Chapter Text
The officer that walked in looked like every other officer in Gotham. He had the same permanent look of disgust, disinterest, and genuine contempt that had etched its way across all Gotham city police officers, like some unforgiving slow-moving river had sloughed away at the sediment of their skin.
(Tim had recently come off a very interesting science class lecture about geology.)
He was carrying a large plastic bag–the kind of trash bags that one could buy for cheap at bulk stores. The kind that restaurants or motels use.
Janet Drake had once fired a personal assistant that had stocked the Drake Mansion with the same plastic garbage bags. She’d said they looked tacky and low grade.
Even the Drake’s trash had to be given a certain level of care and cost.
The bag and the overflowing assortment of clothes it held was bulky and soft and so no one truly protested when the officer threw it at the foot of Ed’s bed.
Doctor Carlton might have protested but was too tired to do much more than give a half hearted sigh and mumble about the unprofessional qualities of Gotham's finest.
Officer McDaniels apologizes slightly, in the way that all people who think that they’re so much more important apologize. A stilted half sort of apology where they don't meet your eyes and they roll them a little bit, and they really don't care for what they're saying at all.
“Anyways,” McDaniels says with the tone of someone excruciatingly bored with the situation. “These are the possessions of everyone we picked up on the night of your... incident.”
The way he said ‘incident’ made it very clear how little Officer McDaniels believed in Ed Draper’s legitimacy. Tim could hardly blame him. After all, Tim knew firsthand how legitimate Ed Draper was. And the answer was not at all.
To Tim, who knew the whole situation, it made sense.
But to a low-level Gotham beat cop: a suspicious, amnesia-claiming man beaten up by the Batman in a sketchy warehouse was hardly an upstanding citizen. And was more likely a low-level beat cop’s worst enemy: a low-level henchman.
One summer, Tim's parents had bizarrely signed him up for a robotics camp. Tim had really no interest in robotics. Fortunately, the school that hosted robotics camp was also hosting a variety of other camps. Tim had managed to go to one week of Drama Camp before his parents found out and relegated him back to robotics for the rest of the summer. Tim hadn't learned much in those four weeks of robotics camp–however he had in that one week of drama learned how to improvise.
Improv, if you really thought about it, was actually just a lot of lying. So, Tim was kind of confident that this could go in his favor. After all, a cop believing his “father” was just a plain two-bit henchman was much better than a cop believing his “father” was actually a local villain: The Riddler.
“Tim? Buddy?” Ed says, probing the silence where Tim has let it stretch. “Are you still with us?” He lowers his voice, eerily parental for someone who has only known Tim for two days, and says, “If it's too much, you can wait outside. No one will judge you, okay?”
Tim pauses and checks his hands to make sure that he wasn't steepling them together like a stereotypical villain in a kid's movie. His internal dialogue was beginning to sound a little bit... Intense.
“No,” Tim says hastily, pasting on a smile that had only fooled 30 other middle schoolers. A summer and a half ago. “I want to stay.”
Ed smiles reassuringly at him.
Tim ducks away from the expression and makes abrupt eye contact. With the bag on the bed. Tim frowns. “Why is there so much of it? I thought this stuff was supposed to stay at the police station?”
The police officer picks at his nail beds. “Couple of the guys at the station pool our dry cleaning together, saves a lotta money. The evidence from your Dad’s case might've gotten a little bit mixed up, but we found my boys’ clothes. You're the first, uh, victim, to get your stuff back. Pick through it and grab what's yours,” he says. “Not like I care. You're lucky it's clean. That shit was nasty.”
“There are kids present,” Lindsey says.
Tim stops himself from looking around. He's heard a lot worse.
Officer McDaniels waves the air around him, as if physically batting away her words. He doesn't look too repentant.
Luckily, no one presses him. Tim stands up and starts pulling articles of clothing out of the plastic bag. He pulls the frayed khaki cargos to the side and folds them clumsily. He lays the plaid button down with wooden buttons on top. The long suspicious coat that's embroidered with green and purple? That he pushes very firmly to the bottom of the bag.
"Now, while the kid does that,” the officer says, pulling out a notepad and pen from his pocket. "Let's go over one last time, shall we?”
"Sure." Ed says, long-suffering. “I don't know how much help I'll be, considering I don't remember any of it. Well,” he amends. “Most of it.”
"Sounds like as good a start as any,” the officer says. “EMTs found you unresponsive in a warehouse on 42nd and Pine. Care to tell us what you were doing there?”
Tim continues to dig through the mound of clothes trying to find something he could pass off as Ed’s. Stuff that wasn't too suspicious, but still fit and looked the part. He slows his pace, alert for anything that Ed can't explain.
Ed scratches his head as if trying to pull the information out physically. “I don't remember. I remember getting beat up by someone I couldn't exactly see.”
The officer scribbles this down lazily as if he's already made-up his mind. “And did this... figure… say anything to you?”
