Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim adjusts the camera lens, breath fogging faintly in the cool night air. The fire escape beneath him is solid and quiet — he’d tested every step days ago to make sure it wouldn't creak if he stepped on the wrong spot. Now he crouches low on the top landing, just beneath the roofline, pressed into the shadows.

The rooftop above him stays still and empty, for now. Streetlights hum below. Somewhere in the distance, a dog is barking.

Gotham, for once, feels slow.

With nothing to do but wait, Tim lets his gaze drift down the side of the building. One floor below, a window is bright enough to pull focus. Inside, a man is helping a little girl arrange something on the floor — toys, maybe some kind of bedtime routine. It feels unfamiliar, quiet and simple in a way Tim isn’t used to; an ordinary life playing out twenty feet below while he crouches in the dark with a camera, waiting for vigilantes to land on a roof.

Shaking off the weird feeling he gets from that scene, Tim checks his settings again. Low shutter speed tonight. Normally he has to crank it up to catch anything usable — Batman and Robin move fast, and motion blur doesn’t do them justice.

But tonight's different.

Last week, after tracing a shift in their Old Gotham route, he’d noticed a pattern: about halfway through patrol, they stop for a short break. Roughly the same timing, always on different roofs. He realized it’s a checkpoint, a chance to choose the rest of the night’s path based on whichever area is more active with crime.

Which, conveniently for Tim, means they pause. In other words: a perfect opportunity for some rare long exposure shots.

It looked random at first, but soon enough he was able to piece together a pattern to their rooftop stops. The choices were deliberate, based on specific criteria: the right height, decent cover, a location that patrol routes converged at. Once he understood the rules, narrowing down the options was easy.

The spot he’d picked tonight was one with a fire escape just high enough to watch without being seen.

Normally that kind of accessibility would probably be a disqualifier for someone as paranoid as Batman — but this particular fire escape didn’t go all the way to street level, it only spanned the last two floors. According to Tim’s research, some of Poison Ivy’s plants had torn through the lower section months ago, leaving the top part of it looking like it’s hanging on by a thread; in reality, it’s perfectly stable.

That made getting up there a challenge of course (involving a precarious balcony jump), but it also meant Batman was less likely to expect anyone climbing up to spy on them.

Totally worth it, in Tim’s opinion.

All he needs now is patience, maybe a little luck, and he’ll have the perfect chance to catch some crisp, clean shots in the dim rooftop light.

He checks his wristwatch (a special model with no backlight or reflective surfaces, perfect for stealth — he’d gotten it for himself for Christmas). It’s just past one.

At 1:17, the sweep of a cape cuts through the air. Two shadows land on the rooftop across from him — one tall and quiet, the other shorter, all restless movement.

Batman and Robin, right on time. Tim grins and lets his finger settle onto the shutter.

Click. Click.

The camera’s on silent mode, but he can still feel the vibration of each shot. He adjusts the focus.

Click.

Robin flops onto a utility box, legs swinging, and picks up what must be a conversation from earlier.

"Can’t believe you’re actually calling in Zatanna for this."

Batman crosses his arms. "We can’t take risks when it comes to something like this."

"Still feels like overkill. And since when is it like you to call in outside help for Gotham problems?"

Batman doesn’t answer immediately, letting out a deep “hm” sound instead and turning to sweep his gaze across the skyline (Tim’s heart stops during the brief moment when that gaze passes over the spot where he’s hidden; he still manages to snap a shot that makes it look like Batman is staring straight into the camera lens).

Not for the first time, Tim wishes he could translate the weird grunt-language Batman seems to speak. Jason and Dick have it down perfectly, it seems; but even after all these photos and late nights, Tim can only guess.

He tells himself not to take it personally. That kind of fluency is for family.

Batman finally speaks again. "The circumstances are unusual. It’s a mistake we didn’t catch earlier, and I don’t need to remind you how dangerous —"

"Yeah, yeah. I heard you the first ten times.” Robin interrupts him. “Still feels weird."

"Zatanna’s trustworthy. That’s the only reason I’m allowing it.” A short silence. “And it would be unwise not to take care of this before it can become a problem."

Tim frowns slightly behind the camera. He keeps snapping, filing away every shift in posture, every stray glance.

Robin kicks at the rooftop gravel. "Guess it’s better than the alternative."

"It is," Batman replies. "And safer for everyone involved. Additionally, measures will be taken to prevent another similar occurrence."

“Hey, I swear, if you try to imply it was my fault somehow —”

Batman turns, a flick of the cape behind him. "We're moving. Need to check the rest of the sector before heading towards Robinson Park."

Robin is on his feet after him, shouting about not being ignored and waving a pointed finger as he follows.

And just like that they’re gone; over the edge of the building like they were never there at all.

The rooftop stills once more.

