Chapter Text
Midnight is a blur of images that keep changing each time Tim blinks.
The woods, draped in moonlight and mist and metal and blood. Blink. The leather seat of a motorbike and the speeding pavement under his shoes. Blink. Lamppost lights between the black railings of a fire escape. Blink. A coffee table, doused in a soft golden glow.
The next time Tim blinks, the coffee table doesn’t go away.
It has a slight gloss over its wooden finish, and reflecting off of its surface, a TV screen on the wall above it. Gradually, sound filters back into Tim’s senses. Over the heavy rain outside and a nearby rumble of a laundry machine, Tim picks up on the voice of a news anchor from the speakers.
“…earlier tonight, a high-schooler, believed to have committed suicide by the community, was found and rescued by Batgirl and Nightwing from his teacher’s attic, where he was being held captive for several weeks. The victim is reported to be extremely malnourished, but alive, and recovering at Gotham General Hospital.”
Philmont, Tim recognizes, a flicker of relief curling somewhere in his numb chest. He tries to turn his head towards the TV to see it better, but someone with broad shoulders blocks his vision. It’s probably for the best - his head is too heavy, and the lights are all too bright.
A hand takes his chin and gently pushes it back so that Tim’s looking at the ceiling. “Your classmate’s fine, baby bird.”
Tim sags in relief, letting his eyes close and the hand graze at his forehead.
“The teacher in question, Pied Paris, a recent Gotham City High School hire, has been arrested for kidnapping and past allegations of murder,” the news anchor goes on. “He was found a few hours ago brutally beaten in the woods of west Gotham, after flipping his vehicle down a muddy incline. The mysterious circumstances that he was found in are being investigated by the GCPD, as his injuries are allegedly more severe than the vehicle incident would have caused. Furthermore, police are investigating all of Paris’s past crimes, and the possibility of the latest victim, another high-school student from Gotham City High who was last seen on security footage entering Paris’s vehicle today afternoon. And now, back to Cindy for weather.”
Tim must be dreaming.
Philmont found alive and Mr. Paris arrested? Could the case really be closed?
Tim’s still too numb and drowsy with sleep to finely control any of his heavy limbs — but he feels himself tremble, like leftover adrenaline wearing off.
As if in concern, the TV’s switched off.
At his forehead where the hand still is, Tim finally feels a sensation of tightness there, the same spot where he’d gotten cut during the car tumble. When the person moves away with a satisfied sigh, Tim clumsily raises his right arm up, intending to feel the cut for himself — only to groan as his shoulder throbs in protest.
Oh, right. Bad shoulder.
“Shit, don’t do that,” the voice says, and something like a sling across Tim’s chest is adjusted. “I popped your shoulder back in when you were sleeping, kid. Don’t mess it up before it heals.”
“Oh.” That explains why he’s not in constant agonizing pain anymore. Tim manages to part his lips to croak, “Thank you.”
There’s a pause.
“Friendly reminder that I did that to you, Replacement.”
Tim’s mind sharpens as soon as he hears the nickname. His eyes snap open in disbelief.
Because this is Jason.
Of course this is Jason.
Hood, Tim corrects silently. But when he turns his head again — this time with less difficulty than before — the older boy sitting there couldn’t be more different than the crime lord that Tim fears.
Most of his armor has been tossed aside, and his helmet is gone, but what catches Tim by surprise is that his domino is off. Jason looks younger like this, without the mask. He sits on an ottoman right by the sofa arm Tim’s head is pillowed on, hunched over the side table that holds an array of medical equipment. Instead of screaming for his life, Tim finds himself noticing a suture kit. Raising his uninjured arm this time, he feels for the wound on the side of his head.
“Eleven stitches from your little car stunt,” Jason grumbles. “Took me forever. Fucking needles.”
On the other side of his face, Tim’s thumb brushes over something. His fingers explore his skin but instead of the messy splotch of band-aids, he feels neat lines of butterfly tape over his sliced-up cheek from the coffee mug.
Instead of an explanation, Jason orders, “Don’t touch. I don’t want to redo them.”
Tim drops his hand, immediately taking inventory of the rest of his body. Lifting up a soft red blanket draped over him, he sees that under his arm neatly done in a sling across his chest, he’s missing his hoodie and shirt. He doesn’t really care about the shirt — a luxury piece his mother bought for him from France that cost too much money for no reason — but his heart picks up a beat at not knowing where Babs’s hoodie is. The idea of losing it doesn’t sit right with him.
Then, the distinct scent of bruise ointment reaches Tim’s nose, just like every post-patrol battle in the Batcave. Tim can even smell hot chocolate from somewhere. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Alfred is nearby.
But Alfred isn’t here.
Jason is.
The blanket slips out of Tim’s fingers in surprise.
Back in the woods, he was certain he was going to die. But now he’s… getting personally attended to by the crime lord? Tim glances over with his breath caught in his lungs, as if taking in air will be the thing that shatters this weird illusion.
But there’s no sudden explosion of anger, no attack. Just Jason, quietly packing up the medkit and rising to his feet, not looking anywhere at Tim as he walks away.
Carefully pushing himself up on his good arm, Tim takes a better look around the place, over the other side of the sofa.
It’s an apartment. The place is small, but neatly decorated in dark gray tones and wood accents. There’s an alcove kitchenette on one end, framed by a bookshelf built into the wall, adjacent to the living room space they’re currently in. Tim can see a sliver of the front door through the kitchen, but there’s another door on the same wall as the TV in the corner, closed shut. A bedroom, probably. Through a window on Tim’s other side, he can see their corner of Gotham getting poured on. Despite the darkness, Tim can instantly discern that they’re somewhere in Crime Alley.
“You’re in my safehouse,” Jason says from the kitchen, pulling something off the stove. “I called Batgirl. Told her about your shitwipe of a teacher before bringing you here. She and Dickwing practically tore his house down and found your classmate.”
