Chapter Text
“Dad?” Tim answered the call with concern, perched on one of Gotham’s rooftops. His target was several buildings away, waiting for a meeting. Tim had spent countless nights tracking down the suppliers of a new drug spreading through Gotham’s streets, which was exactly what had brought him here tonight—he couldn’t afford to miss the opportunity to find out who was behind it all.
“Hey, Tim,” his father’s voice immediately made him tense, his attention dropping away from the target. His father never called him Tim. “Are you…are you okay?”
“I?..” Tim wet his lips, and a heavy rasp sounded from the other end of the line, making him urgently rise to his feet and head toward the fire escape. “Dad? What’s going on? Talk to me.”
Something was wrong. His father wouldn’t have called him for no reason. His father never asked if he was okay—it simply wasn’t something they did. Displays of emotion like that were considered a weakness, and Drakes were not weak.
“I just wanted to tell you that I…that I’m proud of you, son,” his father broke into a fit of coughing, and Tim could hear the strain in every heavy breath. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong, and Tim was far away.
Not willing to waste another second, Tim pulled out his grappling hook and caught it around the iron railing of the fire escape before jumping down without hesitation, the tips of his boots touching the ground without making a sound, just as he had been trained to do.
“Dad, I’ll be there soon, okay? I’ll be there soon, and you can tell me what happened,” Tim clenched his jaw as he headed toward his motorcycle, feeling his heart beat faster and faster against his ribs as panic began to rise into his throat.
“I was a terrible father, wasn’t I?” A sad laugh sounded from the other end of the line, and Tim drew in a ragged breath as he jumped onto the motorcycle. “But…but I always wanted a better future for you. You’re a good kid, Tim. You’ve always been smart and independent. You were more than I ever deserved. Forgive an old man, okay?”
No.
No. No. No.
Tim didn’t understand what his father was saying. He didn’t understand.
“Why are you talking like this, Dad?” The roar of the engine tore through the street as Tim sped forward, gaining speed almost instantly without giving a single thought to traffic laws. The wind tore through his hair, and his vision was beginning to blur, but Tim Drake did not cry. “I’ll be there soon, okay? Just hold on.”
But this time, only silence answered him, and he felt his heart stop as fear seized him, making his chest tremble.
“Dad?” Tim’s voice cracked. He pushed harder on the accelerator as though somehow that could help, even though he was already going as fast as the motorcycle would allow. “Dad, I’ll be there soon. Okay? I’ll be there soon, I promise.”
I promise…
“Tim?” Tim flinched, slowly turning his head toward Dick, who was sitting beside him in the back seat, looking at him with concern. Why was Dick here? The passenger seat in the front was empty.
“We’re here, Tim.”
For several seconds, he simply continued staring at Dick as though he couldn’t quite wake up, before his gaze finally drifted toward Wayne Manor beyond the window. The morning sunlight fell across the small garden Alfred kept in immaculate condition. Every flower seemed to be exactly where it belonged, every petal preserving the careful geometry of the garden. Tim couldn’t find a single flaw. Everything was too perfectly arranged.
“If you need some time, we can—”
“No.” Tim cut him off before Dick could finish. He pressed his lips together and fixed Dick with a heavy stare, making him fall silent at once. Dick studied him with that familiar calculation Tim knew all too well, but he had no intention of giving him enough time to find whatever he was looking for. He reached for the door handle, pulled it open sharply, and climbed out of the car before slamming the door behind him.
He had no intention of listening to Dick’s pity.
He was Red Robin.
A rustle sounded behind him, but Tim continued toward the entrance without looking back, where Alfred stood waiting with his hands clasped behind his back, watching Tim with a warmth that made him hesitate for a moment, suddenly overwhelmed by the attention being directed at him.
His hand instinctively slipped into his pocket, fingers closing around the familiar weight of the ring in the hope of distracting himself with something else. Drawing in a deep breath, Tim continued toward the door, stopping in front of Alfred and staring at him silently, uncertain what exactly was expected of him.
