Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sound of students packing up their stuff is what breaks Tim’s focus.

Pulling away from the Google Slides on his Macbook Pro his dad bought for him for the new school year, Tim rubs one eye with the edge of his navy blue wool sweater sleeve and checks the time with his other one — it’s a minute away from the bell.

“Alright class, remember, Macbeth presentations are tomorrow, so come prepared,” announces Mr. Paris, the English Lit teacher, over the noise and clatter of the class.

There are some groans over the last big assignment of the semester, but Tim feels too wound up to properly complain. On the classroom wall by the closet cabinets, Tim spots the laminated poster of William Shakespeare staring at him judgmentally. Like even he knows that Tim’s going to fail yet another English Lit assignment.

Tim tries not to feel offended as he gives his presentation-in-progress one more hopeless glance before reaching out and closing his laptop as the bell rings.

It brings an unfamiliar relief to Tim’s chest. For weeks now, he hasn’t been able to shake off the dread that comes with this class. He’s no avid fan of school, but for some reason even as a trained crime fighter, Tim doesn’t remember English Lit ever bothering him this much before.

At least he can look forward to a dinner cooked by Alfred before he has to look at his pitiful attempts to explain the symbolism of Shakespeare’s use of trochaic tetrameter again.

“Timothy, please stay a moment after class.”

Tim looks up from slinging on his backpack to catch Mr. Paris’s gaze. The English Lit teacher nods from where he sits at the front table, as if to appear disarming. As if Tim doesn’t know that he’s in a world of pain.

“I’m looking forward to your presentation, Timothy,” Mr. Paris begins as soon as the classroom is empty.

It’s not said unkindly, but Tim can hear the implication behind the words. Tim can also feel Laminated Poster William Shakespeare laughing at him. “I… yeah. Me too. Thanks.”

“As you already likely know, report cards are due soon, and this assignment is worth a hefty part of the final grade,” the English teacher says. “If you don’t have a passing final grade this semester, school policy demands an in-person conference between the teacher and the student’s parents. I wanted to remind you of that.”

Tim nods dutifully, and tries his best not to fiddle with the edges of his sweater sleeves too much.

“In part, because, as it is, your parents are not the easiest to reach, Timothy.”

The words are spoken with no judgment, but a second passes before Tim remembers to make eye contact with the teacher, and give the obligatory nod. Pretty much every teacher he’s ever had has said something like that.

“You have to earn a ninety or higher on the upcoming presentation to have a passing grade in this class for the semester.” Tim must visibly deflate, because Mr. Paris offers Tim a sympathetic smile. “I know this subject isn’t chemistry or stats or even gym, which you excel in, but… well, I believe in you. So do your best, alright Timothy?”

Tim nods, and he’s dismissed — but as he walks away, his stomach twists.

His best is so not going to cut it.

He hasn’t even gotten above a C minus on any of Mr. Paris’s assignments this year. Last year, in ninth grade, he didn’t have much problem with the subject, but he also had a different English teacher, who graded easier. Now Tim’s got reason to worry that he could fail into the negatives.

So, basically, he’s doomed.

Just outside the classroom door, Tim sees a familiar face, waiting for him.

“Wow,” comments Sebastian Ives — or just Ives, since the guy hates his first name — as they push into the bustle of the school hallway. “Did you become his favorite student or something when I wasn’t looking?”

“Try again,” Tim says. “He was letting me know how lousy I’m doing in his class.”

Ives shakes his head in sympathy, shortly getting distracted as they pass a group of cheerleaders before turning his attention back to Tim. “It just doesn’t track, man. How are you failing English?”

“I don’t know,” Tim groans. “How are you passing?”

“I just put words on the page and I get solid B’s. I dunno what you’re doing wrong.”

“Ugh,” Tim says, stopping as they reach Ives’s locker so his friend can grab his stuff. “I don’t either. And now I’m going to have to work on this presentation all night.”

Ives slips into his well-loved green coat with the scuffed elbow patches, looking contemplative. Tim can’t help but think of his mom, who always wrinkles her nose whenever Tim has something long enough for it to be even a little old.

“Well, hey,” Ives says, softly punching Tim in the shoulder. “It’s a lucky thing that tomorrow’s presentations are worth like, half of our grade, right?”

Tim corrects matter-of-factly, “It’s closer to a fourth.”

“Yeah, but still lucky, right? You can totally get your final grade up to passing, and your folks won’t chew you out.” Ives shuts his locker, his eyes lighting up with a new topic. “Hey, did you see that one TikTok with the dog?”

And the conversation moves on.

Because sometimes being an illegal vigilante means you move on with conversations with your friends instead of telling them what’s really on your mind.

Like how Tim’s hardly worried about being scolded via phone call. His parents, well-intentioned as they are, get total tunnel vision when they’re at a dig site — and right now, they’re in South America. And even if they do manage to check in with him, it’s pretty much a one-way conversation about whatever archaeological discovery they’re making for a total of three minutes before they get busy again and have to hang up. Tim admires their work ethic, but really, he’d be lucky to get in touch with even his mother’s secretary. It’s all good, though — Tim’s parents have left him on his own for longer periods of time. He’s not lonely in the Drake Manor. Not much, anyway.

Besides, the real reason Tim doesn’t want a failing grade in any class on his report card has nothing to do with his parents, and everything to do with Bruce Wayne.

Forget the hassle it would cause the school authorities to get ahold of his parents — a single failing grade would mean no more Robin. Bruce would ground him — literally — if he learned that Tim’s civilian life was being impacted by his vigilantism. He's grounded Dick and Babs for less.

And Batman needs a Robin.

Tim can’t let his own shortcomings get in the way of Gotham’s safety.

A conversation Tim definitely can’t tell Ives, or anyone else his age, about.

They’re still talking about TikToks and cute dogs when they step out the main entrance of Gotham City High School and start down the steps along with everyone else.

The late afternoon sun peeks through the overcast sky like shards of light. As the chilly November wind shoves its way across the school courtyard, Tim rubs his arms to ease the goosebumps under his sweater, his mind going back to Robin as he laughs at something Ives says.

He wouldn’t normally care so much about his grades — in his humble opinion, good grades don’t always mean smart, and bad grades don’t always mean stupid, and essays are a matter of subjectivity, anyway — but the idea of losing Robin makes Tim’s heart sink.

And Tim doesn’t like imagining the look of disapproval Bruce would give him if it came to that.

So it’s a good thing there’s no patrol tonight — it’s on Alfred’s orders, since Bruce’s injury from last weekend’s clash against Penguin and his goons is still healing up. Everything hinges on tomorrow’s presentation for Tim, so he just needs to bunker down like it’s a case that the GCPD have been stumped on for a while and crack it wide open until the danger is gone.

Weaving through the flow of upperclassmen heading for their cars in the parking lot, Tim and Ives walk towards the school buses lining the asphalt.

Ives has moved on, talking about his latest attempt at romance — “Callie Evans didn’t even hesitate to put me in the friendzone” — and they stop at the end of the bus stop line, right next to the outdoor bulletin plastered with posters for school clubs and the varsity football game schedule.

Tim’s eyes fall on a flyer pinned loudly in the center of it all, its bottom corners that aren’t pinned down blowing in the wind.

His blood chills.

It’s a picture of a slightly pudgy boy with ginger hair framing his face as he smiles at the camera, the text above reading, HAVE YOU SEEN ME? Underneath the picture reads, PHILMONT DENLINGER, GOTHAM CITY HIGH SCHOOL, SOPHOMORE STUDENT. LAST SEEN SEPTEMBER 30TH IN SCHOOL PARKING LOT.

Tim can’t stop the shiver that runs down his spine.

He’d known the guy, after all.

Granted, not super well. He’d only met him towards the end of last year, when Philmont Denlinger began sitting at the same lunch table as him and Ives. Tim helped Philmont with his stats homework once, and the next week at lunch Philmont brought him and Ives a tub of homemade cookies he’d helped his grandmother make.

And then —

And then Philmont went and killed himself at the start of the school year.

The case details were stacked up and organized in Tim’s mind even now, even though it wasn’t exactly a Batman-level case. Basically, security camera footage had caught Philmont leaving school one day in a mysterious dark SUV that didn’t look like it belonged to any student or faculty. No one knew whose car that was. The missing person case tragically ended in the discovery of Philmont’s red Nike shoes washing up on the side of Finger River a few days later. For a while it was all anyone at school was talking about before it faded into old news.

And despite the case being closed by the GCPD, flyers like this are still unrelentingly going up, courtesy of Philmont’s grandparents.

Tim hates to think it — Philmont was kind-of-almost their friend, after all — but nothing good has ever happened to a kid who’s gone missing in Gotham.

“It’s going to take me a minute to get over beautiful, beautiful Callie, but I mean, I guess I’ll have to — oh,” Ives breaks off, following Tim’s gaze to the bulletin and falling quiet when he sees Philmont’s picture.

“Um, so about Callie,” Tim hastens to revive their conversation before either of them spiral into glumness. “If it cheers you up, you never had a chance with her.”

Ives looks straight at him. “Drake, my guy. Just how is that supposed to cheer me up?”

“Well,” Tim says, giving Ives a cheeky smile. “She’s been dating Ari for the past two weeks, dude.”

Ives’s jaw drops. “What? No. Callie and Ariana? No!” He pauses, pulling his hands away from his face to stare blankly ahead. “So when they had their tongues down each other’s throats after their basketball game, that was… like…”

“You’re almost there,” Tim encourages.

“Shut up. I thought girls just did that sometimes!”

“Yeah, I can see how you would think that it was platonic,” Tim says, then listens to his Robin instincts telling him to run as Ives chases him down the path, their spot in the bus line forgotten.

~~~

Alfred’s food is one of the reasons Tim likes hanging out in the Wayne Manor.

A few months ago the butler was appalled to find out that Tim was just not having food because of Robin stuff, and now texts Tim a personal dinner invitation every evening, even when they don’t have patrol. It’s great, but it’s also embarrassing how easy Tim finds it to overstay his welcome, talking to Bruce about cases or helping Alfred in the kitchen or playing tug-of-war with Ace, the ferocious-looking German Shepherd who is really just an oversized puppy when you get to know him.

Luckily, no one’s objected yet. In fact, sometimes it seems that the more Tim spreads himself around in the childless Wayne Manor, the more jokes Alfred seems to make in that dry, lighthearted way of his and the harder Ace’s tail seems to wag — though Tim has a feeling the dog just likes having another person around for belly rubs. Even Bruce, dark and brooding as ever, feels worlds softer than the unapproachable sorrow and rage Tim first met him as.

Tim draws imaginary circles on the mahogany wood of the Wayne dining table, running his fingers under the light of the pretty crystal chandelier above. Bruce sits at the head of the table, newspaper in hand like the internet doesn’t exist. Underneath his loose t-shirt, Tim can see the outline of his bandages. Bruce is sporting something close to twenty stitches on his abdomen.

“Does it hurt a lot still?”

Bruce looks up from the paper in surprise, before gingerly touching his side. “Not a lot. Don’t worry.”

“I’ve never gotten that many stitches before,” Tim notes, which makes Bruce raise his eyebrows.

“You better not need any stitches at all,” he scolds mildly, which makes Tim snort-giggle before he can help it. He clams up as quickly as he can — his parents are always pretty strict about dinner etiquette — but Bruce doesn’t chide him.

Soon dinner is served and the dishes before Tim are full of meaty, cheesy lasagna, steamed veggie salad, and creamy potato stew. They thank Alfred — even Ace woofs politely from the spot between Bruce and Tim’s feet — and dig in, and for the next few minutes, they’re engulfed in comfortable silence once again.

For a moment, Tim’s relaxed, looking at the portraits of Thomas and Martha Wayne on the dark walls, imagining what they must have been like — and the next, his mind is going back to school and presentations tomorrow, and Robin will be taken away, and just like that, the gnawing nervous ache in his stomach replaces any semblance of comfort he’s having.

It’s just acing one English presentation, he reminds himself. But his self-encouragement stops there and doubt takes over. Whatever he’s done wrong in his English Lit assignments this year is one case that he hasn’t been able to solve.

“Tim,” Bruce says, breaking into Tim’s thoughts. The older man’s gaze lingers on him, concern creasing his brow. “Is there something on your mind?”

Tim sits up straighter and shakes his head in fervent denial.

“N-no, nope, I’m good,” he says, then shoves a spoonful of stew into his mouth to show how much he doesn’t look like he’s failing a class. His tastebuds melt. Wow. Alfred’s stew is good. At Bruce’s perplexed stare, Tim blurts out the first thing he thinks of. “Well, actually, recently, I read the GCPD notes on the Gotham City Bank embezzlement case earlier this week.”

“Hm.”

“They have the guy who did it, right?” Tim pauses in between inhaling Alfred’s potato stew, thinking about the latest case they’d worked to bust. “One of the bank’s managers or whatever — they have records of him taking out funds that aren’t his for years. It should be a closed case, right? But Commissioner Gordon couldn’t nab him. It’s weird.”

“Good question.” Tim feels the smallest surge of pride out of nowhere. “Despite a solid paper trail, Gotham’s elite has strings that will keep them safe from courthouses. To that point, Commissioner Gordon’s saying that bank manager’s legal team can still push the innocent angle.”

“Even though he’s guilty?”

“Even though he’s guilty,” Bruce confirms.

“But everyone knows.”

“Plenty of people can know it, Tim. But having more zeroes in your bank account can keep mouths shut, even if innocents get the bad end of the deal. It’s not right. But… that’s why Batman exists.”

Tim thinks about it and opens his mouth, but then shuts it out of habit. His dad hates stupid questions.

But Bruce is clearly nothing like Jack Drake, because he pauses in bringing his fork to his mouth. “I’m familiar with that look,” he says to Tim, almost teasing. “You look like you’re about to split a case open.”

Tim eases up. “I guess I’m just thinking. There are so many families that don’t have access to their own savings. And — and people have immediate needs, right? I’m sure it’s scary. And I guess I don’t understand why Gotham’s elite can’t see that, you know? But I guess there isn’t exactly an answer to that. It’s just… I’m just speculating about greed. Which is pointless. We’re vigilantes.”

Tim shrugs, and goes in for another slurp of stew. When he looks up in the silence that follows, he finds Bruce’s gaze on him, gentle and… proud?

“What?” Tim asks with his mouth full, forgetting manners entirely.

Bruce smiles. “Nothing. Just… admiring your very large heart.”

Tim feels his face start to warm from the compliment, so he puts a hand over his chest and jokes, “Hey, I like where all my organs are. But about the case…”

“Yes,” Bruce says darkly. “We’ll see if Batman can... persuade the people who accepted his bribes otherwise.”

The glow of the dining room from the chandelier feels chillingly ominous now, in the way Batman’s presence always shifts the tides of crime.

“I hope you’re not discussing patrolling tonight,” Alfred scolds, instantly breaking the dramatic tension in the dining room. He sets down a second bowl of lasagna for Ace, who digs in noisily, before joining them at the table. “Not with that injury. Nightwing and Batgirl should handle it.”

Bruce actually looks grumpy. “Fine.”

Tim can’t help but grin. He’s not sure how to describe it — but the warmth of Wayne Manor is his favorite type of cozy. Bruce, Alfred, and Ace all make him feel safe.

“How is the meal, Master Tim?” Alfred asks.

“So good.”

“He inhaled the stew,” Bruce comments.

“I like stew,” Tim says. Under the table, Ace’s wagging tail softly beats against Tim’s leg. Tim smiles and blurts the next thing that pops up in his head. “Did you know that the world’s oldest known evidence of stew was found in Japan? It’s from the Jōmon period. Which was like, fourteen thousand BCE.”

“Oh?” A soft look appears on Bruce’s face. Alfred chuckles.

“It’s neat, because they dug up a lot of vessels, and the smaller bowls were dated to be older than the bigger pots and vessels, which theoretically could mean that they were living a nomadic lifestyle that developed into a more settled one,” Tim babbles, leaning into his untapped knowledge reservoir of archeology facts. “Um, at least, I think it’s neat. Sorry.”

“No, I agree,” Bruce says. “I’m no expert, but ancient lifestyles are an interesting subject. Not to mention a valid hypothesis. Most hunter-gatherer civilizations have evidence to have followed that path.”

They move from one topic to another as smoothly as the butter on Alfred’s lasagna. At one point Tim’s saying something and Bruce is actually laughing, looking happier than he has in months ever since they found out that the notorious Red Hood of Crime Alley is actually Jason Todd, revived in the flesh, with little regard to Batman’s no-killing code. Tim doesn’t know the details from Batman and Red Hood’s standoff those months ago — just that Jason wasn’t interested in coming home to the Wayne Manor and Bruce’s eyes were filled with so much anguish in the following weeks it was like Tim was eleven again witnessing his hero fall apart. But Tim’s careful not to bring up the topic here. He’s curious, but even he knows what subjects are better left avoided when it comes to the adults in his life.

Dinner feels over too quickly. Tim fiddles with his leftover steamed vegetables on his plate for just a few extra minutes, his stomach and heart full and heavy with comfort. Ace pads over and rests his head on Tim’s knees, looking up with a question of play in his eyes, tail softly sweeping the floor. Tim’s heart throbs. He doesn’t want to leave, but if he stays longer to play with Ace, he has a feeling no one will stop him, and he doesn’t really belong here. He’s no Dick Grayson or Jason Todd. He has a home to get to, as cold as it is.

“Tim, if you would prefer to stay the night while your parents are away, we have a room you could use,” Bruce offers, carefully emotionless as he dabs his mouth with a napkin. “Ace can even sleep up there with you.”

Alfred chimes in, “Oh, we wouldn’t be able to separate him from you.”

The offer makes Tim’s chest tight with the same warm emotions he gets whenever Dick gives him a surprise hug or when Babs ruffles his hair and calls him a genius, or when Alfred bakes his favorite cookies for his birthday. The feeling probably means something, but Tim tucks that away to think about later.

“Thanks, B,” Tim says, “But I can’t. I have a presentation tomorrow in English, and I have to work on it. I —”

He cuts himself off before he can let it slip that he needs help.

Even if Bruce would probably help. But admitting that is too risky if Tim wants to keep Robin. To keep coming back to Wayne Manor and feeling… warm like this. He has to be a good Robin, and in order to do that, he has to be a good Timothy Drake.

“I think it’s better if I go home tonight,” Tim finishes lamely. Bruce is looking at him weirdly, and too late Tim realizes that his smile must have fallen off somewhere in the middle of his thoughts. Tim tries to act cool, but only manages to continue awkwardly poking at his vegetables, mashing them on the plate. Ace whines softly.

“Master Tim, the peas have not wronged you.”

And because Tim wants dessert, he sheepishly apologizes to Alfred.

