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This is not how Tim had planned to spend his night. In fact, he would rather be fighting an army of robot penguins with rocket launchers than be here, which was his original plan.
Instead, he was sitting in his apartment, perched on the edge of the couch in case he needed to make a hasty escape. The couch wasn't particularly comfortable, either. He'd ordered all of his furniture out of a catalogue, and he barely stayed here enough to warrant the cost.
He'd never minded, until now. It kept nosy siblings from staying the night ('My back, Timmy, oh my gosh') and kept Tim from lounging and getting complacent. It kept him busy. But, until this point, Tim hadn't quite realized just how much his apartment was reminiscent of his childhood home, a fact only emphasized by his dead mother seated on the matching chair across the room.
What was he supposed to say? 'Hey, how have you been? Sorry you died and I failed and let your entire legacy crumble and fall apart because I couldn't stand the thought of turning into you.'
It was all John Constantine's fault. He'd been messing around with bringing back the dead, and of course Tim had to suffer the consequences. After all, the whole damn universe seemed to hate him.
"How old are you?"
Tim's eyes shot to the late Janet Drake, looking proper and elegant in the navy pantsuit she'd been dressed and buried in. She was so… real, her long hair pulled back into a perfect bun. She looked exactly the same as she had the last day Tim had seen her, leaving on another trip just in time to miss Tim's eleventh birthday. The only sign she'd ever even died was her skin; pearly white, almost translucent, as if she were an advanced hologram from Star Trek. The biggest giveaway was the red sores at the corners of her mouth, evidence of the poison that had killed her.
"Timothy?"
Tim jumped. "Right, um, seventeen. I'm seventeen."
"You're so big," Janet said softly. "And still so young. Why are you living on your own?"
Tim chuckled anxiously. "That's– that's a really long story," he answered vaguely, cringing at how lame he sounded. "But I'm emancipated, so it's all legal."
"I see," Janet said, giving a curt nod. "And your father? Where is he?"
"Um," Tim hesitated. "He died. When I was fourteen."
"Oh," Janet said, with the first hint of true emotion from his ever-stoic mother. "That's… unfortunate."
"Yeah," Tim snorted. He immediately regretted the inelegant noise and sat straighter.
'Manners, Timothy. You weren't raised in a barn.'
"How long do we have?" Janet asked in her usual low, emotionless voice. "I was told my return is temporary, but I can't remember the details."
"The spell's effects last twelve hours," Tim said, rattling off information. A mission report: he could do this. "You spent the first hour alone until John found you. Four hours later, he called me. It took me an hour to get there, then, the travel back. So, that gives us approximately–" Tim checked his watch. "–six hours."
Janet shifted, looking uncertain for the first time in Tim's short life. "Six hours, and then I'll just… die?"
"I mean, you'll probably just kind of fade away," Tim said, trying to switch into Red Robin mode. She was the unfortunate victim of a spell gone wrong. He knew how to talk to victims. "It won't hurt. In a moment, you'll just be gone again, with no other thought for the land of the living."
For me.
They devolved back into an awkward silence, and Tim stared down at his hands. He had Janet's hands; pale and thin with long fingers that had helped him master the piano and his bo staff. His hands were calloused and scarred from his six years of crime-fighting. Janet's were practically perfect.
Tim sighed and checked his watch again. 1:00 a.m. Most of the bats would be wrapping up patrol about now. He wondered how it all went. Did the mission with Penguin go smoothly? Was anyone hurt?
"Time for bed?" Janet asked, tone polite as if she were a casual observer and not his dead mother brought back to life.
Tim shook his head. "Nah, this is still early by my usual standards," he said. "I can make up a bed for you, though. I'm sorry I didn't think about it earlier."
Stupidstupidstupid.
"No, it's fine," Janet said. She put her hand out and Tim stopped, halfway up from his seat. "I'm not tired."
"Oh. Well, that's good."
Janet smirked. "I suppose I'm dead inside, so I'm past the point of needing sleep."
Tim blinked. "I can't tell if you're being serious or if you're making a joke."
"Of course I was making a joke," Janet scoffed.
"What do you mean 'of course'?" Tim asked, laughing in disbelief. "I think that's the first time in my life I've ever heard you make a joke."
"That's not true!"
"Yeah," Tim said quietly. The disbelief had faded, leaving a terrible longing in its place, as if he could envision the life and parents he'd never had, the ones he'd never get to have. "Yeah, I think it is."
Janet frowned. "Timothy–"
There was a loud crash coming from the kitchen and Tim jumped to his feet, heart hammering in his chest. "Stay here," he ordered, gesturing for Janet to stay back. He moved forward slowly, quietly, body tense and ready to strike. Tim flipped the light switch on and froze.
