Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The frosty November evening sank claws of cold through all seven of Tim’s layers. It didn’t matter how much he wore, or how well-insulated the House was, he always got cold during Gotham’s biting winter. Outside the master suite bedroom Tim had set up shop in, a snowstorm raged on, pelting the window and all but obscuring the outside world. Ice crystals had started to creep in around the edges of the sill, and if Tim had it in him to care he would have found it beautiful. As it was, he was slightly preoccupied with a laptop balanced rather precariously on a stack of books.

The screen’s lone source of light bathed Tim’s face in an eerie white, turning his hair silver and giving his skin the color of bleached bone. Around him shadows draped and gathered on errant surfaces, one of Tim’s favorite blankets. Years of stalking Batman and Robin through darkness that held significantly more danger than an essentially abandoned mansion had pretty much rid him of any fear he’d had for lightless spaces. Besides, it gave him the illusion of safety. And what Tim was about to do would require all the placebos he could get his hands on.

The laptop was open on Gotham Academy’s painfully outdated website (if not in design then security, good god what did they spend their money on?) featuring way too many photos of smiling students in impeccable blazers and pressed shirts. But Tim was interested in one form, squirreled away in the truly shitty navigation menu.

Scholarship Applications

He shouldn’t pay any mind to their words. He knew that. It was the perk of the rich, to fling things out into the open without having to worry too much about their meaning. Consequences just required paychecks and little else. Such was their lot.

But not Tim’s. God, he wished he could be that irreverent.

Never the less, the words still stuck.

He’d been wandering in the side streets of Uptown, hoping to grab some essentials before the predicted snowstorm hit. Naturally, lady Gotham was a capricious bitch and decided that Scarecrow just had to plant some gas canisters in the fake shrubbery lining Treché Plaza, a favorite hangout for the rich brats of the Gotham elite.

Normally, Tim would have just booked it at the first hiss of smoke. A kid dressed in old, worn clothing being forced to share space with those born with an entire silver set jammed in their mouths would not end well. He had the experience to prove it. Thankfully, Tim had come prepared, and had both the advantage of knowing the terrain (of course he did, only an idiot would walk blindly into enemy territory) and having his good gas mask on hand (maximum duration of 8 hours, quality guaranteed or your money back!).

The rich Gotham Academy brat he’d accidentally collided into whilst running down a smog-choked alleyway had neither.

He did the noble thing. Despite the fact the guy in his rumpled uniform was a jackass, he’d still handed over his mask. Still lead him to safety. It wasn’t all bad, he’d gotten a hushed ‘thank you’, his mask back and a free injection full of neutralizing agent for his troubles.

But, it was Gotham. And if Gotham was known for one thing (outside of the villains who regularly decided to make the local populace miserable) it was the snotty, arrogant elite.

(Bruce Wayne not included for obvious reasons)

The kid’s parents had arrived, and even Tim could admit that his heart twinged slightly when they ran towards one another and hugged like their lives depended on it. Tim couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that for him. Maybe no one ever had.

But then the kid pointed to where he was sitting on a stretcher (recovery from fear gas was a long and arduous process and Tim hated every second of it) and the parents had straightened. Warning bells started to ring in Tim’s head.

They didn’t approach, but a cold mask of chilly arrogant superiority shuttered over their features.

But it was the mother’s comment that got to him. That wormed its way under his skin and crawled into his heart. She’d said it loudly on purpose, he knew it.

“Don’t worry sweetie, people like him… They’re just… They aren’t like us. They never will be.”

They never will be.

Well then. So much for saving her son. But let it be said that Tim always rose to meet a challenge.

The Gotham Academy uniform flashed in his mind’s eye.

Getting into the most prestigious high school Gotham had to offer? Now that was a great start.

So, Tim had vanished onto the rooftops, trudged home whilst fighting post-fear gas shivers and pulled out the best laptop he owned. He’d filled out the necessary forms, falsified some information (It was surprisingly easy in this day and age to create fake birth certificates and family members) but had now presently come across a slight hiccup in his plan.

He needed a last name.

He appreciated the irony that in twelve years of life, Tim had not once taken one. There hadn’t been the need. Besides, having more information about you in the system just meant it was easy to ID you if you ever got out.

But names meant everything to the elite. He’d seen the media coverage of Bruce Wayne’s official adoption of Jason Todd to Todd-Wayne. What was once just ‘a street kid Bruce Wayne had taken pity on’ had become ‘Bruce’s heir to Wayne Enterprises’ and ‘Jason Todd-Wayne, Gotham’s Latest Craze.’

Tim threw a searching glance around the darkness, hoping for some inspiration to jump out.

He could use Red, his online moniker.

Timothy Red

Hmmmm no.

Timothy Pillow, Timothy Laptop-Charger, Timothy Week-Old-Laundry …

Honestly, he couldn’t go too wrong. The things rich people named their kids these days were bad enough, he’d seen someone christen their new baby as ‘Latrina’ on social media the other day. Latrina. Did people not know basic Latin or were they just that stupid? Tim’s money was on both.

He sighed and let himself flop back into Mount Blanket, idly watching the storm outside

Last name, last name, Ice? Wind? Cold? Okay now I just sound like some shitty freeze villain. Tree, ground, fence-

Tim’s gaze snagged on the stone statue barely visible through the snowstorm. It was a dragon, its serpentine formed folded in a defensive crouch, muzzle twisted into a snarl with teeth blunted by age. It was one of the many worn and mossy shapes that sat atop the granite posts around the Houses’ gardens. He also knew there was a lone one that curled over the border wall between the Houses’ grounds and Wayne Manor, the wing on his side broken off from exposure.

Knew it was there because he’d checked, in the rare times he’d let his sentimental stupidity get the best of him and watch the house where Batman, Robin and now Jason lived.

