Chapter Text
Tim is fighting tooth and nail to keep his eyes open. He takes a look at the clock and remembers that it’s only been about thirty seconds since the last time he checked. Still 9:47. Jesus. Time moves like molasses when you’re running on 4 hours of sleep in the most boring 9 a.m. class of your life.
Tim already submitted his paper two days ago and, while he appreciates his professor’s kind gesture of offering students today’s class time to work, he’s bored out of his skull. He even took the first 10 minutes of class to give his paper another skim and make a few edits. He’s submitted the essay twice now and has nothing to keep himself awake.
Oh no, Tim thinks, now I have to waste time on the internet. He spends a fair amount of time looking through recipe websites for things to add to his list. Even though he has a butler and no practical reason to learn how to cook, his friends continue to shame him for only knowing how to make scrambled eggs and instant ramen at the ripe old age of 20. “You don’t even know how to use an oven?” Barbara once asked. And, of course, Tim could figure it out if prompted, but he realized in that moment that he’d never actually used one. So. Recipe website.
Tim’s phone starts to buzz only minutes later. Hallelujah. His professor’s policy on phone calls is the standard “if it’s that important, just excuse yourself from class and take the call.” Getting away from pages and pages about curating the perfect consistency of homemade pasta is currently filed under “that important,” so Tim shuts his laptop and makes his way out to the hall.
“What’s up?” Tim asks into the phone.
“Are you busy?” asks Cassie—Cassie the blonde, not Cassie the brunette—voice thick with sleep. You’d think Tim was the one who interrupted her.
Tim’s recipes can wait and his English class isn’t over for another hour. And English degrees are a pyramid scheme anyway, which is why he isn’t getting one. He doesn’t need that class to succeed. “Not really. Everything okay?”
“Dude, yes,” Cassie says, “but I just had the craziest dream.”
Ah, yes. Cassie and her new sophomore habit of sleeping in because she doesn’t have any classes until the afternoon.
“Lay it on me,” Tim orders.
“Okay, so, I was at the dentist’s office, right?”
“Right.”
Tim starts wandering aimlessly while Cassie talks because he quite enjoys a stroll down a hallway when no one else is in it. The only sounds are his own voice, Cassie’s, and the occasional squeak of his sneakers.
“Right, but the dentist was Meryl Streep and she was being so fucking mean to me. Like, it was unreal, but I couldn’t say anything back because her hands were in my mouth.”
“What was she saying?” Tim asks.
Cassie groans and the phone picks up the shuffling of sheets. “I don’t rememberrrr! She was probably insulting my teeth or something, I don’t know. But anyway, you and Bart and Cissie and ‘Nita were there and you guys just let me have it. And then when I left, Meryl Streep chased me for miles, and then a bunch of thugs and shit joined her and also started chasing me? Like, that serial killer that just got caught, and a bunch of other freaks. It was terrifying.”
“That does sound terrifying. Did you make it away from them?”
“I don’t know! I think I woke up before they could catch me. I always wake up before I can die in my dreams.”
“Interesting.”
“Have you ever died in a dream before?”
Tim hums. “I don’t think so but to be fair, I hardly ever remember my dreams.”
“Right, I forgot about that,” says Cassie.
“Mhm.”
They’ve hit that awkward lull of the phone call where the conversation is over and one can either bring up a new subject or be the brave soul to hang up. Tim normally loves to end conversations, but he doesn’t want to go back to class so soon.
“Alright, well, I’ll see you later,” Cassie says. Drat. “You’ll be around for lunch today, right?”
“You know it.”
“Awesome. Later, babes.”
“Bye, Cassie.”
Tim waits to hear the beep from the other end, then checks his phone. No good notifications. He pockets his phone and turns around. At least he’s made it a decent distance from his stupid class and can waste some more time by walking super slowly on the way back. After a few leisurely paces, he hears some kind of beeping noise. It stops him in his tracks and he follows the sound to the printing room one door down on the left, where a guy with a half-familiar face and a letterman jacket is losing a fight to the copier.
