Chapter Text
Sure, that makes sense,Tim thought. I suggest that Bruce is alive. Dick suggests I seek therapy in Metropolis.
Everyone in Gotham needs therapy! Most especially Bruce’s little squad of orphans and might as well be orphans. What has that got to do with anything?
And then the cherry on the shit sundae of my life, Dick gives the Robin role to Damian. Heaven help the citizens of Gotham when Prince Stabby tags along behind Dick’s Batman. The kid has had zero training in the non-lethal aspects of BatLife. He wouldn’t know how to talk down a jumper, or resuscitate a drowning victim from the harbor, or how to assess a dislocated shoulder -you can cripple someone easy if you go with the stupid movies and just slam it back in place.
And that’s if he doesn’t over-react and accidentally kill someone. Swords? If Jason hasn’t vented all his anger on me, what is he going to do when he sees an even smaller, and more aggressive, Robin wearing Jason’s colors, flying over Crime Alley waving around a pair of swords?
Tim took the Zeta to Metropolis, but once he was there he flipped over past angry to depressed. He decided the only sensible thing was to wallow in depression until he smothered it. Then he’ll plan how he’s going to find Bruce, even if he has to do it on his own.
He took a bus, and then another bus, and finally an older lady who ran her own car with a ’Smallville Taxi’ placard on the side, took him to the Kent farm. Well, to the mailbox at the end of the road. He didn’t want to intrude on their grief. He just wanted to be in the place where Kon-El had been happy and they did stuff like look at the stars and chew on grass, and listen to cows burp.
Kon had been his best friend. Tim hadn’t let himself stop and think about it. Maybe he really did need therapy. It probably wasn’t healthy to not grieve when your father dies, your father figure dies disappears, your best friend, your other best friend, and your girlfriend all die… it’s like. Really, this is a HINT, Tim. You should sit down and cry for them.
But not here, it’s too close to Ma and Pa Kent’s home. Tim started walking in between the rows of cornstalks. The rustle and smell and feel of the turned soil beneath his shoes, it was all so different from Gotham.
He got to the end of the row. There was a fence, and beyond that, scrubby trees, that, he didn’t know, were too much trouble to dig out? Or maybe were left as a windbreak. Or just for shade.
Tim was hot, there was a lot more sun here than in Gotham. He found a dry patch of leaves under a tree and sat there. Still couldn’t cry. He lay down and shut his eyes and tried not to think of anything at all.
He didn’t know how long he lay there. There was a scrabbling sound nearby and he started to sit up, before a weight hit him in the chest and a squirming furry body was on top of him, whining and licking his face. Tim laughed, “Krypto, stop it.” He grabbed the dog. “Wait, you’re not Krypto.”
Tim found himself holding a fluffy, not quite a puppy, not yet a dog. It had one ear sticking straight up, another flopped down. It was mostly white, but half the face and the sticking up ear on the right side were brown. The eye on that side was also brown, but the other one was blue. The tail curved over its back like a plume, with the fur twice as long there as everywhere else.
It was also dirty, and skinny. And so very happy to see Tim. Tim couldn’t remember the last time anyone was so happy to see him. At least, not anyone who was still alive. He buried his face in the puppy’s dirty coat, and finally let himself cry.
“You’re lonely, too,” he whispered. Tim got up, still holding the dog. “I can’t keep you. I have to go find Bruce.”
The puppy whined at him and tilted its head. The floppy ear flopped the other way. Tim petted it. “I can find you a good home. You’ll be happy there.”
Smuggling a puppy aboard a bus isn’t the hardest thing Tim’s ever done. The Zeta paused for a moment as if thinking it over, but it let Tim and the puppy through to Gotham. Tim went back to Wayne manor. Damian didn’t like Tim at all, but he liked dogs, and this was the cutest dog ever, so he was sure Damian would gladly take it and treat it well, like he did all his pets.
Miscalculation. Damian took one look at the puppy, and his lip curled. “If that pathetic mongrel is meant as a bribe to regain the Robin role, you must think me a fool.”
Tim pulled the puppy back from where he’d been holding it out. “It’s not a bribe. It needs a home and I thought you might like it.”
Dick leaned over to look at the puppy. “It is cute,” he said in a tentative voice.
Damian said, “It is an ill-bred cur, probably disease ridden and full of vermin. I will not have it contaminate my home.”
“Your home,” Tim said. He looked at Dick who managed to pretend he totally didn’t see the insult in that statement. “Ok, you know what, I’m sure you’re right. This dog doesn’t belong here. He belongs somewhere where he’s wanted. Wanted for himself, not for a pedigree he hasn’t got.”
The puppy woofed and licked Tim’s chin. Tim turned and left. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Maybe if someone else had given Damian the dog, he would have liked it, but you know, from Tim? Nah.
The puppy was good at the vet and at the groomer, and it even liked the collar and tags Tim got for it shaking its head to hear the tinkle. He decided to call it ‘Patches’ because the last thing it needed was to be mocked for a pretentious name like ‘Titus’.
He’d find Patches a home tomorrow (heck, maybe Jason would like it- at least he wouldn’t care about pedigree), but for this last day, he was going to have fun with HIS dog.
He went to the ‘dog allowed’ section of Robinson park. Ivy had a soft spot for orphans and strays, so long as they don’t hurt her plants, so he was sure it would be all right. He let Patches off the leash, and tossed a ball up. Patches jumped up and caught it. He brought the ball back to Tim.
Tim threw it higher. Patches jumped up and caught it. He brought the ball back to Tim, wagging his tail wildly. Tim laughed and threw the ball straight up.
Patches caught it ten feet off the ground. And stayed there, floating and gnawing on the ball while wagging his tail like a helicopter’s vanes.
Tim sat down on the grass abruptly. “Patches?”
The pup floated down to Tim and gave him the ball. Tim looked into Patches’ mismatched eyes. “You know what? I bet if we work together, we can find both our fathers.” Tim hugged Patches. Maybe he didn’t need therapy, he just needed an Emotional Supersupport Dog.