After all, seeing them fight crime in the grimy Gotham streets was a world away from the warm glow of windows. Of the laughter that sometimes punctuated the air. Maybe it was creepy, but then again Tim had technically been stalking them for 2 years. It was just… knowing that they had a life, had a family outside of the mask, it meant something to Tim. Soothed some jagged piece of him, but he wasn’t quite sure why yet.

Drake. Timothy Drake.

He liked it. The name had a ring to it. Not too weird to seem out of place, but sharp enough to draw your attention.

Thank god for Gotham’s obsession with old stone statues. And thank god for people who set the bar really low.

Timothy Drake.

He typed it in, the sound of clicking keys in harmony to the rattling of the glass and howling wind.

It was a surreal moment when he finished, index finger hovering over ‘enter’. If he failed, he was pretty much asking Gotham’s Youth Service’s to haul his ass back to…

They aren’t like us. They never will be.

Tim would show them.

Tim Drake would show them.

x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x

As one of the worst snowstorms Gotham had ever seen tore through the city, burying the less fortunate in an icy grave and providing idle conversation for the rest, a lone boy sat in an abandoned manor, aglow with light, hitting the enter key with a single click that seemed to echo through the dark.

Chapter Text

x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x= 2 years and 7 months later =x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x

The surrounding hallways were a dull clash of noise and colour, with the only two things of note being the warm take-away coffee (black) clutched in Tim’s hands and the wall he leaned against (hopefully, would be embarrassing if the ‘oh shit you’re a person I thought you were a vertical surface my bad’ happened twice).

Between intermittent sips of coffee, Tim mused on how exactly to edit the photos to really capture the dynamic between Robin and Nightwing. He’d been lucky enough on his latest BatWatching outing to snag some shots of the pair having a backflipping contest (Nightwing won) and he was eager to get home and properly evaluate them. After the silence that had reigned in Wayne Manor nearly two years ago, during the third year of Jason’s stay (when he made his first appearance as Robin, Tim would bet his laptop it had something to do with that), Tim had been worried that the place that inexplicably soothed him had been fractured forever. But as of last year, Nightwing had been spotted leaving his new nest in Blüdhaven to help Batman and Robin out in some of Gotham’s more… Nasty business (and that was saying something, this was Gotham) and Dick Grayson has also appeared more frequently at the manor. Tim had celebrated their first fight together with some incredible photos of the trio kicking Poison Ivy’s ass (She was still salty about the whole ‘Injustice League’ fiasco six years ago). Granted he also got his ass slightly kicked but that was unimportant.

The noise around him grew louder, more direct. Ugh he regretted getting back to the House past 4 in the morning, but he had a 3am appointment with his… well, ‘parents.’

The more accurate term would be a down-on-their-luck couple with some acting experience and enough moral ambiguity to get paid by a fifteen-year-old to pretend to be his parents at a parent-teacher conference.

Either way, said actors (their names were Mark and Danielle, but Tim’s birth certificate said Janet and Jack, the names making his heart squeeze slightly) were pretty much earning bank this week. Both were overly fond of said conferences. Tim’s finances were decidedly not.

He desperately needed another gig and soon. Maybe that Sun group would hit him up again…

“Tim.”

They’d paid him more than enough for some simple programing and intel-gathering jobs. Enough that Tim could finally afford some upgrades his laptop desperately needed.

“Uhhh Earth to Tim.”

Besides, intel gathering was pretty much Tim’s bread and butter. He’d actually been putting together a program to identify drug-trafficking gang members operating out of the Narrows. It had some kinks, but maybe… maybe it could help Batman and Robin out? If he could find a way to fill them in without giving his ID away? He could hypothetically hack the computer he knew they had in the Batcave-

“oh for… TIM!”

He blinked and realized slightly belatedly that there appeared to be some paper being waved in his face. Paper attached to a hand attached to…

“Oh swell, back with us?”

Ah. Attached to Natalie ‘Everything should be done my way because it’s the best way’ Samson.

Just what he needed.

“Yes, sorry, mind was a thousand miles away.” His accent was flawless (Rich-Upper Gotham Prick, named after the people who helped him perfect it years ago) and contained just the right amount of empty apologeticness that everyone seemed to employ around here.

“Well try to stay present. Today’s important.” The look she levelled at him was questioning, as if she thought he’d forget what today was. As if.

“I’m aware, I’m scheduled to meet him in,” He checked his watch (may or may not be stolen, it was up for interpretation) “about half an hour.” Oh god he only had half an hour? That was not nearly enough time. His stomach protested like he’d just eaten some really shitty slop that was lying about being porridge. Oh eating breakfast had been a most moronic error on his part.

Samson sniffed slightly. She did that a lot, Tim had relented many a time at making a jab regarding visits to a doctor.  He thought of Dr Thompkins giving her a checkup and contained his snort of derision. Said repressed snort contained a slight edge of hysteria and did not help his stomach settle in the slightest.

“Good. Here is your information packet. Remember you have the entire day Drake, try not to weird him out?” Her words sounded humorous to an outsider, but Tim heard the undercurrent of scorn.

“Of course.” Tim made his tone drier than a desert as he grabbed the folder (he willed his hands not to tremble). “Now if you don’t mind, I have better places to be.” Short and sharp, that’s what the last two years and seven months had taught Tim. It didn’t make him any friends, but then again, it’s not like that would change if he was actually nice to anyone here. Besides, friends would be… problematic to Tim’s lifestyle. The last thing he needed was someone to look too close at his life and notice his lack of parents or regular cuts and bruises. Friends were not worth that risk.

Samson sniffed again before she turned on her heel and walked away through the slowly-filling corridor. Or stalked more accurately, she was still pissed that the duty of acting as Jason Todd-Wayne’s ‘Introductory Liaison’ was given to Tim instead of her. Tim suppose she felt cheated considering she believed Tim only got the role because as a ‘Scholarship kid’, the school thought he’d be better at convincing Jason, and by extension Bruce Wayne, to donate a frankly egregious amount of money to the school.