Tim pokes his head in and asks, “Do you want some help with that?”
They've never spoken, but you don’t have to talk to Conner Kent to know who he is. The Gotham University Nighthawks are one of the top football teams in the NCAA, so some of those guys are celebrities on campus. Tim would know Kent’s name even if he wasn’t in the stands at every football game and hearing “Touchdown from Conner Kent!” like a broken record every time. But because Tim is forced to attend every game, he knows the guy’s face too.
Conner looks up at him. He looks back down at the copier, then back at Tim, like a deer in headlights. “Yes please.”
Contrary to his reputation, Conner isn’t very tall. Tim is realizing he’s only about 5'9 at most, maybe an inch or two taller than himself, but buff enough to be scary if he didn’t have such a strong reputation of being a guy sorority girls trust to watch their drinks for them.
Conner moves back to give Tim enough space to fix whatever’s wrong with the stupid machine. Tim steps over to the copier and presses a few buttons. Should be fine now. “How many copies did you need?”
“50.”
“Jeez,” Tim comments, punching the number in.
“They’re flyers for a fundraiser,” Conner explains.
Tim nods. “Makes sense.”
He presses the green button and the copies start printing.
“Voila.”
Conner has an amused look on his face. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“No one ever taught you how to use a copier?” Tim asks.
“Not really,” Conner admits, shoulders bunching a bit closer together like he’s subconsciously trying to make himself smaller. “The one in the library is way more intuitive but I heard this one is secretly better because it prints in color.”
“Smart. And don’t feel bad about it, I'm only good at that because I had to teach my dad how to use the one in his office since adults don’t know how technology works. And kids don’t either. Nobody teaches computer literacy these days.”
“Oh cool," Conner comments, leaning against the wall. "What’s your dad do?”
“He’s a uh, CEO. Wayne Enterprises.”
Conner stiffens and stands up straight. “What? But you’re like… that’s…”
“Yeah.”
“That’s insane. I figured you’d be going to like, I don’t know, Oxford or something. Not that I'm saying I think you could be doing better. I’m sure you’re doing great, I was just surprised to—”
Some telltale static sounds over the intercom system, then: “Good morning, Gotham University. We are initiating lockdown procedure. Please do not leave your current location until further notice. If you are in the hall, find the nearest room and lock the door. Stay put and stay safe, everyone.”
“Seriously?” Tim mutters. At least he doesn’t have to go back to class for a bit. Be careful what you wish for, he supposes.
“So, do we…?” Conner starts, gesturing at the door.
Tim blinks before shrugging. “I guess so. I’ve never not been in a class during one of these before.”
“Same.”
Tim heads for the door, lifts the door stop so it can close, and locks it while Conner pulls his phone out of his back pocket.
“Are you checking the news?” Tim asks.
Conner hops up onto the counter and crosses his legs. “I’m checking Twitter.”
“Dude, seriously?”
“What? It’s the best place to find video footage before it hits the news.”
Tim hums. “Good point.”
He climbs onto the counter next to Conner and pulls his own phone out to check the actual news. Might as well get comfy. This doesn’t feel like a drill, and it is Gotham. Anything could be going on out there. They’ll probably be stuck here for a while.
Tim only has to refresh his search one time for an article to pop up: “Everything We Know About the Active Shooter Situation at American Dream Mall on 14th Street.” He sighs and taps the link. There are an estimated 3 active threats with firearms inside the mall and a currently undetermined number of casualties. Security is “doing their best” and the police have just arrived.
“I can’t find anything. You?” Conner looked down to him from his perch on the counter.
“Shooting at the mall across the street.”
“Oh, jeez. That sucks.”
“Mhm.”
A minute or so of uncomfortable silence crawls by before Conner opens his mouth again. “So…” he reaches over and offers Tim his hand. “I’m Conner.”
Tim shakes his hand—his very firm hand that Tim is not having any specific thoughts about, thank you—and avoids making it seem like he already knew his name. “Tim.”
“Nice to meet you, Tim.” Conner goes back to fiddling with his phone. "How’s your day been?”
