Chapter Text
Tim is pretty sure school was invented just to torture him personally.
It’s the first day of the new term, summer break is officially over, Tim is a sophomore now, and possibly no one in the history of the world has ever suffered as much as he did when his alarm rang at 7 am today.
He turned it off on instinct, rolling over in bed, but then his phone rang, too, with Dick on the other end of the line.
“Morning, Tim,” he’d said with more cheer than should be allowed this early in the day. “I figured you might oversleep, so I called to make sure you’re up.”
“Fuck you, I hate you, never talk to me again,” Tim had replied and hung up. Briefly, he’d considered just staying in bed out of spite, but it is the first day. He probably ought to put in an appearance.
That’s why he got up and showered, and why he took the bike since he managed to miss the bus and Uber always takes ages to get to Bristol, and why he’s here, now, sitting in the classroom with the rest of his classmates waiting for their new English teacher to arrive.
“Do any of you know who it’s going to be?” Trish asks, displaying an interest in the goings on of their school that Tim cannot relate to. “I heard it’s a woman again.”
“I hope she’s hot,” Brad says and laughs. Then, because nobody else does, he looks around and says, “Right?” with a vaguely threatening undertone. Immediately, several other boys start laughing too.
“That’s actually so sexist of you,” Trish says and, to Tim’s alarm, adds, “Right, Tim?”
Tim makes a noise that could possibly be interpreted as mild agreement and takes out his phone to show that he’s no longer listening. He liked their old English teacher. Ms Bowers is ancient and theirs had been her last class before retirement, so she mostly just let them watch movies and never looked too closely at Tim’s attendance record. Presumably it’s too much to hope for another Ms Bowers, but Tim’s always been an optimist.
Meanwhile, Brad has told a dirty joke and Trish has told him to go fuck himself. Tim sinks deeper into his chair, staring intently at his phone. Dick’s texted him twice: the first text is a selfie and the other, after Tim made the mistake to click on it, simply reads ‘put your phone away tim’. Tim sends him the middle finger emoji.
He knows what Bruce and Dick think. They think that he hates school because he prefers the excitement of the vigilante lifestyle. They’re not wrong, exactly, but they’re also not right. Tim obviously prefers the excitement of the vigilante lifestyle, yes, everyone would, but he also hated school long before he became Robin. It’s nothing personal – his classmates are alright, his teachers try their best, and he knows objectively that Gotham Academy is the best school in Gotham. To Tim, it still feels like prison. He’d drop out in a heartbeat if he thought his parents would let him.
“-I’m just saying,” Trish is telling Brad, “just because you saw that in porn doesn’t mean that-“ She falls silent, and at first Tim thinks it’s because Brad made a rude gesture or something, but then he realises that it’s not just Trish. The whole class has quieted down, and it’s because their new English teacher just walked in.
It's not a woman. It’s a man, a little young, definitely a million years younger than Ms Bowers, dark-haired with a weird grey streak in it, and built like a tank. He's not dressed like a teacher, or at least he’s not dressed like any of Tim’s other teachers. His t-shirt, tight enough to make his muscles visibly ripple under the fabric with every movement, is black and has ACAB on it in white print. He has also, for some reason, come inside the classroom wearing sunglasses, which makes him look like an asshole.
“Sup, kids,” he says.
Nobody says anything. They’re too busy staring at him. Tim’s phone is lying forgotten on his desk.
“He’s hot,” someone whispers. It sounds like Trish.
“That’s sexist,” someone else whispers. It sounds like Brad.
The teacher, either deaf or ignoring them on purpose, scans the classroom, taking in all fifteen students, until he finally finds Tim from where he’s sitting in the last row. He grins and takes off his sunglasses.
“I’m Mr Mason,” he says. “I’ll be your English teacher this year.”
He's still looking right at Tim, for some reason. That’s fine, though, because Tim is staring back at him, confused and unwilling to believe what’s right in front of his eyes.
That’s not Mr Mason, he thinks. That’s Jason Todd.
*
Jason is not usually the best at planning, but this time, he has it all figured out. He’s got a whole Word doc about it. He was going to do a presentation, too, but then he lost interest halfway through, so the Word doc will have to be enough.
“That,” Talia said when he first told her about the whole thing, “is a terrible idea. No.”
“No, hear me out,” he’d said, “because it’s actually smarter to do it like this. He’ll never see it coming.”