“Maybe?” Ed says, furrowing his brow. “My head was pounding. If they were saying something I'm not even sure I would have understood it. And then I passed out. I woke up a couple times in the ambulance. Then Tim was there.” He shrugs his shoulder over to Tim, who was concentrating on his search for the least whole-y socks.
"Tim Draper, was it?” the officer asks. Newly interested in another witness. “Do you remember anything from the event?”
Tim reluctantly sets down the mostly assembled outfit of least suspicious wear and shakes his head . "I got there after my dad passed out, and then I called the cops. I didn't see the guy attacking him.”
"Did you see anybody fleeing the scene? Anyone suspicious around the area?
"It's Gotham,” Tim says and holds the pause. "It was pretty empty, the streets, I mean. I tried to look around for help, but no one was there.”
"And what exactly,” the officer says probingly, “what was your dad doing in such a dangerous part of town, all alone, Tuesday night?”
The officer says it with such finality that Tim bites back rage. Like he's caught him in some impenetrable trap, but the officer said, like, three sentences, and Tim is smarter than that. Not smart enough to stay away from the Riddler, but smart enough at least to come up with a conceivable back story as to why he's in the hospital now.
“First off,” he says with all the righteousness of a child prodigy. "It was technically the wee hours of Wednesday morning. And he was looking for work.”
"At 1:00 in the morning?” the officer asks suspiciously . “Who's even open then?”
"Denny's, IHOP, all 24 hour diners, bars, convenience stores,” Tim ticks off on his fingers. Holding up his full hand with pride. "Plenty of places.”
They both hear what Tim hasn't said, but vaguely implied. Looking for work? At 1:00 in the morning? In one of the sketchiest places in town? They both know what kind of work Ed is looking for. It helps Tim's case, too, that multiple rogues are currently out and about looking for hired help.
“Got it,” the policeman says, reexamining his notes. “Well. That clears up a few things.” He pockets his notepad and pen, smugness radiating off of him as he gives Ed a perfunctory once over and turns back to Tim . "Well? Did you find anything?”
Tim pats the pile of inoffensive clothes on the bed, "all right here.”
"Well, let's have you look over them, give them a touch, see if anything sparks a memory,” Officer McDaniels nods to Ed .
Tim turns to Ed for the first time in what feels like a while, cautiously taking in Ed’s befuddled expression . Tim hands over the pile of clothes and watches as Ed carefully unfolds them, holding them up to the light and to his discerning eye.
It’s not the most... stylish outfit ever. Tim thinks that if his mother saw it she would drop dead due to its hideous nature. But Tim isn't trying to make Ed stand out, and so he's made do with the odds and ends from the bag to create the most benign and possibly ugly outfit ever.
The khaki pants aren't that bad, a little worn, but durable Tim hopes. He hadn't been able to find any socks, but that might have been a blessing in disguise. Tim might not be the most germ averse, but that does sound a little disgusting–wearing socks that came from an evidence locker. The shirt is a blue and green button down flannel that's about a size or two too big. But the only other option had been a black cropped tank top that said “iheart Gotham”. So Tim had chosen the lesser of two evils.
The crowning glory of the outfit is the extraordinarily bulky Workman's jacket. At one point in time it had probably been grey, but age and wear had turned it sort of beige. It had numerous stains, seemingly from oil and dirt, but it felt a little waterproof, which was a necessity with Gotham's weather.
Tim and Officer McDaniels watch with uneasy anticipation as Ed examines each and every item diligently. Running his hands over the zipper, frowning at each mark of evidence that this garment has had a life before him. But when he shakes his head, both Tim and McDaniels deflate, with relief and disappointment respectively.
"Sorry,” Ed says, appearing genuinely apologetic.
McDaniels shrugs and gathers up the remaining bag of clothes. Tossing it over his shoulder like a meaner more corrupt version of Santa Claus. "Whatever. Case closed.” He drops his business card on the side table on his way out . "Give me a call if you start remembering anything.”
He slams the door on his way out, rattling the paper thin walls of Gotham General Hospital.
Lindsey, who Tim had regretfully forgotten was there, stands up from her seat and brushes some imaginary dust off her scrubs. "Good riddance,” she says. “He was an asshole.”
Doctor Carlson pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs . "All right, Lindsey, let's let the Drapers relax.” She turns to Tim and Ed. “We'll run some more tests tomorrow. But for today, just try to take it easy.”
Tim and Ed just nod as Lindsey and Doctor Carlson shuffle their way out the door, shutting it with a lot more care than the police officer before them.
“I'm getting the sense,” Ed takes a deep breath, “that I wasn't a very good father. Or am a good father now,” he corrects himself. “I'm sorry about that.”
Tim shrugs. Takes his own deep breath. "I wouldn't say you're a…bad father.”
Ed shakes his head. "Disappearing in the middle of the night? Leaving you alone working late hours? Those aren't exactly markings of a great parent!” Ed laments. “Don't worry, Tim,” he says, “I'm gonna do better.”