“As of right now? Not phenomenal.”
“Aside from that,” Conner says.
Tim shrugs. “It’s been average, I guess. Not bad. You?”
“It’s going okay. I don't know who the hell thought physics at 8 a.m. was a genuinely good idea but I hope they're having a terrible morning.”
“I think they do it to mess with us. If they make us miserable enough, we'll accept our fate and want to keep paying to go here. Really toxic relationship if you think about it.”
Conner opens his mouth to speak but stops and looks down when his phone buzzes. “Well.”
“What?” Tim cranes his neck to look over Conner’s shoulder, but his phone has already turned back off.
Conner runs a hand down his face. “It just turned into a hostage situation.”
“Only in Gotham,” Tim sighs. “I hate this place.”
“Makes two of us,” Conner agrees. “One time I was late to class 'cause I got stuck in traffic because some escaped convict was trying to chase down another criminal in a taxi.”
Tim cackles. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. I don’t know what they were beefing about. Last time I’ll ever drive anywhere in the city though.”
“That’s what it took for you to have that epiphany?” Tim teases.
“Kinda, yeah,” Conner admits. “To be totally honest, I didn’t really know how the subway worked and I was too scared to ask anyone for help, so I just never did it until I got too sick of driving to school.”
“You're not from around here,” Tim observes.
Conner shakes his head. “I’m here on a football scholarship so I’m immune to out-of-state tuition.”
“Good for you,” Tim says. “Are you from California or something?”
Tim is aware that his guess is probably silly, but he can’t be blamed. Conner has a sun kissed look about him even in early autumn.
“Kansas.”
“Huh. Cool.”
“You don’t have to pretend, I know it’s not cool.”
“Oh, good,” Tim says. “How far away is that though?”
“8 hour flight, give or take.”
“Damn. Do you have any family here?”
“Not really,” Conner says. “My boys are like family, but no. It’s kind of nice though. I used to daydream about flying hours away from my family.”
Tim nods. “Yeah, I know how you feel.”
Conner raises an eyebrow. “You mean to tell me the richest people in Gotham aren’t a bunch of delightful angels?”
“Yes, absolutely. I’m a middle child of 6, and my ex is trying to date my out-of-town sister and basically lives with us sometimes.”
“That sounds… awkward?” Conner tries.
“A little,” says Tim. “She's my best friend, actually. She’s like, the third least terrible. It’s fine. How many siblings do you have?”
“Well, just one,” Conner says. “We’re not a very big family, we just kind of have a lot going on.”
“Like what?”
“Uhh…” Conner trails off, staring at the wall ahead like he really wants to share what he’s thinking but doesn’t know how. Tim often experiences the inverse problem.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Tim says, rubbing his hands against his biceps.
He didn’t expect it to be so frigid in here. Upon further thought, Tim supposes he didn’t expect to be here at all. The temperatures haven’t dropped to East Coast lows yet and Tim has large classes today, rooms full of people, so he had no reason to plan for being in a cold little copier room with only one other human. Now that his adrenaline is finally wearing off, he’s deeply regretting wearing short sleeves today.
“Are you cold?” Conner asks him. Conner’s eyes are very blue.
“Huh? Yeah a little.”
Before Tim has an opportunity to turn him down, Conner shifts and shimmies out of his letterman jacket, displaying his toned arms. His... athletic chest is now covered only by his black t-shirt. Tim averts his eyes to be respectful.
“Do you wanna borrow my jacket?”
Tim feels heat rushing into his ears and, for a second, feels grateful for the cold. Could I borrow your shirt too? he wonders. God damn. He restrains himself. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t worry about it, dude. I’m like a walking furnace. I don’t mind,” Conner says with a smile.
Normally, Tim would say no to something like this. Half because he doesn’t know Conner at all and half because he doesn’t like to depend on other people for things, but Conner has already taken off the jacket and Tim doesn’t want him to put it back on.
“Thanks,” Tim says.
“No problem, Timmers.”
“Timmers?” Tim asks, raising one eyebrow. Is he being made fun of?