Talia had frowned then, tilting her head a little, which was unsettling because Jason remembers Bruce doing the exact same thing sometimes. God.
“What happened to the Titans Tower plan? You worked so hard on that.” This, too, made her sound somewhat like Bruce. What happened to the first essay draft, chum? You worked so hard on that, why would you change your mind?
“Right,” Jason had said, nodding emphatically, “yeah, I’ll still totally do the Titans Tower plan, obviously, just a few weeks later than I thought. This way, I can get to know him first. Really get into his head. Break his spirit first and his body second. – No, look,” he’d added when he’d seen Talia ready to protest, “just, trust me on this. I know what Robins are like, and I’m telling you, this will really fuck with the kid.”
Talia had remained unconvinced, but Jason knew – no, he still knows that this is brilliant. He has a vision. He’s basically the da Vinci of crime. At least, he’s going to be once he really gets started.
When he first rose from the pit, freshly brought back from the dead, stronger than ever and also more furious, Talia told him everything: that Bruce failed to kill the Joker, that Dick didn’t go to the funeral, that it took less than two months for Bruce to replace Jason with a new kid.
Make Bruce suffer, Talia said to him. Make him suffer for what he did to you.
That’s still the plan, and Jason knows that in order to get to Bruce, he has to get to Robin first. He’s done his homework. He is now a positive expert on little Timothy Drake. He knows everything there is to know about the kid, except for why Bruce picked him. It bugs him that he has no idea. There must be some reason, and it can’t be that the kid’s an orphan, because he’s not. Is it because he’s from Bristol? Was Bruce so sick of Jason that he was ready to take in anyone who’s from a wealthy background? Or was there something else?
Jason has to find out. It’s killing him that he doesn’t know this already. But the thing is – discovering someone’s potential doesn’t really align with murdering them. One could even call it counter-productive. This means that before he slits Timothy’s throat and dumps him on Bruce’s doorstep as a warning, he has to meet the kid first.
That’s where his plan comes in. And, look, Talia may not have been onboard, but that’s because she doesn’t share his vision. She doesn’t understand what Jason knows to be a fact.
After all, what better way to discover potential than to go into teaching?
*
There is no reason to freak out. Tim tells himself this when he first recognises Jason Todd, and then he keeps repeating it for the duration of everything that happens afterwards.
There is no reason to freak out, he thinks when Jason writes his obviously false name onto the blackboard and then asks them which books they covered last term. They tell him that mostly they’ve just watched movies, and Jason shakes his head and announces that there will be a quiz tomorrow. He doesn’t say what it’s about, and they’re all too intimidated to ask.
There is no reason to freak out, Tim thinks when he writes TIM DRAKE onto the name tag they’re supposed to make to help Jason learn their names. Jason wanders over to the back, raises an eyebrow, and says, “Tim? Not Timothy?”
“Um. No,” Tim says, a little weirded out, even though there is no reason to freak out.
“No, sir,” Jason says. He crosses his arms and, instead of going back to the front, he stays right where he is, glaring down at Tim. “What about the quiz tomorrow? Think you’re prepared?”
“No,” Tim says, even more weirded out now. “Since you haven’t told us the topic.”
“Sir,” Jason says.
“Sir,” Tim adds.
“Hm,” Jason says, shaking his head like Tim has admitted to a personal flaw, and finally goes to harass other students instead.
After they’re done with the name tags, Jason actually does start them off on a new topic. Tim isn’t listening, though. He’s too focused on what this all means. What does it mean? He is truly, 100 % sure that this man is Jason Todd, former Robin, Bruce Wayne’s younger son and dead for almost three years now.
And yet he’s here now, very much alive, looking like he’s three years older and approximately 200 pounds heavier, telling a bunch of 9th graders about poetry.
Perhaps Tim has entered an alternate universe. It’s been known to happen. Last year, Bruce was replaced by another version of himself and it took them three weeks to notice. Real-Bruce was really mad when he returned, but in fairness, Tim didn’t think he was evil, he just thought he was a little more quiet than usual.
He writes ALTERNATE UNIVERSE? down on a piece of paper.
What else? Hallucinations, maybe, induced by drugs or a mental breakdown or whatever. He writes down HALLUCINATIONS? and, after a bit more brainstorming, he adds VR?, PRANK?, CLAYFACE? And ALIENS?