What stung was that she was almost certainly right.

Tim pushed off the locker and finished his coffee in a long swig, chucking the now empty container towards a bin. It missed, because the Universe loved to keep him humble.

His watch beeped an alert for 25 minutes (everyday he was grateful for its liberation), and Tim knew he needed to get over to Reception quickly. He needed time to school himself into a more professional persona when he met Jason.

Jason.

Tim was going to talk to Robin.

When it was announced he’d be Jason’s ‘Introductory Liaison’ Tim had literally gotten home and squealed, like a fanboy.

He’d been very appreciative for the emptiness of the House, and even more for the lack of human presence for a one-mile radius. He could laugh maniacally in glee and no one would know.

no one would know. he could laugh or cry or even scream and no one would ever know.

(No Drake. Crappy rabbit hole to fall down now of all places. You’re meeting Jason? Robin? Partner of Batman? Just focus on that)

Right. Jason.

With a decisive scoop, Tim picked up the coffee cup and dropped it in the bin (not before thanking it for its service to mankind, his hands slightly shaky) and headed over to the meet-up spot.

Calmly.

Collectedly.

Not at all freaking out.

x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x

In the end Tim got to Reception with 10 minutes to spare. Not that it mattered much, considering Jason was already there and having a conversation with Principle Greenaway. Well, technically Jason was looking at his phone and remaining silent while Greenaway talked at him. Did that still make it a conversation or was it then considered a speech? A soliloquy?

Greenaway’s syrupy voice interrupted Tim’s somewhat fractured musing.

“Ah, it appears your Introductory Liaison has arrived!” Greenaway had a dark glint in his muddy brown eyes. Oh, Tim would get a strongly worded letter about arriving after Jason. Dammit, he should have foreseen Jason showing up early.

rookie mistake moron, it’s his first day of course he’s going to show up early.

“Yes! Sorry I’m late I got caught up…” Crap, caught up doing what? “Ensuring Mr Todd-Wayne had everything in his information packet.” Oh, Tim should have actually done that, he wouldn’t put it past Samson to screw him over.

Despite the now distinct jelly-like feeling in his legs, Tim gave Greenaway his ‘I’m a perfect student smile’ and turned to address Jason.

“Hi, I’m Timothy Drake,” He held out his hand (only slightly shaking, yay for small victories), “a Sophomore at Gotham Academy.” He used his left to gesture to the sprawling campus of gothic and modern architecture behind, “and I’ll be giving you your tour.”

To put it mildly, Jason looked unimpressed. He gave Tim’s hand only a perfunctory glance before he returned to his phone (Tim counted the fact that Jason even acknowledged his existence as a win).

“Let’s get this over with.” Jason’s voice a mix of boredom and annoyance.

Tim was not freaking out.

x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x

Okay so maybe Tim was freaking out a little.

Half an hour in, and Jason still kept all his attention pretty much glued to his phone (well, not entirely, he looked up briefly to take a picture of a photo in the Academy’s trophy case of a freshman Dick Grayson holding a mathlete trophy, but that was it).

It didn’t exactly help that Tim had burning questions he really wanted to ask but couldn’t exactly say out loud.

How long does it take to learn how to throw a batarang?

What’s the Batcave like?

What’s the Batcomputer like (because Batman had a theme going) and can you tell me literally everything about it?

Instead, Tim was stuck lecturing about boring things like the Academy’s illustrious locker selection.

“So, your locker should be along here, if you pull out your information packet it will have your number and code in it.”

Jason didn’t reply. Not exactly abnormal, but, come to think of it, he hadn’t heard the sound of footsteps or soft-typing for-

Son of a bitch.

Jason was not behind him. How long had Jason not been behind him? Tim had pretty good spatial awareness (he needed it, following Batman meant noticing danger before it started so he didn’t get caught in the crossfire), but he hadn’t noticed Jason leaving. This was bad. The shitty porridge made its presence very known (it had decided to remain a background churning whilst Tim stumbled through the script he’d written) but now it tasted like bile in the back of his throat.

Tim doubted heavily Jason had gotten lost, this was Robin. Oh, this was Robin. Had- had Jason used his training to sneak off? That was so cool.

priorities dumbass.

Right. No time to reminisce on Batman’s stealth training. Because if Tim was seen without Jason, on a tour meant for him…

It would be more than a strongly worded letter. He could lose his scholarship. He may hate the students at Gotham Academy, but he did have a future here. Colleges loved to have students with fancy resumes. Not only that, but Tim had come to greatly rely on the facilities here; he’d lose the showers, a warm place in winter, steady meals…

idiot, never become dependent on anything, that’s Rule One and you broke it like a fucking moron.

Shit. Fuck. He should have made a contingency plan for this eventuality it was obviously going to happen. Jason had a history at school (all four of them), which made this a foreseeable outcome! Christ, he deserved this, he should have planned better and now he broke his number One bloody rule and that meant consequences.

But.

But some selfish part of him just wanted to talk to Jason, actually talk. Even once. He knew he didn’t deserve it, not really but…

But just looking at the manor wasn’t always enough. Seeing the Bat family patrol Gotham wasn’t always enough. Selfish as it was… Tim laughed under his breath. That was pretty much his middle name at this point.

Decision made, Tim all but ran to his locker and opened it. Checking that the coast was clear, he yanked out his laptop and quickly hacked into the school’s security cameras.

It took him all of 2 minutes.

Flicking through the various footage, Tim spotted him, shock of black hair nearly concealed amongst the leaves. He checked the cameras name,

Memorial Gardens.

The porridge feeling that had now permeated through his entire body said he’d regret this. Tim was sure it was right.

x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x

It took around four minutes for Tim to arrive at the Memorial Gardens, which consisted of a (small by Gotham Academy standards) well-kept grassy field dotted with trees and shrubbery that created shifting patches of shade.