“What? Friends have nicknames, right?” Conner says with a playful grin on his face.
“And your best idea was Timmers.”
Conner folds his arms and raises his chin. “Alright then, Timothy. You do better.”
“Well.” Tim pauses. Nothing is coming to him. He’s usually smarter than this. “You’re a pain.”
“Oh, that’s a cute one, I’ll write it down,” Conner says, giggling. His eyes crinkle when he laughs.
They kill another hour or so talking about whatever comes to mind. Classes, mutual friends, Conner’s experience being campus royalty, Tim’s years as a star soccer player before his injury. Whenever family comes up, Conner is just as vague as Tim is and it makes him feel a little seen. How sweet. Conner is probably just as fucked up as Tim. It’s a little disappointing when the speakers get staticky again.
“Attention, Gotham University. The Police Department has deemed the conditions safe enough to resume class, and lockdown procedures have been lifted. Thank you for your patience. Please go about your day safely.”
“Well, this has been fun,” Conner says, hopping off of the counter and grabbing his flyers.
“Do we just go back to the classes we were in?” Tim asks. “It’s supposed to be second period right now.”
“I have no idea, but I don’t want to find out the hard way, so I gotta go. I’d love to stay and all—” Conner starts as he unlocks the door and walks out into the hall “—but I need a good GPA to stay on the team and I should be in my history class right now.”
Tim hops off the counter and follows Conner into the hall. Conner is all but running away through a hall that’s getting heavily populated, and fast, so Tim calls out: “Hold on, I still have your jacket!”
Conner turns back around to face Tim, jogging backwards, “You can give it back later! Text me!”
“I don’t have your number!” Tim shouts.
“Check your pocket!” Conner winks theatrically.
What the hell is this dude on? Tim slides his hands into each pocket of Conner’s jacket, equal parts confused and flustered, and pulls out a small scrap of folded paper. Tim looks up and Conner is gone. At least he has this stupid piece of paper.
'Conner Kent xxx-xxx-xxxx :)’
Sly son of a bitch. Tim leans into the doorjam with a sigh that borders on dreamy, his fist that holds the paper clutched close to his side.
★☆✧
“Oh my God,” Cassie says. “What. Are you wearing.”
Bart sits there with his mouth wide open, about to catch flies, while Cissie remains observant. She’s calculating something. Never a good thing for her to be doing.
“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Tim begs as he sets down his bag and takes a seat.
“You know everyone in the room was looking at you when you walked in here, right?” Cassie asks. “It’s already a big deal.”
“What can I say? I command a room.”
“Don’t start,” Cissie—not blonde Cassie, but blonde Cissie—finally chimes in. “Spill.”
Bart is still staring. This might be the longest he’s ever gone without speaking. It’s a little creepy.
“I have no idea, honestly. You know Conner Kent?”
It’s like a bomb goes off: “Everyone and their mother knows who that is, Tim!” “Everyone’s fathers too!” “Timmy, I thought it was gonna be a benchwarmer or a lacrosse player or something, holy shit.”
“Are you guys done?” Tim asks.
“Not yet,” says Bart. “Did you—”
Cissie elbows Bart in the ribs before he can derail the conversation further. “He’s done. What happened?”
“I got stuck in a copier room with Conner when we had to go on lockdown this morning and it was freezing in there so he let me borrow his jacket.”
“And you… stole it?” Bart asks.
“No, he told me to give it back later. I never see him though, so I don’t know what that’s about. But he gave me his number.”
The table erupts again.
“No way!”
“You finally found a boy who likes you!”
“Wait, guys,” Cassie says, quiet yet firm, leaning forward like they’re in a sideline huddle. “Conner Kent is gay?”
“Exactly,” Tim says. “He might just want to be friends. I don’t think he’s the type.”
Bart sticks a finger in the air and wags it. “Ah, ah, Timmy. Stereotypes are hurtful.”
“What’s hurtful is how obviously faggy that guy is,” Cissie drones.
“Cissie,” Cassie scolds. “You can’t say that.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize I was violating the terms and conditions of this gay ass table. But come on! He’s obviously closeted. You know just as well as I do, miss grew-out-her-hair-after-middle-school-because-she-got-scared.”
