Chapter Text
“Are you hungry?” The officer's hoarse voice dragged Tim’s attention away from the table and forced him to look up. For a moment, he only stared at the man. The question felt strangely out of place, as though it belonged to a conversation Tim had missed. His eyes shifted toward the clock on the wall before he could stop himself.
03:17.
He frowned.
It had been 01:43 a moment ago.
Hadn't it?
Tim blinked and looked back at the table. A paper cup sat beside his hand, the coffee inside long gone cold. He couldn't remember anyone bringing it to him. He couldn't remember wrapping his fingers around it either, though they were there now, curled tightly around the cardboard.
How long had he been sitting here?
“Kid?” Tim’s gaze snapped back to the officer, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize his own voice when the question left his mouth.
“What?”
It sounded distant. Hoarse and flat, like it had come from somewhere else in the room. Tim swallowed, feeling the scrape in his throat, but even that sensation seemed strangely disconnected from him.
The officer studied him for a second too long.
“I asked if you’re hungry.”
“Oh.”
Tim looked down again, rubbing his thumb over the dent he'd unknowingly pressed into the side of the cup.
“No,” he said eventually. It was easier than trying to figure it out.
“I can get you something,” the officer suggested anyway. “Juice? Maybe a sandwich?”
It almost sounded as though he were searching for an excuse to leave the room.
Under different circumstances, Tim might have felt sorry for him. Babysitting a sixteen-year-old probably wasn’t how the man had expected to spend the early hours of his shift.
But Tim couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything.
He knew there should have been something. Anger, maybe. Irritation. Grief. Anything that would have made the words reach him as more than meaningless sounds.
There was nothing.
He simply stared at the man, his expression blank, exhaustion settled deep in his eyes.
The officer’s brows drew together at his silence, but Tim still said nothing. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, every possible answer somehow requiring more effort than he had left.
They kept asking him the same questions. One after another.
Different voices. Different wording. The same questions.
And no matter how many times they circled back, searching for some crack in his story, Tim couldn’t give them anything else.
There were too many secrets buried beneath the carefully constructed image of Bristol’s elite. Too many things Timothy Drake could never explain without exposing Batman along with him.
So he gave them what he could. And nothing more.
Tim had no idea how long he had been sitting there. Minutes. Hours.
Time had stopped meaning anything somewhere along the way, leaving him stranded in its shadow as faces blurred together and sympathetic smiles became indistinguishable from one another.
He watched the second hand twitch forward.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
You never let yourself lose control.
“Listen, kid,” the cop let out a heavy sigh, picked up Tim’s file from the table, and pushed himself to his feet. Tim followed him with his eyes. Or at least, he tried to.
He couldn’t seem to focus on anything for more than a few seconds. The room felt wrong around him—too distant, somehow. The table, the walls, the man standing across from him: none of it seemed entirely real, as though Tim had fallen asleep somewhere and simply hadn’t realized it yet.
A dream.
No.
A nightmare.
He hoped he would wake up soon.
“I’m going to be completely honest with you,” the officer grimaced as he said it, clearly enjoying this conversation no more than Tim was. “There’s no other family listed in your file. No relatives we can contact. Which means we don’t have much choice but to find somewhere for you to stay. Most likely temporary foster care until Social Services can figure something out.”
Something shifted in the officer’s expression. Sadness, maybe pity.
Unprofessional, Tim thought distantly. The observation came easier than anything else.
“So if there is anyone,” the officer continued, “anyone at all we can call, it’s in your best interest to tell us now.”
Tim clenched his jaw and turned his attention toward the wall.
Anyone. Who exactly was he supposed to call? There was no one.
His mother was dead. His father was—
Tim’s thoughts stopped there.
Bruce?
The name surfaced before he could stop it.
Bruce.
For one brief second, Tim considered it. Then he dismissed the thought. Bruce was his boss. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Robin’s problems belonged to Batman. Timothy Drake’s problems had nothing to do with him. And this wasn't a Robin problem.
Tim lowered his gaze to his hands. He would deal with it himself.
He always did.
“I’ll get you something to eat,” the officer finally murmured with a tired sigh, apparently realizing that Tim had no intention of making this any easier for him.
