Work Text:
Stock
Market
Crashing
“I can't be seventeen,” Tim dazedly shakes his head even though the evidence is right in front of him. His voice is deeper, his body feels somewhat bigger and the goddamn TV is flat and showing an ad about the upcoming 2015's Halloween Movies Week.
He knows his brain is trying to cling to the easiest thing he can handle right now, which is probably why he's currently obsessing over the fact that the TV is flat.
But, really, it's probably better to start with the beginning of this. Otherwise, you are going to be just as confused as the currently amnesiac Tim Drake, infamously known as Red Robin--although he doesn't know that yet. His adoptive family is still walking on eggshells, given how he'd woken up just eight minutes ago only to be completely obsessed with the TV's aesthetic.
“I—This–The TV is flat!” Tim is now spluttering, shouting, gesturing at the idiot box. “Is this a joke? Are you going to send this to Tosh.0?”
It's safe to say that not a single soul knows what Tosh.0 is. But he does. Is Tosh.0 even airing nowadays? Tim watches that show almost every weekend to his parents' disgrace. Or at least he used to. In 2010.
Ah, yeah.
The beginning.
Stock
Market
Crashi—
Tim Drake opens his eyes just to see Mr. Bruce Wayne's worried face right in front of him. He turns at his side and there's another younger man... And, yeah, surprise surprise, that's Richard Grayson. Richard, ward of Mr. Wayne, is looking worriedly at him too. Tim squints his eyes, and, honestly, wow, there's another man just as young as Richard Tim's never seen before looking as if he'd just been given the worst news!
There are a lot of things that are confusing him right now--like Mr. Wayne and his son's nearly tangible preoccupation and strange presence, and the identity of that other scruff-looking guy--but the most urgent for him are: Why's the TV bigger and flatter than he remembers and why is a blonde giving the news instead of the old man that has been hosting that channel since, uh, ever?
“Once again, as in 2010, the stock market's crashing. Wall Street's official sources--”
As in...?
“Which year is this?” Tim stupidly asks. Or tries to. The words sound normal in his mind, but in reality, he says something like: “'sh yer's des?”
The look on his rich and totally-not-hiding-a-secret-aliases neighbor's face falls even more.
For real, what's Bruce Wayne doing here? And why's Tim in a hospital bed? They're in Gotham General it seems--based solely on the logos plastered all over the sheets and the medical machines. He wonders if his parents even are in the US.
He clears his throat loudly this time, ignoring the raw ache that invades the zone and tries again.
“Where's my dad? My mom?” he furrows his brow, his chest going up and down erratically, “Why are you here, Mr. Wayne? Did I accidentally slip on your house's sidewalk again? Did you pay the hospital bills already? Why's the TV flashing the number 2015 again and again? And why's it so flat?!”
Tim doesn't realize he isn't breathing until Richard Grayson--Dick, he calls himself Dick on FaceBook and when that obnoxious guy from E!News interviews him--takes the hand he's resting over the covers and places it on his chest. He immediately starts to follow the breathing patterns of the guy as if they had done this countless times before.
That can't be though, because he doesn't remember having peaks of anxiety like this one. He doesn't remember ever experiencing anxiety. And, more importantly, he's never hung out with Dick Grayson before. It must be the shock of waking up in a hospital bed.
“That's it, little guy,” Dick Grayson is encouraging him, voice soft and face contorted in what feels like misplaced worry, “Keep breathing. Nice and slow.”
Tim obeys because what else can he do? Keep panicking instead of listening to the guy that used to be Robin? Oh. That's right! If Batman is literally in front of him, worried sick about whatever has happened to him... Could it be that Tim was held hostage by some goon and that Batman and Nightwing saved him? But if that's the case, where the hell is Robin 2.0?
He can't really ask them that. They would be suspicious of him. A twelve-year-old kid that managed to see past their masks thanks to his own long years of stalking and investigating? Weird, right? If he lets them know that he knows, then they would think he's some kind of spy or something. Tim isn't sure. He isn't sure about anything, to be honest.
“The faster we do this, the better.”
Tim takes a final deep breath, then follows the new voice until his gaze lands on the still unidentified man. The guy is bigger and taller than Mr. Wayne and Dick Grayson, and his hair has a white streak at the front. He looks like the kind of person who shops in Hot Topic. Tim automatically vibes with him.
“Why? What's Emo Guy talking about?” Still, his confusion keeps going. He turns at Dick Grayson, who only grimaces before grabbing a glass of water from the bedside table to give it to him.