Cassie rolls her eyes, guilty as charged. The joke only sticks the landing because she feels safe enough now that she’s an adult to wear her hair short again. Cissie gets away with everything in Cassie’s eyes anyway.
Cissie continues, “I’m just saying, statistically, some of the football dude-bros have to be gay. And we now have reason to believe that includes Conner. And, I mean, he is like… super sweet and sensitive. How many straight football players do you know who are like that?”
“Sure, but why throw himself under the bus like that?” Cassie asks. “He’s known Tim for five minutes. Closet 101 is not outing yourself to anyone who could ruin your life with it.”
“You’re thinking about it all wrong,” Bart proposes. “Have you guys considered it from a non-closeted perspective? What if he’s just chill about it and isn’t scared of being accosted? If you think about it, isn’t he the last guy who’d get bullied for anything? He's a total tank. No one in their right mind would ever wanna mess with him.”
Cassie shakes her head. “No way. If he was openly gay, we’d have heard about it by now.”
“We are also discounting the possibility that he’s just not gay,” Tim adds.
“He’s gay,” the three of them say at once.
“Or maybe bi,” Bart corrects.
“Who’s gay or maybe bi?” Anita asks, pulling herself a chair. “Sorry I’m late, guys, I had to take a detour around the whole mall situation. The police tape is still up.”
“It’s okay, we can catch you up,” Bart says.
Anita hums. “Are we talking about why Tim is wearing a letterman jacket?”
Tim groans. “I’m taking it off.”
“Nooo,” Cassie whines, “it looks so cute on you.”
“The jacket isn’t staying on unless you guys start acting normal.”
Anita folds her arms. “Oh, sure, hide all the fun as soon as Anita gets here. I see how it is.”
“I’m not in any condition to be guilt tripped right now and you know it,” Tim accuses, pointing a finger at her.
She breaks character with a laugh. “Fine, fine, I’m normal. But really, tell me what happened. I feel left out.”
The cycle continues.
★☆✧
The curse of the jacket follows him all day. After he’s done lunch, he admittedly tries folding the jacket up and shoving the thing into his book bag but the fabric is so bulky and his bag is so cluttered that it doesn’t fit. The worst part is that Tim doesn’t even want to take the jacket off. Deep down, he kind of likes how it feels to be treated the way Conner has treated him. And the jacket smells like Conner’s cologne, which is a distraction that he doesn't mind at all. Tim should really give it back soon. What if he starts sweating and has to return a disgusting jacket to Conner? He would have to commit seppuku. Or maybe he could just get it dry cleaned. He’ll have to read the tag on the inside of the collar.
He arrives at orchestra rehearsal right on time. On paper, rehearsal begins at 2 p.m., but Dr. Wilkinson normally starts class about 20 seconds late—because she’s either forgetting her coffee, her reading glasses (she’s still getting used to being in her 40’s,) or a pencil—and it takes Tim approximately 1 minute to assemble his clarinet. He’ll also have to put his case away and get his music out. 13 seconds, he guesses. He enters the band room at 1:59:07 to allow himself enough time to get to his seat and get set up without leaving time for anyone to speak to him while maintaining rehearsal etiquette.
While this is effective, it doesn’t stop Stephanie from turning around from her spot in the front row to give Tim a lingering, suspicious stare. She doesn’t even say anything to accompany it, just forces Tim to wait in the agony of the impending conversation.
“I didn’t know you were an athlete,” says Adriana, the girl to Tim’s right. Tim’s meticulous system unfortunately doesn’t account for everything.
He’s a little offended. “This isn’t my jacket, but I’ve told you about my job before.”
“Oh, yeah,” Adriana says, “you play soccer, right?”
“Used to.” Tim adjusts the screws on his ligature. And gets a look at his watch. 2:00:09. Any day now, Wilkinson. “I coach over the summer. My kids were undefeated this season.”
