PCA03



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    “They’ll find out,” Tim whispered, voice cracking. “They always do.”

    Bruce’s expression softened. He crouched closer, lowering his voice. “You’re not in trouble. You mixed medication with alcohol. That’s all. You’re not the first person to make that mistake.”

    Tim gave a hollow laugh that dissolved into a cough. “Not—not a mistake.”

    OR:

    Tim mixes his meds with alcohol. The fallout is immediate.

    Series
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    English
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    2/2
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    08 Apr 2026

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    It sucked that Tim couldn't trust his family. They had either been his abusers or bystanders, but even when he tried to take himself off their hands, they clung to him like a sticky residue. Trapped, he felt like a mouse beneath a cat's paw, and he knew the only escape would be a clean-cut break with no room for interpretion.

    Somehow, they made room for interpretation.

    “Bruce,” Tim rasped, his discarded Red Robin suit a thousand pound weight in his hands, clean and ready to go in its case. “You don’t even *like* me.”
    The truth dangled between them like a spider’s web clinging to separate walls.

    To no one’s shock, Batman said nothing. The only sounds in the cave were the shuffling of bats and Tim’s bike rumbling softly at the entrance, waiting patiently for him to make his escape.

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    27 Feb 2026

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    There's no way he could pass for Dick’s actual brother and he’s got the face of a shell-shocked cartoon mouse — but not the cutesy mice, the ones in the old 80's movies that gave Dick nightmares as a child. That plus the fact the Drake kid’s got a thick New Jersey accent he can’t shake and Dick doesn’t look grown-up enough to be toting around a preteen is sure to get people asking questions. Or worse. So Dick hauls Tim in by the strap on his backpack, steps onto the shoulder, sticks his thumb skyward toward the cloudless cornflower blue of middle America in summer, and prays that whoever pulls over lies somewhere boring on the sliding scale between serial killer and snitch.


    Dick Grayson turns 20 on March 20th, Jason Todd dies on April 27th, and by May 23rd, Bruce Wayne's ward-not-son is rattling around in the bed of a 1979 Ford F-150 heading anywhere but Gotham, New Jersey. Wayne money and Bat technology can't find him, but he's got a bug-eyed shadow and a raw Robin-shaped wound to haul across the continental United States.


    or: road trip, coming-of-age, #Grief Fic triple-threat with a healthy dollop of early accidental Tim acquisition. or about as accidental as Tim acquisition can get

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    English
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    11 Dec 2025

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    He’s wearing a collared shirt under a chunky, worn-to-all-hell hoodie and straight black jeans that are exactly his size. His hood’s pulled up to cast his face in shadow and he’s wearing chunky sunglasses to conceal his identity.

    That’s the moment where Cassie notices, and as she stares at him settle into Conner’s side, basically in his lap, and chat with Bart about strategies his team needs to use to win, she notices that he never tilts his head in a way that would allow sunlight to be cast on his face.

    “Hey, Rob?” she calls, and he hums acknowledgement around his slurpee, still not turning his face towards her. Conner throws an arm around his shoulders. “Why don’t you show your face?”

    or:

    Robin doesn't reveal his identity. Shenanigans ensue.

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    10 Dec 2025

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    “Do you think Daddy’s forgotten about me?” he asked Dandelion the cow, sitting on the rickety old farm fence and hiding from Pa.

    Dandelion tore out another chunk of grass and continued munching noisily. If Pa found him, he’d wish Conner a happy birthday, and Conner didn’t want that—he didn’t want to be five yet.

    — 🦸 —

    OR: At four years old, Conner is sent to live on the farm.

    Language:
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    Words:
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    10 Dec 2025