It's only when the bell rings that Tim realises he has not heard a single thing Jason has said. Perhaps he should’ve paid more attention, if only to listen for clues that Jason is not who he says he is.
Well.
Obviously Jason is not who he says he is. There is no way that this man’s name is actually Mason. Still, though: there is no reason to freak out.
*
Jason is having the time of his (second) life.
Gotham Academy has welcomed him into their teaching department with open arms once he forged all that paperwork. His wages could be higher, especially considering that he is now working for one of the most prestigious schools in the county, but his side gig as a crime boss makes up for that. Or is teaching his side gig, and crime boss his fulltime job? It’s fine, he’ll figure it out.
Red Hood has not been welcomed into Gotham with open arms, especially not by Batman, who Jason just bets is having all kinds of meltdowns over this new player in the crime game. That’s fine, too. He’ll keep the Bats busy for a couple of months while he focuses on school, and then he’ll be ready to strike.
So far, it’s been a week and he has already been hard at work educating the students of Gotham Academy, opening their eyes to the beauty of literature while also helping them work on their writing and interpretation skills – and also, whenever he can, making Tim Drake’s life at school a living nightmare.
He thought he’d known everything about the kid there was to know, but it didn’t take him long to notice that that’s not quite true. He’d read the kids’ report cards and seen straight A’s, so naturally, he had assumed that school comes as easily to him as it did to Jason, once upon a time.
That, he has since come to realise, is not the case.
He hasn’t the faintest idea how Tim managed to get an A in English these past few years. It can’t be because he’s good at it. He isn’t. He’s pretty fucking shit at it, actually. That’s better than anything Jason could have hoped for. This way, he actually has a reason to torment the kid.
“Another F,” he says, shaking his head sadly as he hands out the marked papers of what has been the second quiz this week. “At this rate, the only thing you got right was your own name.”
Someone snickers, but Tim accepts the piece of paper with the large red F on it gracefully, looking completely unbothered.
Jason considers digging a little deeper, but then again, it’s Friday, and the lesson will still go on for another five minutes. That’s plenty of time to really ruin Tim’s weekend.
He finishes handing out the rest of the quizzes before taking another stack of papers from his bag. “I’ve got your reading list for this term,” he says. “We’ll be discussing the first book on Monday.”
A girl raises her hand. Jason waits a second to see if Tim is going to say anything. When he doesn’t, Jason nods at the girl to go ahead.
“Sir, it says here that the first book is The Count of Monte Cristo.”
“Yep,” Jason says obnoxiously. “So?”
“Isn’t that, like, really long?”
Jason grins, taking that book from his bag, too, and letting it drop onto the table with an audible thud. He pets the cover lovingly. “Who thinks this is too long?” he asks.
Almost everyone raises their hand. The only ones who haven’t moved are a couple of students he’s silently categorised as the ass kissers, and Tim Drake, who is staring out the window and apparently hasn’t even heard him.
“Tough shit,” Jason says. “This isn’t a democracy and I don’t think I asked for anybody’s opinion.”
At this, Tim finally looks to the front. He doesn’t even raise his hand, he just starts speaking. “You did, though.”
Jason blinks. It’s the first time Tim has willingly said anything in class in a week. “I did what?”
“Ask for our opinion. You asked if we think it’s too long. Sir.” The last word comes out somewhat sarcastic, which is pretty rich of someone who probably couldn’t identify sarcasm as a stylistic device in a speech.
Jason blinks again, and then the bell rings. He holds up a hand, preventing the students from getting up just yet. “Congrats,” he barks, “your classmate just earned everyone detention.” When several hands shoot up, he adds, “what, going to cry about it? Life ain’t fair, kids. The sooner you learn that, the better. Whoever hasn’t finished the book by Monday is going to get detention for the whole week, by the way.”
He exits the classroom accompanied by lots of moaning and whining, which is just typical, but probably to be expected from a private school. God, it’s not like Jason is being unreasonable. Anyway, he can’t wait for Monday, when inevitably, half of these kids will have failed to complete the reading assignment. Their families are all insanely rich, so in a way, Jason is doing them a favour. By making them read 1300 pages in less than three days, he’s preventing them from spending that time doing drugs or hunting people for sport, both of which were the preferred pastimes of choice in his own Academy days.
He's on his way to the teacher’s lounge to have a cup of coffee when he hears it.
“Mr Mason!”
