Chapter Text
Twirling a worn black pen in his good hand, Tim stared a thousand mile stare through the fuzzy nonsense that was his physics homework, his mind not quite focusing on the diagrams of spinning objects in favor of the consideration of more important matters. Such as friends and close acquaintances and fellow volunteers.
Redbird had complained about the kids in his class the other day, something about idiotic children.
"Why must I put up with imbecilic mouth breathers? Is an educational institute not supposed to cure its patients' moronic tendencies?"
He could almost imagine the red mask crinkling between Redbird's brows and over his nose, the boy's entire face working to show just how many different ways disgusted indignation could be communicated through mere facial expression. He snorted at the recollection of conversations associated with that look.
Curiously, he tried again to picture the boy's face without the mask, but nothing came to mind.
While his skin tone suggested a dark brown eye color, Redbird had a-- what was the word?-- vibe around him that implied otherwise. The boy tended to proudly look into people's faces, his face angled so that if his mask were off they would have no choice but to see his eyes (and, when he felt out of place, he would turn his head away). That indicated that his eyes were unique in some form or fashion.
Maybe something with blue but more bright? He didn't really understand that hunch. (Green would suit him.)
It was times like these, at 4pm on a Tuesday, that really hit Tim with how young they had been back then. Hell, Steph was going to be headed off to pre-med the following school year, having been selected on a merit scholarship, and he still had a year left of high school before he did...whatever.
The faint twitch in his right hand reminded him of the dashed plans he'd had before Red Hood broke (heh) the trio up.
Recovery had set him back a year (setting him back onto graduating at seventeen, still a year younger than his peers, but semantics), not to mention how the incident itself resulted in the authorities nosing around his private affairs. His parents had screamed at him over the phone, then in person.
They were now unable to go within fifty feet of him. Funny, how a little conflict made them suddenly break their usual few hundred day few hundred mile streak. Ah, Tim had to get his bones fused and his nerves reattached, but sure, a phone call about child neglect was naturally what caught the shrewd-ish (he was genuinely shrewd. They tried to fake it like everything else) eyes of the almighty new money Drake couple.
How touching.
Unfortunately, the authorities couldn't do much to enforce a restraining order on Jas- on the Red Hood. Protective custody was deemed not necessary by some higher level whoever, so he was shuttled off to some aunt twice removed after the hospital stay.
It took months after his release for Tim to believe the monster wouldn't come after him again. It was weird, though, that the man (merely a teen at the time) didn't come by to keep him from talking (or to finish the job, gah, why did he say the Name?).
He made a note to call Steph and Redbird later. Totally not a paranoid impulse to make sure they were still breathing. Never mind that that had been a real concern with Steph for a while.
Tim ignored how the index finger on his right hand sometimes twitched, as though it remembered snapping pictures (of Robin) and clicking a first aid kit open (never mind it was smashed by said kit by said bird).
The teen closed his eyes for a moment, his face pained for a moment before smoothing out, then opened them again. He leaned forward at his desk until his nose was inches from the worksheet, his eyes boring into angular velocity problems as his nondominant hand painstakingly carving wobbly numbers and symbols into the paper.
Stephanie cleared her throat for what felt like the hundredth time, her throat feeling too tight all of a sudden. She paused between slides and gulped down some water. Her scar flexed as the water went down, barely visible over her purple turtleneck.
Finished with the water, she flashed a charming smile and closed with her conclusion.
"Going by these numbers, it is clear that, while opioid-based painkillers help the person taking them block out pain, they also render the patient more susceptible to the contraction of underlying illnesses because pain indicates that the body is malfunctioning. Scientists recommend that, unless the pain is due to a severe injury or well-documented health problem, the doctor not prescribe opiates. While opiates are helpful for managing pain, they are problematic because of the current over medication trend in medicine, because they are addictive, and because of the risk of the painkiller covering up problems that arise from new injuries or over medication. Thank you."
Stephanie quickly showed the bibliography, then turned off the presentation. Her classmates clapped, and she walked back to her seat. Once she was seated, Raina leaned over and stage whispered, "You doing okay?"
She gave a thumbs up. "Just a flare up, nothing to worry about." Even as she said this, her free hand absently rubbed the scarred tissue through the fabric.
Her friend watched the movement and raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Really."
Stephanie rolled her eyes. "Really, Rainay. So, what did you do for Mrs Florence's homework?" They both ignored the slight hiss in her voice at the end.
Damian crossed his arms, his father holding the piece of paper up to the light as though it could grant some hidden knowledge just through illumination.
Finally, discerning that the piece of paper really only said what it said, the man sighed. "Why do you have a D in Geography?"
The boy fought the urge to glare at the floor, holding his voice steady as he replied, "I do not find the class necessary for a proper education. It will be easily fixed when you let me test out of the class." He doubted this attempt would work. When it inevitably failed, he had the stack of assignments that he redid from memory primed for submission.