“Right, right. But if it’s not your jacket…”
“It’s my friend’s,” Tim says. Stephanie’s shoulders move a little with what must be laughter. He’s so in for it.
Dr. Wilkinson picks up her baton before Tim can continue to get pestered. Every so often, Steph will turn around and give Tim a look just so he knows she hasn’t forgotten. Curse Conner Kent and his stupid big arms and warm personality.
The entire time, it feels like everyone has their eyes on Tim, even if he knows they don’t. It’s like being a child at a charity gala but worse because he wasn’t prepped for it this time. When he was a child being forced into high society events, he at least had his mom to do his hair and his dad to hide behind. He’s gotten comfortable being a bit of a nobody at school. Sure, he’s got a reputation because of his biological parents, the incident, and his adoptive family, but he hasn’t got his face on billboards or anything. Every time someone mentions the jacket, his face gets warm like he’s still in middle school, getting told he’s “such a handsome young man” by old ladies with giant pearl earrings who won’t stop pinching his cheeks. He feels utterly silly. He knows that only a handful of people today have actually noticed, but that’s too many. He isn't normally this socially anxious. Something is wrong with him.
By the time Tim gets over his nerves, class is done and Stephanie finally gets to grill him. She has enough kindness in her heart to wait until most of their classmates are either filing out of the room or already gone. She turns around in her chair and sets her empty violin case on the seat next to her.
“So?” she asks, sparing Tim a glance for a few seconds.
“It’s not a big deal,” Tim says. He puts his instrument away at record speed. He can’t wait to go home and catch up on his sleep.
“So small of a deal that I didn’t find out about your athlete boyfriend until just now?” Stephanie asks.
“He’s not— You’re jumping to some preposterous conclusions right now.”
Steph gives him a sideways look. “You’re using big words to deflect how you feel.”
“I met him today. Like, 3-hours-ago today. We got stuck in a copier room during lockdown and I was cold so he let me borrow his jacket.”
“So you stole it.”
Tim groans. Why does everyone keep saying that? “No, he just told me to hang onto it until I can return it later. I don’t get it.”
Stephanie nods. She’s smiling now as she puts her violin away and buckles up the case. “So, what’s his name?”
“Conner,” Tim mutters.
“Like… as in Kent?”
Tim can’t help a grin. “Yeah.”
Steph reaches over the back of her chair and shoves Tim’s shoulder. He nearly drops his clarinet case. “Timothy, you dog.”
“Don’t be weird,” Tim begs, standing up and pulling on his book bag.
“Are you telling me you’re not into him?” Stephanie asks.
Tim wants to go to bed so bad. “I don’t know, Steph, I just met the guy.”
“Okay, okay,” Steph concedes. She gets her own backpack on and leads the way to the door. “You might wanna figure out how you’re gonna get past Alfred wearing that though.”
“Way ahead of you,” Tim says.
Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I’m meeting Cass for ice cream in 15. You coming?”
Tim is happy to say no to that because he knows Steph wants him to. It’s becoming increasingly undeniable that his ex-girlfriend is courting his only sister and that’s not a situation he’d touch with a ten foot pole. Cass will only in town for a few more days anyway, then she’s back to dancing in New York. Tim can hang with her tomorrow.
“No thanks,” Tim says. “I gotta get home and practice. Those sextuplets are kicking my ass. I’ll see you tomorrow though.”
“Unless someone calls in a bomb threat.”
“Don’t give me any ideas.”
Stephanie laughs. “Later, Tim. Get home safe.”
“You too!”
★☆✧
Tim survives his walk to the subway station. He’s grateful that the streets around campus appear to be normal now. No police tape or anything like that. He whips out his phone to play Flappy Bird while he waits for the train. Original Flappy Bird, of course, because Tim and Barbara (mostly Barbara) spent months last year coding an exact copy because playing one of the remakes just isn’t the same. However, once the train comes, he closes the application. He doesn’t like playing games on public transport. They demand undivided attention, and the easiest way to die in a place like Gotham is not paying enough attention.