~~~

The Drake Manor is empty. Fresh air from the night outside gently drifts in through Tim’s bedroom window, cooling the back of his neck. He’s taken a shower and is in his linen sea-green t-shirt and pajama pants as he sits at his desk, laptop before him.

It should make for a perfect studying environment.

Instead, Tim’s slowly losing it.

He stares at the Google Slides, the blinking cursor at the end of his conclusion slide mocking him, like, That’s all you got? Because even after following the rubric point for point, Tim has a gut feeling that Mr. Paris is going to give him a smile and an F, with the words, “Sorry, Timothy. It’s just too derivative,” which is something he’s been saying all semester long to Tim, on every assignment, even though it doesn’t make any sense.

Drawing his knees up to his chest in his chair, Tim reaches for his steaming mug of coffee and sips. It’s no good for his bouncing nerves, but he needs to stay awake a little longer. If it were just the grade, he’d have called it a couple hours ago, but everything rests on this presentation, which Mr. Paris is going to hate, and it’s — Tim needs some help — but he can’t ask Bruce —

Then a voice from his open window shatters the quiet.

“All alone, baby bird?”

Tim spins in his chair, coffee slipping from his grip and shattering. Black liquid pools on the antique hardwood floor of his bedroom.

Tall, brown leather jacket — and that tell-tale helmet, red as blood.

“Hood,” Tim squeaks out, and rises from his seat, but then he looks down at the mess of coffee and ceramic shards at his feet and his priorities shift completely. Dang. Good coffee wasted. “Sorry, hang on —”

The Red Hood, who is Jason Todd, Tim reminds himself as he grabs the paper towels under his desk, is seemingly frozen as Tim mops up the now lukewarm coffee off the floor.

A gun cocks. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”

Tim stops moving, but even on caffeine jitters, his body doesn’t flinch in terror like it’s supposed to. Like it used to.

After all, the Red Hood is a killer. He crosses the line that Batman doesn’t, and Tim knows, logically, he should be afraid. In the past half year that Hood’s made an appearance in Gotham City, he’s given Tim a concussion, a broken wrist, and thrown him into a dumpster from a rooftop, all while mocking him ruthlessly.

But this is the first time he’s facing Hood with the knowledge that it’s Jason Todd under the mask, and the life-saving Robin instinct to flee isn’t quite firing like it normally does. Instead of the usual thought process Tim has during their terrifying encounters — a constant mental screech of, what is this guy’s BEEF with me? — there’s only something sugary and nostalgic.

Because the Red Hood is scary, yeah. But Jason Todd? Jason Todd…

Tim tries to think. When he was three and scared of the circus, Dick Grayson unwittingly gave him his first bear-crushing hug that melted his bones with happiness. When he was five and his mother forgot him at the library, Barbara Gordon held his hand and cheerfully (and illegally) taught him how to bypass the city government’s firewall, the both of them giggling the entire time.

And when he was ten and got caught following Robin around, Jason Todd took him to O'Shaughnessy's and bought him Superman ice cream.

So no, right now, Tim’s Robin instincts aren’t firing. He’s not as scared as he should be. Tim swallows down his irritation with himself — he has such a bad habit of imprinting — and rises to his feet with his hands up, looking down the barrel of Hood’s gun.

Get ready to fight, he orders himself.

But Jason would never hurt me, every other stupid cell in his body protests.

“I thought I’d drop by,” Hood continues casually, his voice loud and foreign in Tim’s bedroom. “See how much better the second model is for myself. Break it in a little for the Bat.” With a laugh, he takes a menacing step forward. “Imagine my surprise to find the window open, and the baby bird undefended.”

Tim warily backs away from his predecessor, trying to push down the woefully inappropriate admiration blooming in his chest. It’s just that Jason was so quiet when he broke into his house. That’s kind of cool, in a terrifying sort of way.

“But that wasn’t even your first mistake,” Hood says. “Want to know what your first mistake was, baby bird?”

Hood’s leg snaps out. A boot connects with Tim’s stomach, and it’s pretty much the worst thing he’s felt all week. A gale of nausea rushes through him as he falls backwards.

Okay. So maybe Jason would hurt him.

The wind leaves Tim’s lungs as he hits the floor on his side. Something slams against his shoulder and head and it takes him a dizzying second to realize that it’s the wall.

Shaking, he tries to push himself up on his elbows, but something slams his chest down. Tim’s mouth hangs open on an empty cry, tears pricking his eyes at the sudden crushing force of Hood’s boot on his ribs.

“Putting on the Robin colors.”

Hood’s words are cold, but something about them sting Tim in a way he’s not used to. The anger feels so directed at him, so personal.

Tim’s fingernails scrape against the leather of Hood’s unbudging boot, his chest burning as he gasps for air. It’s probably a good thing that he’s currently voiceless — otherwise he might have said something like, huh what?

It’s no secret that the Red Hood hates Robin. Tim still has the remnants of a faded dumpster bruise to prove it. And besides, the last time Hood was in the Robin colors, he… well, died. Bruce doesn’t talk about it, like ever, but after Hood confronted Batman and revealed the whole ‘dead son’ thing, his terrifying vitriol against the new Robin has made a lot more sense. It’s understandable, even.

But now, lying on his back and getting familiar with Hood’s preferred choice of footwear, something dawns on Tim, snapping in place like a missing puzzle piece.

Tim lifts his head as much as he can to meet the white glare of Hood’s eyes.

“You’re being… serious?” he chokes out, confused.

Hood’s gloved hand wraps around one of Tim’s wrists, easily yanking it away from his boot. Tim tries to tug it back, but Hood is stronger, and there’s no warning when he pulls — his boot still pinning Tim’s down. Something pops and then it’s all fire and Tim shrieks.

His arm is dropped like a dead thing, not looking quite right in how it’s connected to his shoulder and Tim chokes on a sudden surge of bile when he’s unable to move it. What the heck?

Hood’s voice is mirthful. “Did that feel like a joke, Replacement?”

Replacement. As in, Jason’s replacement. Hood doesn’t have a problem with Robin. He has a problem with Tim being Robin.

Something in Tim’s chest drops in the horror of understanding what Hood has meant all along. That this was never just a general animosity. This is — and has been — something serious all along.

“I can’t believe you don’t like me,” Tim whispers, dejected.

Hood’s laugh is mean.

Lying there on his bedroom floor, Tim does what he does best and compartmentalizes.

Things He’d Like To Handle Later, If Not Ever: Hood beating him up, especially in the aftermath of finding out that his childhood idol thinks Tim took his place.

Things He’d Like to Handle Now: Honestly? His English presentation sounds like a dream. At least it wasn’t trying to kill him. That much.

Gloved fingers close over Tim’s throat and slowly begin to squeeze. Tim closes his eyes to keep the tears at bay. This must be what a mouse feels like when a cat’s caught it but hasn’t sunk its teeth in yet. Just being played with.

“Learned your lesson yet, baby bird?”

The only lesson Tim’s interested in is one on analyzing classic works of literature so that he can get a passing grade in English Lit.

Wait.

Wasn’t… wasn’t English Lit, like… Jason Todd’s best subject in school?

Tim’s eyes snap open. Hood’s currently cutting off the oxygen to his brain, which isn’t exactly helping him remember, but it was something Dick once said… or was it Babs…? Wait, isn’t there an old video Alfred took years ago, where Jason Todd has a huge grin on his chocolate-sundae covered face, talking about some book for class he’s reading, and how interesting it is, and —

“Jason!” he gasps, choking. “Have you ever read Macbeth?”

The Red Hood stares at him like Tim just slapped him with a fish.

“Mac—Macbeth.” Tim breaks out into a fit of coughs. The pressure on his neck and chest lessens just a fraction, and he takes in just enough of a breath to add, “William Shakespeare!”

“Did you damage your brain?” asks Hood slowly, tightly. “I know who wrote Macbeth.”

Renewed hope, meet Tim.

Tim lets out a happy noise, his good arm moving up so he can tug at Hood’s jacket sleeve, which in hindsight is ridiculous, because clearly he already has Hood’s undivided — albeit murderous — attention. Hood pulls away like lightning, his hands releasing Tim’s neck to slap him away like he’s a housefly.

“Would you listen to my presentation?” Tim wheezes through dry coughs. “Please? It’s tomorrow, and it’s worth half my grade” — well, a fourth, but Hood doesn’t need to know that — “and it’s my last chance before report cards and I could use some help on it, if you’re available?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, “The fuck is wrong with you.”

“Please, Jason? You’re good at this stuff, and my teacher’s — well, he’s kinda weird, and — look, just beat me up tomorrow. I won’t even fight back, promise —”

Hood pulls off the helmet, and a Lazarus-green glare locks on Tim.

Jason’s got a shock of white hair above his forehead, and his jaw is longer than what Tim remembers from the Superman ice cream night all those years ago, but the intense eyes behind the domino mask are so familiar that Tim’s surprised into silence.

Whoa. It doesn’t even matter that the color is different. This is Jason Todd.

A hand roughly grabs him by the chin, turning his head from the right to the left for inspection. Then wordlessly, Jason takes off one of his gloves to feel Tim’s forehead.

“I’m not sick,” Tim informs him, a little starstruck at the guy he’d secretly wanted as a big brother ever since he was nine.

“Your pupils look fine,” Jason mutters.

“I don’t have a concussion, either!”

“Do you know I’m literally beating you up right now?”

“It’s crystal clear. Crystal. But I have homework.”

Jason stares at him a beat longer, then he scans the room, seeming to take it in for the first time. Tim’s glad now that he left such a mess of schoolwork while working on the presentation. All his past assignments are spread out over half the bed, and his desk is a fright of index cards around his open laptop. With the boot still nailing him into the floor, Tim takes in a ragged breath. He hears Jason exhale, and then —

And then Jason walks away.

Tim noisily sucks in sweet oxygen, but even with the boot gone the rejection weighs him down. No homework help, then. Somewhere in the back of Tim’s mind he knows he should just be grateful he’s not dead, but it isn’t cheering him up by much. He winces as he sits up, his right arm completely unhelpful hanging at his side.

But then a rustle of papers has Tim snapping his head up, and finding Jason… on his bed. Leafing through all his previous assignments, Tim was using them to help him figure out what not to do. Jason gives the bold red grades scrawled at the top of each assignment a passing glance, his face impassive.

“You’re flunking English,” Jason concludes finally, looking up at Tim. There’s a sneer in the older boy’s face, but his eyes are duller. Almost blue, in the right light.

“Kind of,” Tim breathes out, halfway hopeful. “Yeah.”

With a reluctant tight-jawed expression, Jason asks, “So what’s this presentation on again?”

Tim perks up, feeling bright enough to put the bat signal to shame.

~

Thirty minutes later, Tim’s concluding his Macbeth presentation in front of his bed, where Jason is perched, assembling a gun together on the silk pillows. Even so, Jason’s helped him tweak nearly half his slides, stoically pointing out symbols and meanings that Tim didn’t pick up on even his seventh read-through of the play. Now Tim almost doesn’t feel sick to his stomach about tomorrow. It’s a miracle.

“Looks good,” Jason grunts finally, and Tim blinks.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Your thesis statement and examples check out.”

