Chapter Text
Jack and Janet Drake are reported dead in a hurricane.
It doesn’t make front page news.
The newspaper that gets tossed on a chair next to Tim in the social worker’s office where he slept last night has headlines about Bruce Wayne’s little son surviving a serious car accident, and a new form of fear gas released at Gotham Harbor.
Tim reads every detail of those stories. Over and over. And he’s not bothered about his parents not being on the front page.
Tim thinks his mom and dad aren’t really dead.
The hurricane was just their ‘Exit Strategy.’
Tim heard them talk about it the last time they were home.
“Cut your losses, Janet,” said Dad.
There was an argument. And Dad talked about an Exit Strategy.
Then there were less antiques on the mantle and paintings on the wall the next morning.
And Mom held Tim’s shoulders and kissed Tim’s cheeks when she said goodbye, making some of her lipstick come off on his skin.
And Dad touched his hair.
And then the social workers told Tim there was a hurricane overseas, where his parents had been. They said they’d died in the storm.
But Tim’s parents hated being delayed by bad weather.
If there was a hurricane coming to wherever they were, they would’ve gotten an earlier flight. They would have left as soon as they saw a bad weather report on TV.
So, the death report is fake.
To cut their losses, Janet.
If everyone thinks they’re dead, no one will bother them or make them argue anymore.
He thinks they’ll probably send someone to get him. Bring him to wherever they are to start over together, when the dust settles.
It feels very normal, waiting for them. He’s not waiting at home or at his boarding school anymore, but it’s still just waiting. Like a strange dream.
…
His foster parents are nervous.
They say they’ve had kids run before. So they lock Tim in his room from the outside every night after dinner.
There’s a bell provided and he can ring it to let them know if he needs to use the bathroom.
They give him enough in his room not to get bored. There are a lot of jigsaw puzzles on the shelf. But that’s not the point. The point is, he can’t leave.
When he was five, Tim was home for the holidays and his parents couldn’t be there, so his babysitter took him out to go see the lights in the city like his family had planned to do together. And Tim ended up seeing Batman flying through the sky that night.
And it became a habit of Tim’s. Every time he was home and his parents weren’t, he’d turn on the local news and wait for a report about Batman to come on. Or read a Batman story in the paper. Or something. A habit. Just something to do. Habits feel good.
Now his parents are gone, and he doesn’t know when to expect them, and it’s time to watch Batman on the news.
But there’s locks, and he’s never been able to find a newspaper in this house, and he doesn’t have a TV in his room, so he can’t watch Batman.
So it never stops being on his mind. And it never stops feeling terrible not doing the thing he’s thinking of.
…
At the new school, Tim spends recess in the library every day.
There are computers.
The librarian is nice. She never makes him play outside.
When Tim asks if there are any computers available, she always leads him to an empty seat.
The thing is, the internet can teach you anything.
An older kid at Tim’s boarding school said that when Tim was little and kept asking a lot of questions.
From now on, just ask your questions in the search bar, kid.
But the library computers don’t have unfiltered internet under student accounts. So Tim can barely look up anything.
Tim starts watching his teacher log into her computer in class.
He tracks her fingers and writes it down on an already used page in his planner.
It takes weeks, watching her type it, over and over. It’s hard to follow all the keys. There’s so many in a row. She’s so fast. Sometimes she hits shift along with whatever key she’s typing. It’s hard to see from where he’s sitting. But every time Tim sees her type it out, he catches a little more.
And then…
The librarian takes a long phone call, and Tim tries the username and password.
And it works.
Nothing to stop Tim from web-searching all kinds of ways to get out of a room.
Filling up his planner with things to try.
One method seems like a good idea for how to handle the window on his bedroom wall.
Luckily, his bedroom is on the ground floor.
He’ll be back home and in bed before they ever know he left.
He just has to see Batman. He’s got a whole night to do it.
…
His foster parents find out.
Tim isn’t sure how he missed the cameras hidden in his room. Dad’s company helped make some home security products, and Dad was really interested in them, and Tim got really interested too for a while. He even joined the photography club at his boarding school.