Tim looks around again in surprise. Honestly, the books are a dead giveaway that this place is Jason’s, but Tim’s still trying to figure out why he’s not dead. He should be — he was ready to — no.
He wasn’t ready to die, not really. Tim feels like melting in relief — is it possible to feel so much relief? — as he stares at his tended wounds in gratitude.
“Did I — did I pass out?” he dares to ask.
Jason’s back is to him, but the words make his shoulders tense.
“More like you disappeared somewhere in your head.”
Then Jason turns around with a Wonder Woman mug and walks back to the sofa.
Seeing the mug in the Red Hood’s hands, dread claws at Tim like the familiar monster it is. What if he smashes my face into it like last time, Tim thinks for a startling microsecond — but then feels the medical tape over his cuts. In his confusion, he doesn’t hear Jason’s next question clearly.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling his gaze from the mug. “What was the — what was, um. The question?”
“The car.” Jason sets the mug down on the coffee table and crosses his arms. His glare hardens. “Why were you in that guy’s car?”
Tim wonders if he can fake a yawn and go to sleep so he can avoid this conversation. But admitting his stupidity to Jason is slightly less mortifying than admitting it to Bruce, so he forces himself to speak.
“He… he gave me an F on my presentation.” Tim sounds pathetic to his own ears, and it only gets worse with each word. “And then he said he would offer me extra credit points, but he had some appointment to get to, so he said we’d do the extra credit in the car and he’d just drop me off at home.”
In retrospect, Tim knows how stupid he was. He didn’t even trust Mr. Paris. But fear of losing the bats had made him make a call Robin never would have made. Tim finally looks up at Jason, prepared for the lecture of a lifetime on how bad of a Robin he is.
Jason’s gaze is as if Death itself had leisurely walked into the room.
“He gave you an F?”
“Yeah.”
It’s as if Jason’s more livid at that detail than at Tim. “That was a good presentation. What the actual hell?”
“He needed a way to get me in his car,” Tim says with a one-shouldered shrug. “He must have done something similar with Philmont. He picks his targets carefully and then… plays the long game.” For a moment, Tim hedges, wondering how much Jason even wants to hear, but by the way Jason’s listening, eyes narrowed in thought, it’s like they’re no longer a kid and a crime lord. They’re detectives, picking apart a case. “Mr. Paris was going to kill Philmont, after kidnapping him. In the car, he mentioned something about how he only ever kills people who… who no one cares about, basically, if they disappear. And Philmont doesn’t have parents, so I guess that’s why he was a target. But then his grandparents kept looking for him. They put up flyers. They showed up at school to talk to the principal, too. Mr. Paris noticed, and probably didn’t think killing Philmont would be satisfying for him after that.”
“Alright. Guess that explains the kid in the attic.” Jason says, his fingers tapping against his crossed arms in rapid succession, as if they’re missing something to do. Briefly Tim wonders if gun assembly helps Jason think. “So he switched targets. He was grading your assignments low on purpose, wasn’t he. Question is, why was he after you?”
Tim tries to keep a straight face, but he feels his cheeks heating up. His home life is nothing to be embarrassed about, but for some reason Mr. Paris’s words come back to him.
You really are perfect. With your parents consistently gone, you not being part of any school extracurriculars, the way you barely have any friends… no one will even notice your disappearance.
Chilled, Tim finds himself reaching for the mug of hot chocolate after all, to distract himself.
He takes a tiny sip — surprised at how good it tastes — and says, “I guess… he noticed that my parents are usually out of town.”
There’s a beat of silence. Tim doesn’t look up, but he can feel Jason’s eyes on him, contemplating this.
“Huh. I knew I should have killed him instead of leaving him for the GCPD,” Jason finally says thoughtfully, leaning back. “Anyone who disrespects literature is an idiot. You should have been getting straight As in that class.”
Something warm swells in Tim’s heart, making him beam despite his injured cheek.
It catches Jason off-guard. The crime lord just stares at him, and there’s a split second that Tim thinks the older boy’s about to smile back — but then Jason coughs loudly and the moment’s over.
“Okay, Replacement, so here’s what’s going to happen,” Jason snaps, looking at Tim like he’s a worm in his apple. “You’re going to spend the night here since it’s already late, it’s raining like crazy, and you’re in no shape to go anywhere.”
“What?” Tim asks, but Jason steamrolls over him.
“And in the morning, your clothes should be done in the dryer, so you’ll put them on, and then you’re going home. And not home to that abandoned museum, but to Bruce. He’s an idiot, but he takes better care of you than your actual parents. Which isn’t a high bar, but still.”
Bruce’s name hits Tim like a brick to the face. Not that he’s ever gotten bricked to the face — certainly he never plans to — but Tim isn’t sure what else to compare the impact to. Tim’s heart squeezes unexpectedly. It’s only been a day, but it feels as if he hasn’t seen the man in years.
A feeling swells and crashes within him, one he’s never felt even around his own parents.
He wants a hug.
The childish desire surprises Tim — he’s normally just fine curling up with a pillow and blankets when he’s feeling lonely. But Bruce has hugged him before, a swaddle of security, and Tim misses that like he’s a little kid. After the past couple of days he’s been through, he longs for that feeling, of disappearing into the shadows of Batman’s cape on a chilly night. It’s a little overwhelming.
“Also, you should probably get everything looked over again, because I fucking hate needles and Alfred is loads better at this than — ” Jason freezes, his eyes widening in horror at Tim.
And then Tim feels it — a tear rolling down his face.
Tim hastily wipes at it with the back of his hand. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“Here.”
There’s a box of tissues being pushed at Tim. The moment he takes it Jason backs away, but the older boy’s eyes stay on him. Like Tim’s tears are something to worry about. As if Jason’s never personally thrown Tim into a dumpster.
Jason clears his throat. “You hungry at all?”
Tim blinks. “Um. A little?”