“Oh, my boy,” an unfamiliar shine appeared in Alfred’s eyes, though Tim decided it was only the bright morning sunlight playing tricks on him. Alfred carefully rested a hand against his back, keeping a certain distance between them while gently guiding Tim inside. “You’ve had a difficult night. I’ll make you some chamomile tea with breakfast.”
Tim didn’t tell him that he wasn’t hungry. He didn’t resist when Alfred quietly led him into the kitchen and seated him at the table. He simply followed Alfred’s directions, staring tiredly at a single spot on the wall while the quiet clatter of dishes filled the room behind him.
In his peripheral vision, he noticed Bruce and Dick enter the kitchen after them. He could feel their watchful eyes on him and hear their quiet murmurs, even though they were trying to behave as though everything were normal.
Bruce headed toward the coffee machine, passing behind Tim and briefly brushing a hand over his shoulder. Tim involuntarily held his breath, his entire body tensing again. He didn’t understand why he was reacting this way, but a sticky, instinctive fear crawled through him at the mere thought of being touched. He was not used to this.
He simply didn’t know what to do with all this affection.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” Alfred said, setting a plate of waffles in front of Tim, but the sight of them made his stomach churn, bringing back the now-familiar wave of nausea. Tim clenched his teeth, his fingers curling around the edge of the table, nails digging into the surface. At this point, he didn’t even care if Bruce noticed. When did he stop caring? “I added a little milk, just the way you like it, Master Tim.”
The sound of a mug being placed on the table finally made Tim tear his gaze away from the food. For a fraction of a second, Alfred’s palm brushed across his back, but the touch was so brief that Tim didn’t even have time to react.
His eyes remained fixed on his reflection in the tea, seeing his own face for the first time that night, and right now, it seemed as though Death itself were staring back at him. He looked pale, the shadows beneath his eyes visible even in the reflection, his hair sticking out in every direction.
His mother would have been so disappointed in him.
“Hey, baby bird, waffles taste better while they’re still warm,” Dick said gently from where he sat beside him at the table, but Tim didn’t even turn in his direction, continuing to stare at himself—his eyes looked so empty. So lifeless. He wanted to shove the mug away, wanted to stop seeing that lost look staring back at him, because Tim Drake was never lost.
He was always in control.
“Maybe some syrup? I’m sure that’ll make them taste better,” Dick continued, getting to his feet, clearly intending to find the sweetest syrup Alfred disapproved of but still allowed him to keep in the house. “Alfred, where’s the white chocolate one?”
“I have no idea, Master Dick,” Alfred replied, and Tim found himself doubting that immediately—nothing happened in this house without Alfred knowing about it.
“I could’ve sworn I put it here,” rustling sounded behind him, followed by the opening and closing of cupboards, but there was nothing inside Tim’s head except white noise, pressing painfully against his temples. His hands began to tremble, and no matter how hard he tried to keep his breathing steady, panic crept into his body, sinking invisible claws into his chest.
Closing his eyes and trying to keep his balance, Tim slowly rose from his seat, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back.
“Tim?” Bruce. Bruce sounded tense.
“I’m not hungry. I’m going to sleep,” Tim forced out, his jaw tightening as he headed for the door without looking at anyone. He would apologize to Alfred tomorrow. Right now, he just needed to get out of Bruce and Dick’s sight as quickly as possible.
He knew these corridors like the back of his hand, which was why he could have found the room he usually slept in with his eyes closed.
Closing the door behind him, Tim leaned back against it, and before he even realized what was happening, he was already on the floor. His nails dug into the skin of his arms as his body folded in on itself, a broken sound catching somewhere in his throat, allowing only a silent scream. He tried to breathe, but every breath hurt, tearing through his chest until all he could do was curl tighter. Pain that had been buried so deeply inside him that it had finally broken through every barrier he had built around it, tearing through everything in its path.
He was alone.
He had been left alone.
His father was dead.
Tim Drake was alone now.
He was fucking alone!
As he always was…
“Don’t be afraid, my little bird. This pain will make you stronger. And when it does, the whole world will fall at your feet.”