What Tim can do is pull the little slip of paper out of his pocket and punch the number into his phone. That, he can do while looking up every couple seconds. He sets up a contact for one Conner Kent and rewrites his text a few times, scared of coming off too strong.
★☆✧
Conner Kent (wtf)
hey, this is tim. should i meet you somewhere specific tomorrow to give you your jacket back?
Hey Tim!! When do you have class tomorrow?
most of the day
i’m done class at like 2
What class is it?
business administration
Oooo big money moves
sure lol
Where should I find you?
outside the library i guess? same building
Works for me!
cool :)
:D
★☆✧
Tim sighs so hard his head falls back and smacks the window. Conner is adorable.
★☆✧
Tim is fairly confident that no one is watching the home surveillance footage as long as there’s no danger, but he needs to work fast to sneak by Alfred. He swears that guy has a sixth sense for whatever is happening anywhere on the property like that map from Harry Potter.
Grateful to only live on the second floor of Wayne Manor, Tim begins his journey. He needs his hands free, so he clips his clarinet case to the carabiner on his backpack and ties Conner’s jacket around his waist instead of wearing it normally because he doesn’t want to get it dirty. It’s the first few feet of climbing the brick that are the hardest. Once you get your bearings, it becomes a little meditative. The scary part is getting the window open. It’s a good thing Tim is just paranoid enough to only lock his window when he’s at home because he needs to pull this maneuver relatively often. He pushes the window up with ease, then throws himself inside. He can breathe now.
Tim locks up the window, shuts his blinds, puts down his things, gets some comfortable clothes on, and tosses himself into bed. He gets about ten seconds of shut eye before someone knocks on his door.
“Yes?” he calls out.
“Master Timothy?”
Tim glares at the ceiling. How does he always know?
“What’s up?” Tim asks.
“Master Jason would like to speak with you in his room. He wanted me to let you know as soon as you returned home. I have to say, it sounded important.”
“Damnit,” Tim whispers. “Thanks, Alfred, I’ll be there in a minute!”
“You’re welcome, sir. Let me know if anything comes up that I can help with.”
“Will do!”
Tim rolls out of bed and considers putting Conner’s jacket back on. It’s hanging on one of the hooks on Tim’s door. Tim shakes it off. He can be gay later. This is important. He hopes Jason has found something useful. Better be worth getting out of bed for.
Jason’s bedroom door is wide open and inviting. This must be serious. Tim lets himself in and asks, “What happened?”
“Have you been reading the news about the shooting today?” Jason asks. He’s sitting at his desk and his hair is starting to stick up. Less in a hair gel way and in more of an ‘I’ve been running my hand through my bangs all day because I’m driving myself insane’ way.
Tim sits down in the comfy chair a few feet from the desk. “That it ended up being a hostage situation?”
“I’m talking about the gas the guys were using,” Jason says.
Tim’s jaw drops. He hasn't read anything about gas yet. “No. You don’t think…”
Jason picks up his laptop and hands it to Tim. It’s opened up to a Gotham Gazette article headlined: “Chemical warfare at American Dream Mall: Hallucinogens Used Against Police During Shooting.”
Tim scrolls down further and his eyes get caught on the account, “Officer Reyes reported seeing her late mother. ‘It was like I wasn’t even at the mall anymore. Everything was black and I saw… horrible things,’ she said, refusing further comment. No other officers accepted the request to comment.”
“Shit,” Tim says. “Why would a cop go public with that? I thought they were keeping this case low profile.”
“She must have really been rattled,” says Jason.
Tim nods and keeps skimming the article. “It’s definitely our guy.”
“For sure. Keep reading.”
“So what can be done? Outside of his office this afternoon, District Attorney Harvey Dent had this to say: ‘I’ve yet to find out exactly what this “fear toxin” is, but I assure you that there will be a stop to it shortly.’”
“The DA is on this now?” Tim asks.
“That’s what I said. I’m not really sure where to go from here.”
“Are you busy tonight?” Tim asks.
“My schedule is clear,” Jason says.
Tim raises his arms and leans back into the chair to stretch his back out. “I’ll let Alfred know we’re gonna need some caffeine.”