Tim thinks of Mr. Paris’s usual comments in red ink. “It’s not… like… derivative?”

“What does that even mean?”

Tim lifts his shoulders — regretting it immediately when pain licks across his chest from the dislocated one — and shakes his head. “Mr. Paris’s always saying that. You’ve seen what he’s written on my essays.”

“Yeah,” Jason sneers. “I’ve never seen so much accumulated failure, by the way. I thought you were supposed to be the smart Robin.”

“Really?” Tim’s brain trips on that, cheeks warming. “You think I’m smart?”

Jason regards him with a flat stare. “You left your window wide open and I got in. I think you’re an idiot.”

Tim’s almost tempted to argue that Jason’s the one here who has nothing better to do on a Thursday night than fight a fifteen-year-old like a total weirdo. But Tim rubs at his eyes and yawns instead. He doesn’t even feel like complaining about the fact that his right arm, slung into one of his Celine hoodies like a makeshift sling, is throbbing pretty horribly. He’ll just grab some ice before he goes to bed.

With a click, Jason puts the last part of his gun together, then gets up to walk towards the window.

Tim opens his mouth to say something like thank you, good night, I’m sorry you hate me, I’ve admired you since I was nine, but is stopped short by the way Jason is staring at the red helmet in his hands instead of putting it on.

He looks… lost.

The silence in the bedroom stretches on for a few seconds longer before Tim blurts out, “Bruce misses you.”

It comes out of nowhere so suddenly that Tim’s surprised to hear himself saying it. But once it’s out, he tacks on, “So does Alfred. And Ace. Dick… and Babs, too. They all miss you so much, Jason. And I know that if you come home, Bruce would — he would love it. Everyone would.”

The words hang in the air for a second. They just hang there, and with each moment that passes, they feel a little bit less shiny and inspiring than they had in Tim’s head.

Something shifts in the air almost imperceptibly.

Tim’s not sure why, or what, but goosebumps crawl up his arm as Jason turns around. And unlike before, when Jason had been expressionless, now he wears a small smile.

“Really.”

Tim nods. He knows the Waynes, even if he isn’t part of the family. But then Jason starts to walk slowly towards him.

“And what if I came home,” Jason says, a shadow falling over his face with each step, “And found an intruder in the nest?”

Tim takes a step back, getting the distinct feeling that this conversation has veered off-track, but he’s not sure how. He wasn’t trying to make Jason mad.

“I just wanted to —,” Tim breaks off as Jason’s eyes sharpen to an eerie green, nearly neon. He wonders if they’re supposed to glow like that.

Tim opens his mouth to ask, then closes it, because the tension in the air has suddenly multiplied, and Tim really doesn’t need another kick to the ribs.

“I should have known the old man set you up to this,” Jason sneers. “To catch me with my guard down, so he could lure me back. Why else would he let you stay in this abandoned museum of a house?”

“Wh-what? No, that’s not —” Tim starts, only to be confused when Jason’s fingers reach out to card through his hair, cupping the side of his head. “That’s not what happened.”

“I don’t care how it happened, Replacement. But take a message back for the Bat, will you?”

The hand in Tim’s hair digs in and his head is jerked forward before he’s thrown to the floor. Tim barely has time to catch himself on his good arm, but then there’s a heavy force slamming his head down. Stars burst behind his eyes, and Tim’s gasp ends in a wail as something pierces the side of his face.

The broken mug shards.

He can feel individual jagged edges piercing into his skin, sinking deeper into his cheek. Tim’s heart races as Jason’s boot only shoves him into the floor harder, closing out any chance of escape. Tim lets out a garbled scream, unable to even thrash properly for the pain licking up his bad arm, and his good one pinned under him. The pressure against his skull grows with each second.

“Stop,” Tim gasps. His voice sounds so small to his own ears. “Stop.”

But Jason doesn’t stop. Jason’s going to crush his head. But Jason wouldn’t — but Jason is — this isn’t Jason —

“Finally scared, baby bird?”

He’s going to die.

“Jason — Jason, please — ”

“Try again.”

“Hood,” Tim chokes out.

The boot moves off, finally, but Tim doesn’t dare move. He lies there, feeling blood pooling under his face, too on edge. If he moves, and Hood hurts him again —

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim can see Hood put on his red helmet. The Red Hood looms over him, and there’s not a trace of the earlier patience. Cold wind gusts into the room. A shrill siren wails in the distance.

Tim doesn’t breathe as the Red Hood’s boots walk across the hardwood floor, stepping over the coffee mug, and then — then the lights of his room go out, and Tim hears Hood leave out the window.

Tim’s left in the square of moonlight that spills into his room from behind the storm clouds, breathing shallowly as the pain licks through his body.

He’s dimly aware that rain is blowing inside through the open window, the droplets getting onto the floor and his bed, but he can’t make himself move at first. Slowly, after minutes that feel like hours, Tim rolls himself off the broken pieces of his favorite coffee mug, unable to stop shuddering.

He lies there on his bedroom floor, everything throbbing or burning in pain. He blinks at the window blearily, trying to work up the nerve to get to his feet and pull it shut.

Hood’s gone, Tim tries to reassure himself. He’s not waiting to pounce if you get up to close the window. Just get up and close it. Mom will be mad if the floors get water damage.

It doesn’t work.

The night passes by slowly.

Tim doesn’t get up.

Chapter Text

The next day, Tim signs his name on the tardy sheet in Gotham City High’s main office. The blond secretary stares openly at his face.

Tim can’t even blame her. He feels like he’s committing a crime for looking like he does, especially since the office is hyper-organized, from the color-coded binders along the back wall to the chairs under the windows equally spaced out to the inch.

The way a copious number of band-aids are callously slapped on his cheek in a disrespectful imitation of first aid doesn’t feel like it has a place here. They cover up the bloodbath his face went through last night at the hands of the Red Hood, but not the purplish tinge under the skin around it.

The rest of him isn’t much better to look at. Shadowy bags hang under his eyes and his neck is mottled purple where Jason’s fingers were. Hidden under his comfy, oversized Gotham State University sweatshirt (that he borrowed from Babs and hasn’t given back) is the damage a night of being unconscious on the floor can do to an untreated messed up shoulder. Not only is his skin around that area very much not his skin color anymore — the bruising practically fuchsia — there’s also a misplaced bony joint that screams in pain any time he tries to move his arm more than an inch.

“Skateboarding accident,” Tim explains, handing the tardy sheet back with his good hand.

Thankfully the secretary looks like she believes him. “Do you… need ice?”

More like a whole doctor, Tim almost jokes, but there’s only a minute before the bell goes off, and he needs to get to sixth period on time for his English presentation.

Even if it’s in direct violation of one of Bruce’s rules — no ignoring injuries.

In all fairness, before coming here, he considered calling Dr. Leslie.

But he was already running late — when he woke up broken, bloodied, and bruised, Tim dazedly checked the time and saw that he had somehow slept through more than half of the school day. There was no way he’d be able to go to Leslie’s and leave by himself after she got one look at his face. She’d most definitely call Bruce to pick him up.

And then Tim would have to explain his failure to Bruce, how he isn’t able to rely on his Robin instincts, all because he thought the Red Hood would be nice to him.

It’s too embarrassing. The pain of his shoulder is more manageable than the pain of letting Batman down.

“What is wrong with you? Why won’t you help us?”

Tim startles at the sudden yell that breaks through his thoughts. It comes from the principal’s private office, a slightly ajar door further back within the main office, slightly muffled but not quiet enough that he can’t make out the words.

“Mrs. Denlinger, please remain calm — ” comes Principal Carver’s voice.

The name is familiar enough to light a match of recognition in Tim’s mind, and he’s eavesdropping before he can help it.

“Don’t tell me what the police have determined. That’s my grandson. That’s my baby. He would never do what those damn cops are suggesting he did.”

“There was a car,” a different voice says, sounding like an old man’s. “We can’t stop thinking about it, that — that car must have belonged to someone who goes here, right, Principal Carver?”

“Well, we handed all the footage we had over to the police. And I’m not going to start another inquiry around this case when it will only upset the students. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“But something happened to him and no one knows, and no one’s willing to help us. Not even the private investigators we’ve hired. They all think it’s a suicide case, but — he wouldn’t — he wouldn’t do that —”

And then there’s no more conversation, just the sound of an old woman’s voice wavering and breaking into heart-wrenching sobs. Even though he never met her when Philmont was around, Tim feels rooted to the ground at the sound of Philmont’s grandmother crying like that, chills rolling down his spine.

The secretary jumps out of her seat and hurries over, pulling the door handle so the door clicks shut, muffling the private conversation that Tim was definitely not supposed to hear. The secretary hesitates, looking at him questioningly.

“So,” she says, like neither of them heard that devastating conversation. “Ice?”

Pulling himself out of the sudden melancholy that’s overtaken him, Tim thinks about the question by sorting his priorities into his favorite two piles.

Things He’d Like To Handle Later, If Not Ever: His injuries — and consequently telling Bruce about getting his butt handed to him by Red Hood in his own bedroom.

Things He’d Like To Handle Now: Getting his English presentation over with. And he doesn’t need ice for that.

So Tim just smiles at the secretary the best he can with his band-aid patch cheek, and says, “No, ma’am. I’ll be fine.”

~~~

Tim’s heart is racing. He’s positive his knees are about to buckle. He’s faced literal monsters of Gotham, but right now, none of them compare to this.

“And to summarize,” Tim concludes, just as he practiced with Jason, “acts of evil in Macbeth are underlined by Shakespeare’s choices of atmospheric tension. Thank you.”

A beat of silence, and then a small round of applause ensues from the people who are still aware that they’re in a classroom and not dead to the world. Luckily, the typical low engagement that Friday always brings has kept attention off a.) the gruesome patch of band-aids on Tim’s face, and b.) the fact that Tim hasn’t moved his arm even once.

And more importantly, he’s finally done.

“Excellent work, Timothy,” Mr. Paris says, writing something down on his clipboard, then calls the name of the next student to go.

Hope and relief swell in Tim’s chest, right underneath his boot-shaped bruise.

It’s finally over.

A girl with mousy brown hair looks practically green in the face as she trudges up the aisles. As Tim switches places with her and goes back to his desk, he feels a sense of finality. Sure, his body feels fatigued, like he’s rolling back in from a long night of patrol, and sure, his hands are trembling a little from the lack of breakfast and lunch today, but he also feels a burgeoning sense of confidence, like his presentation was… really good. He can’t remember the last time he felt confident in Mr. Paris’s class.

Plus… excellent work sounds like an A, right?

Maybe Tim’s got a shot at keeping Robin after all.

And yet, as soon as he lowers himself in his seat, he feels someone’s judgment burning a hole into him. At first, Tim looks at Laminated Dollar-Store Poster William Shakespeare.

What? Tim mentally projects at the poster, feeling defensive. I didn’t sully your honor or whatever, so you can just chill out.

Laminated Dollar-Store Poster William Shakespeare stares back at him, as if confused by Tim’s aggression.

And… I am talking to a poster, Tim realizes.

This is why he runs on coffee. It takes Tim another second and a half to identify who really has been staring at him, and when he turns in his seat, he’s thankful that it’s an actual human being — Ives.

“Timothy,” his friend greets in a low voice, his gaze unbreaking as he scans over Tim’s face.

“Sebastian.”

Ives doesn’t even blink at the use of his first name. “So like, were you just not going to tell me that you got into a fight with band-aids and lost?”

Self-consciously, Tim raises a hand to his cheek. “I didn’t get into a fight with band-aids.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Looks like you’re still losing.”

“Hey!” Tim tries to ignore the way his cut skin under the band-aids itch and sting when he makes too strong of an expression. “I, uh. Fell off my skateboard.”

Ives just looks at him like he’d be more willing to accept Monopoly money as authentic USD than whatever Tim just said as the truth, and Tim can’t even blame him. He doesn’t normally show up to school looking so terrible. But what can he say? Yeah, so a crime lord broke into my bedroom last night and helped me with my presentation and then pushed my face into a broken coffee mug, and that’s not even the worst of it.

Tim shifts in his seat uncomfortably. He’s definitely going to have to call Alfred as soon as class lets out. His shoulder, even with the same-side arm tucked against him under his GSU hoodie, is starting to kill him a little.

“Lillian, I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you there,” says Mr. Paris from the front of the class, interrupting the presentation. “You’re presenting on the wrong play.”

The girl, Lillian, looks confused. “Wasn’t this… supposed to be Romeo and Juliet?”

“We’re actually doing Macbeth this unit. I’ll have to dock quite a few points, I’m afraid.”

Lillian’s face has gone red. She mumbles an apology and trudges back to her seat. Tim winces — that’s gotta hurt. Ives doesn’t seem to be paying any attention, though, as he leans towards Tim’s desk.

“So, dude,” he says, “what happened?”

“It was just a freak accident, Ives. I’m seriously fine.”

Ives opens his mouth as if to argue, but then the next presentation begins. All throughout it, however, Tim can feel his friend glancing at him disbelievingly. The moment the last presentation wraps up, Ives leans over to Tim again.

“Some freak accident, I’m sure. Those cuts look like they hurt, Drake.”

“I was clumsy,” Tim tries.

“Yeah, alright, but I’ve seen you in gym. You’re not clumsy.”

Tim blinks rapidly, feeling the itching under the band-aids again, the hot thrum of pain in his shoulder, and the incessant questions from Ives. Irritation pricks at him from all angles, and for a moment he thinks he’s going to snap, because telling Ives to shut up right now would be satisfying— but he stops himself. Ives isn’t normally so inquisitive, and there’s probably a reason.

Glancing at his friend’s face, Tim sees something heavy and worried there. He feels a little bad, then, for thinking only about himself.

“I’m fine,” Tim says, feeling his irritation leave him just as swiftly as it came. “Sorry, I know I probably look awful, but I really am okay, dude. I just did a stupid thing last night.”

Hearing this, Ives’s shoulders drop in slight relief.

“Man, no. It’s my bad.” Ives swallows and stares at his shoes. “I just don’t want to miss all the signs of something being wrong, like I did with Philmont.”

Tim’s not getting the wind knocked out of him by being slammed into the floor by a pit-crazy crime lord, but somehow Ives’s words drive home a similar effect. Upon hearing Philmont’s name aloud, even among the idle chatter of the classroom, a chill passes him and he’s reminded of Mr. and Mrs. Denlinger’s absolutely shattered voices in the main office.

“No, I’m not — this isn’t — I didn’t do this,” Tim sputters stupidly, pointing at his face.

“Yeah, I believe you,” Ives says quietly. “Sorry for freaking out.” A pause, and then he says, “It’s just ‘cause it sucks, y’know? I didn’t know him that well but… still. I’m overthinking everything now. I’m a freak.”

“You’re not,” Tim says, and for once he doesn’t have to lie about this. “And you’re not missing any signs, Ives. I promise.”

The bell rings, and as the class clamors to get out for the weekend, Ives scratches the back of his head, smiling sheepishly and looking embarrassed.

“Well, that took a dark turn,” he jokes. “Want to talk about literally anything else on the way to the bus stop?”

Tim can’t agree more. But when he stands with his backpack over his good shoulder, he feels someone looking at him.

Just in time, he spots Mr. Paris’s eyes darting away, looking back to his desk computer. Mr. Paris’s fingers fly over the keyboard. Unease crawls across Tim’s skin, but his gaze falls on the clipboard Mr. Paris had been writing on, and he sees a freshly graded stack of presentation rubrics.

“Actually, go ahead without me,” Tim tells Ives. “I have to check something.”

As Ives and the rest of the students empty out, Tim walks up to the front of the classroom.

“Timothy,” Mr. Paris greets. “How may I help you?”

Tim tries to steady his nerves. “Could I ask what grade I got?”

Mr. Paris gives him a close-lipped smile and picks up a rubric from the top of a stack to hand over. “I thought you might be curious. Here you are.”

Tim takes the rubric with hands that are thankfully steady and not vibrating with anticipation. This should be it. This should be the A he needs. He holds his breath, and looks down, and —

In red ink, a big fat F marks the page.

“I — I don’t understand,” Tim says, looking the rubric over to see if he’s missed anything. “I didn’t pass?”

His gaze skims over to the next rubric in the pile, which has a C. Tim sees the name and blanches. Lillian got a better score than him? How could that be? She was cut off in the middle for talking about the wrong play!

“I’m afraid your examples and explanations were a touch too…” Mr. Paris’s forehead wrinkles in thought. “Derivative.”

Of course it is. If Tim wasn’t so shocked, he would be struggling to not roll his eyes at the overused word.

“But I followed the rubric,” he says, trying to keep calm. “The rubric said to use examples from the play to support the themes I saw, and I — I did.”

“I know it’s hard to hear, Timothy,” Mr. Paris says, and turns his computer monitor slightly to show Tim a spreadsheet of assignments and everyone’s grades in the class. He scrolls down to Tim’s name, and types in the presentation grade. Across the row, Tim’s final grade re-calculates with the new input.

Tim’s stomach sinks like a bag of rocks at the sight.

“But the truth is, your presentation just wasn’t up to the mark. It seems as though your overall grade for this semester will be an F as well.”

Tim can’t remember how to breathe for a second.

He’s going to lose Robin.

And then — and then he’ll lose Bruce. And Alfred and Ace and Dick and Babs — without Robin, he’ll just have to spend his days being alone in the Drake Manor.

A strong gust of wind rattles the windows of the classroom.

“Timothy? Are you quite alright?” Tim hears Mr. Paris ask.

Tim’s hand is sweaty on the rubric as he skims through it again. He doesn’t understand. His grade for the presentation should have been at least a B, if not an A. He’d done a good job. Jason practically promised him that, and — and —

Memories of last night flash in Tim’s mind.

Deadly green eyes hovering over him. The barrel of a gun dancing on his skin. Fear finally curling in his chest.

Tim never should have trusted Jason.

Of course the Red Hood wouldn’t want to do favors for someone who had taken his place. He’s probably out there somewhere, laughing at him.

Bitterness leaks into Tim and prickles under his skin as the classroom turns gray around him.

He tried so hard and for nothing.

There’s a hand on Tim’s shoulder then — thankfully not his bad one — and he hears a voice talking to him. He blinks up at the concerned face of Mr. Paris, who’s halfway to standing out of his seat.

“If you’re not feeling well, allow me to escort you to the nurse’s office,” Mr. Paris offers.

Tim shakes his head, taking a step back. He forces himself to say, “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

Mr. Paris lowers his hand, but doesn’t sit back down. “Alright. You’re right.” But instead of dismissing Tim from the classroom to his Robin-less fate, Mr. Paris says, “You know, I really thought you would come to me for extra credit earlier. They always do that.”

“They?”

“You’re not the only one who has struggled in my class,” Mr. Paris says with an understanding smile. “But you never asked for that, or any make-up assignments after a low grade.”

Tim feels a brand new weight crushing his chest. He’d never given thought to doing extra schoolwork. Not when he had so much to do as Robin. And what good is it for Mr. Paris to bring this up now, when it’s too late?

“I never knew I could do that.”

There’s a pause, then Mr. Paris clears his throat. “Well, since you did make an effort this time, I think I can make an exception and offer you that extra credit now to boost your grade to passing.”

Tim blinks out of his stupor as the words register.

Mr. Paris checks his watch. “However, I do have a car servicing appointment I can’t afford to miss. How about you come along with me? I’ll make the extra credit an oral assessment regarding Macbeth. Is that something you would be interested in?”

Tim can’t believe his ears.

“I’ll give you a ride home afterwards,” Mr. Paris adds, as if Tim’s worried about that.

It’s not like Tim has anything to lose. His grade can’t get lower, can it? His arm is kind of starting to hurt, but this is a golden opportunity.

His last chance.

“I’d be interested,” he says.