And just like that, Jason’s in the kitchen, moving around, turning on the stove. Fifteen minutes later, Tim’s got a bowl of chicken and lentils and a glass of milk in front of him. It’s good. Tim doesn’t realize how hungry he is until he’s made the food disappear. Just as he sets the glass down, neatly folded clothes are dropped onto the sofa.
“Joggers. And a sweatshirt,” Jason mutters, gesturing to the bundle. “They might be too big for you but it’s better than nothing. You better not get sick on top of everything else.”
Tim thinks he might be becoming immune to Jason’s acerbic tongue, because he’s only in awe as he picks up the soft clothes that smell like fresh laundry.
“Thank you.”
Jason pauses in the middle of picking up Tim’s empty dishes, his eyebrows furrowing. “Don’t thank me.”
Tim opens his mouth to protest, but then pauses. Just because Jason’s being nice right now — underneath all the rough edges — doesn’t take away from all the times he’s tried to kill him.
So Tim forces himself to nod.
They’re not friends. They could never be. Jason doesn’t like Tim, and Tim’s not supposed to like Jason. So Tim just slips into the clothes that Jason’s lent him, a bit of a task with one arm in a sling. Outside, the storm goes on — muffled, yet never-ending.
Finally, Jason finishes washing the dishes and starts turning the lights down. He walks over to the closed door and opens it.
“I’ll be in my room,” Jason says dully. “Bathroom’s in the hallway. Don’t mess with your stitches.”
He turns to leave. From the sofa, Tim suddenly scrambles to sit up again.
“Wait, I was wondering something!” Tim says, and Jason stops. “How did you find me?”
Jason gives Tim an incredulous look. “Kid, everyone was looking for you. When you didn’t show up for dinner or answer B’s texts, he sent all the bats out on a Timmy Search Party. Even Agent A.”
“Timmy what party?” Tim all but screeches, horrified. Then he processes that. “Wait, you and Bruce talked?”
Then Tim flinches, because last time he said Bruce’s name aloud to Jason, he was taken to Pain Town.
But Jason’s eyes are void of emotion. “Don’t get too excited, baby bird. I didn’t pick up when Father of the Year called. But then it was Batgirl, then Dickwing, and I got sick of them calling me and freaking out that you’d gotten into a weird car after school and disappeared.” Jason’s shrug forces nonchalance. “So I started looking.”
“Oh,” Tim says, taking in this new information.
“Turns out they were right to freak, given that you were being kidnapped.” Despite his drawl, Jason’s breathing is hard. His chest is rising and falling a little too quickly to be normal. “It’s lucky I even found you. I was investigating the crash more than looking for you, to be honest. And then you asked me to — ”
Jason stops mid-sentence. His hand on the doorknob, Tim notes, is trembling.
“Jason?”
“You better get some sleep,” Jason says hoarsely.
And then the crime lord slips into the other room, closing the door shut with a slam.
~~~
When Tim wakes up to go to the bathroom at the ungodly hour of three in the morning, it’s like he’s using his legs for the first time. His body feels heavy and all his muscles ache. His head spins, begging him to go back to sleep as soon as he can, and Tim plans on doing exactly that — but as he’s washing his left hand in the sink, he sees his reflection in the mirror and has to pause.
Like the prior morning when he woke up, he looks like a mess — a smattering of bruises and cuts litter his skin — but unlike this morning, everything’s tended to.
Everything’s healing.
Turning the bathroom lights off, Tim steps out, feeling snug in Jason’s soft clothes and wanting to hop back under the blanket on the sofa to get even more snug. Through the hallway, he passes his backpack set against a side table, and his phone in the key tray. Tim’s grateful that Jason thought to bring his stuff back with him, but he winces at the crack in his phone screen. Before going to sleep, he’d tried turning it on, but to no avail.
Still, Tim reaches for his broken phone and tries to turn it on again, rubbing his eyes sleepily. The screen stays black.
Tim knows the definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting a different result, but he can’t help it. For some reason, even though it’s deep in the night and Bruce is probably sleeping, Tim wants to text him. He wants to give Bruce an update. He’s not exactly looking forward to the whole case debrief — Bruce is going to be all kinds of disappointed in him for being a sucky Robin — but more so the thing that comes after that. The hair ruffle. The squeeze of a shoulder. If Tim’s really lucky, a pat on the back and a soft grin, “Glad you’re back, chum,” or something else equally dorky that only Bruce would say.
It’s funny. Two days ago he was so determined to solve all his problems himself that he was literally running out of Wayne Manor. Now all Tim wants is to do is run back.
Because if there’s one thing he understands now, it’s that Mr. Paris was wrong.
Tim’s not alone.
He hasn’t been for a while.
Not since he met a kid named Sebastian Ives on the first day of seventh grade, after his parents had unexpectedly departed the country that morning without telling him.
Not since two years ago when he rang Dick Grayson’s doorbell in Bludhaven, a mission on his mind — only to get from the whole ordeal, fussed over, and then, an older brother.
Not since Barbara Gordon saved him from becoming Joker Junior last year, and held him long after the laughing gas wore off, so that he wouldn’t be alone with his terror.
Not since he fell asleep curled up with Ace in front of the fireplace in Bruce’s study, completely protected by the German Shepherd that trusted him implicitly.
Not since Alfred began to fret over his eating habits, inviting him over every evening just to make sure he didn’t go hungry while alone in Drake Manor.
Not since Bruce made him Robin.
Tomorrow, Tim promises himself as he sets the phone back down, his heart aching from missing everyone. I’ll get to see Bruce tomorrow.
Suddenly, there’s a crash from Jason’s room, so aggressive that it rattles the TV on the wall.
Tim jolts, his eyes finding the closed door. He moves to the sofa, grabbing his blanket and looking around rapidly. There’s no good place to hide if Jason loses it again, is there? Just as Tim’s debating whether or not he could fit in one of the kitchen cabinets, there’s another thud, and a garbled scream, cloaked in sleep.
A nightmare.
Understanding dawns on Tim, as well as a sudden rush of concern that he knows he has no business having. Still, before he entirely knows what he’s doing, Tim leaves the sofa to the bedroom door, his knuckles centimeters away from the wood.