“I should have known. I should have seen it coming,” Bruce tightened his grip around the coffee mug the moment Tim disappeared through the kitchen door.
“You’re not omniscient, Bruce. No one could have seen something like this coming,” Dick shook his head, looking sadly at Tim’s untouched breakfast, and in that moment, Bruce watched all the usual brightness leave his eyes, replaced by a deep regret.
“I failed him,” Bruce couldn’t let go of the thought. He couldn’t stop wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t asked Tim to investigate the new drug trade in Gotham, if he hadn’t left Jack alone… “I failed him after everything he’s done for me.”
Bruce tiredly dragged a palm over his face, feeling the same crushing guilt that had followed him throughout the night, ever since he received the call from the police station.
Bruce and Damian had been patrolling together, on the opposite side of the city from where Tim had been. Bruce trusted Tim. He had always trusted Tim because, regardless of his age, Tim was responsible and intelligent—his deductive abilities never failed to impress Bruce, and Bruce had been certain Tim would welcome the opportunity to finally spread his wings and step out of his shadow.
But the moment Bruce and Damian returned to the Cave after patrol, Bruce received the call telling him that Tim’s father was dead.
It was no secret that the Waynes and the Drakes were neighbours, at least as much as anyone could be considered neighbours given the distances between the estates in Bristol. The officer calling from the station asked whether Bruce had noticed anything unusual, but Bruce simply stood frozen with the phone in his hand, trying to process the words he had just heard.
“Tim. Where is Tim right now?” Bruce immediately cut the officer off, turning toward Alfred, who was sitting in an armchair with a book in his hands. Deep lines had already appeared across Alfred’s face, worry settling into his eyes.
“The boy is all right. He’s here at the station under supervision. We’re trying to locate members of his family,” the officer let out a tired sigh, and the corners of Bruce’s mouth lifted slightly in amusement. He knew perfectly well that the exhaustion in the officer’s voice had something to do with Tim, but the faint trace of a smile disappeared almost immediately when Bruce remembered why the man had called in the first place.
“I’ll be there soon,” Bruce said firmly.
“Mr. Wayne, you don’t—”
Bruce ended the call, unwilling to waste another second, and fixed Alfred with a grave look.
“Jack is dead. I’m going to the station to get Tim.” The moment the words left his mouth, understanding flashed across Alfred’s face.
“I’ll prepare his room.” Alfred nodded, putting his book to the side and straightening his shoulders as though ready to get to work immediately. Bruce nodded in gratitude and grabbed his car keys, but before he could head for the door, Alfred’s quiet words reached him.
“Bring the boy home, Master Bruce.”
“You couldn’t have known what was going to happen, Bruce.”
Dick stood in front of him now, meeting his gaze with that same firm, stubborn look Bruce knew so well. And Bruce couldn’t help but believe him. There was still a distance between them, a chasm neither of them had entirely managed to cross, and his son wouldn’t offer words like these lightly. Especially now, when they were talking about Tim.
“But if you want to make up for it,” Dick continued, his sharp blue eyes never leaving Bruce’s face as Bruce pressed his lips into a thin line, trying to keep his guilt and grief buried inside. But Dick had always been able to see through him, “then be there for Tim. The way you were there for me when I lost my family.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Dick’s face before he added, more quietly, “Despite all your faults, you gave me a new family. And hope for tomorrow.”
They both knew the tragedy of loss. They both knew what it was like to be blinded by grief.
“But unlike you and me, Tim’s mind is too cold. If he decides to take a different path, we’ll be the last people to know about it,” Dick turned away, opening one of the cupboards and taking out a bowl of cereal. “I don’t care about your guilt, Bruce. You don’t get to screw this up. None of us do.”
“Gotham needs Robin.”
“Dad!”
“I’m proud of you, Tim.”
23:38
“Dad!”
Someone was screaming.
Someone was screaming so loudly that Tim’s eyes flew open and he shot upright. His gaze darted wildly around the room—the morning sunlight streamed through the open curtains, falling across the untouched bed.