The security footage had showed Jason sitting at one of the many stone benches that were spaced across the gardens, although his bench in particular was partially obscured by a bush with giant, holey leaves (he wasn’t exactly Poison Ivy when it came to plant identification). Despite the cover, the curling gray smoke betrayed his hiding place (if Greenaway caught him, Tim would almost certainly be booted out the doors before lunch).

Tim’s footsteps were very much not stealthy (that would probably end in him getting punched), and Jason noticed him nearly immediately as he stepped onto the grass. Even from a distance, Tim could still see his head tipping backwards and the loud, exasperated sigh.

“Seriously kid? Could you not just fuck off and leave me alone for ten fucking minutes?”

“Uhh.”

Tim wasn’t sure how to deal with this situation as he warily approached. Although the ‘kid’ comment rankled. Jason was only a year older, who was he calling a kid?

“If you want to smoke, there are better spots then this. I can show them to you? If you want?” Tim could feel his heartbeat in his ears, and it got louder when Jason’s expression took on a dangerous edge.

“Well well well. Not the little goody two shoes you all preach about being huh? The fuck you care anyway?”

He flicked ash onto the grass.

“Well… I mean, there are more… covert places-so you don’t get caught.” Jason snorted at that, so Tim tried a different approach “As your Introductory Liaison-”

Mistake. Big mistake.

“Cut the shit. We both know you don’t give a fuck beyond getting to brag to your pretentious prick friends that you got to screw around with me.” Jason’s tone was scathing. “So do us both a favor and fuck off.”

Tim’s mouth opened in a retort (that may or may not have vaguely sounded like: ‘actually, I do care’ or something equally sappy and nausea-inducing) when he saw a flicker of motion in the corner of his eye.

Immediately, Tim lunged forward, throwing all his (measly) weight into Jason in what could be interpreted as a tackle.

“The fuck is wrong with-”

Tim winced as a sharp pain stabbed through his deltoid before both he and Jason crashed into the leafy plant (thank you Gotham Academy gardeners) with a dull oof.

The sharp pain abruptly faded to a dull burn, despite the jostling, and Tim cautiously looked at his shoulder.

There, protruding from his arm, was a slim, needle-like dart.

not again

“What the fuck-” Jason’s shout was full of anger as he shoved Tim off, expression clouded with fury.

But then he noticed the dart, and his entire demeanor seemed to shift into something distinctly Robin. His gaze snapped up to scan the surrounding gardens, falling into a defensive stance as he moved in front of Tim.

why wasn’t Jason running? he needed to run.

Tim’s sight blurred abruptly. His muscles atrophying by the seconds. He was painfully familiar with the sensation. They’d dosed him with sedatives. Powerful ones.

they aren’t taking me back

“Jason, Jason run-” Tim tried to tell him. Tried to push him away and get him to go but his voice was all wrong and his limbs were so heavy-

i can’t do this, please i can’t

As Tim’s vision tunneled black, he saw a similar dart hit Jason in the chest. Saw Jason try to fight off two masked figures.

not again, please not again

Then the darkness pushed in and swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

Jason woke to the sound of raised voices, face pressed into a hard surface, the smell of musty fabric filling his nose.

“We jus’ gotta rough ‘em up a bit is all I’m sayin-’” A raspy masculine voice. Smoker, judging by the sound.

“Shut up for the last time Doole, I told you we ain’t damaging’ the goods.” Feminine, pissed off and barking orders.

Hell yeah. Another fucking kidnapping! He could add a tally to the Annual Wayne Family Kidnapping Count, finally knocking Dickhead off his pedestal.

He moved his hands and feet minutely (both tied up, rope for his hands and what felt like metal on the exposed skin of his ankles). Seriously, the amount of time the idiot got nabbed in Gotham (and one memorable occasion in Blüdhaven) was so unfair. But no more. Jason would finally secure his place as rightful Victor. Alfred’s cookies were his.

Inhaling deeply, the air around him smelt dusty and stale, but no mold or rot. Building not lived in, but not derelict.

Natural light flickered beyond his eyelids, not so bright as to be direct. Nice, an opening and no blindfold. B always did say people underestimated you when they thought you were asleep. Or sedated or tied up or locked in a cage.

A third voice, also feminine, joined the argument.

“We got police on the way Kwell.”

The second voice answered, all authority, “Good work McAllen. Let’s wake the lil’ angels up. Doole.” Ah, here we go, step two of Kidnapper’s Guide to Treating Hostages, wake up time.

The floor creaked under the sound of Doole’s boots, and Jason fought the shiver as he heard the man’s raspy laugh. Not from fear per say, kidnapping was routine (see: Annual Count), but still there were adults in the industry that took a little too much pleasure in abusing the people they nabbed for money. Joker was an obvious example (and the lack of laughter and shitty jokes assured him the clown wasn’t behind this particular one) but it seemed Doole also liked to indulge. Lucky Jason. He hoped Batman or Nightwing or whoever ‘saved’ his sorry ass broke Doole’s nose.

The footsteps came to a halt in front of him. Here we go, he wondered if he could get ice-cream-

The slap seemed to echo, as did the sharp intake of breath that followed. Doole’s voice scratchy and gleeful,

“Wakey wakey little birdy.”

Except he hadn’t hit Jason. Except he wasn’t talking to Jason.

Ah fuck. Now he remembered- Squeaky. Brilliant, just what his day needed.

A hand connected with his face and sent a sharp pain radiating up his cheek.

“C’mon tweety rise ‘n shine.” Jason felt a lump form in his throat at the sour stench of the man’s breath.

Not Willis not Willis.

His eyes flew open, adjusting quickly to the dim interior, and boy Jason was grateful he was right on that the particular assessment. The scrawny man in front of him couldn’t be much older than Dick. His eyes were a cloudy blue set in a sallow face framed by pinned back greasy brown hair. His skin just a fraction too tight that told Jason that ‘Doole’ had been living on the go for a couple months too long.

“Ah lovely, we’re all ‘ere then? Swell.”