He turns around. Timothy Drake has followed him down the hallway. He’s looking perfectly at ease, hands casually shoved into the pockets of his pressed pants. His tie has been knotted to perfection. There isn’t a hair out of place on that kid. Jason hates him on principle.
“What?” he asks. Then he makes a show of looking at his wrist, even though he doesn’t own a watch. “You’re missing your History lesson, Mr Drake.”
“Right,” Tim says, “okay- I’ll live, probably. Listen, can we talk in private somewhere?”
“Sir,” Jason says.
“Sir,” Tim repeats slowly. “Can we, though?”
“No,” Jason says, just to see what Tim will do.
Nothing, apparently, except sigh. “Fine. In that case, I’ll just say it out here. I know you’re Jason Todd.”
A beat.
The more time passes, the more visibly nervous Tim gets. It’s honestly a little pathetic to watch, the way he’d been so sure of himself before and the way he’s losing all of that calm now. Jason lets him stew for just a few seconds longer.
Then he says, “Prove it.”
“What?” Tim blurts out. It’s obvious that he wasn’t expecting that answer.
“Prove it,” Jason repeats calmly. “You think I’m, what, the resurrected corpse of some millionaire’s brat who died three years ago?”
“Well-“
“Get over yourself, kid. You think if Jason Todd came back to life, he’d come to Gotham Academy just to teach you shitheads Shakespeare? You’re thinking of Jesus.”
“You’re not Jesus,” Tim snaps, sounding somewhat annoyed now. “No one’s saying you’re Jesus. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“I’ll put whatever I like in your mouth,” Jason snaps back. He pauses. “But not in a creepy way,” he amends. “Listen, all I’m saying is, if you’re going to throw accusations like that around, you better be able to back it up with some solid evidence. Otherwise, your energy might be better focused on reading.” He gives Tim a condescending pat on the shoulder and smiles meanly.
Tim doesn’t have evidence, that much is obvious. He probably thought he’d shock Jason into confessing the truth immediately. That just goes to show that he doesn’t know Jason. Jason can out-stubborn anyone.
“I’ll prove it,” Tim tells him. “You just watch me.”
“Great. Good luck getting people to believe you,” Jason says, and means it.
He walks off with Tim still glaring at him.
*
As always at the end of a work week, Dick has to do a simple calculation in his head. Is the stress of driving to Gotham and visiting Bruce at Wayne Manor going to be worth clean laundry and nutritious meals? Are the screaming matches with his dad worth seeing Tim? Are Tim’s moody puberty fits worth seeing Alfred?
At first, he was going to stay in Bludhaven, but then Tim texted him, practically begging him to come over for the weekend. That’s a rare request in and of itself. Tim doesn’t usually ask for things like that. But this time, it’s coupled with the rumours of a mysterious Red Hood, a newly established crime lord who is said to have it out for Batman and Robin most of all. Dick, in short, is worried.
So he drives to Gotham, speeding a little on the I-287 because it’s the last Friday of the month, which means the blood rain is about to start and he doesn’t want his car to break down again. He finally walks into the Manor just in time to hear Tim shouting, “-so fucking obvious, Bruce.”
Dick sighs. That’s definitely coming from the study. Apparently it’s going to be that kind of visit.
He doesn’t hear Bruce’s reply, but it’s probably along the terms of language, Tim, which has never once managed to elicit anything but a well-deserved fuck you in return. Was Dick ever like this when he was fifteen? Was Jason?
Tim’s voice is gaining in volume the closer Dick gets, and it’s not just because of the proximity. “Are you serious right now? Are you actually serious?” he’s yelling.
By now, Dick is right outside the study door, and he can make out Bruce’s soothing rumble.
“Tim, please calm down,” he tells Tim.
Dick winces. Yeah, that’s not going to help anything.
Right on cue, Tim says, “I’m calm, don’t tell me to calm down.”
For a moment, Dick is tempted to just turn around and go back to Bludhaven. He has no idea what this is about. If it were a younger version of himself, it’d be about curfew or a girl or possibly about Robin. If it were Jason, it’d definitely be about Robin. But Tim?
He has only just started to slowly back away when he glances outside the window. Looks like the blood rain has started already. Damnit. Dick puts his hand on the door handle again.
“Whatever, I’m out of here,” Tim yells and rips open the study door, only to run straight into Dick’s broad chest. Tim, who keeps insisting that he’ll have a growth spurt soon, glares up at this new and unexpected obstacle, before his face clears upon recognising Dick.
