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Contrary to popular belief, Tim does not keep to himself. He likes to help; it's in his nature to offer a hand to those in need or to volunteer himself for minor tasks.
Like right now. He was merely picking his way through a random park in the Narrows and throwing away whatever trash he saw. It was nice to have the sun on his face for once. Lately, it felt like all he did was eat, sleep, explore the tunnels, and talk to the nymphs about how to improve Gotham. He was drawing schematics for a device that would filter out toxins from waterways, but Tim still needed to figure out how to maintain the dang things for long term.
"Sam? Sam Dupont, is that you?" A voice asked that only appeared in Tim's nightmares. Tim's head snapped up and came face to face with Lucia Santiago, Isabel Santiago's mortal mother.
Tim had only met the woman once; he briefly interacted with her for half a minute, if that. But he saw her daughter nearly every day. Tim saw Isabel Santiago forge the two-handed zweihander that saved his life numerous times. Tim saw Isabel cry from relief when he hobbled into Camp Half-Blood on one working knee. Tim saw Isabel's corpse. He still had her photo in the album with all the others.
"I—I'm sorry, I'll leave," Tim stuttered. Tim never faced Isabel's mother. He was able to exchange letters between the mother and daughter in secret, but Lucia Santiago's letters were always exchanged in the shadows of the night. Just like when Tim dropped off her daughter's last effects. Tim was a coward through and through; he couldn't face the person he stole Isabel from
"Wait." A hand on his. Tim could've easily yanked his own away. He did not. "Please. I want to hear about the person my daughter became."
Tim did not keep to himself, but he had been alone for so long. And he owed Ms. Santiago.
That was how Tim ended up in his current situation: sitting across from a grieving mother in a coffee shop with dirt under his nails and the feeling of grief weighing heavily. Tim tapped his fingers nervously on the porcelain mug in front of him. He ordered a basic black tea and had yet to touch it.
"Can I see it?" Ms. Santiago asked. Tim glanced up at her briefly in surprise before going back to staring at his mug.
"See what? I—I already gave you her ashes and last effects, so I don't—"
"The watch my daughter made for you." Oh. Tim pulled up his shirt sleeve and offered Ms. Santiago his wrist.
"You can't take it off, right?" She asked as she traced the top of its surface with her finger.
"Uh, I have to reach the bare minimum requirements she set in order to take it off. Isabel could also take take it off because she had some sort of override password, but she and Charles both…are unable use it." She pressed one of the small buttons on the side and the password prompt for the override popped up. Tim blinked stupidly at it a few times.
"Wait, how did you even know about Isabel's watch?" Ms. Santiago entered in the required password so fast that Tim was unable to catch the sequence and the woman smiled kindly at Tim.
"She wrote about you in her letters. I'm surprised that you didn't read them." The watch detached from his wrist and Tim retracted his wrist, resisting the urge to snatch the watch from the woman's hands.
"They were her letters," Tim stated dumbly. "It's…I am aware I have some issues with violating privacy, but I grew up around people where information was a tool that was highly utilized. Sometimes that tool was a knife. Other times it was a shield. Isabel…Isabel was a child and did not grow up the way I did. They were her letters and I saw no reason to violate her privacy." Ms. Santiago was still holding Isabel's watch. If she wanted to take it then so be it—it was her daughter's, after all, but Tim would miss it like one missed a limb.
"Well, thank you for respecting our privacy. And I'm sorry you had to grow up that way. Does the watch still work well?" Yeah, Tim was never getting that watch back. He would have to ask for it back to delete his schedule from there, but Ms. Santiago should let him do that. Right?
"Yeah, it works really well." Tim awkwardly scratched the back of his head. He felt naked without the watch. It's the first time he's ever taken it off. "It couldn't work more perfectly."
"That's good to hear. Come to me if you have any problems with it—she sent me the schematics of it. Although I doubt I could build it from scratch, I can probably fix it if something went wrong." She handed the watch back to Tim. He blinked stupidly at it.
"You don't want it?" Ms. Santiago's smile became strained.
"Oh course I want it. I make and maintain watches for a living—I helped her make the watch. It's the last thing we made together, however apart we may have been when we exchanged letters. But she made that watch for you. And I will not steal my daughter's gift." A single tear escaped Ms. Santiago's eye. She was quick to grab a napkin and dab it at her cheek.
"I'm sorry," She choked as more tears joined the first. "It's still so fresh and I haven't seen her in so long—"
"I have more photos," Tim blurted, feeling out of depth and out of practice at comforting people. "I have photos of Isabel with her friends. I didn't include them with Isabel's things because of privacy for the other children, but we can meet again and I can bring them to you—you won't be allowed to keep them, but you can look. If you want. Or I can never show my face again—I'm so sorry for making you cry—" A wet chuckle interrupted Tim's rambling.
"You're exactly what Isabel described," She sniffled. She blew her nose into the napkin she was holding. "I would love to see more photos of her. Does meeting this Sunday for brunch work?" Tim nodded. He hesitantly took a sip of his tea; it was still warm, thankfully.
"We came here to talk about Isabel. Do you have any fun stories about her?" Tim hesitantly asked.
"Well, this one time when she was a toddler—" Ever since the war, Tim Drake felt alone in his grief. For the first time in a long while, he was not grieving alone.