Tim takes the glass warily and that's only when he notices that his hands are trembling. What in the hell? He's that fucking nervous, huh?
“Tim, I need you to answer something for me,” this time Bruce Totally-Not-Batman Wayne takes a few steps forward until he's beside him, face still contorted in worry and eyes shining with a kind of affection that Tim doesn't believe he deserves. Bruce Wayne can't be looking at him like that. Batman can't be looking at him like that.
Realizing that the man is waiting for him to do or say something, anything, Tim nods. He feels dumb.
“Can you tell me how old are you?”
He doesn't like that question at all. It's what people ask in movies before saying that you were in a coma for seventy years and that all your friends and relatives are dead.
Does that make him Captain America?
“Why?” Tim counters instead. “Why do you need to know my age? Isn't it obvious?”
Emo Guy crosses his surprisingly bulky arms over his chest while Dick Grayson sighs loudly.
The latter scratches his hair in a nervous movement, “Tim, please. You're safe,” he says with that soft tone of voice again.
Okay, yeah, it's safe to say that Tim doesn't like this at all.
“Why? Why would I believe you?” he frowns, “What if this is just a dream? Something my mind made up? Something someone else made me believe? 'Cause there's no way I'm with you guys right now. I'm not even--” and he gestures with both arms widely, totally ignoring the fact that they feel too large and bulky for his age, “We're not close. Like, at all. Mr. Wayne has only talked with my parents once--in one of those boring dinners at the Gotham Museum, and only to ask them if they knew where the restrooms were.”
“And you,” he points at Dick Grayson, “What's--I don't even know why are you here! You're never seen with B--Bruce Wayne! Ryan Seacrest said on national TV that you two had an ugly falldown nearly four years ago. So, what the hell?! You live in Bludhaven!” Tim is sounding desperate by now. He knows. And his voice is too deep. It creeps him out. “And I don't know who that Brendon-Urie-wannabe guy is either!”
The silence lingers for a minute or two, and the TV, the stupid, flat TV is the only thing that can be heard all around the room. There's a Chevrolet ad right now, announcing a too-technologically advanced SUV. Tim blinks at the big, flat screen before looking back at Mr. Wayne.
“You hit your head,” Emo Guy talks this time, probably as exasperated as Tim feels because his shoulders are tense and he keeps clenching and unclenching his hands. “The doctor told us that at best you'd probably be confused and at worst you'd have temporary amnesia.”
Uh...
Tim scowls, “What?”
“Jay--”
Emo Guy--Jay--raises a hand at Dick Grayson and keeps talking, “Looks like it's the latter. You are seventeen years old. This is the year 2015. You know us. You are fine.”
The bulky guy shrugs his shoulders when he finishes talking, looking like he just did a community service and people should be thanking him for his bravery. Tim places a hand over his head, tousling his longer-than-he-remembers hair.
“What.”
“Jason, we were supposed to--” Bruce Wayne is now loudly scolding Emo Guy--Jason, but Tim can't hear him at all. His ears are ringing.
Jason.
Jason Todd. Robin 2.0. But Robin is fifteen. Robin is a child, like him. But, but, but.
Unless he's really forgotten five years of his life.
Tim wants to throw up. He wants to throw up seventeen times.
“I can't be seventeen,” he dazedly shakes his head even though the evidence is right in front of him. His voice is deeper, his body feels somewhat bigger, his hair is way longer, and the goddamn TV is flat and showing an ad about the upcoming 2015's Halloween Movies Week, for God's sake. “I can't! I can't be that old! And TV's don't look like that!”
Tim knows his brain is trying to cling to the easiest thing he can handle right now--the easiest thing he can process--which is probably why he's currently obsessing over the TV.
The Waynes--Jason Todd is grown, holy shit, now that he knows it's him he can't unsee his childish face--are looking at him with wide, worried eyes.
By this point, he's goddamn sick of those looks.
“I—This–It's flat!” Tim is now spluttering, shouting, gesturing at the idiot box. “The TV is flat! Is this a joke? Are you going to send this to Tosh.0?”
By the look on their faces, it's safe to say that not a single person knows what Tosh.0 is. But he does. Is Tosh.0 even airing nowadays? Dick Grayson or Jason Emo Guy Todd must have watched it at least once. Tim watches that show almost every weekend to his parents' disgrace. Or at least he used to. In 2010.
Probably not in 2015. Holy shit. He hopes he isn't consuming garbage media nowadays like when he was twelve.
Twelve. An age he isn't anymore. He's seventeen. Seventeen.
