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Tim Drake was nine years old when he discovered the ultimate truth.
He had spent so many nights following Batman and Robin. That particular night, he was looking around near the Bowery when he ran into an older man who offered him a small orange. The man owned a little corner store, and the oranges were about to go bad. When Tim tasted the fruit, something in his soul rejoiced. It was like he was discovering truth and love and light for the first time.
Later that night, he saw Robin do a quadruple backflip, and everything changed.
The memory of that delicious orange was almost lost to him in the subsequent excitement from discovering Robin’s true identity. For weeks, he researched every hero he could think of, creating a daisy chain of identities that eventually lead to the true names of just about everyone operating in the continental United States. Most of the international heroes, he was disappointed to learn, were simply not connected enough to Bruce Wayne to be figured out.
He spent his days pretending to pay attention to his teachers, and his nights taking better and better pictures of his heroes. Like he had for years, Tim subsisted on a diet of mainly Zesti and ramen, with occasional tacos (refried beans and microwaved bacon in a tortilla) when his body screamed for more nutritious food. Sometimes he got fancy and made himself a grilled cheese on the dirt-cheap white bread his parents could never know he bought.
Like always, Tim was tired.
Fatigue was a constant companion. He’d been fine when he was younger. The problems really began some time after his last nanny was fired. Tim had reveled in his parents’ belief in his ability to care for himself. He was eight years old, practically an adult for all those around him insisted on acting like he was a baby. It wouldn’t be a problem.
It wasn’t a problem.
Mostly.
The one issue, it seemed, was that being without adults was maybe bad for you. That was Tim’s running theory, anyways. His problems had gotten pretty bad after there wasn’t an adult taking care of him. But that didn’t matter. Tim had told his parents he didn’t need a caretaker, and he’d rather die than hear the disappointment in Janet Drake’s polished voice when he admitted he wasn’t so mature after all.
Now, over a year after he began caring for himself, Tim ached most days. He bruised easily, and the bruises took ages to heal. His gums bled no matter how well he brushed, even after he added a mouthwash so strong it felt like he was lighting his mouth on fire when he used it.
Currently, Tim was hanging his aching body off a girder. The girder was high up enough to give him vertigo, but it also offered him an excellent view of Batman and Robin duking it out with Clock King. He snapped a shot he knew would be absolutely gorgeous in black and white, Robin’s body curving into an almost inhumanly graceful arc as he kicked a goon in the face.
Soon enough, the fight moved on and Tim was just contemplating following it when he saw the little convenience store from all those months ago. Suddenly, he found himself craving oranges. He’d felt so energized that magical night, and the energy hadn’t faded for days. Maybe the taste of sunlight, so rare in Gotham, would perk him up a little. God knew he needed it. Last weekend he’d slept for 36 hours straight, and he swore he could have slept for at least 12 more.
Hopping down the rusted fire escape, Tim was pleased to discover that the store owner remembered him. More than that, he had oranges he needed to get rid of again! He gave Tim a whole bag of those mini ones that were easy to peel, and the sweet juice bursting on his tongue tasted just as beautiful as he remembered.
(He would find out many years later that the owner, a kindly old man, had simply seen a malnourished-looking kid and decided he ought to have some goddamned fresh produce.)
The next day, Tim woke up feeling better than he had in weeks. He ate his usual breakfast (buttered toast), but he supplemented it with two mini oranges, going back for a third when the taste made him feel like he was about to cry with delight.
The next time he started feeling badly, a handful of months later, Tim went for an orange first thing. Sure enough, he felt great the very next day.
Honestly, why wasn’t anybody talking about how magical oranges were? Every time Tim felt ill, all he had to do was eat an orange or two and he was right back to normal.
He supposed that was why his parents were so weird about him going to doctors. Why bother, when an orange could fix just about anything? He even healed faster after he ate them!
Tim just wished his parents had remembered to tell him about the magic of oranges, rather than leaving him to figure it out on his own. But he could hardly blame them. His parents were constantly busy with important business stuff and had much better things to do than explain simple concepts to a big boy like him.
Well. It didn’t matter so much anyways. Tim would just keep healing himself with the magic of oranges.
Maybe he’d start sharing with other kids too, the ones on the street who definitely couldn’t afford produce.
Tim was so smart.