But maybe even then, even if he knows about cameras, cameras aren’t something Tim can notice and avoid unless he’s looking for them.
It makes him feel…uncomfortable, he thinks. He doesn’t know why.
A tug in his chest. He had his foster parents’ attention. But it doesn’t feel good.
It doesn’t matter.
Tim’s case worker is called. It’s a different one than the one he had last time. He’ll be removed and placed elsewhere.
He liked the nice librarian.
But…
But he saw Batman.
After three long months, he saw Batman. He saw Nightwing, too. Not in the news. In person. Flying through the sky.
He’ll miss the nice librarian.
But it was worth it.
Maybe if he switches houses enough times, he’ll end up back in his boarding school with his friends and his teachers. And he can wait for his parents and watch the news there.
…
The counselor tells Tim that running away is an unhealthy coping mechanism. Tim lost his parents, and he’s having trouble adjusting, and that’s why Tim runs away.
That’s why Tim doesn’t cry when they send him to a new home. And a new home. And a new home.
That’s why Tim forgets to pay attention to people.
Isn’t making friends.
That’s why Tim can’t focus. But Tim can focus. He can focus on one thing, and he can do it very, very well.
Tim can watch Batman.
He can access the internet. He can search for how to get out of rooms and houses and sneak past street cameras and onto the bus. And what time Batman usually patrols different streets.
Over the next months, Tim switches homes a lot.
But Tim doesn’t think that matters.
Until it suddenly does matter.
Seven months in, Tim is placed in a group home so far out of Gotham that he can no longer make the commute to and from Batman’s patrols before dawn.
And it doesn’t matter anyway, because they tie him to the bed every night by the ankles.
There are a lot of children to keep track of here, and he’s a notorious flight risk at this point. He hates it. It makes his skin crawl.
But the weirdest part is when they tell him that if he tries anything, they’ll paddle the other kids until he gets back. And another kid tells Tim that means the adults will hit the kids. Even though it’s Tim that broke the rules.
Tim stops trying to see Batman after that. Completely. For a long, long time.
And he thinks he was stupid, probably, for thinking he’d end up at the boarding school.
…
A year after going into foster care, Tim runs away one more time.
For good.
…
There’s not gonna be much of a search. Especially if he gets far away quickly.
Luckily, by now, Gotham is far away.
It takes Tim days.
But it’s less time than if he didn’t figure out how to get on a public bus without being stopped for money. He just waits for the busy time and walks very close to anyone with children already in tow. It’s like he becomes invisible.
He makes it to Gotham and heads straight for The Narrows.
It’s the least likely place he can think of where anyone will bother retrieving him. Street kids are common. There’s places to hide. He’ll be able to disappear.
It’s September. The night air is chilly. Tim’s skin is all sweaty and pinpricks, though. And his head is starting to hurt.
Food would help, he thinks.
There aren’t a lot of options right now. Yesterday he was able to pocket two pieces of toast left on someone’s table at an outdoor restaurant between buses. But it’s more difficult at night. It’s more difficult in a bad part of town.
He decides the 24/7 gas station may be an okay bet. There already seems to be a lot of people going in and out, even though it’s late.
It’s easy to duck against a wall where the shadow swallows him up, watching the trash receptacle to see if anyone discards anything edible.
It’s not nothing.
A man tosses a small bag of trail mix with all the candy eaten out of it, and Tim darts out and grabs it with no issue.
He curls in his spot against the wall and eats, the empty ache in his stomach fading.
He’s really grateful he doesn’t have a nut allergy. How do kids with nut allergies survive on the streets?
His stomach twists. The trail-mix wasn’t enough. He’s still really hungry.
The sun will be up soon. Tim needs to find a place to sleep while he’s still awake enough to tell where’s safest.
Maybe tomorrow, he’ll see Batman. And eat something better.
As he gets up, he keeps an arm coiled around his middle, hand braced against the wall. His knees wobble.
“Lemme go, you ugly fuck!” says a young voice.
From close by, there’s some crashing sounds and the sound of feet skidding against asphalt.
Past the gas pumps, Tim sees a heavily tattooed man wrestling a skinny teenager in a red hoodie against a car.
