Chapter Text
Tim stayed in the dumpster until morning, absently wringing his hands and staring into nothing until the light of the sun peeked through the tiny gap in the closed lid.
He’d killed someone. Not just anyone- a political leader, a man who was on the way to glory. A man who’d used his power to subdue the weaker, yes, but also, a man who’d been the leading cause of the decline of Joker Toxin deaths.
Tim was a killer. Tim was the reason that Joker Toxin would run rampant yet again.
Yet, Tim was the reason that the young woman was safe.
It didn’t stop him from feeling guilty about taking a life.
The police officers, too, who had just been doing their duties. Tim perhaps felt guilty about killing them the most.
Briefly, while swamped by the rancid stink of the dumpster, he had wondered who had called the police, whether they had heard the gunshots, or the young woman was to blame. Tim drew his knees up to his chest as he pondered, thoughts swirling through his mind but escaping him before he latched on to any of them. It was like trying to catch smoke.
When the sun’s rays began to pour in, Tim pushed open the lid of the dumpster, taking a breath of much-needed fresh air. The air flooded his lungs, mopping away the last traces of both the dumpster and his own shock and fear; Tim hadn’t known that fear had a smell, but he did now.
Fear smelled like cologne.
Cologne and gunpowder. Mayor Turnbull’s overwhelming fragrance, high-end and pricy, meshed with the gunpowder that had leaked from the barrel of the gun that Tim had used to blow the martyr’s head off. Tim could still feel the sting of it in his throat, but the dewy morning air was soothing it, lessening the tang like a medicinal balm.
Peaches. Fear smelled like the peaches that currently permeated the aforementioned dewy morning air, mingling unpleasantly with the gunpowder stench. It was an unfamiliar smell in an alleyway, but Tim brushed that aside. Gotham was beautiful, in her oddness.
Tim jumped down from the lid of the dumpster, boots crunching on the typical shattered glass one finds in an alleyway. Grey stone walls rose up beside him as he walked, streaked with a number of liquids that he didn’t want to even begin to name.
Gotham was beautiful, in her repulsiveness.
No bats lurked in any shadows as Tim, still cloaked in his Kestrel outfit, meandered down the alleyway. He kicked aside bottles and scrunched-up newspapers as he went, startling a crow that was settled upon a trashcan near the wall. The crow croaked at him, glaring with slitted yellow eyes, and Tim hesitated, before turning away at the sight of the crow’s stained feathers and skeletal wings.
He continued on, ignoring the needles scattered in gutters, stepping delicately over puddles of sludge and blood and the occasional unconscious druggie sprawled out on the cold, gritty concrete.
You can’t save them all, something in the back of his mind whispered. Save the ones that want to be saved.
Everyone wants to be saved, he wanted to argue, but he didn’t, because that was not true. Tim didn’t feel like he wanted to be saved at the present moment, and he was sure the druggies, their emptiness addled by bliss and ecstasy, agreed.
Tim - Kestrel - was no longer a saviour. Thanks to him, several families wouldn’t have their loved ones at the breakfast table.
But I try to be a saviour, he thought desperately, hands white-knuckling at his sides. I’m still going to try. I owe it to myself to keep saving Gotham.
Was I ever saving Gotham? Did Gotham need another useless little vigilante to save her?
No, I just wanted to impress Batman.
And well, he’d certainly done it. Kestrel had certainly caught the Bat’s attention with his murderous stunt. And to think, just twelve hours before, Tim was agonising over algebra homework. Being a teenager fucking sucked. One moment you’re shit at school, the next you’re running from the cops.
He kicked a can sulkily, guilt still stinging at the back of his throat.
Something foreign touched the back of his calf, so sharp that Tim could feel it through the dark covering of his Kestrel costume. He almost jumped in shock, spinning around with his hand flying to his utility belt, but he stopped when he saw the same crow that he’d startled, which had clearly been hopping after him as he had strolled the length of the alley.
It regarded him with a certain air of distaste, as if it had somewhere better to be but couldn’t help investigating the bloodstained vigilante that had encroached on its territory. He grimaced at it, an echo of a smile, and it snapped its beak, almost in annoyance.
“Hi there,” he croaked raspily, swallowing the lump of guilt still lodged in his throat. “Are you lost?”
The crow, rather predictably, said nothing, because it was a crow. It just stared, blinking uncannily with those yellow eyes.
Tim found himself mechanically nodding his head. “Alright then,” he muttered, a sour taste to the words, “shoo.”
The crow didn’t move. Tim didn’t know why he expected that it would.
“Shoo!” he said again, louder. This time, the crow turned and fluttered upwards on mangy wings, perching upon the alley wall. Some part of Tim was sad to see it go, sad to see those ruffled feathers disappear into a place he couldn’t reach, but he swallowed resolutely and continued walking.
He’d need to find somewhere to spend the night, and somewhere to get new clothes.