Tim smiles at him, the kind of instant and genuine smile that always appears on his face whenever Dick shows up. It’s been like that for over two years now, and it never fails to make Dick beam in return. Vaguely, he remembers a time when it wasn’t like that between them. A time when Dick looked at Tim and kept wishing he’d see Jason, a time when he looked at Tim and saw nothing but Bruce’s failure.
He doesn’t know what Tim saw when he looked at Dick in those days. He never asked. Perhaps he should have.
That’s all in the past now, though. Dick’s done his best to make up for his past mistakes, and to make up for Bruce’s mistakes, too, while he’s at it. It’s not often one gets a second chance of being a big brother, and he thinks he’s doing okay, all things considered. If he weren’t, Tim wouldn’t smile like that, right?
“Hi, Dick,” Tim says, smiling, all anger apparently forgotten. Then, in that efficient way he has, he points at Bruce in the study and says, “Tell B he’s wrong.”
“B, you’re wrong,” Dick says dutifully.
Bruce is seated behind his desk, and he’s looking at them both with an aggrieved expression on his face. “I didn’t know you were planning to visit this week,” he says.
“I asked him to come,” Tim says at once, and Dick feels a wave of fondness rising up within him. Tim has always been such an honest kid. He can’t lie worth a damn, probably because he never had to learn.
Bruce sighs. “Why?”
“So he could take my side, obviously.”
“Hold up, hold up.” Dick looks from Tim to Bruce, considering. “What’s this about?”
Another sigh from Bruce, this one significantly longer than the last. “Tim thinks-“
“I know,” Tim interrupts.
“Tim thinks that his new English teacher at Gotham Academy-”
“-it’s Jason.” Tim crosses his arms, daring them to object. “I already told Bruce, it’s so obvious. He looks just like him, just older and with weird grey hair, oh, and also, guess what? Jason’s a complete dick.”
“Tim!” Bruce thunders. He has risen from his desk, and suddenly this is no longer Bruce they’re dealing with. It’s Batman, and he’s pissed.
Tim, to his credit, only goes a little pale, but stands his ground. “What? He is. I’m just saying.”
Bruce looks ready to go apoplectic, so Dick decides to intervene. He wraps an arm around Tim’s narrow shoulders and says, “Let’s take a walk. We’ll see you at dinner, B.”
With that, under Bruce’s furious stare and accompanied by Tim’s protests, Dick drags Tim down the hallway, down the stairs, all the way to the library in the east wing, where they’ll be undisturbed. He shoves Tim into an armchair, only for Tim to jump up immediately, putting some distance between them.
“What?”
“Tim.”
“What?”
“Tim,” Dick repeats, and Tim finally falls silent. Dick studies him for a while: still paler than usual, dark bags under his eyes, his dark hair a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it a lot. He’s exchanged his school uniform for jeans and a hoodie that’s too large on him. At first, Dick thinks he’s lost weight (concerning), but then he realises the hoodie is actually one of Dick’s and Tim must have stolen it at some point (annoying).
Dick breathes in, out, and tries to figure out how to deal with this. Sometimes he looks at Tim and he wonders what Jason would think of him, whether they would’ve gotten along or hated each other on sight. Other times, it’s hard to remember that Tim and Jason never met, that Tim only came into their family after Jason was already in the ground and nothing but a memory.
“Tim,” he says for the third time, watching Tim’s eyes reluctantly settle on him. “Look. I know school can be tough, and English isn’t your best subject. But if you’re struggling, you should ask your parents to organise you a tutor. I’m sure it’s no trouble.”
“I don’t need a tutor,” Tim snaps. “I need you guys to stop gaslighting me.”
“No one is gaslighting you, Tim,” Dick says patiently. “We’ve all been there. When I went to the Academy, there was this one teacher who I swear had it out for me, but-“
“Oh my god.”
“-by the end of the school year, we actually got along quite well, and-“
“Dick. Dick. Are you listening? I need you to listen to me. I’m telling you that my English teacher Mr Mason, at Gotham Academy, is actually your dead brother Jason Todd. Am I getting through to you? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand that you think his assignments are too hard,” Dick says. “You’ve told me that before. But, hey, you’re done discussing The Count of Monte Cristo now, right? What’s next on the list? Maybe we can look at it together.”