“Holy shit,” Tim mutters out loud this time, “Holy shit.”
Bruce Wayne seems perturbed between comforting him and screaming some sense into him. The man ultimately decides to place a hand over his shoulder, bringing him out of his spiral of crazy confusion.
“I know,” Totally-Not Batman says, “We know, Tim. We know how confused you feel. How lost. But we are here for you, chum. We are here.”
“It's true,” he blurts out, ignoring the man's words and finally focusing his gaze on his concerned face. “Wendy the Werewolf isn't taking all of my brain space. I'm seventeen. It's true.”
Tim starts wheezing and laughing uncontrollably, probably looking like a fucking loon and catches Jason Fucking Todd grimacing and Dick Not-Nightwing Grayson taking a step forward to sit beside his legs.
“It's okay, Timmy,” Dick Grayson is comforting him again. Tim blinks back tears of utter shock. “You are safe here. We've always taken care of you, okay? We're close to you. I promise you, Tim. We are family.”
“Everything will be fine,” Not-Batman adds, gripping his shoulder, “Everything will--”
Stock
Market
Cra—
“--be fine, Timbo!” A blue-eyed vampire is holding his head and Tim wants to tell him to get away from him because it hurts, but his mouth doesn't work and he's sure his brain isn't working either, “Everything will be--dude, no! Don't you close your eyes on me!”
Tim tries to say, “I feel sick” just to end up sounding like: “fell s'ik”.
“Todd's on his way,” a blurry bunny-looking person suddenly looms in front of him too, standing beside the vampire, “Shit, Kon! He can't fall asleep!” the bunny slash human says urgently.
Tim tries to ask what's going on because he doesn't know where in the hell is he. He has enough clarity of mind to hope that it's Halloween night and that he didn't time-travel into a looney-tuney alternate dimension.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Batman is going to kill us. Batman is going--”
“Shut up! Now is not the time to--”
“Cassie, you don't understand how terrifying that--”
“None of this would've happened if you hadn't dared him to jump!” and someone else appears in his point of view. It's Chucky.
Tim squints his eyes even more, and, yeah. It's goddamn Chucky.
“He's Robin, Bart! Why would Robin miss on his landing?!”
“Uh, I don't know?! Prolly 'cause he's Drunk Robin, you dumb--!”
Chucky starts talking too fast and Tim loses his grip on reality even more. When he closes his eyes, alarmed voices start to say his name and Tim wants to tell them to shut up because his brain is probably exploding, when a loud thud shuts them off for him.
Tim sweats for the sheer effort it takes to open up his eyes a bit, just to see a dark, masked figure looming over him.
He concludes that it's just Death coming for him--and it weirdly feels like just another day--before he passes out.
Stock
Market
C—
Tim interrupts Bruce Wayne mid-sentence, groaning loudly at the dull ache that invades his entire head. Someone, probably Dick Grayson, takes his glass of water away. Now hands-free, he rubs at his temples, starting to remember how he fell but not knowing who he was with.
The only thing he's sure of right now is that it's October of 2015.
“Are you okay?” Mr. Batman's urgent tone of voice snaps him out of the memory.
He tries not to cringe in response to Bruce's clear affection for him. It feels weird. Misplaced. Underserving. Too magnetic. He almost wants to bury himself in the man just to receive some kind of comfort.
He doesn't.
“Yeah, yes,” Tim clears his throat, blinking a few times, “I just remembered something. I think I injured myself jumping to a pool at a Halloween party.”
Like a child, he makes grabby hands for the glass of water and Dick Grayson immediately gives it to him again. He drinks big gulps before sighing loudly in satisfaction.
“Yeah, you're an idiot.”
Tim looks up at Jason Oh-My-God-Is-Robin Todd and makes an offended face, “Hey!” then he turns at Mr. Wayne, “Control your child!”
Mr. Wayne pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated, “Jason, don't insult him. He's injured.”
Jason starts to pace around the room, gesturing wildly.
“If he doesn't want to be called names then he shouldn't have acted like an idiot,” the long-lost brother of Gerard Way replies harshly and points at him, furious, “You could've seriously injured yourself just for a fucking "good" time. So, no. I won't stop calling you an idiot, idiot.”
His blatantly distressed attitude takes Tim aback.
He's almost stunned.
“He made a mistake,” Mr. Wayne simply states after the silence lingers for far too long, “And he won't do it again.”
Bruce Wayne holds his gaze on him, eyebrows raised, and Tim automatically nods, even though he owes them nothing because he doesn't really know them.