He licked his chapped lips and straightened, grin showing off yellow teeth. Jason took note of the cat tattoo (crappily done) and decided henceforth to refer to him as Pussy Tattoo.

Taking in his surroundings, Jason noted the frail fall light filtering through the three windows set in the beige-colored walls. With no curtain to block the view, the left window offered Jason a view of the edge of a rooftop below, the glint of water and skyscraper in the distance.

STAGG Enterprises. They were in Otisburg then, barley a twenty-minute drive from Gotham Academy.

Tearing his attention from the outside world, he took in the rest of the room. It was square and bare of furniture, floors coated in dust bar the trails of footprints. The only other exit Jason could see was a door on the opposite side.

Next to him, Squeaky struggled upright, adjacent to him in the corner they’d been shoved into. A red handprint making its presence known on his thin face. A pit of anger burned low in Jason’s gut, the sight stirring up painful memories. His anger was wasted, he knew that. It would all end in the same tiring story, Squeaky bragging about his traumatic ordeal to his sycophantic friends and ‘oh it was so scary but thankfully mummy and daddy coughed up the cash in the end’.

The kid had been a pain the moment he’d introduced himself. Introductory Liaison? Seriously? Why did ‘tour guide’ require such a pretentious name? Was it a Gotham Academy thing? Over the course of the tour, that seemed to be the case, considering the prick pretty much went out of his way to glorify the most basic shit like the cafeteria. His tone was practically reverential, and by the time the twat’s squeaky-ass voice started preaching the values of lockers Jason was done. For fuck’s sake did he really think Jason was that clueless? Just because he’d been raised in Crime Alley didn’t mean he was ignorant of basic school layouts. Christ he was already tired of the snotty bastard… He might have a few regrets about the stink bombs at West Village. A smidge. Not that he’d give B the satisfaction by telling him that.

Squeaky shifted slightly, legs pulling up to his chest before he tucked his head behind his knees. Jason took note that the kid seemed to be trembling slightly, though his hands were hidden by his shins. A reluctant tendril of pity crept its way into his heart. Squeaky was just so damn small, he looked like he belonged in freshman year.

Shut up. Gotham Academy prick remember? He probably throws rocks at homeless veterans just to look cool.

Pussy Tattoo, unfortunately, spotted the slight shaking of Tim’s shoulders as well. His smile took on a sharper, darker edge of glee.

“Oh lil’ dove, you scared?” His voice slippery with its false sympathy, fuck Jason wanted to punch his lights out. He could, but the sight of the gun and knife strapped to his leg made him pause.

No Robin training unless absolutely necessary. Flagrant demonstrations make it easier for our enemies to make the connection between our identities.

That had been Lesson Two of Bat Training (Lesson One was bring your utility belt everywhere when out of Gotham) but the frustration it caused had yet to lessen. He could hardly take out an armed goon and pass it off on ‘martial art classes.’

Squeaky muttered something under his breath, too quiet for Jason to hear.

“Sorry dove gonna have to speak up.” Pussy Tattoo replied, taking another step forward.

Squeaky repeated the sentence again, but all Jason caught was ‘money.’

Pussy Tattoo now squatted down, looming over Tim in a way that made Jason grit his teeth. The guy was slimey as fuck and Jason wouldn’t be surprised if he tried something.

“Speak. Up”

Squeaky looked up from his knees.

Then launched himself at Pussy Tattoo’s head.

Oh fuck.

The kid let out a shrill cry of rage, hands surprisingly free as they grappled with the man's greasy hair.

The loud "Fuck!" from Pussy Tattoo snapped Jason out of his shock, and he started tearing at the rope binding his hands. The idiot was going to get himself stabbed.

fuck fuck fuck what is that moron doing?

The fight, if it could even be called that, was only short lived. Pussy Tattoo grabbed both of Tim’s arms and threw him back against the wall (though Jason saw distinct pleasure that a clump of the bastard’s greasy-ass hair came free along with Tim’s hand), with a dull thud.

“You little fucking cunt-” Pussy Tattoo snarled, eyes burning with murderous rage. He drew back his foot, and Jason lunged in front of Tim to block the vicious kick Pussy Tattoo was about to deliver to his unprotected abdomen.

But the kick never landed.

“Doole! The fuck you doing? Kwell said no damagin’ the goods you shit for brains!” The speaker sounded like the second feminine voice he’d heard, who turned out to be a well-built woman with brown skin, piercing brown eyes and short black hair.

Going by the look of irritation she directed at Pussy Tattoo, Jason decided to rechristen her as Captain Disappointment.

“The little bitch grabbed me! The fuck was I supposed to do?”

“Tie a better knot you fucking moron!”

Pussy Tattoo had the nerve to look taken aback by the retort, and Cpt. Disappointment just shook her head and stalked over to where Tim had curled up, grabbing his wrists to roughly retie his restraints. She checked Jason’s were still secure (Jason hadn’t managed to slip free, but she still tightened the rope anyway. Asshole). Before stepping back and addressing a sulking Pussy Tattoo once more.

“Kwell wanted-” her eyes narrowed as she surveyed both Jason and Tim, the former having returned to his shaking, balled-up state, back to the room. Fucking idiot, lesson learned don’t attack the armed guards.

Pussy Tattoo scowled as Cpt. Disappointment pulled him away, seemingly for a private conversation. Or as private as you could get in a room with two hostages.

As the harsh low whispers from the two began, Jason used the distraction to eye the other boy, idiot or not that impact had to hurt, maybe even concussed him.

Except Tim was looking right back.