“I don’t know,” Tim says, clearly irritated, “something about Talented Jack the Ripper or something. It’s fine, I’m just going to watch the movie, I don’t need your help.” He pauses, runs a hand through his hair, and when he next looks at Dick, something has shifted in his eyes, like there is a wall between them now. “You’re not going to believe me, are you?”
“Tim,” Dick says helplessly, “I don’t know what you want from me. You know I’m always on your side, but- this just isn’t something to joke about, okay? I’m a good sport, I can take it, but don’t say this kind of stuff around Bruce or Alfred anymore.”
“Fine.” Tim sighs, and in that moment he sounds exactly like Bruce: weary and a little put out by the fact that the universe is apparently against him. “I’m not feeling so well, so I think I’m going to skip dinner and head home, if you don’t mind.”
And just like that, Dick’s little brother is back. This isn’t the perpetually sullen teen who’s been tormenting them all for the past few months. It’s the bright-eyed thirteen-year-old kid, painfully eager to please, smiling at Dick whenever he enters the room.
“No problemo, amigo,” Dick says, reaching out to ruffle Tim’s hair. Tim ducks, kicks him in the shin and slips out of the room like an angry cat. “Hey,” Dick yells after him, “you’re coming over tomorrow though, right? I need my Tim-time, and my Tim-hugs, and my Tim-fuck you’s.”
“Fuck you,” Tim shouts, and a second later, there is the sound of a door slamming somewhere. Dick smiles to himself.
*
“Rodd, can I talk to you for a second?”
It takes Jason a moment to remember that that’s him. At the time, he thought putting Rodd Mason down as his alias was hilarious, but now it’s seriously giving him whiplash.
He puts down the essay he’s been marking and looks up at the deputy headmistress who has just entered the teacher’s lounge. There are rumours among the students that the scars all over her hands are because all her cats hate her, but Jason did a bit of research in his spare time and found out that it’s actually because she has a side gig in an underground fight club as a bare-knuckle boxing champion.
“Sure,” Jason says, “what’s up?”
The deputy holds up her iPhone and says, “I just got off the phone with a parent. All the sophomore’s parents have practically been calling me nonstop for the past month.”
“Oh?” Jason asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
One month is, coincidentally, the exact amount of time that’s passed since the term started. It’s also been the time that’s passed since Red Hood first came to Gotham, beat the Joker half to death with a crowbar, and proceed to establish control over several gangs. What can he say? He’s always displayed excellent work ethic.
“About you,” the deputy adds.
“Am I being sued?”
The deputy blinks. “Sued?”
“Rich brat gone crying to daddy?” Jason explains. “That’s just typical. I bet Tim Drake was first in line to complain about me. What a fucking prick.”
“Actually,” she says, “Mr Drake’s parents have been the only ones who haven’t called.”
“What?”
“But you don’t need to worry either way, Rodd. No one’s suing you. My last call was Mallory Martin. She’s-“
CEO of Martin Pharmaceuticals, net worth $400 million, previously accused of money laundering, human trafficking, and manslaughter. Yeah, Jason’s heard of her.
“-Trish Martin’s mother,” the deputy finishes, giving him a tight smile. “She said to tell you that you’re doing great.”
“What?”
“The calls before that were from Dennis Whitcomb-“
Republican senator, responsible for what’s been dubbed the White-comb law and also #MeToo’d a spectacular twelve times, Jason’s mind supplies.
“-Felix Wallace-“
Bestselling author of ‘Just Do It, You Beta Cuck: Why You Aren’t Rich Yet (and how to change that)’ and currently rumoured to be hiding from the authorities on the Philippines.
“-and Blair Remington-Smith.”
Founder of The Truth, a newspaper that’s taken a brave stand against fake news and that has been sued for defamation more times than Jason can count.
“Wow,” Jason says, not even trying to reign in his sarcasm.
The deputy doesn’t appear to notice. “They’re all singing your praises. Dennis Whitcomb especially congratulated your firm hand at handling the students. Apparently, his son has been so busy with his classwork that it can almost be considered a detox.”
Jason, who is fairly sure that Lewis Whitcomb did coke in the bathroom last week, doesn’t reply. He’s too busy wondering what’s wrong with those parents. Last week, he told their kids to write a 20-page essay on false identities in Les Misérables over the weekend, and that hadn’t even been on the reading list. If that had been Jason’s teacher, Bruce would’ve totally complained to the school board on his behalf, right?