But, God, is Batman. And Robin. And Nightwing. They took him to the hospital after he made a stupid drunken decision. They're worried for his health. All of them, it seems, are really close in 2015. We are family, Dick Grayson had said. Yet that doesn't explain why or how.
Tim has too many questions, and too many confusing thoughts dancing around his brain, but he just looks at them and assures,
“I won't do it again. I'm sorry,”
and tries to ignore the lump that's forming inside his throat. This is too much for him. How the hell did he manage to involve himself with the Waynes? Tim knows he's fucking awesome, but how?
The loud noise of the TV startles him out of his emotional haze.
“Months after leaving One Direction, Zayn Malik finally acknowledges--”
Tim's sure he has heard of that boyband before. He doesn't have time to dwell on it before Dick Grayson invades his eyesight.
“What else do you remember?” he asks.
Tim winces, “Nothing else?”
“Damn,” Dick Grayson raises his eyebrows in surprise before turning at his adoptive father. They seem to engage in some kind of telepathic conversation before Totally-Not Nightwing looks back at him, “Timmy,“ he says gently, “We know you know.”
Tim bats his eyelashes a few times, “Know what?”
He knows he's safe. He knows. He couldn't be in safer hands and yet a part of him starts to panic. What if the vigilantes turned bad at some point? What if something really fucked up happened but he doesn't remember it? What if they kidnapped him because they thought he would tell everyone about their secret identities and--
“You are one of us too.”
--wait. What?
"You're lying," Tim mutters, wide-eyed. There's a strange, warm feeling blossoming inside his chest, "There's no freaking way."
Mr. Wayne can't help but chuckle at his reaction. Tim's mind is reeling.
"It's true, Tim. You are family," Bruce Wayne gestures at his first son, "Just like Dick said before. I wasn't lying when I told you that everything will be alright, chum."
A vigilante.
Him.
A crime-fighter.
He's sure he's supposed to focus on the important thing--like the fact that he's a Wayne--but his brain is going wild trying to take in all the new information.
Tim sits up in the bed, "What's my aliases?" and he smiles widely, probably looking like a crazy clown man--which is an oddly specific example that he doesn't get even if he'd come with it. “Rogue? Falcon? Batboy?--no wait, that one sounds too stupid.”
Bruce Wayne is looking at him with the most affectionate eyes and the most gentle smile, "You were Robin, then--"
"I was Robin?!" he shrieks, interrupting the man, "You gotta be kidding me! Like, there's no way. What the fuck!"
Jason Freaking Todd laughs out loud at his excitement.
Dick Grayson is cheerful too, "Yep. You were Robin until recently," he explains, "Now you go by Red Robin."
"Wow," Tim combs his too-long hair in wonder, "That's sick." It explains why he's this amount of observant and conscious of the environment. He'd thought he was just nervous or going insane. Then, Tim raises a finger, "Does that mean you aren't mad that I know about your secret identities?"
Bruce Wayne crosses his arms, amused, "Tim, why would we be mad? You've been one of us for years. You're my son."
He nods in relief.
Thank God. If this is his future then the goddamn flat TV can go fuck itself. This is a dream come true.
But...
"Your son?" Tim tilts his head, "How come?"
The atmosphere suddenly turns upside down. He sees Bruce Wayne's jaw twitching, hears Jason Todd sighing quietly, and feels Dick Grayson's hand coming in contact with his.
He has no time to ask something else--to panic properly--when the brief but unbearable headache comes back, and Tim hunches on himself, wincing--
Stock
Marke—
The sky is grey.
There's an itch that Tim can't manage to stop. One that makes him slow down in shock and then scream in rage.
His movements are lethargic. His hands feel detached from his body. He is no longer a motherless child.
Now, he is an orphan.
He looks up to the sky, but can't picture his parents up there.
Tim would pray for his sanity and his broken heart, but he doesn't believe in any God. He isn't a believer.
Never has been.
He is truly alone now. He has nowhere else to go to; in between his grief, he sees no one else by his side. Ever.
Tim submerges himself into the sadness, the lack of judgment, and the unbearable regret and wonders if it all had been worth it. He isn't sure. Not anymore.
His Robin suit feels like his own coffin.
He tries to breathe in and lets out a shaky sob instead.
Stock
Mar—
--and breathing harshly. But the headache passes by just as fast as it had appeared, and Tim is left gasping for air, clutching Dick Grayson's hand tightly.
His parents are dead.