His father sighed and pinched the area between his eyes, his mouth pressed thin in disapproval. "Son," the man pulled his hand away from his face to place it on Damian's shoulder, "I don't understand what's going on. I know you aced every test, but all the missing homework assignments? I remember seeing you working on them over the weekend, actually completing them and putting them in your folder. Where did those go? Is someone bothering you at school?"
Damian shrugged the hand off and backed away, his lip curled to disguise the confusion brewing in his chest. "Tt, there is no child bothering me in class."
It was multiple children-- a girl named Susan and two boys named Max and Mike (no-one could tell between the two, as they both responded to either Max or Mike)-- but that wasn't the point. The theft was secondary to the lack of finesse in doing so.
The only subtlety they demonstrated was not leaving any visible bruises. But even that was because of actions on his part. Amateurs.
He widened his eyes, wrinkling his brow to accentuate the effected sincerity. "I simply believe that my education environment would change for the better if I am not kept in a classroom of loud, obnoxious, imbecilic adolescents that I cannot engage with on a personal level or on an intellectual level."
"Pff, yeah right, there's definitely somebody roughing him up, B-ruce." A young man emerged from the shadow of the bookcase, the concern veiled by a flippant air betrayed utterly in his serious expression.
Damian blinked and looked between the stranger and his father, his mind sputtering at the similarities between them. Same build, same hair color (for the most part), same eye color, same look of constipated concern...they were almost certainly related. But the age difference didn't make sense unless-
"Father, is that your nephew?"
The two looked at each other in confusion, likely at his astute observation skills, and he continued. "I did not realize that you had a sibling," the boy said to his father, then he turned to the stranger and, after a moment of consideration, smiled in what he hoped was a friendly manner. "I promise to not cause you bodily harm during your stay. It is not your fault that I discovered your existence just today."
The young man snorted and patted Damian's father on the shoulder. "He even rhymes, Bruce," he remarked. He held a hand out to Damian. "Name's Jason. Jason London."
Damian took Jason's hand and solemnly replied, "My name is-- Name's Damian. Damian Wayne."
"Tim, are you ready for school?"
The teen looked at his aunt twice removed ("I'm your great aunt Brunhilde, but call me Aunt B") over the rim of his coffee mug, his right hand sliding the case file slowly off the kitchen table. The file secured, he said, "Yep."
The woman sighed, her wild silver hair moving with the motion. She looked at where the file used to be, then at him, a wry smile on her face. "What did I say about cracking criminal conspiracies at the table?"
Tim tilted his head, his right hand resting limply on his chin as he pretended to think about it. "Don't get caught?"
Aunt B nodded sagely. "Precisely." She procured a tea cup out of nowhere and sipped it, her pinky curved exaggeratedly. They lowered their cups in unison.
She took a chair and sat across from him, her left hand tapping rhythms on the wooden table as she used her phone to browse her inbox. The woman furrowed her brow. "Finals are this week. Do you need me to pick you up from school at noon?"
Tim thought about it. The route to the penthouse was relatively crime free and only approximately thirty minutes, the school was allowing casual wear for that week, and the weather was supposed to be beautiful for once. He shook his head. "I'll walk."
"You're certain?" Aunt B's forehead creased as her blue eyes flickered from side to side, clearly remembering the forensics report from The Incident. The middle finger of her left hand made a swiping movement for a moment before resuming the patterns of 1812, then she focused back on him, her question still standing.
He smiled sadly, having a guess of what she was thinking about. "Yeah, I'm good."
The woman steepled her fingers, her look holding a serious edge as she said, "If you have any trouble, don't hesitate to call, okay?"
"Don't worry, nothing's happened in months. What can happen?"
Damian resisted the urge to tsk as the Three Stooges cornered him at his locker, their faces distorted into ghoulish contortions with their pathetic attempts at intimidation. "Hello, Suzanne, Maximillian, Michelangelo, what assignments are you hoping to confiscate today?"
The girl raised her chin, the angle transforming her aristocratic small nose into a piggish snout (not that he would say anything) as she voiced their demands. "We need the Vinkey art analysis essay and the divination worksheet."
He obligingly took the readymade file of assignments out of his locker, handing the goon on the left the Da Vinci essays and the derivatives worksheet. He blankly said, "Have a good day," and moved to put the file back in its place next to The Art of War.
The goon on the right seized his wrist, and he relaxed his muscles so that the tight grip would not bruise, resigned to how the encounter would go. Apparently the attempt to avoid confrontation rankled them in some way.
The female took the file from his hand and flipped through it. She closed it and scoffed, her absurdly painted lips curled in contempt. "You're holding out, Algayne."
With a flick of her wrist, Mike-or-Max took his backpack, and Max-or-Mike preemptively stopped Damian's weak lunge. The boy sighed. "Is it difficult for you to believe that I wish to pass my classes?"
She rolled her heavily powdered eyes (the bright purple eyeshadow actually washed out her already pale eyes, making for a sickly appearance. She should've gone for a lighter color that complimented her eyes, like a colder-toned blue or warm grey).