Tim lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and rushes to check the camera's preview screen. Perfect shots greet him: Robin mid-rant, Batman looming, one frame catching them in the middle of an unspoken look.

Fights make for great material — but Tim loves these quiet blink-and-you-miss-it moments too. There’s something soft about them that tugs at a place under his ribs; he doesn’t have a name for the feeling, just knows he wants to be closer to it.

Hence the overcomplicated setup, Tim thinks, suppressing a laugh. All this, just to photograph five minutes of rooftop banter.

With an elevated mood, he zips up the camera case and slings it over his shoulder. His legs ache from crouching for so long, and the climb down is not going to be fun — but tonight was a win.

Carefully making his way down to street level, he replays the conversation in his mind. Zatanna doesn’t show up in Gotham often. Just like Robin said, Batman doesn’t usually invite outside help. That on its own would be out of the ordinary, but there also haven’t been any major rogue plots lately that would call for a team-up — making it even stranger.

Probably best to call it a night after this, Tim decides once he finishes climbing down. A bus ride later and he’s back in Bristol.

Once home, he carefully packs away his gear, then quickly brushes the grit off his clothes. After tossing his hoodie onto his desk chair, he directly throws himself into bed, too tired to fully change into pajamas. Sleeping in tomorrow sounds good, he decides. It’s a weekday, but really — if they didn’t want him skipping school that often, they shouldn’t have made their online attendance records so easy to hack. And besides — he has more fun things to do, like developing his newest batch of photographs.

Tim can’t wait.

That night, he doesn’t dream of anything.

—

[A week earlier]

Tim isn’t even where he’s supposed to be — a rooftop with a clear line of sight of tonight’s patrol — when it happens.

He’s still cutting through City Hall District — one street over from where he hopes to catch sight of Batman and Robin on patrol — casual steps like he’s not in a rush, hands in his pockets, hood up to cut the wind and hide his face. The air is heavy and tastes like exhaust.

It’s still early in the night, but the streets are already starting to empty. He can understand why; much as he loves Gotham, the city isn’t exactly safe for late-night strolls even on the best of nights.

He turns down a side alley he knows is a shortcut when a scream echoes through the air and stops him cold.

It’s not the kind of shout you get from drunk college kids on the corner, or the startled bark of someone who’s just almost stepped on a rat. This one is sharp with panic — fast and young and afraid.

He freezes only for a few moments, then shakes off the shock and (despite a quickly growing sense of unease) rushes toward the end of the alley where the scream came from.

Tim crouches next to an overfilled dumpster. Thankfully the nearby street lamp is broken, providing a patch of dark as additional cover — people on the street might not even be able to notice there’s an alleyway here at all.

His blood runs cold when he sees it: two men, large and fast-moving, forcing a small figure into the side of a black van. Their victim is a girl — maybe nine or ten years old, not much younger than himself — and she’s struggling so hard one of her shoes goes flying.

No logos on the van. No plate.

It’s not the first time Tim’s seen a crime in progress, but it’s usually something minor like a burglary (as common in Gotham as pigeons in any large city), or something Batman and Robin are already en route to handle. This is different.

Seconds later, the van door slams shut and it rolls forward like nothing happened. Tim tracks it as it crunches over glass and speeds off down Fountain Drive. Fifty-ish miles per hour — not fast enough to draw attention, but too fast to follow on foot.

Tim pulls back into the alley, heart thudding, hand already in his pocket. He’s reaching for his phone before he even thinks about it.

The GCPD won’t be fast enough. They won’t be able to track down the van before it’s gone in the night. And getting the information to Batman through them… He’s tried that route before — by the time you get someone who can authorize contact with Commissioner Gordon, by the time you even get dispatch to understand the urgency or to believe you, it’s already too late.

The number he needs is right there in his contacts list under “W” from when his parents had stopped hiring babysitters for him and thought it a good idea to have the neighbors’ contact information. They’d warned him to only use it in urgent situations where he wouldn’t be able to wait for the police to arrive.

Technically, this is exactly that kind of emergency (even if they’d probably had in mind something more like a break-in at the time).

He hadn’t brought a burner phone with him tonight. But that doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is the terrified girl in the back of that van.

Tim taps the call button. The phone rings twice.

“Wayne residence.” The voice is smooth, calm, and unmistakable.

He swallows. “Hi — sorry, I know it’s late. I need to speak with Mr. Wayne. It’s important.”

There’s a pause. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Tim Drake,” he says, knowing there’s no point in hiding his identity when tracking it via his number would be trivial. “I’m, uh, your neighbor. That’s not important right now. Is Mr. Wayne… I know he’s currently out, somewhere near City Hall. I mean — I know who he is.”

The pause stretches longer this time. Tim tries to resist the urge to fidget.

“What’s the nature of the emergency, Mr. Drake?”