“J-Jason?” Tim calls. “You okay?”
Another shout, panicked and wild.
Scared.
Tim could go back to sleep. He could ignore it.
He could.
But Tim’s fingers fumble to open the door, and when they do, his eyes find Jason thrashing in bed, face pale, sweat accumulating on his face like he’s inhaled fear toxin. The pillows are askew, the blanket’s been kicked aside. A lamp’s been pushed off one of the nightstands, and Tim tries not to flinch at the sight of the shards on the floor.
Just give up on him, Tim hears his logical side tell him as he hesitates for a second. Let him suffer. That’s what he did to you, didn’t he?
A logical reasoning is always steadfast in detective work, but instead, Tim trusts his gut on this one as he stumbles towards Jason, reaching out to shake the older boy with his good hand.
“Jason, wake up! It’s not real!”
There’s a loud crack of thunder from outside, and Jason’s eyes snap open, green and glowing and terrifyingly haunted. Tim falls back against the wall, his heart pounding as Jason’s gaze lands on him.
Tim feels as though he’s been pinned to the wall with knives, the way he can’t move.
But then, slowly — through winces, as if he’s fighting off a migraine — Jason blinks away the Pit from his eyes. The eerie gleam is gone when he looks up at Tim again, but Tim still holds himself back, unsure.
And then Jason croaks, “Tim. What are you —?”
“You had a nightmare,” Tim whispers, not daring to be louder. “Are you… good?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
Jason looks around at the scattered room, and runs a hand through his hair. His shoulders sag, accompanied with a heavy exhalation. Tim echoes him, but he’s not prepared when Jason’s expression ices over.
“What the hell were you thinking, coming into my room?” Jason’s voice is hard.
Tim flinches. “I was worried.”
Jason doesn’t miss a beat. “About me.”
“I — I guess so, yeah. Is that weird?”
Jason stares at him. “Of course it’s weird. Aren’t you scared of me?”
Tim feels belittled. “I don’t think that matters right now,” he says.
“Sure it doesn’t, Replacement.” Jason’s voice sharpens despite being thick with sleep. He rubs his face in frustration, a scowl on his lips. “What is the old man teaching you? How to fly into the mouth of a beast? How to throw yourself at the enemy for the sake of a ‘greater good’? How to die for him?”
“No, this isn’t — I can think for myself, you know,” Tim retorts. “I’m not a robot.”
“Then why the fucking altruism, huh?”
Now Jason’s voice has risen to an angry yell, but Tim doesn’t fall back. He does imagine his headstone engraving, though. Here Lies Timothy Drake, With Robin Instincts That Were Stupidly Quiet Once Again While Facing Jason Todd. RIP. But still — since when is waking a crime lord from a nightmare not been appreciated?
“I don’t — I wasn’t trying to be altruistic — ”
“Why aren’t you terrified?”
“I don’t — I can’t just explain — ”
“In case you need a reminder, Replacement, I’m a monster. I hurt you to feel better. It made sense to me, and it felt great. So I’m hardly much different from that fucking freak of a teacher,” Jason snaps, and the words are like icicles piercing skin — cold and wrong wrong wrong — and Tim’s left staring at his childhood idol in shock even as he keeps going. “The only difference is that I never actually wanted you dead, but that’s still a shitty place for the bar to be, and you need to get that. Just that one fucking thing. The Pit brought me back from the dead wrong, Tim!”
“I know!”
“Then why?”
“Because you didn’t give me to Paris!”
Tim doesn’t expect to match the volume of Jason’s shout, but he does, sore throat and all. It’s enough to make Jason stare openly at him, at a loss for words. For several seconds, there’s a silence in the apartment, only the sound of November rain pouring down from outside.
“I thought you were gonna,” Tim admits, remnants of his earlier terror surfacing. “But you kept me safe. You did that, Pit and all.” Jason’s staring at him, eyes wide and sparking, but Tim goes on. “And besides, I’ve always… you’ve always been my…”
There’s so many things he could say.
Robin. Hero. Fantasy big brother — like fantasy football, but with family members.
But Tim doesn’t want to sound creepy, so he settles on, “… S-Superman ice cream.” Wait. What? “I mean, um, I like Superman ice cream. Which you got for me when you were… actually, what I mean is, nightmares are bad.” It’s too late to backtrack. “And you… ice cream… good.”
Tim finishes that thought, fittingly, with the eloquence of a teenager who didn’t practice enough for a presentation. He’s pretty sure he’s never made less sense in his life.
“Alright,” Jason says, rising from the bed with a sigh, reaching over to grab Tim’s chin to tilt his face up. “Show me those pupils.”
Tim bats him away with his hand, peeved. “I don’t have a concussion!”
“I didn’t think so either until whatever the hell you just said, baby bird. Was that a sentence or a seizure?”
“It was an expression of gratitude!”
Tim doesn’t expect Jason’s face to fall as fast as it does, resignation taking over.
“Listen, Tim. Of course I didn’t give you to that scumbag. And you can be thankful for that if you want,” Jason grunts, “But you don’t owe the monsters who hurt you anything just because they smile real nice at you, baby bird.”
Jason pauses, waiting as if the words will have a physical effect on Tim. Like Tim’s going to realize how terrifying Jason is, and will turn heel and run any second. But Tim doesn’t.
Because the thing is, even though it’s going to take some time for Tim to get over the memory of the coffee mug shards or being pinned to the floor — Jason’s still there, under the Pit. Behind the Red Hood’s helmet, there’s the Jason who would help Tim despite not liking him as Robin and for taking Jason’s place. There’s something about the way Hood joined the search for Tim upon Batman’s request, and the way he swooped in to save him from Mr. Paris, and brought him to his secret safehouse to patch him up — and maybe it’s just the soft, borrowed pajamas that he’s in, but Tim’s Robin instincts are telling him he’s safe.