"Jason?" He asked in a whisper. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Jason Todd, zombie-vigilante extraordinaire and Tim's biggest pain in the ass, was sprawled haphazardly across Tim's dining room table, dripping blood all over the tile floor.
"Hey, Timbo," Jason grinned. "Sorry 'bout the blood, but I could use an extra pair of hands."
"Now isn't a good time," Tim hissed. "Thanks for stopping by, please don't come again."
"I'm literally bleeding out, asshole," Jason replied, slowly easing himself off of the table and onto a chair. "You can watch your weird anime crap later."
"I'm not–" Tim started, cutting himself off. He didn't have the energy to argue right now. "Jason, I'm begging you to go bleed out somewhere else. The cave, for example."
"I'm not going to the cave," Jason snarled. "Now listen here, you little shi–"
"Timothy, who is this?" Janet asked, walking hesitantly into the kitchen. Jason's mouth parted in surprise, and Tim closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
"Why does that look like your dead mom?"
"Because it is my dead mom."
Jason frowned, reaching for his gun. "Should I–"
"No," Tim said quickly, smacking Jason's hand away from his hip. "I'll explain later. There's no threat."
Jason nodded, his masked eyes narrowed in Janet's direction.
"So, who is this?" Janet asked, still standing on the opposite side of the room.
"Um, this is Jason Todd," Tim explained, mind racing for a fast escape. So far, he'd held off mentioning his nighttime habits or his family, but Jason had screwed him over on that one.
"Jason Todd?" Janet questioned, her forehead creasing. "Bruce Wayne's boy? I thought you died."
"Well, that makes two of us, lady," Jason drawled, clearly unimpressed. "Now, if I could kindly borrow my brother's attention, that would be great. Pretty sure if I lose any more blood, I'll die a second time."
"Brother?"
Tim swore, eyes snapping back to the blood dripping onto the white tiles. "Sorry, Jason. Give me a minute to get my stuff."
"Don't worry, I'll just wait here," Jason called after him. "Slowly dying and all that."
Tim rolled his eyes and dashed into the bathroom, reaching under the sink and grabbing his first-aid kit. He paused, taking a moment to look at himself in the mirror.
He looked tired, even beyond his normal standards, and there were another five hours to go. Now, on top of the horribly awkward situation with Janet, Jason had shown up, bringing to attention all of the deepest parts of Tim's life he'd tried so desperately to keep hidden. His time with the Wayne's and as a vigilante were foundational. If she didn't approve, or hated him for it, Tim would be ruined.
He almost didn't want to go back out, but he couldn't just hide and let Jason bleed to death.
Bruce would kill him.
*****
Janet hovered awkwardly next to the door, eyes fluttering between the man at the table and the space Tim had just occupied.
Was he a man, though? Jason seemed young, although he was a great deal bigger than the scrawny boy he'd been when Janet had first met him.
Regardless of his age, Jason Todd was huge, both in height and in stature.
Jason groaned and peeled his mask off – which raised the question of why he was wearing it – and his eyes drifted shut, his face pale and sweaty.
Why was he bleeding?
And why had he called her only son his brother?
Janet took a deep breath. "You said–"
"Yeah, he's my brother," Jason cut her off, bright eyes narrowed." He looked menacing, despite the gaping wound in his side. "We don't have time to get into that right now, so listen carefully. That kid–" he said, nodding his head to the hallway Tim had disappeared into. "–is one of the best there is, no thanks to either of his parents."
"That's not–"
"I'm not done," Jason said, his glare deepening, and Janet felt a thrill of fear run down her spine. "I don't know how or why you're here, but you have a second chance to right some wrongs. Tim is brilliant and kind and dorky, but he is so messed up in the head because neither of his parents ever bothered to stick around. So, fix it."
It wasn't a request. In fact, it almost sounded like a threat, but Janet didn't have a chance to respond. Tim walked back into the room, a hefty first-aid kit in hand. Jason leaned back in his chair, and suddenly all hostility was gone, replaced by sardonic disapproval.
"Finally," Jason complained, wincing as Tim knelt on the ground next to him and began inspecting the wound. "Are you trying to send me to an early grave?"
"Just take your shirt off, Jason," Tim ordered, rolling his eyes.
"In front of your zombified mother?" Jason asked with a mocking wink, and Janet flinched. "Very kinky, Timmers. Do you think– ouch!" He yelped. Tim had pressed his hand against the cut forcefully, interrupting whatever inappropriate comment the older boy was about to make.
