Chapter Text
Tim’s senior year of school started rather peacefully, all things considered. Compared to the past few years, in which he decided to blackmail convince Batman to take him up as Robin, underwent the rigorous training, forming his own hero group, got beat to near death by his predecessor, had assassination attempts by his successor, had his previous attempted-murderer rejoin family gatherings, and was adopted by Bruce Wayne lesser known as Mr. Batman himself.
It was a blessing that his senior year started calm, but he didn’t expect it to last. Luckily, he didn’t need many classes to graduate. Out of the six classes he was forced to sign up for, one of them was study hall and one of them was being a teaching assistant, meaning he didn’t have any homework for those two classes. He also had a computer science class, calculus, English literature, and economics. Subjects he tends to be good at, though the literature class may be his downfall. Still, he purposely set himself up for success this year, what with vigilantism on the side.
And, well, listen. Tim doesn’t make many friends at school. Sure, he’s got people he talks to at lunch and whatnot, but even when he was Timothy Drake, people either avoided him or tried to use him as a means to an end. He’s not stupid, he understands what it means when people ask if he’d be willing to mention them to his parents. Not like he could at the time, what with being home alone all the time, but the point stands. It only got worse when he was adopted and became Timothy Drake-Wayne.
So it comes as a shock when, after the winter break, someone new walks into the compsci classroom and sits down next to Tim.
Tim knew everyone in his class. This was someone entirely new; maybe they transferred classes, but with the ease they made their way around the dense code they were building up, it was more likely that he transferred schools.
Tim gave himself a moment to look the kid over, intent on doing some slightly invasive digging tonight. Black hair pulled back in a short ponytail with blue eyes and eyebags to rival Tim’s own, only made worse when he pulled all-nighters working on cold cases. His uniform was crooked, untucked, sloppy. But it was the look in his eyes that gave Tim the resolve to actually talk to him.
Complete and utter apathy.
The kind of emptiness you expect when you find yourself single at sixty years old with no children and no legacy to leave behind. The emptiness when you find yourself spending more time in an office job than with your children, which are growing up without you.
Sure, apathy isn’t uncommon in teenagers, going through life while dealing with mood-swings and rapid bodily changes, but that was a distinct kind of apathy. This was the apathy of someone who had given up on life.
He could just wax poetic on the nature of this guy’s apathy all day, but…
“Hi, I’m Tim. Are you new here?” He finds himself asking.
The teen looks over at him, tired blue meeting tired blue. Oh god, Tim has time to think, he’s adoption bait.
The new kid nods hesitantly, as if walking into a trap. Tim waits a moment but he doesn’t offer his name.
“And you are?”
The teen looks at him for another moment, before seemingly giving up his quiet charade.
“Danny. Danny Masters,” comes the dead voice of Danny.
Tim tilts his head, considering, “I didn’t know Vlad Masters had a kid.”
For a moment, for only the briefest of moments, so quick it’s possible he hallucinated it, he swears Danny’s face morphs into anger, hatred, a loathing so strong he can hardly contain himself. His face smooths over just as fast as the emotion showed.
“Adoptive,” he says with a nod.
Tim hums in consideration, then turns to the front of the room as he notices the lesson is starting. Every now and then, his gaze darts to Danny, to see the man hunching in on himself, dutifully following along with the teacher. Near the end of class, he sees Danny rest his head on a closed fist, slowly nodding off.
Just before Mrs. Blaire can catch Danny sleeping, Tim gently kicks his ankle, jolting the boy into focus just as her eyes slip over them. Satisfied, she continues what she’s doing, taking the next steps on her own computer for everyone to see.
Tim glimpses over at Danny’s screen to see today’s assignment already done and just waiting for an acceptable time to be submitted. Tim’s computer shows much the same.
Tim doesn’t have the chance to talk to Danny until the end of class, and by then, Danny is already rushing out into the hallway.
That night, Tim goes home and digs through files on Vlad Masters. Admittedly, the batcomputer already had a file dedicated to Masters due to previous implications of a money laundering scheme, though it ended up being a bust. Regardless, the man always had been slimy. He had never managed a deal with Wayne Enterprises because rumor had it that no one could remember signing anything when they were with Vlad, but he always left with more than he went for.
In the most recent months, he had been toting a young man along to all social outings and galas and cruises etcetera. Boasting that his godson had finally relented and decided that he wanted to inherit Vlad’s company when the man died, and would be learning once he graduated high school. There was a legal trail to follow to his new heir.
Daniel Masters, previously Daniel Fenton.
Tim goes to search up the Fentons. The first thing he finds is a website for the parents ghost-hunting shop. Selling ‘ectoplasmic weapons’ and ‘ectoplasmic sensors.’ Boasting about all of their published papers that, with a quick skim, sound like something out of a bad horror novel.
The second thing he finds is an obituary. The article mentions an explosion that Madelaine, Jack, and Jasmine Fenton were all caught in, and that they are only succeeded by their son, Daniel. There are mentions of the patents, property, and whatever else the Fentons owned going to Danny after their deaths.
Tim adds files for the recently-adopted Daniel Masters to the file, adding a small notation.
‘Evidence suggests Danny does not like Vlad.’
Feeling guilty as hell, Tim closes out the files and shuts down the computer, heading upstairs for dinner before he has to go on patrol.
The next few days trying to get Danny to open up to him are slow. He manages to learn that Danny was born and raised in Illinois, that he likes space, and that he’s more inclined to engineering.
Tim had asked something about Vlad once, and Danny had shut down and refused to talk to him for the rest of class.
It’s a huge shock when Danny follows Tim to lunch on Friday. Tim frowns upon realizing that Danny was missing lunch. When Tim inquired, Danny just shrugged.
Trying to get answers out of the other teen was like pulling teeth. And all the while, that damn apathetic look stayed on his face.
“I’ll buy you lunches from now on,” Tim said with a frown. Danny shrugged, but didn’t outright complain with the arrangement.
A little more pestering the following week, and Tim could see the carefully built emotional wall chipping away, revealing the snarky teen that Danny should have been from the start.
“What year are you?” Tim asked, digging his food into a rather bland school lunch. “You’re so small, you must be a freshman!”
Tim was definitely exaggerating, as Danny was taller than Tim, but he still had a face that suggested he was younger.
At the question, Danny bodily pushes Tim, urging a laugh out of him. “Why? You looking to be my sensei?”
Tim smiles warmly at Danny, before noticing something on his wrists when he’s pulling away. Tim’s always been good at spotting bruising.
His smile drops, eyebrows furrowing in concern as he looks up at Danny, who has gone as still as a prey animal.
“Can I see?” Tim asks.
A pause where Danny doesn’t move, but he relents and lifts his wrist to Tim’s outstretched hand. Gently holding the arm up, Tim rolls the sleeve out of the way to reveal mottled yellow and green bruising in the shape of a hand wrapping around the wrist.
Tim feels his gut drop at the sight.
Tim stares at it for a minute longer before Danny pulls his wrist away and uses his sleeve to cover it again. Danny refuses to look at Tim for the rest of lunch, though he’s still making conversation.
Tim logically knows he should talk to Danny about it. Or call CPS despite their lack of trust in this city. Or, fuck, just give a shoulder to cry on. The most he can do at the moment is slowly, gently wrap an arm around Danny and tuck him into his side in a protective embrace.
He’ll later deny feeling the teen shake against him, whether it be in fear or relief.