In the distance, police sirens started to wail. Tim scuttled over to the edge of the alleyway and pressed his back to the wall, edging along the side until his hand found a doorhandle, likely leading to the storage room of some shop. He ducked inside just as police cars raced past, heading towards the city centre.
The room was not, in fact, a storage room. Tim had stumbled into what was simply a wide room full of square machines- washing machines, of course. A coin laundry. Unmanned, not a single person in sight, cashier or otherwise.
It was oddly perfect, Tim mused as he strolled the length of the room. He’d been in need of clothes, and he’d stumbled upon the perfect opportunity to steal. Machines tumbled merrily along as he picked his way across grimy floor tiles, bending to peer into each machine.
A flash of red caught his eye in one of the dryers. Tsk. Someone had put a red shirt in with a load of whites.
He flung open the door and grasped at the shirt. It was plain, no logos or anything at all covering it. It had a tiny hole at the wrist of one of its long sleeves, but other than that, it was… unassuming. As unassuming as a firetruck-red, long-sleeve shirt could be.
He took it, of course, before continuing on at a meandering pace, now looking for pants. Preferably long ones.
He found a pair of dark, baggy jeans, stained at the knees and ripped along the shins. They were a little big, but with the help of a strip of fabric that may or may not have come off of the dust-covered lace curtains that covered the glass of the shop window, Tim was able to settle the jeans comfortably along his hips, shimmying into the red shirt to complete the look. He didn’t bother discarding his Kestrel outfit; he wanted to stay as Kestrel, to be free and to help people.
He picked up someone’s plain, empty white laundry bag and shoved the bloodstained costume inside, before slipping out of the coin laundry the same way he got in.
He was still wearing his combat boots, having had no replacement shoes, but he’d found a few odd socks, which he shoved in with his costume. They’d come in handy, if he was going to be homeless for a while.
He ran a hand through his hair, ensuring that it was messy enough to conceal his identity as the prim-and-proper Drake heir, before starting towards the city centre.
-_-_-
The Gotham Public Library was a looming shadow that blocked out the sun, and yet Tim felt no intrigue or intimidation as he scrambled up the stone steps and critically examined the side of the building. He was used to large, gothic buildings, having been raised in a gilded cage himself so he wasn’t a stranger to sucking on a silver spoon, so to speak.
Gargoyles lined the roof, faces frozen in different expressions of rage and horror, and Tim found his own facial features unconsciously twisting to mimic them, before he remembered that he was in a public place and swiftly deadpanned. He paced the length of the Library’s front, before slipping down the side of the building, into yet another dingy alley-like strip of concrete. There, he was almost completely in shadow.
And, being completely in shadow, Tim executed the second part of his plan; he began to climb one of the large, grey stone pillars of Gotham’s public library.
As Kestrel, Tim had discovered a tiny alcove near the top of the library where the stone had chipped away just enough to form a small hollow between the roof and one of the grey pillars. As the now-homeless nobody, Tim was going to use it as his base of operations. His shelter from the elements.
If he could figure out how to get up first.
Usually he jumped from rooftop to rooftop with a grappling gun, but he was not currently in possession of one, and as such, his plan was starting to fall apart. He attempted scrambling up the pillar with just his hands and feet, but slid down with a groan not even two seconds into that particular endeavor.
Fuck. This was going to be harder than he had initially thought.
Fingers fiddling absent-mindedly with the hole in the red long-sleeve, Tim began to pace back and forth in front of the pillar. He took four steps in one direction before pivoting sharply to take the same four steps in the other direction, running his tongue over his teeth in thought. It was almost like marching, he supposed.
He paused, then, as an idea struck, and glanced upwards, to where he could just make out the shadow of the library’s roof alcove above the pillar. There was a window directly below it.
Perfect.
He was in front of the doors of the library before he’d even registered his own movement, giving the smiley, red-haired receptionist a stiff nod as he passed her at her desk. She might have called out to him as he strode into the silent halls of the library, but he ignored it. He’d talk to ‘Barbara Gordon’, as her nametag had revealed, later.
He made quick work of the stairs, silently thanking his nights of athleticism as Kestrel for his stamina, before making his way to the window that overlooked the dingy strip of concrete. It took him several tries to find the right one, brows furrowing deeper and deeper with every incorrect window that he passed, before he sighed with relief at the familiar view as he halted in front of what would be an unassuming pane of glass, if one’s name was not Timothy Drake.
There was one person in the section of Library that Tim stood- a small asian girl, seemingly engrossed in the book in front of her as she draped herself languidly over a squishy couch set up in front of an adjacent window. There was something familiar about her, as if they’d met before, but Tim brushed it off. Hopefully, she was too focused on her novel to witness a skinny boy in a firetruck-red shirt, wielding a laundry bag, climbing out of an upstairs window.
He sneakily reached for the latch.
Locked.
How lovely. All of that window-searching, for nothing. Tim was going to hit someone.
“You look lost.”
Tim almost did end up hitting someone. The girl had risen elegantly to her feet, one dark eyebrow arched sharply as she appraised Tim from head to toe. Tim felt distinctly uncomfortable under her gaze.