~~~

It’s an about-to-storm kind of afternoon when Tim steps outside. The clouds are so gray that the streetlamps are on earlier than normal, casting them in a sickly yellow light.

“We’re right here.”

Mr. Paris’s car waits for them in the teacher’s parking lot, one of the remaining few. Mostly everyone has left the school by now, which isn’t a surprise to see. Little else can desert a high school like a Friday.

Dead leaves crunch under Tim’s sneakers as he follows the teacher to a white, spotless SUV parked behind the dumpsters. The wheels are muddy, but the body of the car is a crisp, fresh white. Something about that strikes Tim as odd, but he doesn’t linger on the fact as Mr. Paris unlocks the car with a click.

“Hop on in,” Mr. Paris invites, sinking into the driver’s seat.

Tim takes off his backpack and slides into the passenger seat, shutting the door behind him. He’s met with the smell of dust — so different from the fresh and warm aroma that perpetually fills the Wayne Manor kitchen. As he clicks in the seat buckle, he sees a short strand of hair, the color of copper, an entire shade lighter than Mr. Paris’s dark brown.

Over his shoulder, Tim checks out the worn-in seats. “Do you have kids?”

“Ah, no,” Mr. Paris chuckles as the engine roars to life. “It’s just me.”

They pull out into the main street. In the side mirror, Tim watches Gotham City High School shrink behind them, its silhouette easily mixing into the fog of the dark afternoon. Then, a few droplets start to hit the windshield.

“Ah, a storm. Gotham sure likes to look dramatic, huh? Especially in the autumn. You’d think it was Halloween every day.” Laughing at his own words, Mr. Paris looks over at Tim. “You’re going to have to remind me where you live, Timothy. Bristol, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Excellent, just checking. I think I read in the paper something about your parents — they’re archaeologists, right? Must be fascinating. I imagine all that traveling is what makes it difficult to come to Parent-Teacher nights. They must be traveling even right now?”

Outside, the wind starts to pick up. Tim spots a newspaper getting stuck in a drain, and a few birds frantically flying through the heavy drizzle in search of shelter.

“Yeah.” Tim feels a little rude for his one-word answers, but for some reason he can’t tap into his Timothy Drake gala persona. Not with his aching arm, or the stress of the last few days. Besides, Mr. Paris might be talkative, but weirdly enough it’s a lot easier to talk to taciturn Bruce. Tim can’t put his finger on it, but something about Mr. Paris feels disingenuous.

Despite Tim’s lacking conversation skills, Mr. Paris’s knuckles on the car’s steering wheel loosen a fraction, as if put at ease by Tim’s answer. When they get to an intersection with the Wayne Botanical Garden on one side, Mr. Paris takes a turn off into the other side, towards the dark looming trees on the southward road.

“So, Macbeth. Let’s get started, shall we? First question. What is the author’s purpose?”

Tim straightens in his seat, taking a deep breath. Okay, author’s purpose. Last night before he went all green-eyed death on him, Jason talked about this.

“Caution,” Tim says. “He wanted to tell a tale and amuse the audience, obviously, but this story’s a story of caution.”

“Expand on that.”

Tim shifts in his seat, cradling his bad arm. “I mean… Shakespeare wrote Macbeth as a tribute to the king of England back then, you know, in the seventeenth century. So… the general idea is that not only is killing is super bad, but killing monarchs is downright evil. When Macbeth does that, he’s consumed by guilt and dies. So there’s like this moral that the narrative supports, like ‘hey, this is what happens to people who try to kill-slash-overthrow royalty.’ We sympathized with him, so it hits harder.”

Tim can’t help but feel proud of himself a little. Jason was so much better at articulating the same thing, but at least Tim got the gist of it, right?

“Well put, Timothy. That’s a bit too common of a takeaway, though.”

Tim tenses. “Is… it wrong?”

“It’s just a tad bit derivative,” Mr. Paris says. By now the rain has started to come down in a steady pour. Droplets bleed down the windows. “I like uncommon interpretations. For example, had Macbeth not given into useless feelings of guilt, he would have stayed a king and kept the power he had gained. The author’s purpose might as well be that one should never do anything halfway in the pursuit of desire.”

“Oh.” Tim thinks about that. Jason’s opinionated rants about Macbeth last night must have rubbed off on him, because then he adds, “I don’t think that’s what William Shakespeare really meant, though.”

Mr. Paris just laughs. “I suppose that’s what makes us different.”

The car slows, and then comes to a stop on the road. Tim looks out the window to see that they’re smack-dab in the middle of the woods. He can’t see any street lights. In fact, as he observes how the ground they’re on disappears down into a steep ravine on his side, he’s not sure they’re even on a proper road.

“Why did we stop?” Tim asks warily.

Mr. Paris doesn’t answer.

The trees above them sway viciously in the wind, their leaves looking like diamond-shaped shadows as they fall into the ravine. Over the ever-growing rainstorm pouring against the car, Tim can hear thunder rumble warningly in the distance. Suspicion pools in his chest. He doesn’t like this. Something feels off, though he can’t exactly pinpoint what.

“Congratulations, Timothy. You pass. I’ll be sure to bring your final grade up to an A for the report cards this semester.”

Tim’s head swivels towards Mr. Paris.

“Really?” he asks in surprise. Then he pauses. “Just like that?”

Because that was only one question, and according to Mr. Paris, he didn’t even answer it right. Is that normal, just one question and suddenly Tim’s failing grade is now an A?

He doesn’t have time to ponder on that, though.

Because in the next moment, Mr. Paris reaches across the car and his cold fingers curl around Tim’s throat.

Outside, the wind howls.

The raindrops bear down like bullets against the car hood.

And a crack of lightning that stretches across the sky reveals, just for a moment, the face of Mr. Paris. Emotionless eyes, but a small, sadistic smile that grows ever so slightly wider at Tim’s shocked stare. The fingers dig in deeper around his neck.

This isn’t happening, Tim thinks. This can’t be real, right?

“Just like that,” Mr Paris exhales.

And then Tim’s in Robin mode, grabbing at Mr. Paris’s wrist, his mind racing with the newest realization that his English teacher is trying to kill him. Why is his English teacher trying to kill him?

“I was going to drive by Finger River and do this there,” Mr. Paris says, his eyes dark and lazy as he pushes further off the driver’s seat to press his weight on Tim. “But this spot is perfect. And I’ve surprised you to boot, so the kill will be just as pleasurable.”

With his good arm, Tim pushes at the other man’s chest, trying to keep the weight off his body, even though it’s his neck that’s getting most of the pressure. His torso throbs, shooting pain across his stomach and back as a reminder as to what Hood did to him. Tim struggles to move his other arm to pry the fingers off his neck, but it’s like dead weight with the shoulder injury.

“Paris,” he spits out. “What… are you… doing?”

“Pursuing desire. Oh, not like that,” Mr. Paris says, noting Tim’s look of disgust. “It’s purely innocent. I get an excellent high when I kill people.”

Tim might not be made for English Lit, but if there was a class on dissecting villain speeches, he would be the top student. Because suddenly it’s like all the stress of Bruce and Robin and his grades clear right out of Tim’s brain, allowing him finally to connect the dots like the detective he’s supposed to be.

The consistently low grades, even when they didn’t make sense.

The lure of extra credit into Mr. Paris’s vehicle.

The freshly repainted SUV.

The ginger hair on the seat.

“It was you,” Tim chokes out. “He got in your car… back in September.” And then Tim speaks the new, horrifying realization aloud. “You… killed… Philmont Denlinger.”

“Oh,” Mr. Paris says, tilting his head in consideration, as if they were still just talking about Macbeth. “I’ll give you partial credit on that one. You wouldn’t know, but I only get that unique sensation of pleasure when I’ve done a clean kill. If there’s people who are looking for the person gone missing, it messes with my high. So normally I go for… the nobodies of Gotham, if you will. And Philmont… well, I miscalculated.” Mr. Paris looks almost embarrassed as he compresses Tim’s windpipe. “I thought he was a perfect choice — he doesn’t have parents or that many friends. I thought there would be no one to look for him after leaving some evidence to suggest a suicide, but those pesky grandparents of his sticking up those goddamn flyers got in the way of that. Killing him wouldn’t have been a good high. Complete waste of a good kidnapping.”

Tim can’t breathe — both because he’s being strangled for the second time in less than twenty-four hours and also because there’s a chance that Philmont’s… alive.

And if Philmont’s alive, then he needs to be saved from wherever this monster’s been keeping him.

So Tim punches his good hand out, jabbing the older man in the eyes. Mr. Paris pulls back with a pained grunt, disoriented for once. Sucking in lungfuls of air, Tim grabs at his seatbelt to unbuckle and fight, but it doesn’t click open.

Blinking and squinting, Mr. Paris still manages to gloat, “I made sure it would jam so you wouldn’t get away. An excellent idea, wasn’t it?”

Tim leaves the jammed seatbelt and snaps his leg at Mr. Paris’s crotch. The impact hits, and the man keens over. The entire car rocks with the sudden motion, creaking along with the sound of rain. Tim reaches for his phone in his pocket, but his fingers meet only fabric. He looks around frantically and sees it by his shoe. He must have dropped it in the struggle. He moves to grab it — except there’s a searing pain that makes him groan, and oh right, his shoulder — and then Mr. Paris is back, wincing but reaching out his bony hands again.

“It’s alright. I’ve had my fair share of difficult students before,” Mr. Paris says calmly, and grabs both of Tim’s wrists, pinning them above his head.

White hot pain licks up Tim’s arm, and the way it tears through his chest makes him cry out. He can barely think in the next moments, can barely breathe as Mr. Paris straddles him to push the seat back. Tim’s Robin instinct rages, urging him to push up with his hips with enough force and yank his arms down to shake the enemy off like he’d done on the training mats dozens of times. But Tim can’t move past the agonizing pain he’s in.

“There’s no need for dramatics. I’m just trying to kill you.” Tim cries out again when Mr. Paris inadvertently jostles his bad arm. Mr. Paris sighs, looking bored. “Are you quite done?”

Tim can’t answer him. His entire torso feels like someone’s stabbed through it and set it on fire, all from his dislocated shoulder being yanked around.