Everyone else in the parking lot walks back and forth from the store like nothing is happening. But Tim thinks some of them look scared.
“Where’s my money, Jason?” the man says, pinning the teenager harder when he tries to kick out. “You thought you could steal from me? Huh? You’re gonna pay me back, one way or another!”
“Pay you back? For what? That was my fuckin’ cut to begin with! Bad enough you can’t even make your own money without a kid fucking helping ya!”
Tim jerks back at the loud thud of the teenager’s face hitting the hood of the car. He comes up with a bloody nose, spitting.
Tim’s heart thunders in his chest.
“Pissant! Don’t get wise,” says the man. “I said where’d you stash my money, Jason? I need it tonight!”
“Shoulda thought of that before you double-crossed me, ass-wipe!”
Tim’s ankles ache.
His heart hammers painfully.
Then…he can’t feel his heart beating at all. He can’t feel anything.
The teenager is still struggling and the man is still yelling back, but everything feels suddenly silent and slow.
Tim’s body is moving, but he can’t really feel his feet against the ground.
There’s a prickling feeling in the back of his brain, telling Tim he already knows what’s coming. Like watching something on TV he’s already watched before.
The man reels the teenager’s whole upper body back by his dark hair.
The teenager’s eyes are greenish-blue and wide.
Tim rams his heel into the tattooed man’s knee. Hard.
Tim and the man and the teenager all go down at once.
Tim’s vision blurs a little.
And then it’s like he’s come back. He’s on the pavement, out of breath, hearing and feeling in sharp clarity. The big man is howling.
And there’s a hand tugging at Tim’s shirt collar, pulling him to his feet.
The teenager. Jason. Grinning, eyes big and wild. Dragging Tim into a run. The man is still on the ground making noises.
“Come on!” Jason says.
He’s laughing.
His grip on Tim’s wrist is tight.
Tim’s dizzy.
“Ya got guts!” Jason says. He pulls Tim through winding alleys. “The hell are you?”
It takes a moment for Tim’s mouth to unstick, and to understand what Jason said.
“I’m Tim,” he says. “It’s very nice to meet you, Jason.”
Jason throws his head back, laughing loudly. “Oh. Yeah. It’s a fuckin’ pleasure.”
Tim’s legs feel weak, but Jason drags him along.
They end up on the balcony of a building. It’s very rusty and there’s broken glass and cigarettes everywhere.
Jason sits on the edge, swinging his legs back and forth. Tim sits carefully down against the wall, head pounding, stomach swimming. He’s still catching his breath.
“So,” Jason sighs, wiping sweat from his face with his collar. “What do you want, Tim?”
Tim blinks dumbly. “Um.” He’s still a little breathless. “You mean, like, hopes and dreams?”
Jason cackles.
Tim’s face feels hot.
“Funny,” Jason says. “Come on. Spill it. You helped me out. I owe you. I’m not gonna argue.”
“Argue? About…what?”
Jason turns toward him, the first crease of confusion forming between his brows. “About the fact that I owe you.”
“I…” Tim shakes his head. “Oh. No. You don’t…I mean…that was my choice. You needed help. People should help each other. I mean, that wasn’t your fault. Grown-ups shouldn’t hurt kids.”
It’s Jason’s turn to blink.
A slow, small smirk curls his mouth.
“Just what are you smoking, exactly?” Jason says.
“I don’t smoke,” Tim says. “It’s bad for you. And it’s illegal for minors.”
The smirk fades from Jason’s face. He looks concerned all the sudden.
He speaks softly.
“Okay. Um, Tim?”
“Yes?”
“Hey. What’s going on, Tim? Where are you from? Where’s your family? I don’t think you belong here.”
Tim straightens a little. “Ah. No. Um. No, thank you. I’m…I’m fine.”
Jason looks more concerned.
Tim feels panic bunch in his chest.
It hasn’t even been a week since he ran away. If this guy goes to the police…
Tim hugs his stomach.
Jason pales. He reaches a hand out then hesitates.
Tim blinks and feels warmth tumble down his cheeks. Oh. He’s crying.
“Shit,” says Jason. “Kid, hey. Don’t freak out, kid. Everything’s fine. I promise. Are you lost, or…?”
