places. “Why the fuck are you here if it doesn’t open for another two hours, then?”

“Can’t a guy meander about as he pleases?”

He sure the fuck can!

“Huh.” Jason accepted the reason, shoving the ticket into his duffle before zipping up.

Then something occurred to him. “You got a charger on you mista…” He looked for a nametag. 

“Bob. Bob McGillan.”

Jason pursed his lips; his eyebrows pulling together. “The hell? Are you some kinda screen actor? Has-been celebrity? A guy with a common name?”

Bob’s scowl deepened with each question Jason shot at him. “You probably know me from the—uh—roofing ad. Company tanked recently, so I work here these days—”

Jason’s eyes shined with mirth. “You’re the advertisement guy. Loved that sketch you did with the beavers!” Jason deepened his voice and straightened his back like a telemarketer. “Need your home’s roof fixed? Our mighty pals of nature gotcha covered. And here’s a special word of guarantee from ‘em. Crunch, crunch beaver sounds. Hahahaha.” 

Jason’s shoulders shook.

Bob watched on, amused. 

“The fuck are you doing here man?” Jason said through loud gasps, wiping at the tears forming at the corner of his eye. “Shouldn’t you be on a billboard or something?”

Bob shrugged. “Life. You’ll get it when you’re older.”

Jason noticed that his eyes looked a little shaky now. His shoulders too. He felt a little awkward keeping this guy from his meandering, so he made sure to get back on track. “So, uh, got a cord on you by chance, Bob? Maybe a power bank too? My phone is dead as fuck. I use an iPhone by the way… uh, I’m not saying it to be a snob, I just don’t know. I’m rambling.”

So this is what Tim had felt like?

Bob’s hands—shaking, Jason noted—reached into his pant’s pocket and retrieved a set of jingling keys. “Be right back,” he said in a gruff whisper, “wait here, you hear?”

Jason nodded, awkwardly pressing his beanie to his chest as he watched the guy stoop low and drag his feet in the direction of the parking lot: down the sidewalk, past those bushes, drawing close to that building, then he waited for the cross walk.

Needles missing from syringes; 

Punctured hands shaking;

Destroying people;

Drugs.

~ A shitty poem by Jason Todd.

Jason swallowed back bile, focusing on the sound of car horns blaring, the aircraft flying overhead, his dead phone, the missing bus, the confusing conspiracy he couldn’t make heads-or-tails of, his stupid brother that got him roped into this. Who’s fault was it?

Doctor Manhattan…

Thought bubbles like Manhattan;

Shuffling feet;

Wiggling eyebrows;

Graffiti board;

Stupid red jacket;

Tim. It was Tim’s fault.

~ Another shitty ballad by Jason Todd.