He turned toward the door and left without waiting for an answer, and as it clicked shut behind him, Tim was left alone in a silence so complete that suddenly there was nothing to distract him from the room around him—or from himself.
Tim dragged in a breath, but it caught halfway down and shuddered painfully in his chest. He tried again; too fast this time. The air scraped down his throat and somehow still wasn't enough.
The grey walls seemed closer.
He knew they weren't moving. He knew that. But his body didn't seem interested in what he knew.
His chest tightened and heat crawled beneath his clothes despite the cold room. Sweat gathered unpleasantly at the back of his neck. His stomach cramped without warning.
Tim swallowed. Bad idea.
Bile surged hot into the back of his throat, sharp enough to make his eyes water. He clamped his mouth shut and swallowed again, harder this time, tasting acid and stale coffee. Saliva flooded his mouth immediately afterward, thick and sickening, and for one horrible second, he genuinely thought he was going to throw up right there across the table.
His fingers curled around its edge.
Don't.
He didn't even know what he was telling himself not to do.
Throw up. Cry. Pass out.
Maybe all three.
Another wet and uneven breath stuttered out of him, and Tim wiped his mouth against his sleeve before he could think about how disgusting that was.
His father was dead.
His stomach lurched again, and Tim bent forward, pressing a fist against his mouth. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.
Nine, eight, seven.
Air finally filled his lungs, deeper this time, though it still felt as if his chest were fighting him with every breath.
Six, five, four.
His fingers had begun to tremble against his knees, and somewhere between one number and the next, the bitter taste in his mouth turned metallic. Blood. Tim hadn't even noticed when he'd bitten into his tongue.
Three, two, one.
He slowly exhaled and opened his eyes, immediately freezing.
A figure stood in the doorway, broad enough to almost fill the frame, and for a moment Tim could only stare as his mind struggled to catch up with what he was seeing. He recognized the familiar crease between the man's brows first, then the blue eyes fixed on him with an understanding Tim couldn't bear to see.
Dick.
Tim's heart stumbled painfully in his chest, and for the first time since he'd been brought here, his carefully blank expression cracked. His lips trembled around a soundless sob before he could stop them.
Dick's expression softened immediately. And Tim…Tim hated that.
He dropped his chin, turning his face away as though that could somehow hide what had already been seen. He wanted to disappear beneath that piercing gaze, to retreat back into the numbness where no one could reach him, and nothing could hurt quite so much.
But Dick had always had a way of reaching him.
He came into Tim's life like a flame against his frozen skin—so warm, so bright, sometimes almost painful, but impossible not to feel.
“Come on, Tim,” Dick said softly. “Let’s go home.”
The hallway felt narrower than it should have, crowded with voices that echoed too loudly inside Tim’s head, yet no matter how hard he tried to focus on them, he couldn’t make sense of what anyone was saying. He could hear the words, could recognize the sounds individually, but somewhere between his ears and his brain, their meaning disappeared, as though the entire world had suddenly switched to a language he didn’t understand.
He followed Dick at a slow, almost mechanical pace, watching the older man glance over his shoulder every few steps, apparently checking to make sure Tim was still there.
Tim had no idea why.
Maybe Dick was responsible for taking him to whatever temporary foster home the police had arranged. He might not work for the GCPD anymore, but the Drakes and the Waynes moved in the same circles, and it wouldn’t have taken much for the officers to assume they knew each other. Perhaps they thought seeing a familiar face would make Tim more cooperative, or at least make the process easier on him.
It was logical enough.
More importantly, it gave the precinct someone they could hand responsibility over to.
That explanation made considerably more sense than trying to figure out why Dick Grayson would have come here for him.
Tim lowered his gaze to his hand, where his fingers had been absently turning a heavy silver ring over and over again. It had belonged to his father.
Jack had almost never taken it off, wearing it with the particular kind of pride he reserved for things that came with a story impressive enough to tell at galas. He had bought the ring at an auction in Paris years ago and had been more than happy to tell anyone willing to listen that it had once belonged to a royal family, long before the French Revolution.
Its monetary value was almost impossible to determine, although that had never been the part of the story Jack seemed to care about most.