Tim shakes his head. He sniffles. He can’t stop crying.
“Okay. Okay. Uh, you got somewhere to be? Someone we can call, maybe?”
Tim shakes his head, this time urgently.
“Please,” Tim gasps. “Please, don’t make me go back!”
Jason pauses.
It’s quiet for a moment. Jason’s eyes are focused on Tim.
Jason frowns.
“Don’t worry,” Jason says. “I won’t. I’m never gonna make you go back, Tim.”
Tim scrubs his eyes as a sob gets caught it his throat. Why can’t he stop crying?
He feels weird.
He closes his mouth tight, trying to trap the tears in his chest and his throat. It makes his body shudder. Instead of sobbing, his face makes sniffling noises.
Until it doesn’t.
Tim wipes his face with his sleeve, feeling odd and dazed.
He never cries.
He can’t remember the last time he cried.
“Jeez. You look young,” Jason says. “And you knew my name. I just assumed you were some neighbor kid sneaking out, not knowing any better.”
Tim keeps rubbing at his face. “I heard that man say your name a lot. That’s how I knew it.”
“Okay. Shit. Okay.” Jason sighs. “Are you hungry, Timmy?”
Tim looks up.
Jason’s smiling again. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He pulls out a wallet from his sleeve and swings it back and forth.
“Billie the Bruiser’s a fuckin’ idiot,” Jason says, opening the wallet to flash an ID with the tattooed man’s picture on it. “We worked a whole fuckin’ job together and he still doesn’t know I don’t get caught unless I wanna be. Teach the fucker to steal from a kid. How lame can you get?”
Tim stares.
Either Jason’s plan got wildly out of hand.
Or he’d been willing to have his teeth knocked out on the hood of a car to make a point tonight.
Tim feels another strange shudder go through his body. This time, instead of a sniffling sound, it’s more like a huff.
Oh. He’s laughing.
It’s not a loud laugh, but it still kind of hurts his stomach.
Jason chuckles. “Hey. There you go. I got a smile outta you.” He snaps the wallet closed. “Let’s get you some fuel, huh? You’re gonna feel better after some food.”
…
Jason gets them burgers at a fast food place. It smells so good, Tim’s eyes water.
His stomach churns, not used to so much food at once lately, but Tim can’t make himself stop. Jason seems to be in a similar boat.
They sit on overturned crates in an alleyway, hidden by an old dumpster, tearing into burgers like hungry dogs. Tim’s cheeks and hands are sticky when he’s done.
Jason laughs and gives him two crumpled napkins.
A quiet fills the air.
The sky is that certain pale purple it gets right before a sunrise.
“So, tell me about yourself, Tim,” Jason says, looking at him sideways. “You talk like a 1950s encyclopedia on manners, but you look like a kindergartener, so I’m kinda curious about how old you actually are.”
“I’m eleven,” Tim says.
Jason whistles.
“How old are you?” Tim says.
Jason looks uncomfortable at having a question turned on him, like he forgot that was an option. Tim is trying to think of how to take it back.
Jason answers, “Fourteen.”
Tim gapes a bit.
Fourteen seems grown up from where he is.
The throbbing in Tim’s head makes him tilt forward, holding his face in his hands. He takes a deep breath.
“Tim?” Jason says. “Hey, you okay?”
Tim doesn’t mean to, but he moans.
Jason rests a hand on his back. He immediately retracts it.
“Shit!” Jason’s voice is sharp. “Did you sweat through your jacket?”
Did he?
Jason’s hand is on the back of Tim’s neck. Tim startles.
“God. Timmy. Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”
He’s sick?
No, he can’t be sick.
He feels weird.
He’s just hungry. And…and tired. And stressed. And the burns on his ribs really hurt, but that’s normal for cigarette burns. Tim looked it up the first time it happened.
“Okay.” Jason’s got an arm hugging beneath Tim’s armpits. It feels weird. “Okay, can you stand? We need to get you help.”
Tim flinches badly, partly from the words and partly from having his side touched.
“No hospitals!” he cries. “Please, Jason, no hospitals! I’m fine! I promise I’m fine!”