Jason, in his four and half years of official Wayne status, had learned a lot about the High Society of Gotham. They strutted around like peacocks, all glitz and flair and desperate to impress. Their kids were even worse, all the vanity but none of the common sense, intelligence or charm. In Jason’s experience at his old school (preppy but nowhere near GA levels), all the posh pricks offspring were like yappy dogs that bolted at the first sign of trouble. All bark no bite. They’d throw rocks at the homeless kids only to cry and sob when said kids turned around and mugged them. They only had backbone when power was stacked in their favour, only to tuck tail and run when challenged, throwing insults in a pathetic attempt to shield their fragile ego. It was the same song and dance at every school, gala or function. The occasion outlier sure, but places like GA had a type of student, and from what he’d seen over the years, the earlier statement held true.

But looking into the ice-blue eyes of one Tim Drake, where he expected fear Jason only saw victory. Edged with adrenaline sure, but clear and precise. Like Pussy Tattoo had played right into his hands.

Huh.

The connection broke as Tim turned away, only for Jason to feel something thin, oily and warm press into his hand.

The fuck is this kid.

Jason fought to keep his expression neutral, flicking his eyes to where Captain Disappointment and Pussy Tattoo were still debating.

Coast clear, he glanced down at the objects Tim had passed.

Bobby pins.

Or more accurately, two that had been bent into…

Into fucking lockpicks.

Jason let out a slow breath. Okay. Alright.

He shot a glance at the Tim, who met his eyes once again. Checking the two in the opposite corner were still arguing, Tim raised an eyebrow and nodded his head slightly to his ankle-cuffs.

Ankle-cuffs that were unlocked. Not off, and positioned in a way to not be obvious but-

Alrighty. Previous statement null and void. Rich kid outlier huh. Good on you Jason this makes Top Five Times you were severely incorrect. Nice.

Jason slowly shifted his cuffs until the lock was oh so conveniently blocked by his calf. Slowly, and with more care than usual, he slid the first bobby pin in.

Lockpicking was an art form he had mastered before living on the streets (something everyone was always surprised about, even B), but when your shitty landlord charged a fifty to replace a lost key, and your mother had a poor memory (grief crept up his throat and his forced it down. Not the time), learning how to pick your own front door was an essential skill.

Jason carefully rotated till he heard a slight click of the lock moving ever-so slightly before sliding in the second bobby pin. Right, tumbler-hunting time.

He gently ran the bobby pin up and down, first tumbler come on little tumbley I’ll love you forever, open for Jay-Jay.

(Sweet talking was optional but heavily encouraged, even if Jason may take the phrase slightly too literal, but seeing B’s face when he said the shit out loud turned it into a habit).

The only warning Jason had was the muffled sound of heavy steps before the door flew open, cracking against the wall with a dull thud.

A tall, wiry woman filled the frame. Muscles tense and looking absolutely pissed.

Ah shit.

“The fuck kinda operation do you think we’re running?” The women stalked forward into the room, radiating aggression. Her dark hair was shaved close to the head, and her narrow face featured a thin scar that sliced across her nose from brow to cheekbone. Voice two then. Like Pussy Tattoo, she was armed, but Jason had a sinking suspicion they weren’t just for intimidation.  

"I'm on the phone with the goddamn police and you can't keep it down for a minute?"

Pussy Tattoo nervously straightened, avoiding her gaze, but Captain Disappointment met it head on.

Jason felt a promising shift in the lock.

“Sorry Kwell, the small one broke free and Doole needed help retying the little shits binds.”

Pussy Tattoo said nothing but shot Cpt. Disappointment a dirty look.

Kwell ran a hand down her face, posture radiating an ‘I’m surrounded by idiots’, before sighing and looking up at the ceiling.

“ We’ve hit… let’s say a lil’ snag with the police.” Abruptly, her demeanor shifted, and both accomplices stepped back.

Kwell turned, gaze landing on Tim, and oh the look of dark reproach in her green eyes sent a cold shiver down Jason’s spine.

The first tumbler slid home. Two more to go.

Her steps were even as she approached the curled-up boy, looming over him with an air of fake sympathy that had dread curling in his gut. Fuck something was wrong.

“Ya see, the police can’t seem to contact your parents lil’ one.” For a nanosecond, Jason swore Tim froze in place. “And, a lil’ birdy told me,” her eyes flicked to the Captain “that apparently you’re a scholarship kid, no cash to speak of really.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Now, in the biz we call that a complication,” Kwell’s hand shot forward to grab Tim’s collar, hauling him upright, “and complications in Gotham tend to end up with Bats involved.” She spat the last part in Tim’s face, other hand dropping to the knife at her side.

Jason heard the barely audible click as the second tumbler fell in place. One more, come on come on.

“Good news is,” Kwell practically purred, “is this lil problem is solved rather easily.” The knife came free with a soft shhring and Jason tasted bile as the blade came to rest on Tim’s throat.

“My dad will pay you!”

Kwell cocked her head, brow raised in Jason’s direction.

“Oh?”

“My dad will pay extra for Tim, he’s a family friend.” Fuck come one, buy it.

Kwell seemed to contemplate his proposal, but to Jason’s horror she pressed the knife down harder.

A thin line of red formed, and still Tim looked so fucking calm.

“The way I see it kiddo, this is a lovely opportunity to prove a point.”

Jason desperately tried to keep his movements subtle, but the last fucking tumbler was evading him.

“No Bat will try shit if he knows I ain’t afraid to kill” the smile that stretched her face was grotesque, a mockery of glee, “and if anything, it’ll encourage good ol’ Wayne to cough up the cash just that extra bit faster, don’t ‘cha think?

The third tumbler fell in line, and Jason rotated both bobby pins together.

His ankle-cuffs unlocked with a click.

Kwell frowned “What was-”

Jason didn’t let her finish struck her square in the face with his ankle-cuffs.

Blood sprayed accompanied by the dull crack of a nose breaking.

Jason scrambled upright, kicking her in the head. Hard. The women went down, and Jason turned to grab Tim, only to find him standing.

He grabbed Tim’s arm, and fucking ran.

The room exploded in a cacophony of screaming orders and footsteps, but Jason’s focus rested solely on the left window, the glimmer of water in the distance.

In a move that was most likely luck, when Jason threw his whole weight at the window, Tim did too.