Alfred’s tone hasn’t changed, but there’s a shift in it now — more clipped, formal.

“I just saw a kidnapping take place,” Tim says quickly, trying to keep his voice calm. “Two men, black van, no plates. It happened near Fountain Drive and 5th Street. They were heading east when I saw them. They took a kid.”

His fingers tighten on the strap of his camera bag.

“I didn’t get a photo. They were fast. But I figured… someone should know. As soon as possible.”

There’s another long beat of silence. Tim imagines Alfred typing, already patching through to Batman.

Then: “Understood. I will contact the police and pass along the information. Please remain where you are, help will arrive shortly.”

Tim shakes his head, forgetting for a moment Alfred can’t see him. “No, I don’t need — I’m okay, they didn’t see me or anything. I just saw it while I was walking home. From a friend’s place. I’m going home now. I just — I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Are you quite certain that you’re safe, Mr. Drake? It would be no bother to send someone to escort you home. In fact, I must insist.”

The question catches him off guard. He’s not really used to anyone worrying about his safety. His parents always sign off their calls by telling him to stay safe of course, but they know he’s mature enough to take care of himself — hence the lack of a need for adult supervision while they’re away.

Still, someone caring enough to make sure he gets home safe leaves him feeling oddly warm.

Unfortunately, he has to decline.

Normally, Tim would be thrilled about a close encounter of the bat kind. But in light of just having revealed what he knows? He needs time to calm down and figure out what to say, how to explain.

Also, he doesn’t want to answer questions about why he’s out at night dressed in dark clothes with climbing gear and a camera that costs more than most people’s rent.

“It’ll really be faster for me to just take a taxi,” he finally says. “I stayed out of sight, I’m sure they didn’t know I was here. I’m okay, really.”

A pause, then: “In that case, I must ask that you send me a text message when you have safely arrived home — for my own sake of peace.”

Tim hurriedly agrees to the odd request. Moments later, the call ends with a soft click.

Tim lowers the phone and stands still for a short while longer, staring down at the sidewalk like it might offer an answer. It doesn’t.

He opens the taxi app on his phone and orders a ride. There’s no possibility of continuing with his plans to follow Batman and Robin tonight. For one, he promised Alfred to go home. For another — he’s pretty sure they will be looking for him later tonight, and it’s better that they find him at home than on a rooftop he shouldn’t be on.

His fingers are steadier than they were a minute ago — but the shakiness hasn’t gone completely. It’s not adrenaline anymore, he realizes. It’s whatever comes after.

Consequences, maybe.

He spends the whole ride home trying to decide what to say. The truth would be easiest — but it might get Dick in trouble for being the reason their identities were revealed, and Tim’s not about to let that happen.

By the time the cab pulls up to Drake Manor, he’s run through a dozen versions of his story. The part about Dick’s quadruple somersault stays out. So does anything about rooftop photography and tracked patrol patterns. If they knew that much, they’d force him to stop. And he’s not ready to lose this.

Drake Manor is quiet. It always is — his parents are rarely here, and Tim doesn’t spend much time at home either — but tonight the silence sits heavier than usual, more suspenseful — like the house is holding its breath.

He’s settled on the living room couch, one leg tucked beneath him, a blanket dragged up to his knees, his half-empty mug cradled in both hands, warming his fingers.

The hot chocolate is way too sweet.

It’s not his usual drink of choice — not unless it’s freezing out, or he’s sick, or his mom’s made it for him. But tonight, it felt right. Something warm to sip and easy to make, something to keep his hands occupied.

He left the lights off when he got in — habit, mostly (Tim doesn’t want to risk anyone noticing he’s frequently coming and going late at night) — but now it feels like a mistake. The silence and shadows are just making him more anxious.

He doesn’t even know for sure if Batman will show up tonight. Maybe they’re still deciding what to do about him?

He tells himself to go to bed. It’s already after midnight…

Then he hears it — the soft thud of boots on the back porch. He goes still.

The door creaks open, and a figure steps into the hallway light.

Batman. And behind him — Robin, curiously looking around and scanning the room.

"You’ve got a nice place," Robin says. "Cozy."

Tim’s eyes stay locked on Batman, who hasn’t moved past the threshold. The cape hangs still, the silhouette sharp and waiting.

Tim clears his throat awkwardly. "Uh — thanks. Feel free to come in. Do you want anything? I could make tea. Or hot chocolate."

Robin squints at him, making his way inside. "Are you trying to bribe us?"

"I’m trying to be a good host," Tim mutters, heat crawling up his neck. He probably sounds ridiculous. "It felt weird not to offer."

Batman steps further into the room. "We won’t be staying long."

It’s both a relief and a disappointment.

Tim sets the mug aside and stands. "Right. Before anything else, I just wanted to ask… the girl — she’s safe?"