“You’re not fine. You’re sick. You’re burning up.”
“I’m not sick!”
“And delirious, apparently. Jesus. I swear nothing bad’s gonna happen. I know someone, and…”
Jason hikes Tim up in his arms and Tim screams.
He loses some time.
He’s on the ground, Jason crouched over him, tugging his shirt up to see what Tim’s involuntarily clutching at.
“God damn it.” Jason’s voice is icy. “God fucking damn it.”
He picks Tim up from the other side.
Tim loses it.
Every place his weight is pressed into Jason feels loud, loud, loud. Tim’s crying so hard his whole body shakes.
It feels weird. Tim never cries.
It’s like he’s not in his body.
Jason talks to him the whole way.
Tells him it’s okay. Over and over and over again.
Like people do to babies on television.
…
Tim wakes up on the floor in a dark room.
The air smells like old wood and there’s a draft. The only light comes from broken windows lining one wall.
An abandoned building.
No.
An abandoned room. No telling if the entire place is out of use.
A red hoodie is spread over Tim like a blanket.
Jason is sitting beside him, back against the wall, reading a worn book. There are medical supplies and food wrappers and used gauze scattered about the wood floor around them.
Jason stretches, arms raised high above his head.
Tim blinks up at him.
“Whoa!” Jason jerks back. “You’re awake!”
Tim makes a hoarse humming noise.
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Jason says. “You really been through the ringer.”
Tim swallows. “My mouth tastes bad,” he says.
Jason cracks a smile. “Well, that makes sense. You did puke a little.”
Tim feels the blood leave his face. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, no,” Jason says. “You don’t gotta apologize. Jesus, Timmy. You were really hurt. You know that, right? Those…those three little burns on your ribs, that shit hurts like a bastard, Timmy. I think it was making you sick. I took care of it, but…” Jason sobers, something making his eyes heavy. “You must have been hurting so bad, but you got in a fight with a guy five times your size. Shit. I don’t even know what to do with that, little dude.”
“Do with it?” Tim says. His voice comes out floppy.
“Shh.” Jason pushes Tim’s hair from his eyes and, oh, that feels…strange. “Forget it, Timmy. I’m rambling.”
Tim’s eyelids droop. “I threw up on you?”
“Nah. On the street. You’re good.”
Tim can’t make his eyes open.
His hair. That’s how his dad touched it.
“You rest up, Timmy,” Jason says. “You’re fine.”
…
Resting up takes longer than Tim expected.
Jason lets him know that he already slept through a day, and Tim stays on the floor and sleeps through the majority of two more.
Jason is there every time he wakes up.
Tim doesn’t think he never leaves, though. Sometimes there’s food or supplies on the floor that wasn’t there the last time Tim closed his eyes.
Jason cleans Tim’s burns and reapplies special cream frequently. He gives Tim cherry flavored syrup that’s supposed to help with the pain. He’s also pretty strict about Tim eating and drinking, even though Tim feels queasy most of the time.
When Tim asks where Jason got the special cream from, since he’s pretty sure you need a real doctor for something with that kind of label, Jason just shrugs and says, “Don’t worry about it. Told you. I know someone.”
On the fifth day, Tim’s body seems to bounce back suddenly.
When he wakes up, he’s alert and able to stay awake for hours. He even sits up. And when he needs to use the bathroom, he’s able to walk to the toilet himself. They don’t have running water, but Jason has a jug of water he brought up himself and the toilet works as long as you pour water from the jug into it when you flush.
Jason knows a lot of things like that. Things Tim never even thought to ask into the search-bar.
Jason tells him about not asking anyone for spare change if you look young enough that they’ll wonder where your parents are. He tells him about not looking shabby enough in nice parts of town for people from nice parts of town to call the police.
Jason tells him about not making friends with grown ups or letting them give you stuff or letting them do stuff for you. Jason tells Tim about not going with other kids that say they know a grown up that’ll give you work, because it’s not good work.
It’s a lot to remember. It’s a lot Tim never thought about.
Tim sits against the wall as Jason dabs cream on his burns with a cotton swab.