A thud, pain radiating from impact then a splintering crack and open air.

He ducked into a roll as he hit the rooftop, glass raining around him. Adrenaline blotted out the pain from impact, but fuck he’d feel that later.

Tim was already on his feet, and Jason felt his thin hand wrap around his upper arm like a vice and pull.

Jason didn’t need any more encouragement.

Both took off running, dodging and leaping AC units and pipes, weaving around and on top of but always managing to stay close.

Behind him, he heard the rapid thud thud thud of someone giving chase.

Shit. Fuck.

No time to check, as they were fast approaching a gap between buildings. Gathering up his momentum, Jason leapt-

Everything was suspended for a brief second, alleyway full of trash and debris below, rare blue sky above,

Before landing lightly on the other side.

Next to him, Tim cleared the gap with a stumble, but regained his footing quick, and Jason snuck a quick glance at their purser.

Behind them, eyes full of desperate rage, strands of loose greasy hair flying around his sweaty face was Pussy Tattoo.

Normally, Jason wouldn’t be afraid. Normally, Jason would be in his Robin costume with backup. Normally, Jason didn’t have another kid to protect.

The weak fall sunlight caught a gleam of metal clenched in the man’s hands, and instinct had Jason diving to the ground.

The world seemed to slow as the echoing crack split the air.

He briefly felt a red-hot line of pain tear across his right shoulder, but then a surge of adrenaline swallowed it whole and he corrected the stumble in his gait, shoving Tim in the small of the back when the smaller boy turned to him with wide eyes.

“Fucking run.”

They dropped down to the next building, a fancier place with a pool, but Jason had barely anytime to clock his surroundings. It was a vital Robin skill Batman had instilled from the beginning, but a sudden bolt of dread had Jason grabbing Tim roughly by the collar and yanking him sideways into the shelter of an emergency exit.

In Jason’s desperate grab, Tim all but sprawled across the ground, and it was only Jason’s death-grip on his collar that stopped him from falling completely. Jason all but dragged him for a couple of paces as Tim recovered, the kid’s tiny stature for once providing a distinct advantage.

The sound of bullets whizzed past, the edge of the brick exploding into dust as it was nicked.

Too close. Way too close.

They were near the channel, only one rooftop away, but Jason had no idea where to go. Hiding seemed to be the best choice.

Distantly, police sirens slipped into his peripheral hearing.

Another gunshot, pinging off the metal airduct a foot to his left.

It was undercut a second later by an empty click.

He’s out of ammo.

Jason’s mind raced, for all he knew Pussy Tattoo had more bullets on him but-

But it was become distinctly obvious in the last five minutes that, whilst Tim was surprising fast, Jason still outpaced him in both endurance and speed. He’d been cutting his strides, purposely sticking next to him. He wasn’t about to abandon Tim.

Pussy Tattoo uttered a low, colorful curse as his desperate gait faltered.

No Robin training unless absolutely necessary.

His decision was made for him when they hit a broad warehouse bordering the water, the gaps between buildings too big to jump even for Jason. Below, the water lapped, dark and choked with debris.

Pussy Tattoo landed on the same roof, cutting of their exit.

They were trapped.

Jason let go of Tim’s wrist, spinning around. Pussy Tattoo was hastily attempting to reload.

No you don’t motherfucker.

Jason lunged forward, man having the grace to look scared as Jason’s fist hit his nose with an audible crunch.

A howl of pain tore from Pussy Tattoo’s throat, blood spraying (He was on a roll with the nose breaking today). Even as he stumbled back from the blow, his head whipped up, teeth bared in a crimson-stained snarl.

“Oh Imma fucking kill you.”

Jason couldn’t help the smirk.

“Then take your best shot you fucking nonce.”

Rage. The guys face just scrunched up with it and wow Jason was way too good at antagonization for his own good.

The man dropped the gun with a obnoxious clatter, only to pull out the rust-spotted knife from its poorly-made sheath.

Jason would’ve laughed. It was barely more than a sharpened kitchen knife and not even made a dent in his Robin suit.

But Jason wasn’t Robin at the moment, something painfully driven home as the knife slashed dangerously near his chest as the man lunged, anger fueling his attack.

The police sirens were nearer now, bouncing and reverberating off the nearby street. Jason danced back from Pussy Tattoo’s onslaught, being careful to not seem too good, near-misses piling up. He wasn’t Robin, he couldn’t fight back. Couldn’t fight back.

Jason was fast running out of space, the man refusing to let up. A partculary close swipe had Jason jump backwards, foot tapping at the edge of the roof.

Fuck.

He was running out of options, rolling sideways to avoid another attack as Pussy Tattoo shifted to the space Jason had just stood.

He tensed, preparing for another attempt when-

When he saw blur of navy and white in his peripheral.  When he saw tiny 4’9 Tim let out a familiar war cry and jump on Pussy Tattoo, wrapping his legs around his throat like a fucking octopus.

Except this time, Tim wasn’t aiming for the bobby pins.

Jason watched, in mild horror, as Tim clawed at the man’s face, his own ablaze with anger Jason had never conceived the kid could achieve.

Pussy Tattoo stumbled under the sudden weight, foot catching on the rim of the roof.

His arms tried to pinwheel, but Tim’s weight, meagre as it had to be, was too much.

For a heartbeat, they were frozen in place.

Then Pussy Tattoo disappeared over of the edge, taking Tim with him.

It wasn’t so much as a choice, Jason would reflect later, his feet pounding against the concrete, as it was instinct. Three years of Robin training kicking in.

He dove off the roof, hands held out in a dive.

Jason hit the icy water with barely a splash, the sheer cold a shock to his system. He whipped around, searching for Tim but the water’s murkiness all but blinded him.

Fuck where is he? Can he even swim? Fuck fuck fuck.

He kicked his legs, fighting back the cold, his blazer suddenly a weight around him. With desperation, he broke the surface of the river, fall air surprisingly warm in contrast to the freezing ice of the water.