Tim blinks, surprised. He can think of a dozen times off the top of his head his parents did exactly the same things Ed described. Jack and Janet weren't awful parents, he knew that. They clothed him, they fed him, and even if they did forget his birthday occasionally, they typically bought him a pricey enough camera that he wouldn't mind.
Tim wasn't exactly sure how Ed was going to do better than that, so he nodded his head and pasted on a small smile.
…
The very first week of Ed's experience so far had sprinted past. It seemed one moment you were waking up in a hospital bed, and then the next moment,you were signing forms to leave.
With each day, he failed to remember anything about his past but still managed to regret doing things he'd never done.
Ed, before a head injury, had apparently been able to mix himself into the wrong crowd, lose his house, his job, and apparently his ex-wife.
This had all made itself very clear to Ed when he asked Tim where he went after visiting hours.
"Er…."Tim mumbled. "I was staying at my mom's house.”
His mom?
"Your mom?” Ed said with horror, had he forgotten about a wife as well!? Not only could he add bad father to his resume but now bad husband?!
"You're not married,” Tim patted Ed comfortingly. Ed must have been talking out loud.
No matter, Ed thinks as part of him grows optimistic. Tim has a mom! Ed has a co-parent! He's not in this alone. Well yes, he did react negatively to the idea of having a wife, for some strange reason, but it's also incredibly relieving to know that he's not alone-
“She really hates you,” Tim offers unhelpfully.
Ed's mood plummets through the floor . "Really?” he asks disbelievingly . Not disbelieving in that someone could not like him, Ed isn't exactly sure that he likes himself, but disbelieving in the sense that this is really his luck.
“Yeah,” Tim says .
"Do you know why?” Ed asks.
“No,” Tim shakes his head. "Well, she does say you don't clean up after yourself.”
Ed thinks that that is probably not the whole reason but decides to move on for the sake of his sanity. "Well, I'm glad that you've had some place to stay. Do you think your mom and I could meet somewhere to talk about next steps while I find us a place to live?”
Tim shakes his head rapidly. "No! She hates you, like really really hates you! And she's out of town! On a business trip!”
Ed startles, "but I thought you were staying at her house?”
"Yeah,” Tim says. “I didn't say she was home.”
“That... can't be legal,” Ed says .
Tim looks at him and arches one judgmental eyebrow. Look who's talking, the judgey eyebrow seems to say. Ed's child is only thirteen but he has an unmatched level of sass. Ed kind of wonders what he did to be on the receiving end of said sass, but soldiers on regardless.
“And you're good to stay at her house until I find a place? Right?” Ed asks, his voice taking on a note of distress. “Can I at least call her?”
Tim squints at him. "I guess I can give you her email,” he says slowly.
Ed gets the feeling that this will have to be enough. He smiles and thanks his son, confident at least that Tim will have a place to crash even if Ed can't look out for him.
It doesn't even hit him, until Tim leaves that Ed doesn't have an e-mail address or a computer at all.
…
Over the course of the lightning quick week, Ed had been provoked and prodded with many a needle and finger.
They had taken X-ray after X-ray, that revealed a cracked rib and a sprained ankle.
Blood tests showed that he had a swirling cocktail of antidepressants in his system. The nurses had worryingly given him the business card of a psychiatrist with cheap prices and told him not to self medicate anymore. The blood tests had also shown that he was severely lacking in vitamin D, something that the nurses assured him was a fairly common experience for Gothamites.
Other things he learned about himself, included but were not limited to: a slight need for prescription glasses, quick reflexes, an aptitude for sudoku (from a book he had been given from another patient, who had already filled out half of the puzzles), and an assortment of scars, of which he obviously had no memory of receiving.
He had also relearned how to tie his shoes, how to brush his teeth, and how to make a resume.
So now, outside of the hospital, he stood clutching a handwritten resume on a piece of printer paper feeling slightly confident about his plan.
Tim surveyed him suspiciously, and then hoisted his backpack over his shoulders. "Are you sure you'll be alright?”
Ed nodded and smiled reassuringly, "of course.”
"And you know,” Tim says nervously, worrying at the strap of his backpack. "If you find a payphone, you can always call me.”
"I'll be OK, Tim,” Ed says, ruffling his sonny's hair. "I'm just going to look for a job and a place to live. How hard could it be?”
Tim shrugged and flattened his hair back down slowly like he was trying not to offend Ed by fixing it. Ed smiled, his insides warm with what was presumably fatherly affection.
"Now,” Ed said. "I think I see your bus, you should probably start heading to school.”
Tim nodded and mumbled a goodbye under his breath.
Ed watches his son walk away, and stand at the bus stop, as the ancient city bus rolls over the hill and pulls into place before calling out "Have a good day at school, kiddo!”
Tim waves shyly back at him, before stepping on the wheezing bus.
Ed watches as the bus rattles and shakes its way over the street and out of his sight before he turns away and faces the rest of Gotham. How hard could it be?
Really. How hard could it be?