Pieces like this usually disappeared into private collections or museums, but the ring had survived for generations in the hands of the same family, passed from father to son until its last owner, an elderly man without children of his own, finally put it up for auction. According to Jack, the man had only agreed to part with it because he hoped whoever bought it would continue the tradition rather than allow it to end with him.
From father to son.
Tim’s thumb stopped against the cold silver. His father had worn it that night. Before the police arrived, Tim had slipped it from Jack’s finger and hidden it in his pocket, unwilling to let it disappear into an evidence bag along with everything else.
It belonged to him.
“…I’ll just need your signature here as well.”
A woman’s voice finally cut through the indistinct noise around him, and Tim lifted his head, only realizing that he had stopped walking when his body refused to take another step.
Dick noticed almost immediately and stopped a few feet ahead of him, turning with a questioning look, but Tim barely registered it. His attention had already settled on Bruce.
He stood farther down the corridor with a document in his hands, reading through it with the same careful concentration he would have given a case file; his eyes moving steadily across each line before he finally took the pen and signed his name at the bottom.
Tim stared at him, not even daring to blink.
The woman beside Bruce collected the document, checked the signature, and slipped it neatly into the folder tucked beneath her arm.
“We’ll be in touch, Mister Wayne,” she offered him her hand, which Bruce accepted with a brief, polite shake.
“Of course.”
The exchange was ordinary enough that Tim might have ignored it under any other circumstances, yet something about seeing Bruce here made his thoughts stumble. Dick he had been able to explain. Dick had once been a cop here, knew people in the department, and could have been asked to help.
Bruce was harder to fit into that explanation.
Before Tim could find another one, the woman turned toward them. Her gaze landed on Tim, and the professional neutrality in her expression softened into a small, careful smile.
“Timothy,” she approached him slowly, the measured click of her heels against the floor carrying strangely loudly through the corridor, but Tim’s attention remained fixed on Bruce over her shoulder. “My name is Denise Clare. I’m a social worker.”
She spoke carefully, leaving enough space between her words for Tim to process them, and only when his gaze finally slipped away from Bruce and settled on her did she continue.
“I’m very sorry about your father. I can only imagine what you’re going through.”
Her eyes were a warm shade of hazel, catching the fluorescent light in a way that inexplicably reminded Tim of sunlight. There was sympathy in them, but unlike the careful, uncomfortable pity he had seen on everyone else in this department, hers felt painfully sincere.
Tim took an involuntary step back, as though distance might shield him from it. Denise either didn’t notice or was kind enough to pretend she hadn’t, although Tim knew from the weight of two familiar gazes on him that neither Bruce nor Dick had missed it.
“The police weren’t able to identify any living relatives on either side of your family,” she continued gently, “which means that, legally, our options would normally be temporary foster placement or emergency residential care.”
Tim swallowed.
“Fortunately, Mister Wayne came as soon as he was informed about what happened to your father. Since the two of you already know each other, and Mister Wayne is a licensed foster parent, we believe it would be in your best interest to stay with the Waynes for the time being.”
With every word, Tim’s thoughts became harder to hold on to.
Stay with the Waynes.
The meaning registered somewhere in his mind, but it refused to settle into anything he could understand. The nausea returned instead, creeping slowly up his throat as he planted both feet firmly against the floor, suddenly uncertain whether his legs could be trusted to keep him upright.
Bruce had come here.
Bruce had signed the papers.
For him.
A cold sheen of sweat gathered along Tim’s spine, and something sharp and instinctive twisted beneath his ribs, winding itself around his bones until even standing still required conscious effort.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“I’m scared, Dad,” Timothy’s fingers curled into the fabric of his father’s jacket, tugging just hard enough to draw his attention.
Janet stood in the middle of the ballroom several feet away, surrounded by guests and engaged in a conversation Tim couldn’t hear. He knew their faces and could have named every person standing around her, just as he knew that his mother despised nearly all of them. Her smile was flawless, carefully practiced and entirely false, while her eyes remained cold even as someone said something that made the rest of the group laugh.
Tim hated these parties.
He hated the noise, the strangers who weren’t really strangers, and the expectation that he should somehow know exactly what to say and how to behave simply because his last name was Drake.
“Timothy, my son,” his father caught his hand and gently but firmly pulled his fingers away from the jacket before resting a palm on Tim’s shoulder and turning him to face him properly.
