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Night has fallen by the time Tim says goodbye to Bruce and makes his way back to his apartment, pulling his jacket tighter around him to block out the winter chill. The cluttered little studio is becoming increasingly familiar, even if Steph likes -- liked? -- to complain that every inch of it screams “college boy who never had to do chores growing up.” “Seriously,” she’d say, “the only redeeming thing about this place is that you actually bought a bed frame. Will you at least put something on the walls?”
. . . hah. He strips off his shoes and his jacket, sitting on the bed with his feet tucked under him, and -- after a quick check of the time; it’s not quite eleven -- starts thumbing through the contacts on his phone. She might be patrolling right now, but she’s probably not asleep.
Hits call.
He’s dimly aware it’s kind of demented to be doing things this way, like he has a checklist of Essential People to Come Out to Before You Die and he’s trying to get through the whole thing before the end of the year. Adopted dad slash superhero mentor, check; older brother, check; other older brother, on hold while he gathers information on the secret government task force he’s been conscripted into, ex-slash-best-friend-kinda-slash -- there really is no word or phrase that feels adequate to summing up Steph, is the problem --
“Hi, you’ve reached Steph Brown,” says the -- faintly exasperated -- recording. “For the last time, Mom, no one uses voicemail anymore, and if you have something to say you should just text me like a normal person, but if you really want you can leave me a message I won’t have listened to by the next time we actually see each other, I guess. Love you. Beeeep.”
The verbal beep is, of course, followed by an actual one. Even with the roiling in his stomach, Tim has to fight back a smile.
He closes out of the call. He’ll drop by the Batgirl apartment tomorrow. Probably. Maybe.
Change of plans.
He's not getting to sleep just yet, so -- Tim reaches for his laptop, pulling it into his lap. The sequence of keystrokes and codes it takes to open up the secret Bat partition is routine by now, and the algorithm he built to run in the background is still humming. It. He. He hasn't talked about this side project to anyone. He knows they'd all help him with it -- Bruce would be awkward about it, but he wouldn't refuse -- and they'd probably have faster ways of going about it than brute-forcing his way through every Midwestern property transaction in the last five years, but he doesn't think he can talk about it. Like, physically.
It feels -- too important. Too stupid. Too -- too personal, maybe.
The facts are these: Jack and Janet Drake are dead. Their graves are in the same place they've always been, the same place Tim remembers them being. Their personal effects are in a storage locker he rented out a few years back. The obituary notices and newspaper articles -- Captain Boomerang three years ago, the Obeah Man six years ago -- are there, in the records, at the right dates. So are the reports in Batman's log.
The house that Tim set up for his parents, Not-Actually-Jack-and-Janet-Drake, is where he remembers it being, too. It's perfectly pristine, the way he set it up, but empty. The property records trace back, after several shell companies, to Tim himself. There's no evidence anyone ever lived there. There's no record of this Jack and Janet.
There is a record of a Stephen and Alanna -------, who lived in a mansion on the edge of Manchester that Tim doesn't remember, but that looks achingly familiar anyway. There aren't any pictures. About two years ago, all traces of them vanish entirely, like they disappeared. Or went into witness protection.
That's what Tim knows. What he doesn't know is any of the rest of it. Where they went after that, what identities they were given. If they were even given new identities. If they even still exist. He doesn't know whether they'd know him, whether they remember being his parents -- if they ever were his parents -- whether they were his parents or there's some, some Dim Fake guy out there, who flew too close to the sun and got caught out by Penguin and -- there's nothing like that in any of the Batcomputer records, but he wouldn't put it past Bruce to hide a family in witness protection, even from the rest of them.
It would make sense, in a way, if all of that was some other guy. It doesn't -- but he still remembers it, is the thing. He remembers when it was him.