"Is it difficult for you to believe that I don't care? I'm supposed to get into an Ivy League school, you're supposed to get me there. With my connections, your future would rot before your eyes if you cross me."
Damian did not care about the future plans of the parents of some trophy wife in training. He raised his eyebrows at her remark, thinking about his father's own decision to give him a 'normal' childhood through secrecy. Secrecy that made allies easier to find and enemies more bold.
He also thought about the concern on his father's face when confronting him about his grades. That, and his scholarly pride, decided the matter.
"Connections?" He straightened his spine and calmly pulled the goon's meaty hand off his arm, his posture settling naturally into the stance drilled by his mother and perfected by Alfred that silently communicated his higher status. He dusted off the affected area, then inspected his fingernails.
"Your connections are quite infinitesimal, Suzanne. Your only connections are those developed by your late grandfather, and those are quickly fading with how your parents are handling the inheritance. Your future connections are feeble at best, for your dependence on others during your education render you unfit for business and your looks are average at best. Max-and-Mike, your futures are even more dim, as you no doubt realized when you stepped foot in these halls."
He raised his eyebrows and watched her complexion pale further, unconsciously widening his eyelids a fraction in an old habit from back when he was proud of his eyes. "I am not afraid of your connections, and I have no need to. I have my own, and so does my father. Even Pennyworth has his own, and yet he still remains with my family for his own reasons." Her complexion grayed at the name, realizing who he was talking about.
Good. Alfred was an intimidating individual, renown in the community for his loyal service and impeccable manners that were borderline inhuman.
For some reason, the progeny of the current generation of the top one percent were terrified of Alfred Pennyworth. He honestly could not tell why.
Damian smiled coldly. Taking the file from her hands, he put it in his locker before closing the door. Shouldering his backpack, he walked away. Without looking back, he said, "Again, have a good day."
Once he was out of their sight, his shoulders sagged and he let out a shaky breath. Just because some children got on his nerves, now his delicate school persona was shattered. But, he thought back to his father's concern, he took care of the situation, and that was what mattered.
Besides, his cousin was likely a gangster, and a high ranking one at that. He needed to learn to be more casually intimidating if he was to learn more about the man.
If that was how it worked.
(He was just glad to get the imbecilic mouth breathers off his back.)
Raina paused in her whispered waxing of poetics about the use of cats in tactile therapy (only tangentially related to the presentation in that it was discussing the ethics of animal testing for pharmaceutical treatment of mood disorders), her dark eyes growing wide as she stared at the door.
Because monkey see monkey do psychology did work to an extent, Stephanie looked as well. Her eyes narrowed.
A young man (probably in his very early twenties, going by proportions, although the premature wrinkles around his teal eyes may push that number a bit either way; probably does something physical regularly as opposed to hanging around the gym, going by muscular definition and the calluses on his hands and elbows) leaned against the door frame, his features set in stony observation as he took notes on a clipboard. His hair was neatly trimmed, a patch of white hair in the front standing out against black that looked natural (the roots could've been treated, but that usually resulted in low chemical burns or strange textures. Could be premature whitening, although it wasn't normal for it to be contained to one area so distinctly, could be related to excessive smoking, could be any number of genetic disorders. Inconclusive without lab results).
Stephanie looked back at Raina, then, seeing that the girl was still transfixed by the stranger, waved her hand in front of her friend's face. Raina blinked, then glared at her with little actual heat.
She rolled her eyes. "One man in the doorway and suddenly you look like you're going to lob a brick at someone." That got her an odd look. She thought back, then added, "Or stretch your jaw tendons past repair, whatever works."
Her friend shook her head, any thoughts of doing unspeakable things clearly dissipating in the wake of Steph's genius. "You are weird, you know that?"
Stephanie grinned. "Yep."
Madam Trunkhouser looked up from her pile of lecture notes and finally saw that there was a weirdo standing in the doorway. The wizened woman with a mysterious past (classified under the flippant comment of "It was the sixties") straightened her glasses and beckoned the young man forward.
Once the stranger was awkwardly standing at her side, the woman said excitedly, "Hello, class, this is Mister Jason London from Gotham University, South. Mister Jason London will be here the next nine weeks to get his observation hours for this semester. Don't worry, I did the background check for this one, and he's not a CIA agent this time."
Agent G, silent G, was a weird one. Fun, but clearly not cut out to be a teacher. Stephanie clapped, and the rest of the class joined in.
For some reason, when he saw her, Mr. London's face went white for a moment. She made a tick mark in her mental 'possibly weird' category. Usually if they reached the five mark, the teacher had something Weird in their background.
After the applause died down, Mr. London clapped once and said, "It is great to meet you all. Not going to ask what she was talking about, because that sounds like a long story, but hopefully I surpass your expectations. My major is English, but the focus for my teaching degree is for my Minor Ethical Research. I'm a Gothamite born and raised, I like motorcycles and traveling, and I am the middle of three brothers. I look forward to this observation period with y'all."