"Jason," Tim sighed, exasperated. He said something in a low voice Janet couldn't hear and she watched, curious, at the exchange. They were… close. Close in a way Janet had never quite experienced. She'd never had any siblings, a fact that had never bothered her before today.
Finally, Jason pulled his tight shirt over his head, wincing and biting his lip. It took all of Janet's self-control to not gasp at the pulsing gash nearly as wide as Janet's forearm. Tim whistled and began methodically cleaning the wound.
"What did you do?" He asked.
"I brought a gun to a sword fight."
"Ah," Tim said casually, as if that was normal news. His brows were furrowed in concentration as he finished cleaning and began to stitch the skin closed.
Her Timothy hadn't liked blood. This older version didn't seem to mind, though. He moved about the procedure with the ease of a well-practiced physician, ending with a satisfied smile as he stripped the bloody gloves off his hands.
"You can sleep it off in my room," Tim offered. "I won't need it tonight."
"'Kay," Jason slurred, his earlier strength and fire faded. He leaned heavily on Tim, and her son led the older boy out of the kitchen. Janet followed a few paces back, standing awkwardly in the hallway.
No, not awkwardly. Janet Drake was never awkward. She waited patiently as Tim helped Jason into bed, murmuring more unheard words, face full of tenderness as he looked at his brother.
Tim stepped away and out of the room, sighing, the rush of air heavy with the Wright of world's Janet couldn't see. "He'll be ok," Tim whispered, and Janet wasn't sure who he was trying to reassure. "He lost a lot of blood, but a few hours of sleep will do him wonders. C'mon, I don't want to wake him up."
Janet trailed behind Tim back to the living room, looking at the silver clock hanging on the wall as she sat down on the stiff grey chair. Tim, seated on the couch across from her, stared down at his hands.
Four hours to go.
Janet took the opportunity to study the teenager who had once been her little boy. Tim had always been small, and even now he couldn't be any taller than she stood at 5'7, but his thin frame was layered with hard muscle. His hair was long; longer than she ever would have allowed, and it hung down in soft waves across his pale forehead. His blue eyes, so much like hers, were blank as he clenched and unclenched his long, calloused fingers.
He looked like her. Tim had inherited Janet's angles and colors and shapes. He was handsome, though, like his father, and somehow seemed so much older than seventeen.
What had happened to her only son?
"Timothy–"
"Most people call me Tim," he interrupted, head still bowed down.
"Tim," Janet amended, the nickname of eight in her mouth. "Tell me about how you got here."
Tim frowned. "How I got here?"
"Yes," Janet said, wishing he would look at her. "I've missed six years, and a dead boy is your brother, you know magicians, and you can stitch a wound like it's the most simple thing in the world."
"It's a long story," Tim said, and his laughter sounded hollow.
"We have four more hours."
Tim sighed. "I don't even know where to start," he said, hands twisting in his lap. "Do you remember when we went to Haly's Circus? We got there early to meet some of the performers. My favorite was The Flying Grayson's."
"I'm surprised you even remember that," Janet remarked. "You were so young."
"I've got a pretty good memory," Tim shrugged, and Janet felt something strange stir in her stomach, an emotion she couldn't quite name.
Tim did have a good memory, and he was a remarkable storyteller. He weaved an intricate tale of Batman and Robin, detailing each change and the narrow escapes he witnessed as a boy running around the streets of Gotham. Janet hardly comprehended the stories, catching only small details. There were some shocking reveals, such as Bruce Wayne being Batman (honestly, who would have guessed that?) and Jason Todd's untimely demise.
As Tim began to tell her of his time as Robin, his eyes lit up in a way she'd never seen before. He told her of his adventures, his daring escapes, the friends he'd made on the Teen Titans. There was a special note in his voice as he talked about those friends who seemed to get him in so much trouble. She felt an ache in her heart as Tim told her about a young girl named Stephanie Brown, and Janet wondered if Jack had ever said her name with such love and care.
Janet suspected that Tim was leaving out some of the grittier details. Rather than focusing on the injuries and trauma he must have seen on the dirty streets of Gotham, he told her of the pranks he'd pulled on his brothers, the one time he'd actually successfully surprised Batman, the quiet moments he'd begun to discover what it meant to be truly good.
Janet could see now within the stranger across from her the little boy who used to run up and hug her after she returned home from a trip around the world, cheeks red and face glowing. She recalled Jason's words, that Tim was 'messed up', and that it was, in part at least, her fault.
Had she been so terrible a mother? As Janet reflected, she wondered how she'd never know her child was running through darkened streets chasing after a hero. She wondered where his scars had come from, who had hurt him, who had laid a permanent shadow behind the light in his eyes.