“Tim!” He yelled over the small waves, eyes desperately seeking for a break in the surface. The weight at his shoulders pulled him downwards, and Jason practically tore off his jacket.

Fucking shit cunt what if hes drowning?

A millisecond later, the water in front of him churned and a sodden-looking Tim, his dark black hair flattened and dripping, emerged, gasping for air.

And so did Pussy Tattoo.

Jason prepared to scream a warning, already arcing through the water with powerful strokes (thank you for the swim lessons B) before taking note of the man’s face.

Of the blood dripping across it.

“I think he-” A tiny wavelet hit Tim across the face, causing him to cough. Unencumbered, Jason easily kept his head above the water, but tiny Tim, carrying a man at least twice is height and weight who looked fucking unconscious was struggling.

He swam over behind them, grabbing the back of the man’s collar. He didn’t trust that he wasn’t just playing possum.

Tim, now only holding up the man’s left side (idiot seemed determine to help the moron who tried to kill him, and ah shit he was a hypocrite wasn’t he?) finally managed to splutter out a sentence through chattering teeth,

“I think he hit his head on something-I dunno he just went” And to Jason surprise, he could see fear in his eyes. Genuine fear.

“He just went limp, is he… is he gonna be alright?” He could see Tim flagging in the water as he eyed the man’s bloody face, bobbing up and down as he struggled to stay afloat.

“Don’t know.” He saw Tim’s hand clench around the man’s jacket, but it didn’t hide the slight tremble. It didn’t look fake, not this time.

With a soft grunt, he began kicking backwards, dragging the now waterlogged Pussy Tattoo towards the shore.

“C’mon, we need to get out.” Jason purposefully kept his voice soft, the kind of tone he used for victims after he and B swooped in. “I’m freezing my fucking balls off here.” Tim’s lips, blue with cold, quirked up in the corners.

Christ this kid.

The journey was thankfully short, and both reached the submerged, slimy staircase with relative ease, although Tim was now full on shaking (Jason noted with concern that he really was thin as hell, no wonder he felt the cold) and Jason made sure to heave him bodily out of the water first.

He took immense pleasure in the exasperated glare Tim leveled his way as he held him above the water. He looked like a grumpy cat. Especially when he noticed the graze on Jason’s arm.

“Chill, its barely a graze.” Jason scoffed, noticing it did little to dispel Tim’s concern, though he surprising stayed silent.

Next was Pussy Tattoo, and Jason, despite everything telling him dropping the guy a couple of inches above the ground couldn’t possibility hurt, he didn’t want to freak out Tim anymore. Really, he should be praised for his sensitivity.

After rolling the man into recovery position, he took the time to properly assess Tim. The kid looked in the early stages of hypthermia but had yet to stop hovering, shooting concerned glances the man. He even walked forward, crouching to grab his wrist.

Checking his pulse, Jason realized. He’d already done it of course, and the guys heartbeat was fine.

Regardless, hypothermia could royally fuck him over, and hearing the faint clacking of Tim’s chattering teeth, Jason strode over and began rubbing Tim’s arms vigorously through the blazer.

“Hey! What are-”

“You look like a human popsicle kid, we need warm you up.”

Tim batted his hands away, replacing them with his own.

“What about him?” Tim asked, glancing down at Pussy Tattoo.

Jason winced, because okay yeah good point. Sighing, he crouched down and began to coax the circulation back into the man’s arms. What a fucking day.

His first day of school.

Jason tried to swallow the giggle that bubbled up in his throat, although it just ended in a weird choked sound.

“Uhh are, are you okay?” Tim asked quietly, and eye contact was a mistake as he took in the confusion written across his face. Jason couldn’t help himself.

“Y’know, your one hell of a tour guide Tim.”

Tim’s eyes widened in complete horror, and Jason couldn’t hold himself back.

Laughter spilled into the chilly fall air, because holy shit the kids face and-

“Oh. Oh fuck the tour! We’re meant to meet with your teachers and fuck you never got your locker and your class schedule! It was all in the information packet! Greenaway is going to kill me- ”

And god help him, Tim’s panic just made him laugh harder. Fuck he was wheezing at this point, tears blurring in his eyes.

“Jason it’s not funny!”

Jason was too far gone to stop, and honestly, he didn’t want to. This was the funniest shit he’d ended up in for the longest time. B couldn’t even be mad!

There a rough sound, similar to choking. It came again, and Jason realized it was laughter.

He wiped his eyes of the tears, and saw Tim trying to desperately remain stoic, but the sound kept escaping. It reminded Jason faintly of rusty metal when it ground together.

Like it had worn away from disuse.

At that particular a sobering thought, Jason remembered the offered hand and dismissal, the silences, the sarcasm.

Wow he’d been a dick. Granted, he had reason. Tim acted like one of the GA brats. But, reason didn’t make it justified.

“Hey uh, Tim?” Tim’s raspy laugh cut off, and he tilted his head slightly in question.

Jason ran his hand through his hair (gross he’d have to wash it later) and sighed.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier?” Tim opened his mouth and Jason hurriedly cut him off.

“I was being a tool, and yeah rich GA prick or no I wasn’t exactly… The best hostage partner. So, uh sorry about that.” Tim looked taken aback, stunned really.

Jason held out his hand.

“So, fresh start? If that’s cool with you?”

Tim eyed his hand, and Jason swore he saw a flash of, of awe in his eyes. But it was gone in a blink.

Cautiously, Tim reached out, and shook the proffered hand.

“Yeah, fresh start is. Is great. Yeah.”

The sound of sirens echoed in the nearby street, and Jason dimly registered the police must have finally arrived. And paramedic’s. And knowing his dad the entire fucking fire brigade, B was such a worrywart.

As the police approached, including one harried Commissioner Gordon, Jason thought that maybe, just maybe, Gotham Academy might not be so bad.