It’s terrifying, and logically it doesn’t compute. But this time, it feels right when Tim leans forward, bumping his forehead against Jason’s chest.
“Okay,” Tim says in a tiny voice.
He feels Jason’s chest hitch in surprise from the contact, but then, slowly, arms circle around him, feather-light. Tim’s heart aches. Maybe it’s because he’s feeling the warmth through Jason’s shirt, but he doesn’t want to pull away. Not with Jason’s hugging him like this. Tim’s eyelids droop.
The arms around him tense. “Don’t fall asleep here.”
“You won’t hurt me,” Tim mumbles, his determination solidifying even as sleep grows on him. “You woke up pit-crazy just now but you didn’t hurt me. That’s all the proof I need.”
Jason swears under his breath. “I’m talking to Bruce about your lack of self preservation, goddammit, Replacement.”
“Maybe I just want to get on your nerves.”
Jason grumbles something under his breath about annoying little birds, but five minutes later, Tim’s curled up with blankets and pillows on Jason’s bed, his slinged arm resting comfortably on a pillow. Next to him, Jason sits propped up against the headboard, as if not trusting himself to fall asleep, and muttering (“I still think you’re crazy. Did your parents not hug you enough? Is that what this is? You have the lowest-ass bars —”), but Tim’s sure that Jason won’t hurt him.
“Jason.”
“What now.”
Tim’s nearly asleep. He mumbles, “I don’t think you’re a monster,” because it feels like something Jason might need to know — but if Jason responds, Tim doesn’t hear.
The thunder rumbles, but farther away than before. It lulls Tim into a peaceful slumber. Finally, the storm is passing.
~~~
Light shines through the sheer curtains of the window, streaks of gold falling over the bed. Tim wakes up cocooned in a blanket, nestled into a strong chest, and someone’s soft fingers running through his hair. His eyelids grow heavy again, but then he remembers what he wanted to do last night — call Bruce — and his traitorous, easily imprinting heart throbs in his chest.
Jason yelps as Tim shoots up, and Tim groans as his sore shoulder pinches, but he turns to Jason anyway.
He blurts, “Can I use your phone please?”
Disturbed from what was a clearly peaceful morning, Jason squints at Tim like he’s the actual sun.
On the nightstand, the clock reads 5 AM. Tim stares at the time for a moment — those two more hours of sleep felt like eight, and he’s not usually a morning person — but something in him itches to call Bruce. To report. To be a good Robin. To… to just talk, really.
Tim looks at Jason pleadingly. “He must be awake now, right? I sort of wanted to call him last night but it was late, and my phone’s not working.”
Jason looks unimpressed. “It’s Saturday. You can sleep in.”
“Yeah, I know, but —”
“So what’s the rush?” And then Jason is turning over in bed with a yawn, a clear sign the conversation is over. “I’ll drop you off personally in like, an hour. Or three. So just sleep in.”
“But I want to talk to him,” Tim mumbles, deflating.
Jason groans, pulling his pillow over his head as if to block Tim’s complaining out. “Replacement, I’ll make you pancakes if you shut up about him.”
Tim’s stomach grumbles and he lights up at the idea, especially since Jason’s cooking is pretty good. “I like pancakes.”
“Great. I’ll make sure they have syrup and all the fixings.”
“Whoa. And ketchup?”
“And what?”
“Ketchup.”
Jason pulls the pillow down to stare at Tim. “For your pancakes?”
“Yeah.”
“Who hurt you?”
“It’s really good,” Tim says. He likes it when his breakfast foods mix together. Bruce thought it was weird at first, too — his eyebrows raising high up at Tim’s pancake topping choices after one particularly long fight with the Riddler that resulted in a post-battle breakfast in the Wayne Manor.
Thinking about that memory makes Tim’s chest throb. So even though he’s hungry, and even though it’s going to make him sound like a whiny little kid, he dares to tug the bottom of Jason’s shirt and blurts, “I want Bruce.”
The words make Jason freeze from where he’s laying on the pillows, his eyes darting up to Tim in surprise. Tim can’t blame him — he can’t even begin to imagine the levels of obnoxiousness that he’s probably exuding right now. But the fear he had of Jason for the last twenty-four hours seems to have disappeared. There’s not an ounce of panic, even as Tim considers the likelihood of being tossed out of the bed for his petulance. He’s Robin. Even with one working shoulder, he can probably catch his own fall from an apartment complex.
But Jason doesn’t do that. Nor does he snap his fingers at him, like Tim’s parents often will whenever he acts like a little kid. Instead, the crime lord concedes.
“Spoiled little bird,” Jason grumbles, reaching in a pocket to hand a phone out to Tim. Then he turns around again, his broad back to Tim.
“Thank you!” Delighted, Tim takes the phone and turns it on — wondering briefly why Jason had it off all night in the first place — and dials Bruce’s number with one hand.
The phone doesn’t even get through the first ring.
“Did you find him?”
It feels like it’s been ages since Tim last heard Bruce’s voice.
Even though Bruce sounds a little more panicked than usual, a rush of emotion crests through Tim at the sound, placing a lump in his throat. It’s really Bruce. The rumble of his low register, the laser-sharp focus on whatever the current mission is. Tim missed him. Overcome with emotion, Tim takes in a shuddering breath.
Almost instantly, alarm edges Bruce’s voice. “Jason?”
“Hi, Bruce,” Tim says, finding his voice, “It’s me.”
“Tim?” There’s a strange sound like maybe Bruce has developed super strength and is desperately trying not to crush his phone in his hands. “Are you alright? Where are you right now?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, it’s okay,” Tim says quickly. “I’m with Jason.”
A dumbfounded pause. “You’re with Jason?”
“Yeah, in his safehouse,” Tim says. “I’m okay, B. I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. I sort of passed out after the fight with my teacher. But I can still type up a report and have it done by,” — Tim considers his currently out-of-commission hand trapped in a sling for a moment — “end of day today.”