"Tim," she said, interrupting a story about Dick Grayson and trains. Tim flinched, and the movement felt like a knife in her heart. How often had she done that, cut him down when he was flying so high? "I didn't mean to interrupt, it's just– I think we should talk."
Tim frowned, bemused. "Ok? I thought that's what we were doing," he said, voice guarded, eyes shuttered once more.
That's not what she had meant to do.
"I mean, we should talk about you, who you are," she amended, choosing her words carefully. "You're not the same little boy you were when I left."
Tim was getting defensive; she could see it. "It's been six years, mom, of course I've changed."
"Tim–"
"I'm sorry, I can't do this," Tim said suddenly standing and heading for the front door. "I thought I could, but I was wrong, I can't."
"Timothy–" Janet started, following him from the living room.
"No!" He shouted, startling Janet into silence. Her Timothy didn't yell. "I have been trying so hard to be someone you could feel proud of, mom," he said, pulling at his hair. "Can you even imagine the hell I live in every day? Do you know what it does to a kid, growing up without a real mom? I have spent so long believing that something must be wrong with me, that I am somehow completely unlovable."
The poison that had killed her hurt less than those words, than the desperate look in his eyes. "Tim, of course that's not true."
"'Of course,'" Tim's voice cracked as he echoed her words. "Mom, you didn't love me. Neither did dad."
"Oh, Tim," Janet said sadly. "We both loved you."
"Then why did you leave?" Tim cried, his voice thick with tears. "Over and over again. You never called, never took me with you. How many birthdays did I spend alone? How many times did I wake up screaming from a nightmare only to have to tuck myself in again?"
"I'm so sorry, Tim," Janet said, trying to keep her voice low. She'd never been very good at sympathy. "But you know why we had to leave. We were building your future."
Tim snorted. "There's always a 'but'," he said, eyes shining. "I grew up thinking that love is conditional. I poisoned relationships, pushed people away, because I was sure the moment that I failed they would leave me. I am so scared to let anyone in, because of you. Because of dad. You broke me, mom," he said, the last word a sob. "I am broken. And now you're back, and this time I think it'll kill me."
Janet couldn't find the words to comfort Tim. She watched as he gasped for air, pulling at his hair as he began to come apart at the seams. What could she possibly say? He wasn't wrong. Janet had never wanted to be a mother. Her dreams were vast and wild, and when she'd married Jack, he'd promised her a life of adventures. Then, after an exciting trip and four too many glasses of wine, Janet was pregnant.
Janet had hated the child growing inside of her. She got reckless, drinking more and traveling more, hoping the baby would just die. He didn't. Timothy Jackson Drake was born, and from his first cry Janet knew she would never forgive her child for being born, her husband for daring to suggest they could live a happy life as a family.
And she never did. Even as the boy grew, every smile and every greeting, every moment with him reminded Janet of the life she was missing out on. So, she hired nannies, told Tim to be a good boy, and convinced Jack to take her on more adventures. She spent as much time away as she could, never allowing Tim to find a safe place to stay in her heart.
I'm so sorry, she thought, apologizing to the wide-eyed little boy trailing behind her, desperate for her love. I'm sorry, my sweet Timothy.
Janet felt a sudden lurch in her gut. She was out of time.
"Tim," she said softly, the name no longer foreign in her mouth. The air around her was growing hot, thin tendrils of gray steam rising from his skin, and panic clawed up her throat.
Tim's eyes found the smoke and darted to the clock, going wide. "Wait, mom–"
"I have to go, Tim," Janet said, and even as she said it her body grew colder. "We're out of time."
"Please don't go," Tim begged, stepping closer. "Don't leave me mom, please."
"I don't want to," Janet gasped, pushing against death's pull. "Tim, before I go, I need to tell you how sorry I am. I failed as your mother, and I have no excuses."
Tim gaped at her. "Mom–"
Staring at her only child, Janet identified that strange feeling she'd felt growing over the last twelve hours. "I'm so proud of you, Tim. My sweet, brave Tim."
She cupped his face in her hands and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Then, with another wrenching pull, Janet let go, her last memory of shining blue eyes and thin hands clutching desperately to her own.
*****
When Jason awoke hours later, he found Tim on his knees by the front door, arms wrapped around himself. Jason quickly knelt at his side and pulled the younger boy against his chest, holding him as Tim sobbed hopelessly.
As Jason sat there, a trembling Tim still staring at the cold, unburied corpse of his mother, Jason knew he'd never be able to forgive John Constantine for what he'd done.
But he couldn't do anything about it, couldn't change what had happened. He could just hold Tim close as his brother broke and shattered into a million pieces, wondering if anything would ever be ok again.