"Uninjured," Batman nods.

Robin jumps in. "Got the creeps cuffed up and handed over. B drove them halfway through a dumpster first, though. Won't be causing any trouble in the near future, I can promise you that."

Batman’s attention is steady on Tim.

"How much do you know?"

Tim swallows. This is it — the moment he practiced in his head on the ride home. His voice comes out carefully, but steady.

"I didn’t know anything for sure until tonight. I had suspicions, but..."

Batman steps closer. "What gave you those suspicions?"

Tim feels himself tense, but Robin quickly steps in. “Hey, B, dial it down a notch — you’re gonna make the kid think this is an interrogation.” He turns to Tim with a more relaxed tone. “You’re not in trouble or anything. We just want to know how you figured it out.”

Batman doesn’t say anything, but steps back.

Robin grins and collapses on a nearby sofa chair. “Also — you always sit in the dark like this? What’ve you got, night vision? Echolocation? I thought we were supposed to be the bats here.”

Tim lets out a quiet laugh, some of the tightness in his shoulders easing. It’s enough to make answering feel a little less like stepping into a spotlight.

"I found a batarang.” Tim says. “A few weeks ago, I was birdwatching. That’s kind of my hobby, I do wildlife photography. I was in the woods, and I guess I must have wandered too close to your estate? When I found the batarang, I didn’t think much of it at first — just a cool souvenir."

He shrugs, casual, rehearsed.

"But then I started piecing things together. Batman doesn’t patrol out in Bristol, and if there’d been a rogue incident, I would’ve noticed it happening so close to my backyard. And then the timeline of Robin — the first one leaving, and then the new one showing up when you adopted —" Jason, he leaves unsaid. "The more I thought about it, the more obvious the truth became."

There, Tim thinks. Not a single lie. Even if Batman had brought some kind of odorless airborne truth serum (those probably exist, right?) Tim was in the clear.

Robin tilts his head. "That’s a pretty big logical leap for a civilian."

Tim feels his face turn red at what’s basically praise from one of his heroes. "I’m observant."

Batman crosses to the coffee table, where Tim laid out the batarang — cleaned, catalogued, stored beneath his bed for weeks. The one he’d found on a Gotham rooftop.

He picks it up and turns it over in his hand, silent.

"I know I shouldn’t have kept it," Tim says. "But I didn’t tell anyone. Not my parents. Not anyone."

Batman looks around, appraising the empty house. "Your parents are away?"

"Yeah. They’re in Europe for business." He shrugs. "Like I said, they don’t know anything."

There’s a beat of silence.

Batman’s gaze flicks over him — head to toe — like he’s scanning for injuries. "You weren’t seen tonight?"

"No. I stayed hidden. You don’t have to worry,” Tim hurries to reassure them. After all, they don’t know quite how proficient he is at staying undetected. “There were at least two of them, I bet they would have gone after me right away if they’d noticed me."

Robin’s expression turns complicated at that, like he’s unhappy, but he doesn’t comment. Tim quickly goes over his words, but can’t place having said anything wrong.

"So, yeah — the only people who know I was there are in this room. And Alfred. Obviously."

Another pause.

"Don’t go out alone at night again. It’s dangerous."

Tim starts to speak — then nods. "Okay. Yeah. That’s fair. I don’t usually. I was just —" He cuts himself off. "Okay.”

He hopes they can’t hear his heart beating in his chest at the lie.

"You know," Robin says, watching him with open curiosity, like he’s still trying to fit all the puzzle pieces together. "For a kid who’s had such a busy night, you’re taking it pretty well."

Tim huffs a little laugh. “I’ll probably freak out once I’ve had time to sleep on it. And — it’s probably obvious, but I’m kind of a fan.”

That earns a faint snort from Robin. “Hear that, B? Wanna give the kid an autograph?”

Batman doesn’t react. He tucks the batarang into his belt with practiced ease. Tim watches it disappear.

"Physical evidence of what he knows could be dangerous," he says.

Tim nods. "Right. Of course.” After a moment of hesitation, he adds: “I really won’t tell anyone. I wasn’t even going to tell you. Tonight was — I just wanted to help."

Batman studies him a moment longer.

"I believe you."

Tim exhales — slow, quiet. His shoulders ease.

Batman gives a short nod toward Robin, and they move back toward the door.

"Get some rest," Batman says. “You did good tonight.”

It’s short, just a hint of approval — but Tim feels it like a firework just went off in his chest.

Robin glances back on the way out. "And seriously — motion sensor lights. In the yard too, it’s a death sentence to walk in at night. Nearly tripped on an abandoned skateboard out there."

Tim laughs just as the porch door shuts behind them.

He stays standing for a long moment, staring at the space where they’d stood.

Batman came to his house, looked him in the eye, and trusted him.

And that — right now — is everything.