Bruce’s voice is immediate. “Tim, no. Slow down. You said teacher — do you mean Pied Paris?”
“Uh, yes?”
“The security camera footage from your school shows you getting into a car yesterday. It must have been his, wasn’t it.”
Tim feels his cheeks burn. “Yes.” Was this a lecture?
But Bruce doesn’t chide him like Tim’s expecting. He sounds like he’s doing a post-mission debrief, running through the facts, making sure everyone’s on the same page. Except usually debriefs don’t call for Bruce to ask Tim all the questions.
“But then — you left the scene after the vehicle incident in the woods last evening.”
“Yeah,” Tim says, trying to understand what part of it Bruce is stuck on. “I really can write up a whole report, B. It’s no big.”
“And now you’re with Jason? You’ve been with him all night? Are you safe?”
“Yeah, promise,” Tim says. “I know it sounds crazy but we’re playing nice. I — ”
Tim stops mid-sentence as it clicks for him. The reason why this is so sensational to Bruce. Why he’s running a full debrief with that panic in his voice, like he’s just inhaled a full breath of fear toxin. Why he sounds exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in hours.
“Bruce, last night… did Jason not tell you that he found me?” Tim doesn’t even need to wait for an answer. He lowers the phone and glares accusingly at the older boy. “You didn’t tell them you found me?”
“Friendly reminder that you almost died, baby bird.” Jason says, rolling out of bed and towards the bathroom, unperturbed. “Maybe I thought Batman should retake the lesson about losing Robins. After all, his record of one dead bird almost became two. A little time for self-reflection wouldn’t hurt.”
And with that, Jason shuts himself in the bathroom, and Tim’s left alone in the room with the mortifying realization that Batman has been looking for him all night. Not him as Robin — him as Tim Drake.
Tim shudders. And then he shudders again, because the hair on the back of his neck is prickling. He glances at the window. It must be a Robin thing, to be able to feel when Batman is near.
The window curtains ripple as the November morning breeze, tempered by a long storm, gently blows in. When the curtain falls, a figure stands in the corner, a familiar shadow.
“Bruce!”
Batman peels back his cowl, his features coming into view. His complexion is gray as he draws closer to the bed, his eyes scanning Tim, lingering on the injuries. Into his comms, he says, “Found him,” and Tim can almost hear the relieved scrambled voices of Dick and Babs, purely out of habit of knowing what an all-bats-on-deck mission sounds like. Bruce stands still for another moment, as if unsure whether to get on the bed or draw Tim from it. Tim makes the decision for him by scrambling over to Bruce himself.
And then, in an almost embarrassingly public display of affection, he throws his one good arm around Bruce, hugging him as hard as he can. If the hug is short, he’ll at least have given a good one.
But as it turns out, he doesn’t need to worry, because in the next second he’s being practically scooped up, Bruce hugging him firmly, cradling the back of his head. Warmth fills Tim’s bones. He might cry again.
“Tim.” Bruce’s voice is rough. “Sweetheart. You’re injured.”
“I’m fine,” Tim says on impulse, and winces as Bruce pulls away enough just to raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh, come on! I didn’t even get as many stitches as you did. It’s no big deal.”
Bruce examines Jason’s work on Tim’s forehead cut. “Yes. Those look… Tim, I told you to be careful.”
“Yeah, sorry. I sort of flipped a car and it just happened. But hey, just nine more until we match,” Tim quips, which Bruce doesn’t seem to appreciate.
“I saw the flipped car,” Bruce says, his gaze dark. “Tim. How did this happen.”
Tim feels his stomach churn. This is it, the moment of truth. Everything he was compartmentalizing for later has now caught up to him, and he knows he has to confess. Even if Bruce is disappointed in him, for how stupid he’s been the past couple of days.
“I was failing English.”
Bruce pulls back, confused. “What?”
“English class,” Tim says. “I didn’t know Mr. Paris was failing me on purpose, but that’s the gist of it. That’s why I got in his car. I know it was a bad move, but I was failing English and I just really didn’t want to have a bad grade on my report card.”
A shadow falls on Bruce’s face. Is it about the report card?
“I didn’t know school was giving you a hard time,” Bruce says.
Tim hands his head. “It was just the one class, B, I swear.”
“I believe you, I just wish you’d have said something.”
“You’d’ve taken Robin away,” Tim says matter-of-factly. “I didn’t want that.”
Tim expects Bruce to go into a mini lecture about finding balance between being a vigilante and a normal kid, but confusion filters over the older man’s face instead.
“Tim,” Bruce says carefully, “Is that what you were worried about?”
“I mean, yeah.” Tim’s face feels hot. “But I was handling it, you know. I just didn’t account for the murder teacher.”
“Chum, even if you really were failing… I wouldn’t have taken Robin away for that.”
Wait. What?
A record scratch sounds in Tim’s brain.
This… had never occurred to Tim. “Oh.”
“We would have had a discussion about whether you need to take some off as Robin, but I wouldn’t have taken Robin away from you, Tim. Not over a bad grade in a class you’re clearly working hard in.”
“I didn’t realize,” Tim says, now feeling incredibly stupid. “I just assumed… you’d be disappointed if I couldn’t handle both.”
“ Tim,” Bruce says, baffled, “I couldn’t be prouder. You are exceptional — as Robin and as Tim Drake.”
Tim’s stomach churns again, but this time, from the surprise of it all. Exceptional. Pride blooms within him. He’s never thought of himself like that before. He presses his lips together, trying not to smile.
“Well,” Tim says, trying to be chill like he’s not totally saving Bruce’s words as a core memory to replay in his mind later, “I like being your Robin.”
The corners of Bruce’s eyes crinkle softly with his smile, but Tim’s not sure where to look after delivering such an embarrassing line. He looks down at his hands, nearly encompassed by the long sleeves of Jason’s sweatshirt he used as pajamas.
“Is that… weird?” Tim asks with a forced laugh. Maybe they can all laugh it off and his deeply rooted issues about imprinting on people will never need to be addressed ever.