A harsh, dry cough suddenly tore through him. His throat burned, his eyes sticky with tears, and then the realization struck him—
The screaming had been his own.
He was still sitting on the floor, but he couldn’t remember when he had fallen asleep. He couldn’t remember anything after breakfast, which he had left completely untouched.
Time. What time was it?
Tim began searching for his phone, checking the pockets of his jeans, but instead his fingers caught on the familiar ring. He froze, not daring to take it out, not daring to look at it—as though the moment he did, everything he was afraid of would become real.
Stupid, stupid hope that all this was just a dream. But he knew it wasn’t a dream.
Tim let the back of his head hit the door, the dull ache spreading through his skull as he exhaled heavily and left the ring where it was.
Now wasn’t the time.
Pushing himself to his feet, Tim looked around the room with an empty stare before opening the door and heading toward the Cave. His phone was most likely still at home, but he didn’t need it for the case.
Tim could feel the exhaustion in every muscle of his body. His head felt unbearably heavy, his legs unsteady beneath him, and if he could have, he would have fallen into a deep sleep and never woken up.
But he couldn’t allow himself that.
He had a case.
Moving through the Batcave on autopilot, Tim headed straight for the computer without hesitation, taking his usual seat and opening the folder containing their case files. Just as he had expected, however, there was nothing about Jack Drake’s death.
Clenching his jaw and biting down on his thumb, Tim began tapping the fingers of his other hand thoughtfully against the desk. Then his eyes drifted toward the time in the corner of the screen.
10:22
Tim’s brows furrowed, his fingers going still for a moment. He had lost ten hours and forty-four minutes. And he knew how critical the first forty-eight hours were.
He had allowed himself to become too emotional.
Taking a deep breath, Tim turned his attention back to the case files and, without hesitation, opened the Gotham Police network.
If Bruce didn’t have any information, then Tim would get it himself.
“Already committing crimes this early in the morning?” Dick’s voice suddenly reached him from the side, but Tim didn’t even turn toward him, his attention fixed on the report in front of him, his stomach twisting involuntarily with the cold rage boiling inside him.
“Our presence down here is already a crime,” he replied flatly, his gaze glued to the screen.
“Touché.” Dick nodded, leaning back against the edge of the table. Tim could feel his attentive gaze on him, could sense the carefully maintained calm that neither of them truly believed. Several minutes of silence passed before Dick asked with practiced casualness, “Find anything interesting?”
“Besides the obvious corruption?” Tim continued reading. “They didn’t even open a case.”
“Tim…”
“They decided my father was simply killed in self-defence when George Harkness broke in to rob him. They classified it as a simple burglary.”
“Tim.”
“My father didn’t own a gun. I know that.”
“Tim!” Dick raised his voice, and Tim finally turned toward him, stubbornly repeating himself.
“He didn’t have a gun, Dick. Someone sent it to him.”
“Oh, Tim…” Dick’s expression softened again, and Tim’s face immediately hardened. He wasn’t going to deal with feelings right now, especially not around Dick. He didn’t have time for that.
“I need that gun,” Tim announced firmly.
Dick’s brows drew together, and he crossed his arms over his chest, staring at him with obvious disapproval. Better than that sadness and pity, thought Tim.
“It’s evidence. You know perfectly well they’re not just going to hand it over to you,” Dick stated, clearly realizing where Tim was going with this.
“What good is evidence to them if they haven’t even opened a case?” Tim forced out coldly. Dick shook his head tiredly, still standing in front of him as though he could somehow keep Tim here simply by refusing to move.
“It’s protocol. You know that better than anyone, Tim. You follow the rules better than all of us do,” Or perhaps Tim had simply never been caught breaking them.
Dick sat down beside him, leaning slightly forward as he rested a hand on Tim’s knee, his eyes never leaving Tim’s face.
Tim went completely still beneath the touch. He could feel the warmth of Dick’s palm even through the thick fabric of his jeans. Every point of contact seemed unnaturally clear: the faint pressure against his knee, the heat slowly seeping through the fabric, the slight movement of Dick’s fingers when he spoke.
Tim didn’t pull away.