—

[Now]

Tim wakes up late.

The sun has already climbed high enough to warm the floorboards, and the shadows across the curtains tell him it’s much later than he usually allows. The clock on his desk confirms it — 10:46 AM.

He sits up slowly, squinting against the light, trying to remember if it was a weekend. It’s not. He has school. He should’ve been up hours ago.

He quickly checks and confirms his suspicion — his phone has no alarm set.

That’s not right.

He rolls his feet to the floor and stands, stretching carefully. He’s still wearing outside clothes, for some inconceivable reason. His hoodie’s still hanging off the edge of the desk chair, so he tugs it on out of habit.

As he reaches for it, his knee brushes against the corner of the chair and causes him to hiss. A spot on his leg throbs — nothing sharp, just a dull ache. He pushes the fabric up to check.

A bruise. Dark, already healing, looking a couple days old.

He doesn’t remember getting it.

And now that he’s paying attention — his right wrist is a little stiff too, like he’d jarred it bracing a fall or catching himself. His shoulders are tight. Not sore from sleep, not from bad posture. More like he'd overexerted himself yesterday, lifting or climbing something.

He frowns.

His memory of yesterday is fine. After coming back from school, he’d done his homework. Watched something dumb online. Gone to bed around midnight. Hadn’t practiced any new skating tricks or anything else bruiseworthy.

Except —

He feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand.

Except there’s a faint feeling in his gut, like a skipped step on a staircase. That uncomfortable backward lurch when your body thinks something should be there — and it isn’t.

Chapter Text

[Several days earlier]

Tim leans closer to the laptop screen, one elbow braced against the desk as he flips through the most recent SD card dump. The low drumming of rain outside his window fills the silence — otherwise broken only by the soft click of the mouse and the faint rustle of a snack wrapper as Tim reaches absently for another bite.

Click. Blurred. Deleted.

Click. Bad angle. Deleted.

Click. This one’s pretty good — both Batman and Robin in the same frame, the former’s foot off the ground as he moves to intercept someone. With a smile, Tim adds it to the curated folder he’s been building.

They’d been fighting some thugs at the docks last night. Something to do with smuggling, probably. Tim hadn’t caught the full context as he’d only gotten there halfway through, crouched behind a rusted crane that screamed “OSHA violation” with every creak.

Another few photos go by. He yawns, rubbing at his eyes. It’s late, and the glow from the screen is making his brain fuzzier by the minute, but he keeps going. He wants to finish reviewing this batch of photos before going to sleep.

The next few shots are mostly useless — focused on the backs of some retreating thugs. But in the corner of the frame, behind them, there’s a glimpse of a neighboring warehouse. Tim pauses, something about it seeming familiar. He opens another folder of photos and scrolls down until he finds what he’s looking for. There. Another angle, clearer this time, from a few weeks ago. Same warehouse, Black Mask’s men.

Tim frowns, sitting back. He remembers overhearing something last night: one of the thugs, in the process of getting thrown around by Batman, had been yelling something about “the twenty-seventh” and “boss’s orders”.

Putting the pieces together in his mind, Tim reaches over the desk to where his map of Gotham is spread out and pulls it closer. Uncapping his marker, he draws a circle around the warehouse.

It definitely seemed like something big would be going down if it involved several gangs, Black Mask's among them. Tim likes close-up shots, but getting too near when there are as many thugs — and as much gunfire — as there usually are when gangs this big clash? That’s just asking for trouble.

Grabbing a post-it, he writes a quick reminder for himself to stay away from that area on that specific night — it’s in about two weeks, and he doesn’t want to risk mixing up the date. He presses the sticky note in place and folds the map carefully, tucking it back into its plastic sleeve.

With another wide yawn, he goes back to reviewing the last of this evening’s photos.

—

[Today]

Tim’s not usually the type to sleep in.

But that’s the situation he finds himself in: standing in his room at nearly eleven in the morning, hoodie halfway on, phone in hand, staring at an empty alarm screen and wondering when he started developing such bad habits.

His alarms are set for weekdays by default — he’d have had to make the conscious choice to turn them off before bed last night. Maybe he’d been more tired than he thought, if he doesn’t remember doing so.

He goes downstairs and starts the motions of making breakfast. There’s not much in the fridge, but Mrs. Mac should be bringing groceries tomorrow. He settles for toast, then forgets he started the kettle until it’s screeching. He pours the water and makes himself coffee, then sits in the kitchen drinking it slowly while scrolling through his phone’s notifications.

Nothing looks or feels particularly off.

By the time he finishes eating, there’s still nothing interesting from his phone. No calendar entries for today, nor any memos. He flips through his notes app and finds a few half-written ideas — one titled “project” that contains exactly three empty bullet points and no context.

He scrolls further through his apps, checking his synced calendar just in case. He swipes to check the past few days.