Tim keeps his jaw clenched and steadies his breathing.
It hurts. It hurts a lot, but if he says the ABC’s backwards in his head, his brain focuses on that.
“Almost done,” Jason says, opening a new pack of gauze. “You’re a brave dude, Timmy.”
Tim lets out a long breath as Jason tapes the gauze down. He lowers his shirt.
“Thank you,” Tim says.
Jason snorts.
“You don’t gotta thank me for this stuff,” Jason says.
He looks like he’s trying to reach out and touch Tim’s head, but he stops and puts his hands in his lap.
“Listen,” Jason says. “Ain’t trying to push you here, but those aren’t bee stings in your skin, Tim. That shit’s serious. I want you to tell me how it happened, if that’s okay. Just so…I can know. I’m not turning you in.”
Tim can’t.
The part of Tim’s brain that explains things and makes words can’t make anything to say. It’s like it’s frozen. He really, really can’t.
Jason’s voice gets softer. “All right, buddy. Suffice it to say, whoever did that to you, being here’s the best way for you to be away from them right now, yeah?”
Tim bites his lip.
He nods.
“Okay.” Jason folds his hands. “Okay, buddy. I understand. Now, I need you to understand something. You are eleven years old. That is too young to be on your own on the streets, even for out here. Even in Gotham, street kids don’t come much younger than me. Even if this is the best place you can be, it’s still not a good place.”
“I’m fine,” Tim says.
“I know,” Jason says. “I know, buddy. I’m just…trying to figure this out, okay?”
“CPS will send me back there.” Tim digs his nails into his palms. “CPS is in charge everywhere except here. Here is fine.”
“I understand.” Jason meets Tim’s eyes. “I believe you, Tim. I’m not trying to convince you to go back.”
Eye contact feels weird. Tim looks away.
“You gonna be missed?” Jason says. “You need to lie low for a while in case the cops recognize your face?”
Tim shuts his eyes. He shrugs.
“That’s okay,” Jason says. “Can you take care of yourself in a fight? You took down Billie the Bruiser, yeah?”
Tim barely remembers that happening.
It doesn’t feel like it was him.
“I know some self-defense,” Tim says, and feels like he’s lying, even though he isn’t. He’s watched videos. He tugs at the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t think I’m good at fighting, actually. That was probably just luck. And I didn’t stick the landing.”
“Fine, fine. So, we’ll work on that.”
“We will?” He looks up at Jason.
“Uh.” Jason pauses. His eyebrows pinch. He looks more serious now, like he’s decided on something. “Yeah. If you’re game. How about grabbing shit? You do that?”
“Um.”
“I mean stealing. People’s pockets. The corner store. That stuff. You ever done anything like that?”
Tim shakes his head.
“Right,” Jason sighs. “Course not. So, I’ll be your teacher.”
Tim blinks. “My…my teacher…?”
“Yeah,” Jason says. “Like, teaching you this shit.”
Tim swallows. He swallows again. “You…” Tim says. “You’d…? I think I’ll just slow you down.”
“Slow me…” Jason’s eyes go wide. He snorts. “What are you talking about? Like I’m on the fast track to some big ambitions out here?” Jason giggles. “Slow me down from what, Timmy? I’m just surviving. We can, like, survive together for a while. Simple as that.”
Tim’s lip trembles.
Jason’s face falls. “Oh. Shit.” He reaches out partway. “Aw. Hey. Timmy. Why are you crying? You don’t wanna stick with me? Or are ya just…?”
Tim isn’t sure where it comes from, but there’s something like an electric shock through his ribs.
It tightens his muscles, launches him forward to press his face into Jason’s chest, arms wrapped around Jason’s stomach, half crawling into Jason’s lap.
Jason freezes.
Tim’s hands grip the back of Jason’s shirt so tight his fists shake.
Jason’s arms wrap around Tim slowly.
He pats Tim’s back.
He’s thin. His clothes hide it, but Jason is really thin. Tim can feel it now.
“Well, look at that.” Jason’s chest chuckles quietly. “I’m kinda relieved. Guess I actually wanted…”
A long beat passes.
“Let’s stick together, okay, Timmy?”