But Bruce says, “Oh, sweetheart, never,” and holds him, and there’s nothing else Tim needs for validation.
The crisp wind blows through the window, but Tim doesn’t get so much as a goosebump in Bruce’s arms. He nestles deeper, and the cape covers his shoulders. He just breathes. Bruce’s heartbeat is fun to listen to.
“Can we go home?” Tim asks after a few moments, his face buried in kevlar and part of Batman’s cape. “I mean, yours. If that’s okay?”
“Yes,” Bruce says, “We can go home.”
"And —,” Tim pulls away, already turning to peer over his shoulder. “Jason too, right?”
He feels a little odd, saying Jason’s name so freely in front of Bruce. It’s always been a touchy subject, after all. First, it was because the older boy was dead, and then it was because he wasn’t anymore but there was green in his eyes and gray in his moral code. Tim’s certain — barring this whole search party thing — that they haven’t talked to each other since that big fight months ago. And maybe it’s too soon. But Bruce surprises Tim, again.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “I want all my boys home.”
Minding his sore body, Tim slides out of the bed and towards the bathroom, his heart skipping and especially hopeful. Maybe Jason can come home, finally.
But when Tim pushes the bathroom door open, Jason is — Jason’s not there.
He’s nowhere to be seen.
He’s left.
A Few Weeks Later
The Gotham sky is a blend of grayish-blue hues as what little sunlight there is dips away behind the clouds painted across the horizon. Tim doesn’t mind the shorter days — after all, the first snowflakes of December dance through the crisp air of the afternoon whimsically, and the traffic lights in the distance look like glittering diamonds peeking through the trees that surround Gotham City High School. It’s been a minute since Tim’s been able to admire the quiet moments in which Gotham is prettiest. He’d pull out his phone to snap a picture of it all if he weren’t in class right now.
“And in conclusion,” Lillian is saying from the front of the classroom, her presentation slides on the display behind her, “the motif of violence is used by Shakespeare to depict the way Macbeth’s mentality changes. Not gonna lie, it’s kind of gnarly to see how Macbeth succumbs to his own guilt, has no one left to pull him out of it, and meets his bloody demise.”
Tim pulls his gaze away from the window to stare along with everyone else at their pleasant but sometimes scatterbrained classmate, who last week was given an opportunity to redo her Macbeth presentation for only a couple of late points. Turns out, when your English teacher ends up being a serial killer, school is more lenient about stuff like that. Which is probably for the best. The rumor mill might be chock full of Mr. Paris, the teacher who kidnapped Philmont Denlinger and kept him in his attic and almost killed that Drake kid, but at least students in his class are getting all sorts of do-overs if they need it.
Like Lillian, who smiles obliviously as everyone takes in her presentation slide of a gruesomely drawn image of Macbeth’s severed head.
Everyone seems to recover at the same time to applaud. As Tim claps, his shoulder doesn’t even protest. In fact, under his GSU hoodie he’s wearing — taken back from Jason’s dryer in the safehouse — most of the bruising around his shoulder has faded.
Lillian beams and slides back to her seat.
“That should be it for today,” their new English teacher, Ms. Viola, says from the back of the classroom. Everyone perks up, heads checking the clock as side conversations start up. But then Ms. Viola adds, “Before the bell rings, remember to turn in your homework. Anything late is a zero. Also keep in mind the outlines for your comparative essays are due next week.”
Groans fill the air as students rustle for their homework assignments and make note of the new one. Ives leans into Tim.
“New teach is a shark,” he mutters.
“I dunno, man,” Tim says, fighting off a smile as he produces a completed essay assignment from his backpack. In the past week he used the text-to-speech feature on his phone to write it up, since no one at home was letting him take his sling off for any kind of physical labor. “We’re not dead yet.”
The face Ives makes is a mixture of torment and betrayal, making Tim snicker a little too much.
“Ugh. Too soon,” Ives says, stacking Tim’s homework over his own. When Tim protests, he shifts away from him. “No way, dude. I’m on strict orders from your older sibling adjacents to not let you strain your shoulder on my watch.”
Tim scowls, but allows Ives to pass the homework assignments up the row for Ms. Viola to collect.
“First of all, it’s literally just paper, and secondly, you’re officially banned from joining forces with them.”
“Counterpoint, you’re officially banned from not telling me how smokin’ your sister is! I think nerdy older girls are my type now, dude. Is Barbara single?”
“Ew, Ives.”
“Shouldn’t it be less weird that I like her,” Ives points out gleefully, “since you’re not related by blood?”
“If I projectile vomit from this conversation, it will be in your direction,” Tim promises darkly.
Ives is still cracking up by the time the last bell of the day rings over the PA system. Tim slings his backpack over his good shoulder, resenting the fact that Ives now knows Dick and Babs. During the couple days off school Tim took last week — partly to recover from his injuries and partly to avoid landing in too many headlines of the Philmont Denlinger case — each afternoon Ives would pop on over to drop Tim’s homework off for the day. At some point, Dick and Babs cornered Ives and initiated him into the Let’s Baby Tim club. Tim’s not sure he can handle his friend’s romantic obsession with Babs for the next three months — the usual lifespan of Ives’s crushes.
“Mr. Drake, if you would wait a moment,” Ms. Viola calls out from the front desk, looking up from a book in her hands, “I need to have a word in private.”
“Oh. I guess I’ll be out in the hall?” Ives says, pulling on his backpack and glancing dubiously at Tim. “Holler if you need me?”
“I’ll start screaming if she offers me extra credit.”
Ives shudders, looking less than pleased at Tim’s jokes. On the wall behind him, however, Laminated Dollar-Store Poster William Shakespeare seems to chuckle.
Thanks, LDSPWS, Tim thinks solemnly. You get me.