He simply sat there, rigid, his attention trapped on that single point of contact as an uncomfortable tension crawled beneath his skin.
“I know I’m asking a lot. I know, Tim. I know how unfair this is. But please, leave this case to me and Bruce. Please, let us handle it. As soon as we have any information, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.” Dick’s voice remained gentle. “But you need time to process what happened. You need time to grief. Give yourself that time, Tim.”
But Tim didn’t have time.
It had been taken from him.
Tim listened to Dick, seeing the plea in his blue eyes and the sadness settled deep within them. Dick was always smiling, always seemed relaxed. But now there was an uneasiness about him, and Tim couldn’t understand why.
Turning his attention back to the screen, Tim stared blankly at the name written across the police report.
Officer Laurent.
“All right. I won’t steal evidence from the station,” he finally said, closing the file on the computer. Pulling away from Dick, he rose from his seat and automatically headed toward the exit.
“Tim, wait.”
Tim stopped obediently at Dick’s voice, though he made no move to turn around. Quiet footsteps sounded behind him, and he knew Dick was doing it intentionally. He could move without making a sound. In the end, Dick was the one who had taught Tim this.
They thought Tim was a frightened child, someone they needed to tiptoe around, and Tim hated it.
“I know nothing I say is going to change how you feel,” Dick stepped directly in front of him, blocking the exit. A flicker of irritation stirred inside Tim, but he kept himself composed, silently listening as Dick’s lips continued moving at an incredible speed. “But if you ever want to talk to someone about it, or if you just don’t want to be alone, I’m always here, baby bird. You can come to me anytime, okay?”
Tim continued staring at him coldly, hearing his own heartbeat pounding in his temples. Dick’s eyes looked so sincere. They reminded Tim of the Robin who had once inspired him when he first saw him at the circus.
“If I remember correctly,” Tim began, wetting his dry lips. Everything around him felt strangely unreal. He wasn’t afraid of Dick anymore. He didn’t have anything left to be afraid of.
“The last time I came to you, you wanted to throw me into Arkham.”
The words made Dick flinch, taking a sudden step back, and now there was nothing but deep regret in those blue eyes.
Yes.
Because the Robin standing in front of Tim was no longer the Robin he had once known.
Time seemed to stop, and they remained there in complete silence, neither looking away from the other. Dick opened his mouth several times as though intending to say something, but the words never made it past his lips.
Tim simply watched him, not entirely sure what he was waiting for.
Eventually, he stepped around Dick without another word. He walked past him and left the Cave without looking back.
Tim Drake had a mission.
When children grow up on the streets, they learn to notice things ordinary people usually overlooked. But one of the most important rules of the streets was simple—if you saw something, you looked the other way and stayed out of it.
It was one of the fundamental laws of survival.
Jason had grown up by those rules. He had seen plenty, from drug deals and prostitution in the worst parts of Gotham to meetings between the city’s major crime families. He watched because information kept him alive. It taught him where he could stick his nose and where he was better off staying away. Who was worth talking to and who should be avoided altogether.
Jason was a man of action, but he was observant, too. That was why, the moment he reached the door of one of his apartments, something made him stop.
Something was wrong.
His instincts had kept him alive too many times for him to ignore them now. Jason slowly lowered the grocery bags to the floor and pulled out his gun.
The apartment was located on the edge of Crime Alley, and Jason would have been lying if he said he hadn’t expected to find a thief—or someone worse—inside one day.
Listening carefully for any sounds from within, Jason quietly pulled out his key. The moment the lock turned, he threw the door open and burst inside like a bullet, his gaze immediately catching on a thin figure in a black hoodie standing in the kitchen.
“Don’t fucking move, or I swear I’ll blow your head off,” Jason hissed coldly, closing the door behind him. He didn’t need any witnesses. Whoever this thief was, they were either stupid or desperate.
If it was the former, Jason would simply shoot them.
But he had barely taken a few steps toward the figure when a familiar voice carried through the apartment.
“If you’re planning to shoot me, make it quick. I’ve got things to do.”