There’s a moment of pause, and then Tim feels his GSU hoodie being tugged upward from his stomach, his wrists still pinned. Tim sees red. He doesn’t want Mr. Paris touching the hoodie Babs gave him. The violation makes Tim attempt to kick the man off, but his legs are trapped, too.

“Ah,” he hears Mr. Paris say. “You’re injured.”

His sweatshirt is released.

“You really are perfect,” Mr. Paris comments, hand returning to Tim’s neck and fingers digging in. “With your parents consistently gone, you not being part of any school extracurriculars, the way you barely have any friends.” His smile grows, as if tasting something delicious. “No one will even notice your disappearance. Killing you will be the best high I’ve had all year. I wish I could pay you back for the pleasure you’re about to give me.”

Mr. Paris presses down, getting more comfortable. Tim coughs, and coughs, and sucks in air that won’t come in anymore. There’s a slight shift again — as if the car wheels are sliding under the mud and dirt of the forest grounds.

A flicker of an idea comes to life in Tim’s mind. He can almost hear Dick’s big brother voice in his mind, too, telling him that it’s stupid, but he doesn’t have the luxury of time to think of a better one.

With the remaining strength he has, Tim lifts a leg that Mr. Paris isn’t putting enough weight on to trap, straining his torso, and shoves his shoe against the gearshift from Park to Reverse.

“What — ” Mr. Paris gasps, but doesn’t have time to say anything else.

Creeeeaaaak.

Gravity pulls at everything inside as the car begins to roll down, clearly at an angle that isn’t the way they came because they’re rushing down the steep ravine. As they pick up speed, branches and twigs whack against the side. Rocks bounce off the windows, leaving spiderweb cracks behind.

Then the bumper hits something too hard and too fast — maybe a fallen tree trunk — and they flip.

For a moment, Tim’s weightless.

Then they come crashing down.

Tim feels his body move towards the windshield, his head jerking with the movements, but the seatbelt he’s stuck in pulls him backwards. Everything else moves around Tim — flying up — down — and sideways — glass shattering, water spraying against his face, a scream that might be his own — and then everything is still and dark.

A second passes.

Maybe a minute.

Tim feels something trickle up his temple. He’s bleeding. But why is it going up — oh.

The car is upside down. In the dim light of his phone smushed somewhere between his head and a deployed airbag, Tim can see no one else is in the car with him. As his eyes adjust to the dark, through the broken windshield, he sees the limp form of Mr. Paris lying face-down in the dead leaves.

Tim stares, unsure if it’s a trick of the moonlight that Mr. Paris isn’t killing him. That his plan worked so perfectly that he’s not dead. But judging by the way his heartbeat slams in his chest, practically drowning out the gentle shushing of the rain, he’s definitely alive. Gulping in air, Tim reaches a shaking hand towards a large piece of glass near his head and uses it to carefully slice through his jammed seatbelt. He feels it rip, and his body sags down in freedom, towards the door that’s been cracked open. His limbs feel numb as he fumbles out of the rest of the belt and crawls out.

Rain pours down on Tim with dedication, soaking him to the bone. He drags himself, somehow, to a tree stump far from Mr. Paris, and leans against it, his heartbeat going from hard-hitting to thready in a matter of seconds. Everything keeps spinning around him, so he closes his eyes.

No, stay awake, Tim thinks. You have to call Bruce. Batman. You have something important to tell him.

At least, he thinks he does. What was it? Something about his report card?

Report card grade… bad… no, it’s good now, Tim thinks. It’s good now. Because my English teacher tried to kill me. Oh, right.

He can barely stay awake, much less hunt for his phone in the dark, but he has to call Bruce. Tim forces his eyes open and tries to move.

When he hears an unmistakable crunch of wet leaves being flattened by a boot, however, he freezes. Mr. Paris? Or maybe Batman, by some miracle of miracles?

And then Tim catches a whiff of gunpowder. And out of the corner of his eye, against a sliver of moonlight, the red gleam of a mask.

“Hello, Replacement,” the mechanized voice purrs.