Jack looked serious, and Tim immediately straightened, already regretting the brief moment of weakness that had made him reach for his father in the first place.
His father drew in a slow breath before speaking, his voice firm enough that Tim knew these were words he was expected to remember.
“Never let them see that you’re afraid. Always keep your head clear, because the moment you let fear take over, you lose control of the situation,” Jack’s hand tightened slightly around his shoulder. “And of yourself.”
“...Mister Wayne’s paperwork is in order,” Denise’s voice pulled Tim back into the corridor so abruptly that for a moment he could still feel his father’s hand resting on his shoulder.
“Next week, I’ll come by Wayne Manor, and we can talk about what happens next,” she continued speaking despite Tim’s silence, explaining something about the next visit and the arrangements that would have to be made, but her words were already beginning to dissolve into meaningless noise again.
Then Dick stepped closer.
Tim noticed the movement from the corner of his eye before he felt a hand settle carefully on his shoulder, almost in the exact place where his father’s had rested all those years ago.
Every hair on the back of Tim’s neck stood on end.
His first instinct was to recoil, and his body nearly obeyed before he forced himself to remain where he was, every muscle drawn tight beneath Dick’s touch. When Tim didn’t pull away, Dick’s fingers closed a little more firmly around his shoulder, offering a quiet reassurance Tim wasn’t prepared to acknowledge.
The warmth of his hand seeped through Tim’s clothes. And Tim hated how badly he needed it.
For one dangerous moment, he wanted to close his eyes, turn around, and bury himself in Dick’s arms. He wanted Dick to pull him close enough that he wouldn’t have to hold himself together anymore, wanted to disappear into that familiar warmth and sleep until this morning became nothing more than something distant and unreal.
He wanted someone else to carry it. Just for a little while.
But he was Tim Drake. And Tim Drake did not lose control.
“Ms. Clare, I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” his voice came out rough, barely above a whisper, yet the moment the words left his mouth, Denise fell silent and looked at him in confusion.
Tim drew in a slow breath and carefully stepped to the side, slipping out from beneath the weight of Dick’s hand as it slid from his shoulder. He clasped his hands neatly behind his back, his fingers closing around the ring hidden between them, straightened his posture, and arranged his features into the polite smile he had learned to wear long before he ever became Robin.
“I’m already sixteen,” he continued, his voice steadier now. “I can file for emancipation. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
Silence settled between the adults. Tim could feel Bruce’s heavy gaze on him from where he was standing behind Denise, but Tim stubbornly refused to look in his direction. Bruce wasn’t the person he needed to convince.
Denise was. And right now, she was his way out.
“I’m several grades ahead of other students my age,” Tim kept talking before she could interrupt. “Give me a month and I can complete whatever examinations are required with top marks. If you need evidence that I’m capable of managing my own affairs, I can also provide financial reports from Drake Industries that I’ve worked on, along with references from people willing to vouch for my competence.”
The arguments assembled themselves almost effortlessly now, one after another, each possibility branching into several more until the panic that had threatened to consume him only moments ago was pushed somewhere distant and manageable.
References would be easy. If necessary, Tim could create identities convincing enough to survive a background check and write the recommendations himself. Finding real people willing to put their names beneath them wouldn’t be particularly difficult either. Money could persuade some of them.
And if money failed to open the right doors, there was always blackmail.
Tim’s smile never faltered.
“There’s no reason to inconvenience Mister Wayne unnecessarily.”
It all made sense. There wasn’t a single flaw in his argument, or at least Tim had been certain there wasn’t, yet the slight crease between Denise’s brows and the quiet, assessing look Bruce had fixed on him told him otherwise.
He had missed something.
Tim Drake had missed something.
His fingers twitched behind his back, and he immediately tightened his grip until they were locked together, digging his teeth into the inside of his cheek as he fought to maintain the same cold composure. On the outside, nothing changed; his back remained straight, his expression carefully neutral, his breathing measured and controlled, even as the pressure inside his chest grew until it felt as though his ribs could barely contain it.
What had he missed?
His age was sufficient to petition for emancipation. His academic record was exceptional. Financial independence could be established, Drake Industries gave him access to resources most adults could only dream of, and proving that he was capable of managing those resources would hardly be difficult.