Jason’s brows immediately furrowed, but he lowered the gun
“Tim?”
The figure turned to face him, revealing a pale face and a dead stare that sent a chill down Jason’s spine. He knew that look. It reminded him too much of the time after he had first crawled his way back from the grave, when every reflection had shown Death staring back at him, forcing him to relive that hell over and over again.
His fingers twitched around the gun, tightening around the grip as he hissed through clenched teeth.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
There was no point asking how Tim had found this place. No matter how hard Jason tried, apparently, he would never manage to get rid of the annoying little birds or their mother hen.
“Your coffee is terrible,” Tim replied instead, taking another sip from the mug.
“Sorry. Didn’t know I was having guests,” Jason shot back sarcastically. He finally holstered the gun and headed back toward the door, opening it to retrieve the grocery bags he had abandoned outside.
Tim remained by the counter the entire time, silently watching as Jason carried the groceries inside and began putting them away in the fridge.
“So, what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Jason asked casually without looking at him.
Despite everything that had happened between them, they had eventually managed to find some kind of middle ground and coexist. Jason no longer felt the same hatred toward Tim that had consumed him after the Lazarus Pit, but he still kept his distance.
After all, Tim had suffered at his hands. And Jason had no intention of giving him another reason to remember it.
“My father is dead,” Tim said flatly.
Jason froze instantly, slowly lifting his gaze from the grocery bag to Tim, who remained exactly where he was, casually sipping the cheap coffee Jason had never bothered to finish.
“Bruce is dead?” Jason asked in disbelief, staring at Tim as he waited for an answer, but Tim didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.
“Hmm? Bruce?” Tim blinked. “No. Not him. Why would you think I meant Bruce?”
“You— He—” Jason ran a nervous hand through his hair, unable to decide whether what he felt was relief, shock, confusion, or somehow all three at once.
Tim’s words didn’t match his tone at all, and that alone was enough to send another chill down Jason’s spine.
“I’m talking about Jack,” Tim clarified, almost as though taking pity on him. Jason let out a relieved breath, closing his eyes as he planted both palms against the counter.
“Great. Great. Bruce is alive,” he muttered under his breath. Then his eyes snapped open. Jason slowly turned his head toward Tim, his brows drawing together as the actual meaning of what Tim had said finally caught up with him.
“You’re telling me Jack Drake is dead?”
“Yeah.” Tim shrugged, taking another sip as he stared somewhere beyond Jason, his gaze fixed on the wall.
Jason didn’t understand him. As far as he knew, Jack Drake had barely ever been in Gotham, leaving Tim alone from an early age. Hell, Jason had been convinced Bruce had adopted Tim a long time ago.
“When?” Jason pressed, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach as the corners of Tim’s mouth dipped for the briefest moment. Something in his blue eyes seemed to dim, the colour draining from them until they looked almost lifeless.
“Tonight,” Tim drawled.
He finished the rest of the coffee in one swallow and set the mug down against the counter with a sharp clink that seemed to echo inside Jason’s skull.
“Then why are you here, Tim? No offense, but I’m probably the last person you want to talk to about something like this. You’d be better off going to Dick.”
Jason knew what it was like to lose family. More than that, he knew what it was like to lose a parent who had never really known how to show they cared. That sense of injustice, the guilt, the anger…Jason knew all of it.
And that was exactly why he knew he couldn’t help Tim with this.
“Come on. I’ll take you back to Bruce. I’m sure he—”
“I need you to steal a gun.”
Jason stopped. Tim stepped aside the moment Jason tried to catch him by the elbow, leaving Jason standing there with his hand still outstretched.
“Pardon?” Jason stared at him, wide-eyed, wondering if he had misheard.
Tim met his gaze without hesitation and calmly repeated himself.
“I need you to steal a gun from the police station.”
In one of Gotham’s buildings, Clock King sat in front of a camera feed, following the small figure on the screen with quiet satisfaction. In the corner, the timestamp continued to tick forward, counting every passing second, while the watch lying beside him remained unmoving, its hands frozen in place.
“Let’s see how much time it takes for you to lose control.”