It’s not in the least bit comforting.

~~~

It’s the worst possible timing.

To escape one life-threatening situation only to land in another.

Twigs snap with the motion of the new threat coming in Tim’s direction. Hood’s silhouette gets larger with each step he takes through the storm, the water ricocheting off of him in a mist.

Tim’s blood turns cold, which is impressive since he didn’t think the November chill had spared any warmth in him.

“Everyone’s looking for you, baby bird.”

Hood almost sounds mocking, but Tim doesn’t get the punchline. Why is Hood here? What could he possibly be doing here, in the middle of the woods off the side of the road? But then words that he said last night come rushing back to Tim all of a sudden, as obvious and apparent as the icy cold raindrops rolling down his neck and into his hoodie.

Look, just beat me up tomorrow. I won’t even fight back, promise, he said to Jason last time they met.

There’s potential here for a really good joke about Past Tim and Future Tim, but fear has paralyzed him. Tim can’t think of anything other than that Hood’s here to finish last night’s job, run Tim run run run —

Another crunch of leaves. Hood keeps coming closer.

“Don’t! P-please don’t,” Tim pleads, his voice croaky. His body hurts so much.

Hood crouches down.

Tim flinches so badly that it draws a weak cry from him as pain licks up his shoulder. He can’t bring himself to scoot away, much less run. Fighting isn’t even an option. Tumbling down a ravine in a car will mess you up too much for that, apparently.

One of Hood’s gloved hands reaches out slowly. “Hey.”

I’m going to die, Tim thinks hysterically, and out of nowhere his brain tacks on, And Mom and Dad won’t even know.

No wonder Mr. Paris thought he was an easy target.

“No,” he gasps out, but Hood grabs his good arm — and for a split second, Tim fears the crime lord’s going to mess this one up, too. His right shoulder hurts so bad already, he can’t imagine twice the pain. Panic flares through him. “Nononopleaseno — !”

But instead of being roughly slammed into the ground, he’s maneuvered gently to his feet. He sways slightly from the head rush, but Hood doesn’t move away. Before Tim even realizes that he’s leaning forward, the side of his face comes to rest against the red bat symbol on Hood’s chest. It’s sturdy.

“Good job,” he hears Hood say, as if standing up is deserving of praise. Weirdly, the words lack sarcasm.

All at once Tim remembers Mr. Paris’s kind-facing comments, too, as he tried to kill him. Tim twitches violently, stumbling backwards, raising his hand to shield his neck.

“Replacement,” Hood growls. His voice isn’t modulated, and when Tim glances up, he sees Hood’s taken the helmet off, scowling at him in frustration. “Replacement. Hey, look at me.”

Tim doesn’t want to look at him.

He wants to be left alone.

Except… that isn’t exactly true. Right now Tim wants to be in one of the Wayne Manor sitting rooms near the fireplace under a soft, thick quilt, playing a game of chess with Alfred while the clamor of Dick and Babs and Ace and Bruce spill from nearby, the scent of their collective crime — burnt chocolate chip cookies — waft in the air. Last year, Bruce had invited Tim to spend the holidays in Wayne Manor, since his parents had spontaneously decided to extend their Hawaii trip. For the first time in forever, Tim had spent a holiday break with all his favorite people. It was magical.

Something other than rain and blood trickles down Tim’s cheek at the thought that he won’t get that again.

“Kid,” he hears Hood say, sounding tense, like he’s worried about him. “Kid, you with me? Baby bird.”

This isn’t fair. Jason can’t be — Hood can’t be using that tone of voice with him, the nice voice. Memories of Robin buying him ice cream clash with the memory of getting his face smashed into broken ceramic shards.

It’s all a trap.

Tim shudders and takes a shaky step backwards. “Don’t come closer.”

“Yeah, make demands. See how that works for you when you’re left to catch your death,” Hood retorts calmly, but to his credit, he doesn’t move. “Do you even know how worried B is right now?”

Is Hood… taunting him? Is he going to kill him while scolding him on how bad of a Robin he is?

“I didn’t mean to worry him,” Tim mumbles. It’s the truth.

Hood barks out a laugh. “Then it’s mission fail, baby bird. Massively. You didn’t check in, and, from the looks of it, totaled a car. Congratulations.”

Tim doesn’t dare lower his arm for fear of getting the full-force impact of whatever lethal move Hood’s planning to launch. It’s weird because Hood doesn’t need to distract him to get the upper hand, not with the condition that Tim’s in. But Hood just keeps talking.

“More to the fucking point, what were you even thinking.” Hood’s words are tight. It’s almost as if he’s keeping his anger at bay. “Taking a car out for a joyride and then crashing it? Did living in that abandoned museum erode your brain? I heard your parents are deadbeats, but is this really the best way to get their attention?”

Tim blinks, trying to keep up, not even stung by the quip about his parents. Joyriding… what?

“Or,” Hood snarls, “Is this some way to get B’s? What, is gallivanting around to play the light to his shadow not enough for you? Because trust me, baby bird, sometimes you just can’t get his attention — even if you’re in a warehouse set to explode.”

Tim blinks. He looks at the car, and then back at Hood, and it dawns on him suddenly how this situation looks without any context.

“Oh. No. No, Hood — it wasn’t me. I mean, I did make it flip, but this — this isn’t my car.”

Hood stares at him, flabbergasted. “That’s even worse.”

Then there’s a groaning noise from the car wreck behind them. Tim turns and sees, through the smoke billowing out of the car, Mr. Paris stirs from where he lies in the leaves and grass.

Hood must see Mr. Paris, too, because he says, “What the fuck?”

“Homicidal English teacher,” Tim blurts, frantic now to report everything before his teeth chatter too hard to form words or he just blacks out — whichever happens first. “Kidnapped me but he’s a previous offender, he’s got my classmate Philmont Denlinger, um, a potential survivor — somewhere. He got his car spray-painted white so no one would match it to the vehicle Philmont got in. We gotta tell B.”

As Tim talks, realization seems to dawn on Hood.

His green eyes become calculating, as if rereading the whole scene before him — the crashed car, the muddy slope of the ravine, the teacher.

“Did this guy — ” Hood starts to mutter, but doesn’t finish his sentence, because at that moment, Mr. Paris groans again, and starts to get up.

Tim stumbles away in shock, almost falling, but Hood’s arm shoots out to steady him. It’s funny — yesterday Mr. Paris was a regular, run-of-the-mill teacher with a penchant for giving Tim bad grades. But now Tim sees him as a terrifying predator he doesn’t want to be anywhere around, even as Robin.

“Did this guy touch you?”

“He just wanted to kill me. I think… I think he gets off on it?”

To his horror, the crime lord’s eyes glow green and his grip tightens, tucking Tim into his side. Tim honest-to-goodness squeaks. He’d be more embarrassed about that noise in any other situation, but something about being injured and surviving a car crash and being on the verge of pneumonia and having a crime lord’s eyes full of intent to murder you can reorder your priorities. After all, it’s not like Mr. Paris and Hood have different goals — they both want Tim dead. Did he somehow accidentally give Hood more inspiration or something?

“No — no, Hood, don’t do this —”

“Shut up, Replacement. You have no idea how much restraint I’m showing. I’d put a bullet through that bastard’s head if it didn’t mean losing valuable intel on where your missing classmate is, but if I wait much longer for backup, you’ll keel over and I’ll look like the bad guy.”

Maybe the dizziness and fatigue and mind-numbing pain is tampering with his deductive skills a little, but Tim doesn’t get what Hood’s saying. Or why Tim’s still alive and not murdered yet. If… if Hood doesn’t want to look like the ‘bad guy’, maybe… maybe he wants Mr. Paris to kill Tim instead?

It makes sense — pinning Tim’s death on someone else would make dinners in the Wayne Manor less awkward. If Hood ever cares to join. He probably will, after Tim’s out of the picture, right?

But Tim’s selfish, and if there’s one thing he can’t bear right now, it’s to be given back to that monster. He chokes on his tears, his face bumping into Hood’s arm, unable to maintain his own balance. His voice is hoarse but he hopes Hood can hear him past the roar of the rain pouring down on them.

“Please, Hood, don’t let Paris — don’t let him kill me,” he begs, his nose rubbing against the Kevlar against Hood’s bicep. “I’d — I’d rather have you do it. I want you, not him.”

Silence.

And then, Hood’s saying “What the fuck?” for the second time that night, and all Tim can hear is ringing in his ears.

It’s too cold, much too cold. He can’t feel his limbs that well anymore, but at least the pain that he was in moments ago feels far away. Everything feels far away. Someone’s saying his name, calling him, but all Tim can do is shudder, even as the green eyes seep into him, a hand rubbing at his back.

Tim’s so out of it he mumbles, “Jason?”

But Hood doesn’t kill him. Or at least, Tim doesn’t think he does. He could be imagining the “Yeah, baby bird. It’s me, but you gotta stay awake, okay? You gotta — shit, Tim, breathe, shh, shh —” coming from somewhere around him, but he can’t feel anything anymore, and the edges of his vision have gotten fuzzier. Everything was already dark, but now it’s all going away, like Tim’s falling into a basket of feathers. Feathers… feathers are good. At least… if he’s far away, it won’t hurt anymore.

He thinks he hears Jason swearing some more.

Tim hears someone sobbing. It might be him. He’s going to die, after all.

He feels his body go numb out of courtesy.

Chapter Text

Midnight is a blur of images that keep changing each time Tim blinks.

The woods, draped in moonlight and mist and metal and blood. Blink. The leather seat of a motorbike and the speeding pavement under his shoes. Blink. Lamppost lights between the black railings of a fire escape. Blink. A coffee table, doused in a soft golden glow.

The next time Tim blinks, the coffee table doesn’t go away.

It has a slight gloss over its wooden finish, and reflecting off of its surface, a TV screen on the wall above it. Gradually, sound filters back into Tim’s senses. Over the heavy rain outside and a nearby rumble of a laundry machine, Tim picks up on the voice of a news anchor from the speakers.

“…earlier tonight, a high-schooler, believed to have committed suicide by the community, was found and rescued by Batgirl and Nightwing from his teacher’s attic, where he was being held captive for several weeks. The victim is reported to be extremely malnourished, but alive, and recovering at Gotham General Hospital.”

Philmont, Tim recognizes, a flicker of relief curling somewhere in his numb chest. He tries to turn his head towards the TV to see it better, but someone with broad shoulders blocks his vision. It’s probably for the best - his head is too heavy, and the lights are all too bright.

A hand takes his chin and gently pushes it back so that Tim’s looking at the ceiling. “Your classmate’s fine, baby bird.”

Tim sags in relief, letting his eyes close and the hand graze at his forehead.

“The teacher in question, Pied Paris, a recent Gotham City High School hire, has been arrested for kidnapping and past allegations of murder,” the news anchor goes on. “He was found a few hours ago brutally beaten in the woods of west Gotham, after flipping his vehicle down a muddy incline. The mysterious circumstances that he was found in are being investigated by the GCPD, as his injuries are allegedly more severe than the vehicle incident would have caused. Furthermore, police are investigating all of Paris’s past crimes, and the possibility of the latest victim, another high-school student from Gotham City High who was last seen on security footage entering Paris’s vehicle today afternoon. And now, back to Cindy for weather.”

Tim must be dreaming.

Philmont found alive and Mr. Paris arrested? Could the case really be closed?

Tim’s still too numb and drowsy with sleep to finely control any of his heavy limbs — but he feels himself tremble, like leftover adrenaline wearing off.

As if in concern, the TV’s switched off.

At his forehead where the hand still is, Tim finally feels a sensation of tightness there, the same spot where he’d gotten cut during the car tumble. When the person moves away with a satisfied sigh, Tim clumsily raises his right arm up, intending to feel the cut for himself — only to groan as his shoulder throbs in protest.

Oh, right. Bad shoulder.

“Shit, don’t do that,” the voice says, and something like a sling across Tim’s chest is adjusted. “I popped your shoulder back in when you were sleeping, kid. Don’t mess it up before it heals.”

“Oh.” That explains why he’s not in constant agonizing pain anymore. Tim manages to part his lips to croak, “Thank you.”

There’s a pause.

“Friendly reminder that I did that to you, Replacement.”

Tim’s mind sharpens as soon as he hears the nickname. His eyes snap open in disbelief.

Because this is Jason.

Of course this is Jason.

Hood, Tim corrects silently. But when he turns his head again — this time with less difficulty than before — the older boy sitting there couldn’t be more different than the crime lord that Tim fears.

Most of his armor has been tossed aside, and his helmet is gone, but what catches Tim by surprise is that his domino is off. Jason looks younger like this, without the mask. He sits on an ottoman right by the sofa arm Tim’s head is pillowed on, hunched over the side table that holds an array of medical equipment. Instead of screaming for his life, Tim finds himself noticing a suture kit. Raising his uninjured arm this time, he feels for the wound on the side of his head.

“Eleven stitches from your little car stunt,” Jason grumbles. “Took me forever. Fucking needles.”

On the other side of his face, Tim’s thumb brushes over something. His fingers explore his skin but instead of the messy splotch of band-aids, he feels neat lines of butterfly tape over his sliced-up cheek from the coffee mug.

Instead of an explanation, Jason orders, “Don’t touch. I don’t want to redo them.”

Tim drops his hand, immediately taking inventory of the rest of his body. Lifting up a soft red blanket draped over him, he sees that under his arm neatly done in a sling across his chest, he’s missing his hoodie and shirt. He doesn’t really care about the shirt — a luxury piece his mother bought for him from France that cost too much money for no reason — but his heart picks up a beat at not knowing where Babs’s hoodie is. The idea of losing it doesn’t sit right with him.

Then, the distinct scent of bruise ointment reaches Tim’s nose, just like every post-patrol battle in the Batcave. Tim can even smell hot chocolate from somewhere. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Alfred is nearby.

But Alfred isn’t here.

Jason is.

The blanket slips out of Tim’s fingers in surprise.

Back in the woods, he was certain he was going to die. But now he’s… getting personally attended to by the crime lord? Tim glances over with his breath caught in his lungs, as if taking in air will be the thing that shatters this weird illusion.

But there’s no sudden explosion of anger, no attack. Just Jason, quietly packing up the medkit and rising to his feet, not looking anywhere at Tim as he walks away.

Carefully pushing himself up on his good arm, Tim takes a better look around the place, over the other side of the sofa.

It’s an apartment. The place is small, but neatly decorated in dark gray tones and wood accents. There’s an alcove kitchenette on one end, framed by a bookshelf built into the wall, adjacent to the living room space they’re currently in. Tim can see a sliver of the front door through the kitchen, but there’s another door on the same wall as the TV in the corner, closed shut. A bedroom, probably. Through a window on Tim’s other side, he can see their corner of Gotham getting poured on. Despite the darkness, Tim can instantly discern that they’re somewhere in Crime Alley.

“You’re in my safehouse,” Jason says from the kitchen, pulling something off the stove. “I called Batgirl. Told her about your shitwipe of a teacher before bringing you here. She and Dickwing practically tore his house down and found your classmate.”

Tim looks around again in surprise. Honestly, the books are a dead giveaway that this place is Jason’s, but Tim’s still trying to figure out why he’s not dead. He should be — he was ready to — no.

He wasn’t ready to die, not really. Tim feels like melting in relief — is it possible to feel so much relief? — as he stares at his tended wounds in gratitude.

“Did I — did I pass out?” he dares to ask.

Jason’s back is to him, but the words make his shoulders tense.

“More like you disappeared somewhere in your head.”

Then Jason turns around with a Wonder Woman mug and walks back to the sofa.

Seeing the mug in the Red Hood’s hands, dread claws at Tim like the familiar monster it is. What if he smashes my face into it like last time, Tim thinks for a startling microsecond — but then feels the medical tape over his cuts. In his confusion, he doesn’t hear Jason’s next question clearly.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling his gaze from the mug. “What was the — what was, um. The question?”

“The car.” Jason sets the mug down on the coffee table and crosses his arms. His glare hardens. “Why were you in that guy’s car?”

Tim wonders if he can fake a yawn and go to sleep so he can avoid this conversation. But admitting his stupidity to Jason is slightly less mortifying than admitting it to Bruce, so he forces himself to speak.

“He… he gave me an F on my presentation.” Tim sounds pathetic to his own ears, and it only gets worse with each word. “And then he said he would offer me extra credit points, but he had some appointment to get to, so he said we’d do the extra credit in the car and he’d just drop me off at home.”

In retrospect, Tim knows how stupid he was. He didn’t even trust Mr. Paris. But fear of losing the bats had made him make a call Robin never would have made. Tim finally looks up at Jason, prepared for the lecture of a lifetime on how bad of a Robin he is.

Jason’s gaze is as if Death itself had leisurely walked into the room.

“He gave you an F?”

“Yeah.”

It’s as if Jason’s more livid at that detail than at Tim. “That was a good presentation. What the actual hell?”

“He needed a way to get me in his car,” Tim says with a one-shouldered shrug. “He must have done something similar with Philmont. He picks his targets carefully and then… plays the long game.” For a moment, Tim hedges, wondering how much Jason even wants to hear, but by the way Jason’s listening, eyes narrowed in thought, it’s like they’re no longer a kid and a crime lord. They’re detectives, picking apart a case. “Mr. Paris was going to kill Philmont, after kidnapping him. In the car, he mentioned something about how he only ever kills people who… who no one cares about, basically, if they disappear. And Philmont doesn’t have parents, so I guess that’s why he was a target. But then his grandparents kept looking for him. They put up flyers. They showed up at school to talk to the principal, too. Mr. Paris noticed, and probably didn’t think killing Philmont would be satisfying for him after that.”

“Alright. Guess that explains the kid in the attic.” Jason says, his fingers tapping against his crossed arms in rapid succession, as if they’re missing something to do. Briefly Tim wonders if gun assembly helps Jason think. “So he switched targets. He was grading your assignments low on purpose, wasn’t he. Question is, why was he after you?”

Tim tries to keep a straight face, but he feels his cheeks heating up. His home life is nothing to be embarrassed about, but for some reason Mr. Paris’s words come back to him.

You really are perfect. With your parents consistently gone, you not being part of any school extracurriculars, the way you barely have any friends… no one will even notice your disappearance.

Chilled, Tim finds himself reaching for the mug of hot chocolate after all, to distract himself.

He takes a tiny sip — surprised at how good it tastes — and says, “I guess… he noticed that my parents are usually out of town.”

There’s a beat of silence. Tim doesn’t look up, but he can feel Jason’s eyes on him, contemplating this.

“Huh. I knew I should have killed him instead of leaving him for the GCPD,” Jason finally says thoughtfully, leaning back. “Anyone who disrespects literature is an idiot. You should have been getting straight As in that class.”

Something warm swells in Tim’s heart, making him beam despite his injured cheek.

It catches Jason off-guard. The crime lord just stares at him, and there’s a split second that Tim thinks the older boy’s about to smile back — but then Jason coughs loudly and the moment’s over.

“Okay, Replacement, so here’s what’s going to happen,” Jason snaps, looking at Tim like he’s a worm in his apple. “You’re going to spend the night here since it’s already late, it’s raining like crazy, and you’re in no shape to go anywhere.”

“What?” Tim asks, but Jason steamrolls over him.

“And in the morning, your clothes should be done in the dryer, so you’ll put them on, and then you’re going home. And not home to that abandoned museum, but to Bruce. He’s an idiot, but he takes better care of you than your actual parents. Which isn’t a high bar, but still.”

Bruce’s name hits Tim like a brick to the face. Not that he’s ever gotten bricked to the face — certainly he never plans to — but Tim isn’t sure what else to compare the impact to. Tim’s heart squeezes unexpectedly. It’s only been a day, but it feels as if he hasn’t seen the man in years.

A feeling swells and crashes within him, one he’s never felt even around his own parents.

He wants a hug.

The childish desire surprises Tim — he’s normally just fine curling up with a pillow and blankets when he’s feeling lonely. But Bruce has hugged him before, a swaddle of security, and Tim misses that like he’s a little kid. After the past couple of days he’s been through, he longs for that feeling, of disappearing into the shadows of Batman’s cape on a chilly night. It’s a little overwhelming.

“Also, you should probably get everything looked over again, because I fucking hate needles and Alfred is loads better at this than — ” Jason freezes, his eyes widening in horror at Tim.

And then Tim feels it — a tear rolling down his face.

Tim hastily wipes at it with the back of his hand. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“Here.”

There’s a box of tissues being pushed at Tim. The moment he takes it Jason backs away, but the older boy’s eyes stay on him. Like Tim’s tears are something to worry about. As if Jason’s never personally thrown Tim into a dumpster.

Jason clears his throat. “You hungry at all?”

Tim blinks. “Um. A little?”

And just like that, Jason’s in the kitchen, moving around, turning on the stove. Fifteen minutes later, Tim’s got a bowl of chicken and lentils and a glass of milk in front of him. It’s good. Tim doesn’t realize how hungry he is until he’s made the food disappear. Just as he sets the glass down, neatly folded clothes are dropped onto the sofa.

“Joggers. And a sweatshirt,” Jason mutters, gesturing to the bundle. “They might be too big for you but it’s better than nothing. You better not get sick on top of everything else.”

Tim thinks he might be becoming immune to Jason’s acerbic tongue, because he’s only in awe as he picks up the soft clothes that smell like fresh laundry.

“Thank you.”

Jason pauses in the middle of picking up Tim’s empty dishes, his eyebrows furrowing. “Don’t thank me.”

Tim opens his mouth to protest, but then pauses. Just because Jason’s being nice right now — underneath all the rough edges — doesn’t take away from all the times he’s tried to kill him.

So Tim forces himself to nod.

They’re not friends. They could never be. Jason doesn’t like Tim, and Tim’s not supposed to like Jason. So Tim just slips into the clothes that Jason’s lent him, a bit of a task with one arm in a sling. Outside, the storm goes on — muffled, yet never-ending.

Finally, Jason finishes washing the dishes and starts turning the lights down. He walks over to the closed door and opens it.

“I’ll be in my room,” Jason says dully. “Bathroom’s in the hallway. Don’t mess with your stitches.”

He turns to leave. From the sofa, Tim suddenly scrambles to sit up again.

“Wait, I was wondering something!” Tim says, and Jason stops. “How did you find me?”

Jason gives Tim an incredulous look. “Kid, everyone was looking for you. When you didn’t show up for dinner or answer B’s texts, he sent all the bats out on a Timmy Search Party. Even Agent A.”

“Timmy what party?” Tim all but screeches, horrified. Then he processes that. “Wait, you and Bruce talked?”

Then Tim flinches, because last time he said Bruce’s name aloud to Jason, he was taken to Pain Town.

But Jason’s eyes are void of emotion. “Don’t get too excited, baby bird. I didn’t pick up when Father of the Year called. But then it was Batgirl, then Dickwing, and I got sick of them calling me and freaking out that you’d gotten into a weird car after school and disappeared.” Jason’s shrug forces nonchalance. “So I started looking.”

“Oh,” Tim says, taking in this new information.

“Turns out they were right to freak, given that you were being kidnapped.” Despite his drawl, Jason’s breathing is hard. His chest is rising and falling a little too quickly to be normal. “It’s lucky I even found you. I was investigating the crash more than looking for you, to be honest. And then you asked me to — ”

Jason stops mid-sentence. His hand on the doorknob, Tim notes, is trembling.

“Jason?”

“You better get some sleep,” Jason says hoarsely.

And then the crime lord slips into the other room, closing the door shut with a slam.

~~~

When Tim wakes up to go to the bathroom at the ungodly hour of three in the morning, it’s like he’s using his legs for the first time. His body feels heavy and all his muscles ache. His head spins, begging him to go back to sleep as soon as he can, and Tim plans on doing exactly that — but as he’s washing his left hand in the sink, he sees his reflection in the mirror and has to pause.

Like the prior morning when he woke up, he looks like a mess — a smattering of bruises and cuts litter his skin — but unlike this morning, everything’s tended to.

Everything’s healing.

Turning the bathroom lights off, Tim steps out, feeling snug in Jason’s soft clothes and wanting to hop back under the blanket on the sofa to get even more snug. Through the hallway, he passes his backpack set against a side table, and his phone in the key tray. Tim’s grateful that Jason thought to bring his stuff back with him, but he winces at the crack in his phone screen. Before going to sleep, he’d tried turning it on, but to no avail.

Still, Tim reaches for his broken phone and tries to turn it on again, rubbing his eyes sleepily. The screen stays black.

Tim knows the definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting a different result, but he can’t help it. For some reason, even though it’s deep in the night and Bruce is probably sleeping, Tim wants to text him. He wants to give Bruce an update. He’s not exactly looking forward to the whole case debrief — Bruce is going to be all kinds of disappointed in him for being a sucky Robin — but more so the thing that comes after that. The hair ruffle. The squeeze of a shoulder. If Tim’s really lucky, a pat on the back and a soft grin, “Glad you’re back, chum,” or something else equally dorky that only Bruce would say.

It’s funny. Two days ago he was so determined to solve all his problems himself that he was literally running out of Wayne Manor. Now all Tim wants is to do is run back.

Because if there’s one thing he understands now, it’s that Mr. Paris was wrong.

Tim’s not alone.

He hasn’t been for a while.

Not since he met a kid named Sebastian Ives on the first day of seventh grade, after his parents had unexpectedly departed the country that morning without telling him.

Not since two years ago when he rang Dick Grayson’s doorbell in Bludhaven, a mission on his mind — only to get from the whole ordeal, fussed over, and then, an older brother.

Not since Barbara Gordon saved him from becoming Joker Junior last year, and held him long after the laughing gas wore off, so that he wouldn’t be alone with his terror.

Not since he fell asleep curled up with Ace in front of the fireplace in Bruce’s study, completely protected by the German Shepherd that trusted him implicitly.