Sunday morning brunch with thick, syrup-clogged French toast and wiggling the loose banister on the stair and his mother who could never grow hyacinths, but kept trying anyway -- his smile lines and the mole on her chin -- being gently coaxed out of his room with snacks. Come on, kiddo, I know you've got a million things going on in that calculator brain of yours, but I want to talk to my son. Hair ruffles and affectionate teasing and science fair awards proudly pinned up on the wall and a million other things out of TV sitcoms. It feels like looking in a funhouse mirror. It feels like a Frankenstein life, grafted onto his. But he remembers it just as clearly as the other one.
God, what would he even say to them, if he did find them? Even if they remember everything, remember being his parents and not someone else's, he's still lived someone else's life. He's someone else's son. They don't know any of the things that -- it's not even just Batman and Robin; it's boarding school transfers and late postcards, it's dust swirling in empty rooms, it's the well-worn picture and the figures falling from the trapeze, it's --
He wonders, sometimes, what it says about him that the parents who were never there feel more real to him than the ones that were.
Hey, Mom and Dad. How's witness protection? Still staying safe from those mob bosses? I'm really sorry about the whole almost-getting-you-killed-because-I-needed-to-feel-special thing, by the way, which, actually, it feels incredibly bizarre that I never actually apologized for that? But somehow, I didn't, or I don't remember doing it, so --
Anyway. Things are going great in Gotham, thanks for asking. I mean, there was a giant Scarecrow plot to co-opt Mayor Nakano's weird new police force and infect all of Gotham with concentrated fear, but we stopped it, which is the important part. The rest is kind of just Gotham. Also Bruce and I remembered that he adopted me, and we're kind of still getting used to that--again--and I went back to being Robin again, which -- did you know I was the actual Robin? For like four years? Somehow I didn't realize how much I missed it. And I know it can't last forever, that Damian's going to want it properly back soon, but -- it was the only thing I ever wanted to be. I didn't want to stop being Robin. And I don't -- I keep finding out that things I thought I dreamed were real, or vice versa, and I don't know who I am anymore, and my brain feels like noodle soup half the time and --
-- and I would never in a million years say this to you if you were actually here, because you'd just get these big, sad eyes and I'm a huge jerk who doesn't know how to deal with that, so I don't know why I'm bothering to imagine it, even --
Also. Um. There's a guy. We're dating. I think I might be bisexual? And you don't know him, because we went to high school together but that was in my other life, and I can't actually introduce him to you because he doesn't know that I'm Robin, or about any of the alternate universe stuff, but -- it just seems like the kind of thing your hypothetical parents should hypothetically know about you, assuming they don't suck, and you always seemed pretty great! So -- you know. Yeah. Anyway, good talk.
Haaah. Essential People to Come Out to Before You Die, indeed.
*
(There was a night, two or three months ago, when--one moment he was scrolling through his phone, idly thinking, hey, maybe I should drop by Bludhaven and see Dick now that he's, you know, himself again, and then--he sat up, all of him going suddenly still, thinking, oh shit, Bludhaven. It, you know. It's there . It exists.
Which, no shit, Bludhaven's been there, it's existed -- well, it's existed continuously since 1897, which any fool can see if they look it up on Wikipedia, but. Well, Tim's had a lot of moments like that over the past six months.
It had been much easier to find the patient records for one Dana Winters -- just Winters -- at Palmer-Cohen Memorial Hospital. She'd been discharged about a year ago, now. Moved to Wisconsin, where her sister's family lives. She seemed -- well, there wasn't much, she apparently wasn't on social media, but as far as he could tell she seemed good. Okay.
He'd left it at that. It -- the thing was, even if she did remember, it was pretty easy to find information on Tim Drake. He was Bruce Wayne's adopted son. He had a Facebook page, an inactive Twitter account, and Bruce had a line for business and press inquiries -- but she hadn't tried to get in touch with him, hadn't contacted him, had gone back to Wisconsin without --
She might not remember. Who knows, maybe she'd never married his dad in this lifetime. But even if she remembered everything, and had left anyway -- he wouldn't blame her, for wanting a clean break after everything. He'd mostly just brought trouble into her life anyway.