There are a lot of things clashing all over him. It's like his brain decided to let his worst memories appear, and Tim has to keep clutching Dick's hand, desperately trying to keep himself afloat, while he thinks about his mother and his father.
Dead. Gone forever.
Tim doesn't know what to do. His brain is telling him to calm down because he already knew all of that, but his heart is giving up on him, and his chest feels full like someone is pressing over it trying to obtain some wrecked reaction from him.
Then, Tim remembers Jason Todd dying too. He remembers putting the Robin suit on for the first time; his life changing abruptly, his mother's death, his father's coma... He remembers every single dark detail about his life, including every single near-death and every single death of a loved one.
Tim doesn't cry.
He feels the need to do it but somehow knows that he'd already grieved enough.
When his mind and body come back to Earth, Bruce is looming over him, lips in a grim line, and Tim wills himself to talk.
“I, uh,” he then realizes that his cheeks are tear-stained, “I remember now.”
Bruce looks at him with sad eyes, “Tim--”
But he shakes his head and interrupts his father, “Can we go home now?” his voice sounds raspy and Tim has to swallow again before saying, “I'm tired.”
While Bruce goes to look for Dr. Leslie so she can clear Tim out, Jason and Dick engulf him in a hug so tight Tim has to keep himself from crying once again.
Stock
M—
Tim prefers this.
He prefers this old familiarity of arriving at the manor and seeing Alfred hover over him in love and preoccupation. Tim prefers--a thousand times--getting back his phone and seeing the thousands of messages from his friends asking if he's okay and apologizing for their stupidity. Tim prefers to be hugged by Damian, who tries to make light of the situation while glaring at him for making him worry.
Tim prefers to know all of this, to remember the good, the bad, and the worst, than being an empty canvas full of naiveness and playfulness.
The Halloween party where he injured himself hadn't been on the 31st--he now remembers that they had done it a few days before Halloween night because Cassie wouldn't be in town by then--, so Damian has the wonderful idea of going trick-treating together. All of them.
Like, all of them.
It's pretty embarrassing, to be honest, walking in downtown with three grown men dressed in costumes--Alfred had utterly refused, stating that he was going to be in charge of the deserts so that they could have practically a buffet waiting for them at home--, but Tim soon forgets the embarrassment and enjoys the night at its fullest.
There are many kids and families trick and treating. It's a pretty night. It's barely raining and the smell of humidity is relaxing. Duke, Cass, and Damian are walking at the front, the three of them being the most excited--Duke and Cass arrived just today, asking if he was okay and scolding him for making them worry--while he keeps a slow pace beside Bruce, Dick, and Jason.
“I can't believe you made me do this,” Bruce is still grumbling, adjusting his fake glasses every minute or so.
“You chose that costume, Potter,” Tim grins his way, “Suck it up and keep walking.”
Dick and Jason are both dressed as Jedi, while Tim is in plain black clothes with a graphic of a stock market crash imprinted on his shirt.
“Nuh-uh,” Bruce stops, walks past Jason and Dick--who are talking in a preoccupying fashion about the new Star Wars movie and ignoring everything around them--, and places himself beside Tim, grabbing his shoulder and adapting his step's rhythm with his, “What did we say? You can't talk, chum. You are a simple graphic.”
Tim rolls his eyes at his father, trying not to smile, “Shut up, old man. I already told you why I chose this costume.”
At his comment, Jason and Dick snap out of their bubble.
“Yeah, we know,” Jason says, “'Cause you're boring and weird.”
Tim crosses his arms, avoiding a puddle seconds before stepping on it, “I'll reuse it in 2020!”
“Yeah, right,” Dick replies laughing, “If we're still alive by then.”
Jason laughs loudly at Dick's comment, and Tim turns at Bruce, whose lips are quirking up in amusement.
“B!” Tim whines, “You think it's cool, right?” Before his father can even reply, he continues, “I'm being a responsible citizen! I'll be reusing something in the near future!”
“But you don't know that, chum,” Bruce eyes his costume briefly with a goofy smile before looking back at the street, “Economy could improve in five years.”
“A delusional father,” Jason interjects, “Just like his delusional son.”
“I'm telling you,” Tim pokes his tongue at his brother, “The market crashes every five years.”
Dick inclines his neck to look at him, snorting, “Based on what, Timmy?”
“On my memories,” he pauses for a second, “Although I don't know shit about the market. Or about the economy.”
Bruce looks unimpressed while Jason and Dick keep mocking him.
Tim huffs out a laugh.
He can't believe how lucky he truly is, after all that's happened.