Not since Alfred began to fret over his eating habits, inviting him over every evening just to make sure he didn’t go hungry while alone in Drake Manor.

Not since Bruce made him Robin.

Tomorrow, Tim promises himself as he sets the phone back down, his heart aching from missing everyone. I’ll get to see Bruce tomorrow.

Suddenly, there’s a crash from Jason’s room, so aggressive that it rattles the TV on the wall.

Tim jolts, his eyes finding the closed door. He moves to the sofa, grabbing his blanket and looking around rapidly. There’s no good place to hide if Jason loses it again, is there? Just as Tim’s debating whether or not he could fit in one of the kitchen cabinets, there’s another thud, and a garbled scream, cloaked in sleep.

A nightmare.

Understanding dawns on Tim, as well as a sudden rush of concern that he knows he has no business having. Still, before he entirely knows what he’s doing, Tim leaves the sofa to the bedroom door, his knuckles centimeters away from the wood.

“J-Jason?” Tim calls. “You okay?”

Another shout, panicked and wild.

Scared.

Tim could go back to sleep. He could ignore it.

He could.

But Tim’s fingers fumble to open the door, and when they do, his eyes find Jason thrashing in bed, face pale, sweat accumulating on his face like he’s inhaled fear toxin. The pillows are askew, the blanket’s been kicked aside. A lamp’s been pushed off one of the nightstands, and Tim tries not to flinch at the sight of the shards on the floor.

Just give up on him, Tim hears his logical side tell him as he hesitates for a second. Let him suffer. That’s what he did to you, didn’t he?

A logical reasoning is always steadfast in detective work, but instead, Tim trusts his gut on this one as he stumbles towards Jason, reaching out to shake the older boy with his good hand.

“Jason, wake up! It’s not real!”

There’s a loud crack of thunder from outside, and Jason’s eyes snap open, green and glowing and terrifyingly haunted. Tim falls back against the wall, his heart pounding as Jason’s gaze lands on him.

Tim feels as though he’s been pinned to the wall with knives, the way he can’t move.

But then, slowly — through winces, as if he’s fighting off a migraine — Jason blinks away the Pit from his eyes. The eerie gleam is gone when he looks up at Tim again, but Tim still holds himself back, unsure.

And then Jason croaks, “Tim. What are you —?”

“You had a nightmare,” Tim whispers, not daring to be louder. “Are you… good?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Jason looks around at the scattered room, and runs a hand through his hair. His shoulders sag, accompanied with a heavy exhalation. Tim echoes him, but he’s not prepared when Jason’s expression ices over.

“What the hell were you thinking, coming into my room?” Jason’s voice is hard.

Tim flinches. “I was worried.”

Jason doesn’t miss a beat. “About me.”

“I — I guess so, yeah. Is that weird?”

Jason stares at him. “Of course it’s weird. Aren’t you scared of me?”

Tim feels belittled. “I don’t think that matters right now,” he says.

“Sure it doesn’t, Replacement.” Jason’s voice sharpens despite being thick with sleep. He rubs his face in frustration, a scowl on his lips. “What is the old man teaching you? How to fly into the mouth of a beast? How to throw yourself at the enemy for the sake of a ‘greater good’? How to die for him?”

“No, this isn’t — I can think for myself, you know,” Tim retorts. “I’m not a robot.”

“Then why the fucking altruism, huh?”

Now Jason’s voice has risen to an angry yell, but Tim doesn’t fall back. He does imagine his headstone engraving, though. Here Lies Timothy Drake, With Robin Instincts That Were Stupidly Quiet Once Again While Facing Jason Todd. RIP. But still — since when is waking a crime lord from a nightmare not been appreciated?

“I don’t — I wasn’t trying to be altruistic — ”

“Why aren’t you terrified?”

“I don’t — I can’t just explain — ”

“In case you need a reminder, Replacement, I’m a monster. I hurt you to feel better. It made sense to me, and it felt great. So I’m hardly much different from that fucking freak of a teacher,” Jason snaps, and the words are like icicles piercing skin — cold and wrong wrong wrong — and Tim’s left staring at his childhood idol in shock even as he keeps going. “The only difference is that I never actually wanted you dead, but that’s still a shitty place for the bar to be, and you need to get that. Just that one fucking thing. The Pit brought me back from the dead wrong, Tim!”

“I know!”

“Then why?”

“Because you didn’t give me to Paris!”

Tim doesn’t expect to match the volume of Jason’s shout, but he does, sore throat and all. It’s enough to make Jason stare openly at him, at a loss for words. For several seconds, there’s a silence in the apartment, only the sound of November rain pouring down from outside.

“I thought you were gonna,” Tim admits, remnants of his earlier terror surfacing. “But you kept me safe. You did that, Pit and all.” Jason’s staring at him, eyes wide and sparking, but Tim goes on. “And besides, I’ve always… you’ve always been my…”

There’s so many things he could say.

Robin. Hero. Fantasy big brother — like fantasy football, but with family members.

But Tim doesn’t want to sound creepy, so he settles on, “… S-Superman ice cream.” Wait. What? “I mean, um, I like Superman ice cream. Which you got for me when you were… actually, what I mean is, nightmares are bad.” It’s too late to backtrack. “And you… ice cream… good.”

Tim finishes that thought, fittingly, with the eloquence of a teenager who didn’t practice enough for a presentation. He’s pretty sure he’s never made less sense in his life.

“Alright,” Jason says, rising from the bed with a sigh, reaching over to grab Tim’s chin to tilt his face up. “Show me those pupils.”

Tim bats him away with his hand, peeved. “I don’t have a concussion!”

“I didn’t think so either until whatever the hell you just said, baby bird. Was that a sentence or a seizure?”

“It was an expression of gratitude!”

Tim doesn’t expect Jason’s face to fall as fast as it does, resignation taking over.

“Listen, Tim. Of course I didn’t give you to that scumbag. And you can be thankful for that if you want,” Jason grunts, “But you don’t owe the monsters who hurt you anything just because they smile real nice at you, baby bird.”

Jason pauses, waiting as if the words will have a physical effect on Tim. Like Tim’s going to realize how terrifying Jason is, and will turn heel and run any second. But Tim doesn’t.

Because the thing is, even though it’s going to take some time for Tim to get over the memory of the coffee mug shards or being pinned to the floor — Jason’s still there, under the Pit. Behind the Red Hood’s helmet, there’s the Jason who would help Tim despite not liking him as Robin and for taking Jason’s place. There’s something about the way Hood joined the search for Tim upon Batman’s request, and the way he swooped in to save him from Mr. Paris, and brought him to his secret safehouse to patch him up — and maybe it’s just the soft, borrowed pajamas that he’s in, but Tim’s Robin instincts are telling him he’s safe.

It’s terrifying, and logically it doesn’t compute. But this time, it feels right when Tim leans forward, bumping his forehead against Jason’s chest.

“Okay,” Tim says in a tiny voice.

He feels Jason’s chest hitch in surprise from the contact, but then, slowly, arms circle around him, feather-light. Tim’s heart aches. Maybe it’s because he’s feeling the warmth through Jason’s shirt, but he doesn’t want to pull away. Not with Jason’s hugging him like this. Tim’s eyelids droop.

The arms around him tense. “Don’t fall asleep here.”

“You won’t hurt me,” Tim mumbles, his determination solidifying even as sleep grows on him. “You woke up pit-crazy just now but you didn’t hurt me. That’s all the proof I need.”

Jason swears under his breath. “I’m talking to Bruce about your lack of self preservation, goddammit, Replacement.”

“Maybe I just want to get on your nerves.”

Jason grumbles something under his breath about annoying little birds, but five minutes later, Tim’s curled up with blankets and pillows on Jason’s bed, his slinged arm resting comfortably on a pillow. Next to him, Jason sits propped up against the headboard, as if not trusting himself to fall asleep, and muttering (“I still think you’re crazy. Did your parents not hug you enough? Is that what this is? You have the lowest-ass bars —”), but Tim’s sure that Jason won’t hurt him.

“Jason.”

“What now.”

Tim’s nearly asleep. He mumbles, “I don’t think you’re a monster,” because it feels like something Jason might need to know — but if Jason responds, Tim doesn’t hear.