Most of it checks out: class blocks, homework reminders, the occasional meetup with friends at the skate park. But then —

11:00 PM, Gym

Tim frowns at the screen. This is… what? He doesn’t even have a gym membership, and if he did — he wouldn’t be going that late at night.

He taps on the calendar entry. There’s no location, just a small note under it: “Bring gloves + backup gloves”.

He sits there for a moment, baffled, phone still in hand. Gloves? Like gym gloves? As far as he knows, those are mostly used for weightlifting and strength training. Looking down to check, Tim confirms that he hasn't developed any arm muscles. Or perhaps it's referring to climbing gloves? But that makes even less sense. He doesn't have a climbing gym membership either, and where else would he be climbing? Gotham is an urban cityscape, the only things to climb are tall buildings and fire escapes. There's a forested area around Drake Manor, so maybe he's been climbing trees? But that still doesn't explain why, or better yet — why he doesn't remember.

After double checking the house's carbon monoxide detectors, he concludes he is probably not suffering from CO poisoning. His room also doesn’t immediately provide any helpful information.

He spends almost twenty minutes tidying, in hopes that the clutter might offer some clue as to why he decided to skip school today.

He’s just about ready to give up and chalk it all up to just an usual (and hopefully onetime) lapse of memory, when he looks under his bed and finds it: a camera. A very nice camera. Not new, but definitely expensive. Something mid-professional range, the kind that photography kids at school brag about borrowing from their parents.

He pulls it out slowly and turns it over in his hands. The grip fits his palm exactly. There’s a nick near the side dial like he’s dropped it before. It’s definitely his, the neck strap is adjusted to fit him perfectly. He just doesn’t remember ever buying it, much less using it.

He opens the gallery and it comes up blank. Checks the memory slot next.

Empty.

Some more searching turns up a spare battery and a few SD cards, but they look unused — still in the original unopened packaging.

Tim frowns slightly and sets the camera down, then leans back against the bed and stares at it.

He doesn’t dislike photography, but it’s not really something he’s been particularly interested in either. He doesn’t remember buying a camera like this, or saving up for it. He’d almost think it was a gift he’d forgotten about, but it looks used — recently used, there’s not a speck of dust on it, and he knows Mrs. Mac doesn’t come into his room to clean.

And what would he even take photos of?

Birds? Buildings? People?

He can’t imagine himself spending his time doing any of that. The only thing that comes to mind is filming himself doing skating tricks, but there’s no tripod to be found. And besides — his phone is more than good enough for that kind of thing.

Eventually he decides to look through the rest of his room again, this time more carefully. He checks all the usual hiding spots, though he doesn’t really know what he’s looking for.

Under the bed: dust and a few fallen coins.

Inside his closet: mostly clothes. A few shoeboxes. Nothing strange.

Bookshelf: all in order. Except — wait.

One of the lower shelves protrudes slightly more than the others. Barely a quarter of an inch, easily overlooked if he hadn’t been meticulously checking each book for a hollowed out compartment.

Tim kneels and pulls out the shelf, carefully putting the books to the side. There’s a false back — too thin to hold much, but enough to tuck a transparent sleeve into.

Bingo.

He takes it out and lays it out onto his desk. Inside is a folded paper map of Gotham.

There’s a few differently colored lines going through it. Some circled buildings. A post it note with one block of handwriting.

“Meetup location. After midnight. Don’t forget.”

A date is scribbled below the text, it’s in 6 days. He pulls the note off, and finds the Gotham docks circled multiple times in red marker under it.

Tim stares at it for a while. He doesn’t remember writing any of that, but it’s undeniably in his handwriting. Also, it was hidden in his room.

At this point, it’s clear: there are too many odd clues for it to all be a coincidence, he’s forgetting something important.

Tim flips the map over one more time just to check for a hidden message on the back or code or — he doesn’t know. A second note he missed at first? A cipher? Something that would make all of this make sense?

No such luck.

Eventually, he pulls out his phone again and scrolls through his contacts. He hasn’t talked to his parents in a few days, but maybe they know something he doesn’t. It should be about late afternoon where they are — hopefully they’re still in an area with reception.

His thumb hovers over “Mom” for a few seconds, and then hits Call.

It rings for a minute before finally connecting.

"Tim!" Janet Drake’s voice comes through — cheerful, faintly surprised, and slightly echoing like she’s on speaker. “Is everything alright?”

"Yeah!" he says quickly, leaning back against his desk chair. "Yeah, I just felt like calling."

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says warmly. “It’s good to hear from you.”

"Hey, kiddo," Jack’s voice chimes in from further away. “Wait — what time is it back home now? Shouldn’t you be in class?”

Tim winces. “I — yeah. I overslept.”