As the classroom empties, Tim walks up the rows, feeling a sensation of deja-vu even though he and Bruce have done thorough background checks on Nancy Viola. She has no criminal past, but Tim can see why Ives and even other students find her intimidating. Straight, no-nonsense chin-length dark brown hair. The formal pantsuit that’s a little overkill for a public school. Her cold, impersonal way of calling everyone by their last names.
But right now, absorbed in a book, Ms. Viola just looks like a person who likes to read.
When he gets to her desk, she lowers her book — a well-worn copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Tim notes — and holds out a small manila envelope towards him.
“Your report card, Mr. Drake. Approved by the principal.”
His… oh. Tim takes the envelope.
“As you’re aware, first semester report cards were given to most students a while ago, while yours was frozen due to… obvious tampering,” says Ms. Viola, her mouth curling downwards in disapproval. “I re-graded all your assignments this year using the rubrics, and cross-analyzed my grading methods with some sample work from previous years. All that’s to say is — the English grade on your report card is now an accurate reflection of your work.”
Tim nods, but honestly… he’s surprised that he hasn’t been thinking about his report card at all.
It makes sense, really. Not only does he not need to worry about losing Robin anymore, but his latest homework assignments haven’t been tanking. It helps that Ms. Viola never marks anything as derivative.
But now standing there with the manila envelope in his hands, Tim’s curiosity leaps. It doesn’t even matter now, but he still holds his breath as he slides the report card out.
His eyes find the columns of single letters that run down the side. He looks for the row labeled English Literature. And then he sees his grade.
“Whoa,” he says, unable to keep the awe out of his voice.
He… he has to show this to someone.
He thanks Ms. Viola — who nods in dismissal, turning back to her book — and leaves to rejoin Ives. Soft icy flurries land on Tim’s face as they walk out of Gotham City High, into the dark blue afternoon. They laugh and talk — and make plans to visit Philmont in the hospital this weekend. After the bus drops Tim off in Bristol Township, he walks up the street, past the large houses. He passes Drake Manor, and beelines it straight for Wayne Manor.
For home.
~~~
In Wayne Manor, Tim is curled up in his bedroom, in a pair of pajamas that Dick gifted him last year for the holidays, marveling at everything for the thousandth time. The walls are a comforting shade of rustic red, the heaps of blankets on the four-poster bed are incredibly soft, and all of Tim’s favorite photographs of Gotham City are framed and tastefully placed above the fireplace mantle. Ace is sprawled over his lap like Tim’s his personal pillow, snoozing away contentedly.
Even though his parents handed temporary custody to Bruce weeks ago, without much question — the implications of which Tim tries not to think about — he’s still not used to the idea that he has his own bedroom here. Or the fact that Bruce and Alfred apparently had it ready for him for months, if ever he wanted to stay over.
“Nice digs, Replacement.”
The sudden sound at the window makes Tim jolt, stirring Ace, who bolts up at the sound of an intruder. But then a moment later, Ace’s tail wags.
Taking in the room, the Red Hood stands at the window he’s just climbed through, twirling a gun in his hands. Weirdly enough, a grocery bag’s looped around his arm. Ace bounds over to him, and Hood holsters the gun to scratch Ace behind the ears.
Tim sits up, eyes wide. “Hood!”
“Don’t sound surprised,” Hood says. “You texted me. I never gave you my number, by the way.”
Tim had gotten it easily from Babs, but he finds the fact that Hood came at all even more pleasantly surprising. “I thought you weren’t going to come.”
“I almost didn’t,” Hood admits, and pulls out his phone to reread the text. “‘Hey I need help on my homework again’? Really, Tim? This better be a joke.”
“It’s not.”
“Huh. Either way, I don’t care. I just wanted to drop this off,” Hood says, setting the bag on Tim’s desk. “I’m leaving.”
“Don’t!”
“Make me, Timbo.”
“J, you pulled my arm,” — Tim makes a big show of looking down at his slinged arm and pouting, — “out of its socket.”
Hood does what Tim assumes is stare witheringly at him, but it’s hard to tell with the helmet on. Then he looks down and continues to give Ace good boy scratches. Ace’s tail might nearly fly off, but Tim’s grateful for the distraction. He takes the moment to scramble out of bed towards his backpack against the far wall.
“You don’t really need my help anymore, you spoiled little bird,” Hood drawls. “And I thought I made it pretty clear that I’m not in the mood to see the old man.”
Tim figures as much — Bruce and Jason will make up on their own time. But as he darts towards Hood, his foot catches on the edge of the rug in his haste. Hood’s arms immediately rise to catch him, softening the fall.
“Careful. You want more stitches or something?”
Tim grins sheepishly and thrusts the envelope at Hood.
“Here.”
Suspicion filters into Hood’s mechanized voice. “What is it?”
“My report card.”
That causes Hood to pause, but he recovers quickly, plucking the offered envelope.
“Weird that you want to show me,” Hood says, but opens it up nonetheless. There’s a pause, in which Hood looks over Tim’s grades. He then tilts his head, and looks at Tim. “Huh. Aced English, huh?”
Tim glows at the statement. It’s barely a complete sentence, but it feels like a compliment of the highest regard, coming from Hood. What he doesn’t expect is Hood to ruffle his hair.
“Good job, baby bird.” Reaching back, Hood puts his arm into the bag he brought and whatever he pulls out, he tosses at Tim. “That makes this more appropriate, I guess.”
Tim’s fingers are met with immediate cold, and he stares at the carton in his hands, recognizing the bright yellow, blue, and red colors immediately. His heart skips a beat.
Hood isn’t looking anywhere at him. “You said you liked it, right?”
Snowflakes blow into the room as he opens the carton of ice cream, releasing the familiar scents of blue moon, vanilla, and cherry. Tim takes the spoon and has a small bite. All at once, Tim feels like he’s a little kid again, holding hands with Robin and feeling special after such a long stretch of loneliness.
Except, even when the flavor melts away, Tim still feels the same. Because finally, he’s somewhere where it’s true.
Hood and Ace have both gone silent, watching Tim. Waiting.
Tim grins wide.
“It’s my favorite.”