Wait, did the deputy say that the Drakes haven’t called? Is it because unlike the rest of these psychopaths, they think Jason flipping a coin every day to decide whether the class gets quizzed or not isn’t actually good teaching practice? But then, why didn’t they call to tell the board to fire Jason’s ass?
In Jason’s research, Jack and Janet Drake only played a minor role. He was so surprised to learn that the new Robin is neither an orphan nor down on his luck that he didn’t really focus on the kid’s family. He knows they exist, he knows they own a company, and he knows that like most rich people, they travel a lot and have an expensive hobby. There’s nothing noteworthy about that, so his efforts went elsewhere. But now, he can’t help but wonder what kinds of people they are. Has Tim told them about his new teacher?
One person who Tim definitely hasn’t told yet is Bruce – or if he has, then Bruce hasn’t believed him. Jason knows this because Tim has been glaring daggers at him every single lesson, and it’s not just because Jason calls on him more than he calls on anyone else. There’s real frustration in those eyes, frustration that has nothing to do with school which, Jason has learned by now, Tim doesn’t give a shit about for some reason.
Oh, Bruce will find out who Jason is soon enough. He’s waiting for the right moment. But for now, the thought of Tim telling the old man and realising Bruce doesn’t believe him is enough to put a real, genuine smile on Jason’s face. It brightens his days. It’s what gets him up in the morning.
“So we just wanted you to know, keep doing what you’re doing,” the deputy tells Jason cheerfully. “We really appreciate your hard work, Rodd.”
After she’s left, Jason tries to go back to marking essays, but his heart is not in it. He’ll see Tim again in first period tomorrow, and he honestly cannot wait to return his essay to him, another F. Jason doesn’t even have to try. Tim’s genuinely just that bad at English, it’s ridiculous. If Jason’s original plan was to come to Gotham Academy to find out Tim’s hidden potential, he has failed spectacularly. So far, there has been zero potential in that kid. Zero.
Actually, now that he thinks about it, perhaps this is the ideal opportunity to do some more Tim Drake-related research and get to know those parents after all. It’s his responsibility to tell them that they’re only one month into the term and their son is already failing one subject, right?
That’s settled, then. He’ll send them a letter and invite them to a meeting to discuss their son’s grades. If he plays his cards right, he’ll find out a little more info about the new Robin, the kind of quality stuff only parents would know. While he’s waiting for the Drakes’ reply, he’s just going to have to find something else to occupy his time. Looks like plan Duffle Bag is a go.
*
Tim is going crazy. He has to be going crazy, because the only other explanation is that everybody else in his life is going crazy, and that can’t be true, can it? Surely not everyone has lost it.
He checks himself for traces of drugs, he takes one of those tests on the internet labelled ‘are you in danger of burnout’, and then he gets distracted and takes twelve more, only stopping upon learning that his secret superhero personality is apparently Green Arrow.
The thing is – he tried to run the tests on ‘Mr Mason’, checking his fingerprints, his DNA, his blood, the usual. But when he tried doing it in the Cave, Bruce came in to ask what he was doing, and when he saw that Jason Todd’s file was open on the Batcomputer, he shook his head all disappointed-like and then benched him as Robin for two weeks. The most annoying bit is that he tried to pretend like it was because of that Red Hood guy, but it’s clearly because he thinks Tim is losing his mind and also possibly because he takes joy in tormenting him.
He's got that in common with Jason, actually. God. Jason fucking sucks.
Tim remembers a time, only a few years earlier, when he was obsessed with Batman and Robin. Like, obsessed-obsessed. He dressed up as Robin every single Halloween for six years straight. When they all had to write an essay about their hero, most kids in their class just wrote about their mom or their dad or Martin Luther King, but Tim wrote about Batman. When Mom asked what he wanted for Christmas, he told her he wanted a grapple gun. That’s the level of obsession Tim had grown up with.
The first blow wasn’t actually Jason’s death. It was a couple of years before that, when Dick Grayson moved out and quit Robin to become Nightwing, and then a few months later this new kid moved into the Manor and took up the Robin mantle. Tim still stalked him, obviously, but he’d been very sceptical at first. No way, he’d thought, no way this Jason character can live up to the legacy of Dick Grayson.