“Are you sick?” Janet asks immediately, concerned. “Do you have a fever? Headache?”

"No, no – I’m fine, I promise. I don’t know what I was thinking last night," literally, Tim thinks. “I must have turned off my alarm by accident.”

"Skipping school, huh?" Jack laughs. “About time. I was starting to think you’d never get around to the rebellious teenager phase.”

“Jack,” Janet scolds gently.

“What? It’s healthy.”

Tim grins despite himself. "Sorry. It wasn’t on purpose, really. I’ll make up the work."

Technically, he’s supposed to be at boarding school instead of at home. Not that there’s a hard rule against leaving campus — it just gets logged, and his parents have never bothered checking the logs. As long as he gets good grades and doesn’t cause trouble, they trust him to manage his own time. Which means that when he wants to go home, he can.

Lately, that’s been happening a lot.

Weekends, sure. But often mid-week, too. It’s not like he has a reason to come home this frequently — the manor is usually empty, even Mrs. Mac only comes by every few days, so he usually prefers hanging out with friends at school. Compared to an empty house, it’s not much of a contest.

He frowns, trying to remember why he’s been making the long trip back between his school and Bristol so often. Could it be related —

“We’re just glad you’re alright,” Janet interrupts his thoughts. “But maybe don’t make it a habit, okay?”

"Got it. No repeat offenses."

A beat passes. Tim hesitates for a moment — but only for a moment, knowing they might not have much time to talk before they have to go back to their work — and then goes for the reason he called in the first place.

"Hey — this might sound weird, but… did you guys get me a camera recently?"

There’s a pause on the other end.

"A camera?" Jack repeats. “Like one of those polaroid ones?”

“No, like… one of those nice ones that photographers use, with interchangeable lenses and stuff?”

“I don’t remember buying you a camera,” Janet thinks out loud. “But you’ve talked about photography before, haven’t you?”

"Yeah, I think so,” Tim lies, not remembering mentioning it at all.

“You definitely asked for a zoom lens for your birthday,” Jack adds. This is news to Tim, who remembers having been thinking of asking for a new skateboard instead. “Almost gave me a heart attack when I saw the price tag. You didn’t lose it, did you?”

“No! No, it’s here, I just —" He pauses, trying to think of an excuse. “I got a package recently and wasn’t sure if it was something you sent. It’s probably something I ordered that I forgot about.”

“Well, how you use your allowance is up to you,” Janet says. “You never did show us any of your photos, though.”

Tim tries to laugh casually. “I’ll fix that next time you’re home.”

"We’d love that," Janet says fondly. “Listen, Tim, we’ll be heading to the dig site in a few days. The signal might be spotty.”

Tim nods, even though she can’t see it. There’s a flicker of something heavy in his chest — not quite disappointment, but similar enough. They always do this: off to the next site, signal spotty, timelines vague, like it doesn’t even cross their mind to miss him. It's hardly unexpected, he's more surprised that they had time to pick up the call at all.

He tells himself he’s used to it by now.

“We’ll try to call you in a few weeks when we’re done,” Jack says. “If you need anything and can’t reach us —”

“Call Mrs. Mac, I know,” Tim says. “And don’t worry about me — have fun digging up whatever ancient pottery you’re chasing this time.”

"Always do," Jack says. Tim knows he means it good-naturedly, and is annoyed at himself for being frustrated at hearing it.

“We love you, sweetheart,” Janet adds. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

"You too," Tim says, softer now. “Love you.”

A chime rings through the house — the doorbell.

Tim glances toward the hallway. Weird. He’s not expecting anyone today, and solicitors never come around this part of Bristol.

“Hey, someone’s at the door,” he says. “I gotta go — good luck with the dig.”

They say their goodbyes and he taps the screen to end the call.

Tim sets the phone down, glancing once more at the mysterious map still laid out on his desk, before heading to answer the door.

A teenage boy stands on the front step, one hand shoved in the pocket of his jacket, the other raised like he’s reaching to ring the doorbell again.

“Hey,” he says, with a confident smile. “Sorry to bother you. I’m Jason. We live just up the street.”

Tim blinks. “Uh — hi?”

Jason continues without pausing. “We’re out of sugar. I’m making banana bread, and figured — neighborly goodwill and all that. Any chance you’ve got some to spare?”

There’s an awkward pause before Tim steps aside, trying to hide his confusion and maintain a polite veneer. “Um, sure. Come on in, how much do you need?”

He doesn’t know much about the Waynes — which is weird, now that he thinks about it. They’ve been neighbors for years, but other than knowing who they are? He’s drawing a blank.

Jason strolls in like he’s done this a dozen times, glancing briefly at the entryway and then into the kitchen as if mentally mapping the place.

“You’re Tim, right?” he asks, ignoring the question.

“Yeah.” Tim leads him towards the kitchen, trying to remember where Mrs. Mac would have put the sugar.