There had to be something else. Something obvious. And he couldn't see it.
“I…” Tim started, only to pause when the knot in his throat made the word come out weaker than he intended. He swallowed and prepared to try again, but Bruce moved before he could.
One slow step brought him forward until he stood beside Denise, and Tim instinctively lifted his chin to meet the older man’s gaze. Bruce said nothing at first, merely looking down at him with that same impossible stillness that had always made Tim feel as though every calculation, every excuse and every carefully constructed defense had already been taken apart before Tim had even finished building it.
Tim held his breath. Because there was something in Bruce’s eyes that he recognized. The same understanding he had seen in Dick’s.
And somehow, that frightened him more than Bruce’s anger.
“Tim,” Bruce didn’t move any closer, apparently recognizing enough of Tim’s state to know better, although his hand shifted slightly at his side, almost as if some part of him had wanted to reach out before thinking better of it. “I don’t doubt that you’re capable of taking care of yourself. I’ve never doubted your abilities.”
Tim wasn’t sure where Bruce was going with this, but the praise caught his attention with almost humiliating ease, making him cling to every word despite himself.
Bruce rarely praised him. Almost never.
Something warm flickered to life inside Tim’s chest, small and treacherous, only to die just as quickly when the image of his father’s lifeless eyes forced its way back into his mind.
“But, Tim, no one—regardless of their age or what they’re capable of—should have to go through what you’re going through alone.”
Bruce finally took a careful step forward, and Tim’s entire body tensed in response. He couldn’t tell who was standing in front of him: Bruce Wayne or Batman.
“If emancipation is still what you want after you’ve had some time to think about it in Wayne Manor, I’ll help you through the process myself.”
The words should have reassured him. They didn’t.
Tim saw the signs because, of course, he did. He was a detective. He was Red Robin. He had spent years learning how to read people who didn’t want to be read, and Bruce had never been an exception.
He saw the brief tightening of Bruce’s jaw and the weight behind his eyes, noticed the deliberate pauses between his words and the careful restraint in his voice, as though every sentence had been weighed before Bruce allowed himself to say it.
As though he were trying not to frighten Tim. As though Tim were a child.
“If you decide you don’t want to stay with us, I won’t force you to,” Bruce spoke again, not even once looking away from Tim. “But I want to give you some time before you make that decision. Time to think and to…” For the first time, Bruce hesitated. “…process what happened.”
The hard lines of his face softened. Then his eyes changed, losing that familiar sharpness Tim knew so well, and Tim clenched his jaw harder. Bruce had never looked at him like that.
Tim had seen anger in those eyes and disappointment deep enough to make him wish Bruce would simply yell at him instead. He had seen approval there too, however rarely, and even pride, particularly when Bruce spoke about Dick or Jason or Damian. Tim had seen him exhausted, furious, injured, grieving; he had seen Bruce at some of his lowest points during those first months after Tim became Robin, when Batman had still seemed like a man balancing on the edge of life and death.
But this—
This quiet softness, this painful sincerity directed entirely at him—
No. Tim didn’t want it. He didn’t want Bruce to look at him like that.
“I’m sure Jack would have wanted someone to take care of his son.”
Tim stopped breathing. The words slipped past every defense he had spent the entire night constructing, and before he could force them back, tears burned behind his eyes, gathering along his lashes.
He immediately lowered his head.
No. They weren’t going to see this.
His nails dug into his palms behind his back as he forced himself to remain still, willing the tears to disappear before either Bruce or Dick could notice them.
Tim Drake was not weak.
And he would not let them watch him become weak now.
He wanted to keep arguing. He wanted to explain that they were wrong, that he would be fine on his own and that there was nothing happening here that he couldn’t handle if they would simply give him the chance.
There were still arguments he could make. Other options he hadn’t considered yet, other ways to prove that he was capable of taking care of himself without becoming someone else’s responsibility.
But exhaustion settled over him like a heavy blanket, smothering every argument before he could put it into words, and Tim found that he no longer had the strength for anything more than a small, reluctant nod.
Denise reacted almost immediately, apparently unwilling to let the moment slip away.
“Good. Then I’ll let you all head home. I’ll see you next week, Mister Wayne.”