And then some time passed, and Tim slowly grew to appreciate Jason. It helped that they were almost the same age, which made it much easier to identify with Robin. When Tim watched the Waynes in their house using the pair of binoculars Mom had given him for Christmas (instead of the grapple gun), he could see that Jason had almost the same everyday problems of growing up as Tim did. Jason had a big influence on Tim’s formative years, and he won’t forget that.
And then Tim got older, and Jason got older, and then Jason was murdered in cold blood, and then Batman kept almost murdering other people in cold blood, and no one stepped up and Superman never answered Tim’s letters, and Tim could finally stop dressing up as Robin for Halloween because he became Robin for real. He also failed Physics for the first time, so it had been a tough year all around.
They say to never meet your heroes, and Tim understands that better than most people. He became Robin during the darkest period of Bruce’s life, and it took him approximately two seconds to become disillusioned with Batman.
But things have also been good. Tim feels horrible for even thinking that, but it’s true. In that first year, Bruce had mostly been an asshole to him, and Dick kept looking at him with that weird teary look in his eyes that never failed to make Tim uncomfortable, but it didn’t stay like that. That’s what counts.
He doesn’t care about that first year. Tim doesn’t hold grudges like that. He cares about what came after, and the truth is that what came after was great. Tim loves being Robin. He loved watching Dick as Robin, and he loved watching Jason as Robin, but he also loves being Robin himself, and he doesn’t think that makes him a dick.
And now Jason has, by some curse or miracle or maybe just to fuck with Tim, returned to life. He hasn’t come to Wayne Manor for a tearful reunion. He hasn’t come barging into Tim’s room at his house, demanding he quit Robin and leave his family alone or whatever. All he’s done is become an English teacher.
And no one will fucking believe Tim about that.
Tim knows he’s right, though. Bruce wouldn’t let him finish running the tests, but he has eyes. The guy who is currently writing a new assignment on the blackboard is obviously the same guy who died three years ago, just older and with more muscles and also green eyes for some reason. Maybe contact lenses are Jason’s shitty idea of a disguise.
“He’s literally called himself Rodd Mason,” he told Dick yesterday over the phone. “Like Todd, Jason. Like Jason Todd.”
Dick had hm’d and ah’d, the weird noncommittal noises he makes whenever he thinks Tim is being unreasonable. He’s not unreasonable though. He’s perfectly reasonable. When Tim told Dick this, Dick had changed his hm’s and ah’s to questions like, are you sure you’re okay, and, are you sure you don’t need a tutor. It’d been infuriating.
“I expect you all to be experts on Frank Abagnale by Monday,” Jason says, just as the bell rings. Everyone’s shuffling out of the classroom to head to History, but before Tim can follow, Jason says, “Mr Drake, a word.”
“What?” Tim asks once his classmates have left. Is Jason going to bring up his fake identity? They haven’t talked about it since Tim confronted him in the hallway, but even Jason basically confirming it to him hasn’t made Bruce see reason.
Jason smiles obnoxiously. He’s holding a letter. Tim’s stomach sinks. He’s been there before, and he knows what this means.
“Four F’s in a row,” Jason says. “And that’s without accounting for the fact that you have yet to correctly answer a single question when I call on you in class.”
Tim doesn’t point out that Jason calls on him constantly, way more than he calls on anyone else, even though that’s incredibly unfair. Instead, he keeps his eyes glued on the ominous envelope. “What’s that?”
“That’s for me to know and for your parents to find out.”
When Tim takes it, he does indeed see his parents’ names written there. Of course they are. Of course this is happening.
Fine, he thinks. It doesn’t even matter. He isn’t an amateur. He’s played this game before.
“Okay,” he says, “cool. I’ll pass it on. Is that it?”
Jason frowns. It’s clear that he was expecting something else. “Yeah,” he says after a small pause. “I guess.”
“Cool,” Tim repeats, and leaves the classroom before Jason can stop him.
He's ripped open the envelope by the time he rounds the corner. The letter says pretty much what he expected – your son, bad performance, meeting, blabla. The only surprising thing here is that it’s an actual, physical letter. How old is Jason, like eighty?
Tim decides that his reply is going to be an email. It’ll be a lesson, it won’t waste paper, and also, he’s never been that great at forging signatures. Like, he’s okay at it, but using the fake email address he’s set up for his parents is so much easier. Besides, this way he frees up his time for what he really wants to do: wait until Bruce has left for patrol, then sneak into the Cave to research one Rodd Mason.