“Cool. Thought so.” Jason casually follows behind him. “You’ve got a nice place,” he says. "Cozy."

“Thanks.”

Jason’s looking at him oddly, like he’s trying to figure something out. It makes Tim feel uncomfortable, so he busies himself with rummaging through the cupboards to try and find the sugar. After a few more moments of one-sidedly awkward (Jason doesn’t seem to be bothered by it) silence, Jason asks: “You don’t have school today?”

Tim stiffens slightly. “I do, just overslept.” Glancing over his shoulder, he can see Jason raising an eyebrow like he doesn’t quite buy it. “Don’t you?” He fires back.

“We got let out early. Study hall last period, and no one sticks around for that.”

He doesn’t say what school he goes to. Tim wonders if he also goes to a boarding school.

“You feeling alright?” Jason asks suddenly.

“Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Jason nods. “Good, good... Just making sure. You look kind of out of it.”

“Probably because I slept too much last night, it’s just as bad as not getting enough sleep. How much sugar did you say you needed?” He asks again, starting to get a little annoyed, and letting that eat into his manners. He has more important things to do than entertain his bored neighbor — like investigating his missing memories.

Jason’s unfortunately not looking to be in any rush. “Not sure…” he hums. “Never tried baking before. A cup should be enough for a single batch of cookies, right?”

Tim, finally having found the right cupboard, takes out an unopened bag of sugar and turns to Jason, unimpressed. “Didn’t you say you’re making banana bread?”

Jason grins. “I think I’ll make both, actually. Maybe I’ll drop off some if they turn out well, as thanks for saving me a trip all the way back to town for sugar. Your folks like sweets? I can make some extra. When are they coming home anyway?”

Tim refrains from pointing out that Jason’s questioning is starting to sound less like small talk and more like he’s casing the joint. Looking around shiftily, asking when the house will be empty… Not unlike the burglars from Home Alone, Tim thinks with amusement, trying to imagine himself trapping the house while his even richer neighbors try to break in. The Gotham Gazette would have a field day with it.

“No need to trouble yourself, they won’t be home for a while. I probably won’t be here much longer either, I usually stay at my school’s dorms.”

That’s a lie — he spends more time at home than at the dorms. But considering he’s never met nor even talked to his neighbors before, he doubts Jason will notice.

“Aww,” Jason frowns. “You’ll be missing out. Alfie’s recipes are absolutely to die for.”

Tim doesn’t know who ‘Alfie’ is, but his previous irritation is mostly washed away by the thoughtfulness of the offered gesture. Never let it be said that he can't be bribed with baked goods. “It’s fine, really. Maybe some other time?”

“Sounds good. Anyway,” Jason adds, seemingly finally getting the hint and pushing off the counter he’d been leaning against, “didn’t mean to interrupt your afternoon or anything.”

“It’s okay,” Tim says. “Need anything else?”

“Nah, I think I’m good.” He picks up the bag of sugar and heads for the door, turning back just once with a casual wave. “Thanks for the hospitality, neighbor.”

Then he’s gone.

Tim locks the door behind him, peeking out of the eyehole to make sure Jason is gone before turning back to head upstairs.

That whole interaction felt… It didn’t feel normal. Not exactly alarming, but definitely not normal.

Tim frowns at himself. It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you, and after the morning he’s had — there’s clearly something wrong. But he’s also pretty sure the rich neighbor’s kid isn’t out to get him.

He heads back upstairs, the soft creak of the steps the only sound in the quiet house. He decides to put aside the odd visit for now. The Waynes are famously eccentric, after all, and Tim’s never really interacted with them before. Maybe this is just what they're like — slightly offbeat, rich-kid strange. He should be focusing on the concrete evidence he has, rather than worrying about every little thing that seems off.

He nudges the door to his room shut behind him and lets out a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. He’s scoured the room twice now — no more clues, at least none that he could find.

He moves back to the desk and opens his laptop, tapping the touchpad absentmindedly as it wakes. He opens a fresh document — maybe writing it down will help make sense of it.

Overslept on a school day; no memory of turning off alarm.

Odd calendar entry; no memory of making it.

Expensive camera I don’t remember buying; not a gift from mom or dad either.

Map note in my handwriting; no memory of writing it.

Been coming home a lot more lately; can’t remember why.

He leans back. The commonality is clear: he's forgetting things. He glances around the room again, then down at the list. He’s not going to find anything else here. Perhaps if there’s something more to uncover, it’s elsewhere.

Tim closes the laptop, then checks the time. Still early enough in the afternoon to catch a bus back to school. Maybe a change of scenery will help clear his head as well.

And if he can’t figure out anything, then he’ll be coming back next week regardless — after all, he still has a note talking about a meeting that he shouldn’t forget to attend.