It'll probably be something like that, with his parents. With his other parents. So all this worrying over what he'd say to them is academic anyway, because he's not -- he's not going to force himself on them, if they don't remember him, or they don't want to see him. He just. He just wants to know. For his own peace of mind. He was the one who put them in danger -- he was probably the one who put them in danger -- he can at least make sure they're safe.
He hopes Dana is happy, up in Wisconsin. Happier. There hadn't been much to be happy about, in Bludhaven, near the end.)
*
Wandering around Gotham Cemetery in the middle of the night is maybe not the smartest idea Tim has ever had, but he's Robin -- or was Robin, one of the two -- and he still can't sleep, and he's decided he's leaning into the whole checklist thing now, so.
The place is deserted, and the gates locked, but it's a simple matter to hop the fence.
"Hey, Alf."
Technically, this one is a stretch -- he's Bruce's dad, of course, and Dick would call him mom sometimes, fond and half-teasing, but Tim isn't Dick. Tim wasn't even Bruce's kid until he was seventeen, and he has vivid memories of Alfred starchily insisting he was just the valet, which admittedly might have been more about whatever drama had been going down with Bruce at the time -- but, well. There were only two options here, and this was by far the easier one.
(Tim is maybe, a little bit, kind of an absolute coward.)
"It's been a while, I guess. Um. Sorry, I sort of -- I know it doesn't mean a lot, me just saying it, but I didn't forget, just -- I still miss you. We all do."
The thing about coming out stories that always seemed weird to Tim -- long before he'd acknowledged the guy thing even to himself, in his own head, although in retrospect it probably, maybe wasn't the kind of thing actual straight boys spent a lot of time thinking about? -- is, for some reason, the protagonist always acts like they just have no idea how their mom or brother or best friend or whoever is going to react. Like they've known this person for years and still, somehow, have never had a single conversation about politics or Michael Sam or Neil Patrick Harris or -- about a dozen other things, you get the point. Tim was -- nervous -- trying to talk to Bruce about this, of course he was. There's always that what if? that creeps in. But he's had those conversations, over breakfast or after patrol. He's seen Bruce with Kate, with Harper and Cullen Row; with Harley and Ivy and half a dozen people in Selina's Alleytown network. They've broken up street harassment outside clubs. If you'd asked him beforehand, he could have made a pretty good guess.
Alfred . . . was more circumspect. Stiff British upper lip, and all that. Still, there were enough muttered asides about things like "common sense and dignity" and "not prying into other people's personal lives" over the years that he can imagine it. If they were downstairs, some night, Alfred tidying up the medbay while Tim worked on a case report--
"It's not the same without you, but -- I think -- we're doing okay. Um. Dick said he came to see you the other day, so I guess he already told you about the Foundation. It's a really good thing, though, that he's doing. I'm helping out a little -- he said I need, and I quote, 'a real job,' so."
He would--he wouldn't want it to be some big dramatic thing, the way it is in TV and movies. Standing there, ramrod-straight with wide, nervous eyes, stammering out a speech that definitely includes the exact words, I AM BISEXUAL, after a pause, not all-capsed, like, volume-wise, but spiritually all-caps somehow regardless, to poor Alfred who probably thought this was just another Thursday night. (He saw one once that was actually set in a gay bar for some reason? There was clapping. Tim would, like, die.) But if it was a quiet night, not much going on, he might be able to casually mention, just as an aside, how he'd run into a boy from school again the other day, and they'd caught up, and one thing had led to another, and --
"He, uh. I think he -- I think Dick thinks I obsess over Bruce too much. Well, I know he thinks that, because he basically said, 'you obsess over Bruce too much, Tim,' last time we talked, and. I mean, he's probably right. It's just -- I keep thinking --"
-- and he'd maybe been asked on a date, and had also maybe said yes -- he wouldn't look at Alfred while he said this, and would probably also not mention the part where it had been a month ago --
"-- you would -- you would want someone to look out for him, wouldn't you? Since you -- can't anymore."