“I’m not lost,” the words fell out of his mouth before his brain could catch up. “I’m trying to get on the roof.”
So much for any fucking stealth.
The girl’s mouth twitched upwards, as if in amusement. “And you thought that the best way to do that was through a window?”
Well, now Tim just felt offended. “Yeah,” he huffed, staring her down. “How the fuck else?”
The girl’s head tilted, her hand coming upwards to brush a lock of her short hair behind her ear. “Well, if I were you, I’d be taking the stairs.”
And now Tim felt stupid. It was almost strong enough to wash away the guilt at having killed people, but not quite.
“I’m Cass,” the girl continued on. “What’s your name?”
Tim had about seven milliseconds to decide on a name. “Alvin,” he blurted, and immediately winced. Alvin was the worst fucking name he’d ever heard.
The girl- ‘Cass’, apparently- narrowed her eyes, clearly not believing him. “Sure. Alvin. Lovely to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Tim ground his teeth.
“So, the stairs are right there. They lead onto the roof. Don’t fall.” And then she was gone, delicately draping herself back over her squishy couch and returning to her novel.
Tim, ever the pragmatic man he was, childishly stuck his tongue out at her departure, before moodily stomping his way over to the stairs, tucked away behind a tall bookshelf. To his shock, the door was unlocked, and he pushed his way onto the roof with ease, happily inhaling Gotham’s familiar stench.
The alcove was where he left it, as alcoves carved in stone tended to remain where they were, so he spent an unreasonably long amount of time figuring out how to shove his laundry bag into the alcove. When it finally went in, Tim braced his hands on the edge of the roof and swung downwards, slotting himself neatly into the tight space. It was homey, if you ignored the incredible amount of bird shit and debris that coated the floor.
Tim rolled on to his side and drew his knees up to his chest, watching the Gotham skyline fade from a polluted grey, to orangey-pink, and then a muted purple as day gave way to night.
Although she was polluted with waste and man alike, Tim thought that Gotham was truly beautiful.
It made a knot in Tim’s throat tighten as he envisioned the faces of the people that he had killed, who would never again see the sunset.
Kestrel had saved people. Kestrel had spent nights making sure that Gotham was safe from petty criminals just as much as it was safe from the rogues that Batman and his team presided over. Kestrel was no Batman, but he certainly wasn’t a snivelling child, either. He’d been a friendly helper. The protector of the little guys.
And then he’d gone and murdered innocent people, just trying to do their jobs.
One man wouldn’t be home to kiss his wife goodnight, tuck their little child into bed. One man would sit at home, anxiously checking his phone as the sky turned darker and darker, waiting for a wife that would never come home.
Parents would get the call, and would sob and scream at the loss of their babies. Children would get pulled out of classes by their teachers, and given the terrible news about the loss of a parent in front of a sea of curious, immovable faces.
No, Tim couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t afford to just… drown in his guilt.
He didn’t know why he’d mistaken a gun for a medkit. A gun, for a medkit. He’d been focused, incredibly so. It was almost inconceivable that he’d… hallucinated. He’d taken no drugs, ingested no gas.
As if to comfort himself, he shifted onto his stomach and reached into the laundry bag, fishing around until his fingertips brushed the familiar feathers of his mask. He pulled it out, resting it on the ground in front of him just as the first stars started to appear in Gotham’s night sky.
He’d go out as Kestrel tonight.
He pushed the mask onto his face, welcoming the comforting darkness that came from having black mesh over the eye sockets. He inhaled deeply, smiling at the familiar scent, but his smile quickly faded as he smelled something even more familiar, clinging to the inside of the mask.
The inside of the mask smelled like fear. Gunpowder, cologne and peaches. For a moment, Tim felt slightly woozy, his vision clouding, before he removed the mask from his face.
Maybe he wouldn’t become Kestrel tonight, he thought, as his stomach sank.
A rustle of feathers at the entrance of his alcove made Tim startle, and he glanced up only to come eye-to-eye with familiar slitted yellow. The crow from the alleyway, skeletal and mangy, regarded him with open curiosity, and Tim pushed his Kestrel mask aside.
How did it find me?
“Hello,” he said warily, shrinking backwards into the cramped darkness of the alcove. “Are you friendly?”
The crow snapped its beak at him. Tim took that as a resounding ‘no’.
“Can you… try to be friendly?”
The crow ruffled its feathers, then hopped forwards to peck at Tim’s Kestrel mask.
“Wh- Hey! Get off!”
The crow ignored him, as crows tend to do.
“That’s not another bird, you know,” Tim snapped, yanking the mask away from the crow and shoving it back into the laundry bag. “You don’t have to attack it. The feathers are plastic, and a lot of them are stuck on with glitter glue.”
The crow snapped its beak at him again, and Tim sighed, staring past the insufferable bird, out into Gotham’s beautiful night.
Somehow, despite his unwillingness to go out as Kestrel, he didn’t think that he was going to be able to sleep.