“Of course, Ms. Clare,” Bruce replied with a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Tim listened as the sharp click of the heels retreated down the corridor, each step echoing a little more faintly than the last until the sound finally disappeared among the voices surrounding them.
Only then did Tim seem to remember that they were still standing in the middle of a police department, surrounded by ringing phones, low voices, and officers moving around them.
His eyes wandered past Bruce, searching the wall without quite focusing on anything.
“What time is it?” He could feel the tension coming from Bruce and Dick almost as clearly as if it had taken physical form between them. From the corner of his eye, he caught the brief look they exchanged, silent and careful, as though they were trying to decide what to do with him now.
As though Tim were something fragile that had to be handled correctly.
“Five thirty,” Bruce answered after a moment. “I’m sure Alfred is already making breakfast, so you can get some rest as soon as you’ve eaten something.”
Tim didn’t argue.
He simply nodded again, turned sharply on his heel, and started toward the exit before either of them could say anything else.
Time… Time didn’t make sense anymore. Minutes disappeared without him noticing, hours slipped through his fingers before he could account for them.
But that time—
Tim remembered every minute. Every second had burned itself into his memory.
23:36.
Those were the numbers on the clock when Tim came through the door, already calling for his father.
23:37.
He was running upstairs, tearing the Red Robin cape from his shoulders because it kept catching beneath his boots. He was moving too slowly.
23:38.
Silence greeted him first. Then his still father’s eyes, looking at nothing.
23:39.
Tim was on his knees.
23:40.
His hands were covered in blood.
23:41.
Dad.
23:42.
Dad.
23:43.
Dad!
23:44.
Open your eyes.
23:45.
Please.
23:46.
Please.
23:47.
23:48.
23:49.
23:—
Time stopped.
Or maybe it continued without him.
Tim couldn’t remember.
He only remembered holding his father’s blood-soaked body against his chest with enough force to make his arms ache, as though loosening his grip for even a second would make something irreversible happen.
As though it hadn’t happened already.
Jack was cold.
Tim knew what that meant. He had been trained to know what that meant.
His fingers had searched for a pulse anyway.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Different angle.
Again.
Press harder.
Again.
Because maybe he had missed it.
Tim Drake missed things sometimes.
People missed things.
There had to be a pulse. There had to be. But Jack was cold.
“Tim,” it was his father’s voice. “You need to go.”
Jack was standing in front of him now, alive and warm, wearing the same familiar smile he had worn that night when Tim had hesitated at the door.
An hour earlier.
Had it been an hour?
“You need to go, Tim. Gotham needs you.”
His father smiled because Tim had looked uncertain, because Tim had almost stayed, because for one second Tim had considered taking off the suit and staying home.
And then he had left. Because Gotham needed Red Robin.
Jack was cold.
Tim tightened his arms around him.
“I’m sorry.”
No response.
“I’m sorry.”
His father’s head rested limply against him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
The words tangled together, his forehead pressed against his father’s as though he could force the apology into him through skin that could no longer feel it.
“Please.”
Jack’s eyes remained open. Tim squeezed his own shut.
“Please, Dad.”
22:36.
You need to go, Tim.
22:37.
Gotham needs you.
23:38.
His father was dead.
23:46
“Forgive me.”
23: 43.
“Please.”
23:42.
“Dad.”
23—.
“Dad—”
“You’re two minutes late,” Clock King said, glancing down at his pocket watch as a silhouette emerged from the darkness and stopped several feet away.
“My time is different from yours.”
The voice was low and unnaturally distorted, each word carrying the faint metallic undertone of a modulator. Clock King lifted his gaze toward his mysterious companion, but the darkness of the alley offered him little more than the outline of a tall figure, his face concealed behind a yellow mask.
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” Clock King frowned, slipping the pocket watch back into his coat.
Something flew toward him in response, and he caught it at the last possible second, glancing down the object in his hand. It was a wristwatch.
His brows drew together as he turned it over between his fingers, examining the worn leather strap and scratched face. The hands were frozen in place.
“It’s broken,” Clock King noticed, casting an irritated glance toward his companion, but the masked figure had already turned his back on him, blending with the shadows of the street.
“No,” he replied, with little apparent interest.
“It stopped.”