The thunder rumbles, but farther away than before. It lulls Tim into a peaceful slumber. Finally, the storm is passing.

~~~

Light shines through the sheer curtains of the window, streaks of gold falling over the bed. Tim wakes up cocooned in a blanket, nestled into a strong chest, and someone’s soft fingers running through his hair. His eyelids grow heavy again, but then he remembers what he wanted to do last night — call Bruce — and his traitorous, easily imprinting heart throbs in his chest.

Jason yelps as Tim shoots up, and Tim groans as his sore shoulder pinches, but he turns to Jason anyway.

He blurts, “Can I use your phone please?”

Disturbed from what was a clearly peaceful morning, Jason squints at Tim like he’s the actual sun.

On the nightstand, the clock reads 5 AM. Tim stares at the time for a moment — those two more hours of sleep felt like eight, and he’s not usually a morning person — but something in him itches to call Bruce. To report. To be a good Robin. To… to just talk, really.

Tim looks at Jason pleadingly. “He must be awake now, right? I sort of wanted to call him last night but it was late, and my phone’s not working.”

Jason looks unimpressed. “It’s Saturday. You can sleep in.”

“Yeah, I know, but —”

“So what’s the rush?” And then Jason is turning over in bed with a yawn, a clear sign the conversation is over. “I’ll drop you off personally in like, an hour. Or three. So just sleep in.”

“But I want to talk to him,” Tim mumbles, deflating.

Jason groans, pulling his pillow over his head as if to block Tim’s complaining out. “Replacement, I’ll make you pancakes if you shut up about him.”

Tim’s stomach grumbles and he lights up at the idea, especially since Jason’s cooking is pretty good. “I like pancakes.”

“Great. I’ll make sure they have syrup and all the fixings.”

“Whoa. And ketchup?”

“And what?”

“Ketchup.”

Jason pulls the pillow down to stare at Tim. “For your pancakes?”

“Yeah.”

“Who hurt you?”

“It’s really good,” Tim says. He likes it when his breakfast foods mix together. Bruce thought it was weird at first, too — his eyebrows raising high up at Tim’s pancake topping choices after one particularly long fight with the Riddler that resulted in a post-battle breakfast in the Wayne Manor.

Thinking about that memory makes Tim’s chest throb. So even though he’s hungry, and even though it’s going to make him sound like a whiny little kid, he dares to tug the bottom of Jason’s shirt and blurts, “I want Bruce.”

The words make Jason freeze from where he’s laying on the pillows, his eyes darting up to Tim in surprise. Tim can’t blame him — he can’t even begin to imagine the levels of obnoxiousness that he’s probably exuding right now. But the fear he had of Jason for the last twenty-four hours seems to have disappeared. There’s not an ounce of panic, even as Tim considers the likelihood of being tossed out of the bed for his petulance. He’s Robin. Even with one working shoulder, he can probably catch his own fall from an apartment complex.

But Jason doesn’t do that. Nor does he snap his fingers at him, like Tim’s parents often will whenever he acts like a little kid. Instead, the crime lord concedes.

“Spoiled little bird,” Jason grumbles, reaching in a pocket to hand a phone out to Tim. Then he turns around again, his broad back to Tim.

“Thank you!” Delighted, Tim takes the phone and turns it on — wondering briefly why Jason had it off all night in the first place — and dials Bruce’s number with one hand.

The phone doesn’t even get through the first ring.

“Did you find him?”

It feels like it’s been ages since Tim last heard Bruce’s voice.

Even though Bruce sounds a little more panicked than usual, a rush of emotion crests through Tim at the sound, placing a lump in his throat. It’s really Bruce. The rumble of his low register, the laser-sharp focus on whatever the current mission is. Tim missed him. Overcome with emotion, Tim takes in a shuddering breath.

Almost instantly, alarm edges Bruce’s voice. “Jason?”

“Hi, Bruce,” Tim says, finding his voice, “It’s me.”

“Tim?” There’s a strange sound like maybe Bruce has developed super strength and is desperately trying not to crush his phone in his hands. “Are you alright? Where are you right now?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, it’s okay,” Tim says quickly. “I’m with Jason.”

A dumbfounded pause. “You’re with Jason?”

“Yeah, in his safehouse,” Tim says. “I’m okay, B. I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. I sort of passed out after the fight with my teacher. But I can still type up a report and have it done by,” — Tim considers his currently out-of-commission hand trapped in a sling for a moment — “end of day today.”

Bruce’s voice is immediate. “Tim, no. Slow down. You said teacher — do you mean Pied Paris?”

“Uh, yes?”

“The security camera footage from your school shows you getting into a car yesterday. It must have been his, wasn’t it.”

Tim feels his cheeks burn. “Yes.” Was this a lecture?

But Bruce doesn’t chide him like Tim’s expecting. He sounds like he’s doing a post-mission debrief, running through the facts, making sure everyone’s on the same page. Except usually debriefs don’t call for Bruce to ask Tim all the questions.

“But then — you left the scene after the vehicle incident in the woods last evening.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, trying to understand what part of it Bruce is stuck on. “I really can write up a whole report, B. It’s no big.”

“And now you’re with Jason? You’ve been with him all night? Are you safe?”

“Yeah, promise,” Tim says. “I know it sounds crazy but we’re playing nice. I — ”

Tim stops mid-sentence as it clicks for him. The reason why this is so sensational to Bruce. Why he’s running a full debrief with that panic in his voice, like he’s just inhaled a full breath of fear toxin. Why he sounds exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in hours.

“Bruce, last night… did Jason not tell you that he found me?” Tim doesn’t even need to wait for an answer. He lowers the phone and glares accusingly at the older boy. “You didn’t tell them you found me?”

“Friendly reminder that you almost died, baby bird.” Jason says, rolling out of bed and towards the bathroom, unperturbed. “Maybe I thought Batman should retake the lesson about losing Robins. After all, his record of one dead bird almost became two. A little time for self-reflection wouldn’t hurt.”

And with that, Jason shuts himself in the bathroom, and Tim’s left alone in the room with the mortifying realization that Batman has been looking for him all night. Not him as Robin — him as Tim Drake.

Tim shudders. And then he shudders again, because the hair on the back of his neck is prickling. He glances at the window. It must be a Robin thing, to be able to feel when Batman is near.

The window curtains ripple as the November morning breeze, tempered by a long storm, gently blows in. When the curtain falls, a figure stands in the corner, a familiar shadow.

“Bruce!”

Batman peels back his cowl, his features coming into view. His complexion is gray as he draws closer to the bed, his eyes scanning Tim, lingering on the injuries. Into his comms, he says, “Found him,” and Tim can almost hear the relieved scrambled voices of Dick and Babs, purely out of habit of knowing what an all-bats-on-deck mission sounds like. Bruce stands still for another moment, as if unsure whether to get on the bed or draw Tim from it. Tim makes the decision for him by scrambling over to Bruce himself.

And then, in an almost embarrassingly public display of affection, he throws his one good arm around Bruce, hugging him as hard as he can. If the hug is short, he’ll at least have given a good one.

But as it turns out, he doesn’t need to worry, because in the next second he’s being practically scooped up, Bruce hugging him firmly, cradling the back of his head. Warmth fills Tim’s bones. He might cry again.

“Tim.” Bruce’s voice is rough. “Sweetheart. You’re injured.”

“I’m fine,” Tim says on impulse, and winces as Bruce pulls away enough just to raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh, come on! I didn’t even get as many stitches as you did. It’s no big deal.”

Bruce examines Jason’s work on Tim’s forehead cut. “Yes. Those look… Tim, I told you to be careful.”

“Yeah, sorry. I sort of flipped a car and it just happened. But hey, just nine more until we match,” Tim quips, which Bruce doesn’t seem to appreciate.

“I saw the flipped car,” Bruce says, his gaze dark. “Tim. How did this happen.”

Tim feels his stomach churn. This is it, the moment of truth. Everything he was compartmentalizing for later has now caught up to him, and he knows he has to confess. Even if Bruce is disappointed in him, for how stupid he’s been the past couple of days.

“I was failing English.”

Bruce pulls back, confused. “What?”

“English class,” Tim says. “I didn’t know Mr. Paris was failing me on purpose, but that’s the gist of it. That’s why I got in his car. I know it was a bad move, but I was failing English and I just really didn’t want to have a bad grade on my report card.”

A shadow falls on Bruce’s face. Is it about the report card?

“I didn’t know school was giving you a hard time,” Bruce says.

Tim hands his head. “It was just the one class, B, I swear.”

“I believe you, I just wish you’d have said something.”

“You’d’ve taken Robin away,” Tim says matter-of-factly. “I didn’t want that.”

Tim expects Bruce to go into a mini lecture about finding balance between being a vigilante and a normal kid, but confusion filters over the older man’s face instead.

“Tim,” Bruce says carefully, “Is that what you were worried about?”

“I mean, yeah.” Tim’s face feels hot. “But I was handling it, you know. I just didn’t account for the murder teacher.”

“Chum, even if you really were failing… I wouldn’t have taken Robin away for that.”

Wait. What?

A record scratch sounds in Tim’s brain.

This… had never occurred to Tim. “Oh.”

“We would have had a discussion about whether you need to take some off as Robin, but I wouldn’t have taken Robin away from you, Tim. Not over a bad grade in a class you’re clearly working hard in.”

“I didn’t realize,” Tim says, now feeling incredibly stupid. “I just assumed… you’d be disappointed if I couldn’t handle both.”

“ Tim,” Bruce says, baffled, “I couldn’t be prouder. You are exceptional — as Robin and as Tim Drake.”

Tim’s stomach churns again, but this time, from the surprise of it all. Exceptional. Pride blooms within him. He’s never thought of himself like that before. He presses his lips together, trying not to smile.

“Well,” Tim says, trying to be chill like he’s not totally saving Bruce’s words as a core memory to replay in his mind later, “I like being your Robin.”

The corners of Bruce’s eyes crinkle softly with his smile, but Tim’s not sure where to look after delivering such an embarrassing line. He looks down at his hands, nearly encompassed by the long sleeves of Jason’s sweatshirt he used as pajamas.

“Is that… weird?” Tim asks with a forced laugh. Maybe they can all laugh it off and his deeply rooted issues about imprinting on people will never need to be addressed ever.

But Bruce says, “Oh, sweetheart, never,” and holds him, and there’s nothing else Tim needs for validation.

The crisp wind blows through the window, but Tim doesn’t get so much as a goosebump in Bruce’s arms. He nestles deeper, and the cape covers his shoulders. He just breathes. Bruce’s heartbeat is fun to listen to.

“Can we go home?” Tim asks after a few moments, his face buried in kevlar and part of Batman’s cape. “I mean, yours. If that’s okay?”

“Yes,” Bruce says, “We can go home.”

"And —,” Tim pulls away, already turning to peer over his shoulder. “Jason too, right?”

He feels a little odd, saying Jason’s name so freely in front of Bruce. It’s always been a touchy subject, after all. First, it was because the older boy was dead, and then it was because he wasn’t anymore but there was green in his eyes and gray in his moral code. Tim’s certain — barring this whole search party thing — that they haven’t talked to each other since that big fight months ago. And maybe it’s too soon. But Bruce surprises Tim, again.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “I want all my boys home.”

Minding his sore body, Tim slides out of the bed and towards the bathroom, his heart skipping and especially hopeful. Maybe Jason can come home, finally.

But when Tim pushes the bathroom door open, Jason is — Jason’s not there.

He’s nowhere to be seen.

He’s left.

A Few Weeks Later

The Gotham sky is a blend of grayish-blue hues as what little sunlight there is dips away behind the clouds painted across the horizon. Tim doesn’t mind the shorter days — after all, the first snowflakes of December dance through the crisp air of the afternoon whimsically, and the traffic lights in the distance look like glittering diamonds peeking through the trees that surround Gotham City High School. It’s been a minute since Tim’s been able to admire the quiet moments in which Gotham is prettiest. He’d pull out his phone to snap a picture of it all if he weren’t in class right now.

“And in conclusion,” Lillian is saying from the front of the classroom, her presentation slides on the display behind her, “the motif of violence is used by Shakespeare to depict the way Macbeth’s mentality changes. Not gonna lie, it’s kind of gnarly to see how Macbeth succumbs to his own guilt, has no one left to pull him out of it, and meets his bloody demise.”

Tim pulls his gaze away from the window to stare along with everyone else at their pleasant but sometimes scatterbrained classmate, who last week was given an opportunity to redo her Macbeth presentation for only a couple of late points. Turns out, when your English teacher ends up being a serial killer, school is more lenient about stuff like that. Which is probably for the best. The rumor mill might be chock full of Mr. Paris, the teacher who kidnapped Philmont Denlinger and kept him in his attic and almost killed that Drake kid, but at least students in his class are getting all sorts of do-overs if they need it.

Like Lillian, who smiles obliviously as everyone takes in her presentation slide of a gruesomely drawn image of Macbeth’s severed head.

Everyone seems to recover at the same time to applaud. As Tim claps, his shoulder doesn’t even protest. In fact, under his GSU hoodie he’s wearing — taken back from Jason’s dryer in the safehouse — most of the bruising around his shoulder has faded.

Lillian beams and slides back to her seat.

“That should be it for today,” their new English teacher, Ms. Viola, says from the back of the classroom. Everyone perks up, heads checking the clock as side conversations start up. But then Ms. Viola adds, “Before the bell rings, remember to turn in your homework. Anything late is a zero. Also keep in mind the outlines for your comparative essays are due next week.”

Groans fill the air as students rustle for their homework assignments and make note of the new one. Ives leans into Tim.

“New teach is a shark,” he mutters.

“I dunno, man,” Tim says, fighting off a smile as he produces a completed essay assignment from his backpack. In the past week he used the text-to-speech feature on his phone to write it up, since no one at home was letting him take his sling off for any kind of physical labor. “We’re not dead yet.”

The face Ives makes is a mixture of torment and betrayal, making Tim snicker a little too much.

“Ugh. Too soon,” Ives says, stacking Tim’s homework over his own. When Tim protests, he shifts away from him. “No way, dude. I’m on strict orders from your older sibling adjacents to not let you strain your shoulder on my watch.”

Tim scowls, but allows Ives to pass the homework assignments up the row for Ms. Viola to collect.

“First of all, it’s literally just paper, and secondly, you’re officially banned from joining forces with them.”

“Counterpoint, you’re officially banned from not telling me how smokin’ your sister is! I think nerdy older girls are my type now, dude. Is Barbara single?”

“Ew, Ives.”

“Shouldn’t it be less weird that I like her,” Ives points out gleefully, “since you’re not related by blood?”

“If I projectile vomit from this conversation, it will be in your direction,” Tim promises darkly.

Ives is still cracking up by the time the last bell of the day rings over the PA system. Tim slings his backpack over his good shoulder, resenting the fact that Ives now knows Dick and Babs. During the couple days off school Tim took last week — partly to recover from his injuries and partly to avoid landing in too many headlines of the Philmont Denlinger case — each afternoon Ives would pop on over to drop Tim’s homework off for the day. At some point, Dick and Babs cornered Ives and initiated him into the Let’s Baby Tim club. Tim’s not sure he can handle his friend’s romantic obsession with Babs for the next three months — the usual lifespan of Ives’s crushes.

“Mr. Drake, if you would wait a moment,” Ms. Viola calls out from the front desk, looking up from a book in her hands, “I need to have a word in private.”

“Oh. I guess I’ll be out in the hall?” Ives says, pulling on his backpack and glancing dubiously at Tim. “Holler if you need me?”

“I’ll start screaming if she offers me extra credit.”

Ives shudders, looking less than pleased at Tim’s jokes. On the wall behind him, however, Laminated Dollar-Store Poster William Shakespeare seems to chuckle.

Thanks, LDSPWS, Tim thinks solemnly. You get me.

As the classroom empties, Tim walks up the rows, feeling a sensation of deja-vu even though he and Bruce have done thorough background checks on Nancy Viola. She has no criminal past, but Tim can see why Ives and even other students find her intimidating. Straight, no-nonsense chin-length dark brown hair. The formal pantsuit that’s a little overkill for a public school. Her cold, impersonal way of calling everyone by their last names.

But right now, absorbed in a book, Ms. Viola just looks like a person who likes to read.

When he gets to her desk, she lowers her book — a well-worn copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Tim notes — and holds out a small manila envelope towards him.

“Your report card, Mr. Drake. Approved by the principal.”

His… oh. Tim takes the envelope.

“As you’re aware, first semester report cards were given to most students a while ago, while yours was frozen due to… obvious tampering,” says Ms. Viola, her mouth curling downwards in disapproval. “I re-graded all your assignments this year using the rubrics, and cross-analyzed my grading methods with some sample work from previous years. All that’s to say is — the English grade on your report card is now an accurate reflection of your work.”

Tim nods, but honestly… he’s surprised that he hasn’t been thinking about his report card at all.

It makes sense, really. Not only does he not need to worry about losing Robin anymore, but his latest homework assignments haven’t been tanking. It helps that Ms. Viola never marks anything as derivative.

But now standing there with the manila envelope in his hands, Tim’s curiosity leaps. It doesn’t even matter now, but he still holds his breath as he slides the report card out.

His eyes find the columns of single letters that run down the side. He looks for the row labeled English Literature. And then he sees his grade.

“Whoa,” he says, unable to keep the awe out of his voice.

He… he has to show this to someone.

He thanks Ms. Viola — who nods in dismissal, turning back to her book — and leaves to rejoin Ives. Soft icy flurries land on Tim’s face as they walk out of Gotham City High, into the dark blue afternoon. They laugh and talk — and make plans to visit Philmont in the hospital this weekend. After the bus drops Tim off in Bristol Township, he walks up the street, past the large houses. He passes Drake Manor, and beelines it straight for Wayne Manor.

For home.

~~~

In Wayne Manor, Tim is curled up in his bedroom, in a pair of pajamas that Dick gifted him last year for the holidays, marveling at everything for the thousandth time. The walls are a comforting shade of rustic red, the heaps of blankets on the four-poster bed are incredibly soft, and all of Tim’s favorite photographs of Gotham City are framed and tastefully placed above the fireplace mantle. Ace is sprawled over his lap like Tim’s his personal pillow, snoozing away contentedly.

Even though his parents handed temporary custody to Bruce weeks ago, without much question — the implications of which Tim tries not to think about — he’s still not used to the idea that he has his own bedroom here. Or the fact that Bruce and Alfred apparently had it ready for him for months, if ever he wanted to stay over.

“Nice digs, Replacement.”

The sudden sound at the window makes Tim jolt, stirring Ace, who bolts up at the sound of an intruder. But then a moment later, Ace’s tail wags.

Taking in the room, the Red Hood stands at the window he’s just climbed through, twirling a gun in his hands. Weirdly enough, a grocery bag’s looped around his arm. Ace bounds over to him, and Hood holsters the gun to scratch Ace behind the ears.

Tim sits up, eyes wide. “Hood!”

“Don’t sound surprised,” Hood says. “You texted me. I never gave you my number, by the way.”

Tim had gotten it easily from Babs, but he finds the fact that Hood came at all even more pleasantly surprising. “I thought you weren’t going to come.”

“I almost didn’t,” Hood admits, and pulls out his phone to reread the text. “‘Hey I need help on my homework again’? Really, Tim? This better be a joke.”

“It’s not.”

“Huh. Either way, I don’t care. I just wanted to drop this off,” Hood says, setting the bag on Tim’s desk. “I’m leaving.”

“Don’t!”

“Make me, Timbo.”

“J, you pulled my arm,” — Tim makes a big show of looking down at his slinged arm and pouting, — “out of its socket.”

Hood does what Tim assumes is stare witheringly at him, but it’s hard to tell with the helmet on. Then he looks down and continues to give Ace good boy scratches. Ace’s tail might nearly fly off, but Tim’s grateful for the distraction. He takes the moment to scramble out of bed towards his backpack against the far wall.

“You don’t really need my help anymore, you spoiled little bird,” Hood drawls. “And I thought I made it pretty clear that I’m not in the mood to see the old man.”

Tim figures as much — Bruce and Jason will make up on their own time. But as he darts towards Hood, his foot catches on the edge of the rug in his haste. Hood’s arms immediately rise to catch him, softening the fall.

“Careful. You want more stitches or something?”

Tim grins sheepishly and thrusts the envelope at Hood.

“Here.”

Suspicion filters into Hood’s mechanized voice. “What is it?”

“My report card.”

That causes Hood to pause, but he recovers quickly, plucking the offered envelope.

“Weird that you want to show me,” Hood says, but opens it up nonetheless. There’s a pause, in which Hood looks over Tim’s grades. He then tilts his head, and looks at Tim. “Huh. Aced English, huh?”

Tim glows at the statement. It’s barely a complete sentence, but it feels like a compliment of the highest regard, coming from Hood. What he doesn’t expect is Hood to ruffle his hair.

“Good job, baby bird.” Reaching back, Hood puts his arm into the bag he brought and whatever he pulls out, he tosses at Tim. “That makes this more appropriate, I guess.”

Tim’s fingers are met with immediate cold, and he stares at the carton in his hands, recognizing the bright yellow, blue, and red colors immediately. His heart skips a beat.

Hood isn’t looking anywhere at him. “You said you liked it, right?”

Snowflakes blow into the room as he opens the carton of ice cream, releasing the familiar scents of blue moon, vanilla, and cherry. Tim takes the spoon and has a small bite. All at once, Tim feels like he’s a little kid again, holding hands with Robin and feeling special after such a long stretch of loneliness.

Except, even when the flavor melts away, Tim still feels the same. Because finally, he’s somewhere where it’s true.

Hood and Ace have both gone silent, watching Tim. Waiting.

Tim grins wide.

“It’s my favorite.”