And Alfred wouldn't want to make a big production out of it either, make a speech; he'd nod to himself and maybe make a small hm noise and just -- start asking Tim normal, mundane questions, like where were they planning on going, and would he be needing to take the car, and in every way act exactly like he would if Tim had mentioned going on a date with a girl. Like it really was any other Thursday night. And that would be his way of telling Tim that it was okay -- that they were okay, that nothing would be broken by this.
"I -- I'm here because I wanted to help, is the thing. That was why I -- well, I won't say it out loud here, but you know. And -- I turned down the spot at Ivy, and I'm not -- Dick's right. I don't have any plans, or a real job. And I know his whole thing is meant to be about, 'well what do you want, Tim?' But I don't know what I want, except -- this. The same thing I've always wanted. I just -- wish that could be enough."
And it wouldn't be the tearful, emotional hug, the impassioned declaration that Alfred would love and accept him no matter what and they should get a flag or a rainbow mug or so on, that seems like the point of those scenes, but it would mean the same thing, in Alfred-speak. And maybe that would be enough, or maybe Tim would be left inexplicably wishing someone would offer to buy him a rainbow mug even though he didn't actually want one, but either way --
Yeah. That's definitely more or less how it would go. With Alfred.
"I wish you were here," he says.
*
"I don't," he says.
"It's just," he says.
"Um. There's another thing, it's -- I met someone. A guy. Or -- actually, I knew him before, we went to school together, I don't know if you'd remember but -- anyway, that's not the point. It's -- the point is, about a month ago he asked me out, and I said yes, and -- " his voice cracks, the way it should definitely not do when you're talking about how happy you are with your boyfriend-- "it's just, it's. It's been really nice, actually. And there are a lot of things in my life I'm confused about right now, but this isn't one of them."
"I don't -- know if this is what you would have wanted for me. Any of this. I think -- I'm guessing it's probably not. But I -- I hope , that you would have wanted me to be happy. And he makes me happy. So."
There's no response. Of course, Tim would have been very alarmed if there had been.
"I hope," he says again. He doesn't finish that thought. Instead he closes his hand around the stone -- the river stone, the one in his pocket, the one he brought here -- and pulls it out. Sets it on top of the grave, rock against rock. Turns to walk back up the hill.
It's a chilly night, tonight.
*
One of the otherthings Tim keeps in his jacket pocket is a Bluetooth earpiece, which makes him look kind of like a douchebag when he uses it, but also, is occasionally useful in circumstances like this one.
"Hey, Babs? You awake?"
It's almost two, so this could go either way, but he's proven right when she answers immediately with a, "I sure am. More importantly, why are you awake? I thought you were taking the night off."
"I am. Just taking a walk."
"You're taking a walk. In the middle of Gotham. At two AM."
If she knows that she must have a tracker on him -- in the earpiece? -- but he puts that aside for the moment. "Mm-hmm. Are you guys doing anything tomorrow? I thought maybe I'd stop by. Help with stuff if you need it."
"We'll be home. Drop by anytime." A pause. "Seriously, you know you don't need permission to come over. What's this really about?"
"I. Uh." Just say it, before you chicken out again -- "I was actually hoping you could help me with, uh, a personal project. If you have time, of course."
He can hear, in the ensuing silence, her deciding not to ask. He'll probably get it with both barrels tomorrow. "Bring it over tomorrow and I'll take a look at it. I don't want to commit until I know how many laws I'm breaking."
"Only the ones you break anyway, it's not one of those projects," he protests. "But, uh. Will do. Thanks."
"Not a problem. But Tim?"
"Mm-hmm?"
"Go home. Before you get mugged. There are a lot of people who would be very upset if you got impaled on a rusty shiv at three in the morning."
"I bet I could take them," he says automatically, and is met with a deep sigh.
"That is not the point."
"I know, I know." He turns a corner. "On my way now. Night, Babs."
"Night, kid. See you tomorrow."
*
(He is . . . not looking forward to it, precisely. There are going to be a lot of awkward conversations.
But maybe, eventually, also -- things will be okay.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.)