Chapter Text
"Why do people take pictures," Kon asked one day, just out of the blue.
Tim spun in his chair, considering. He was a photographer. He hadn't touched his Nikon and lenses except to clean them since, well, since his Dad died. He lost his mom and dad all in the span of, what, six to eight months? All before he could turn 15. He wasn't even in the country when the ransom from Obeah Man came through, he was in Paris getting his shit rocked by Lady Shiva. And he came back from Paris in Bruce's custody, which the man obviously didn't want because they were supposed to have a working business relationship! It was awkward and weird. Tim didn't even get time to agonize over it because the Clench (screw the Clench) and then the Quake! Like, Cass came from the Quake which was awesome, but Ariana and he broke up (he hopes she can get therapy, maybe he should send an application from the Wayne Foundation Mental Health Services?). Steph- he met Steph just after he came back from Paris- was, well, she was Steph. Sometimes he didn't know if he liked her or if he was scared of her, just a little bit, in an anxiety way. Which was silly, because she was pretty and strong and confident, so he should always want to kiss her. But that's not important, because they managed to take the city back pretty quickly, even though Tim had to enroll in Brentwood after his other school dismissed him. For the semester because he had been 'stuck in No Man's Land too long and missed the registration'. That was stupid. And Bart accidentally ran in when Kon had been helping Tim with a black eye at the Mt. Justice hideout when they thought everyone went home. And Bart, who was not stupid, remembered Tim Drake from the ski thing where they first met. All through the shitshow, his Nikon had been ferried around, unused, and currently sat in an unused box in his room in Wayne Manor. "To capture a moment," Tim answered finally, "Because nothing lasts forever."
Impermanence was the rule of life, an unspoken and always known law. Tim wanted to hold on to the fleeting past, the images of his mother gliding like water droplets across silk around a ballroom with makeup meant to hide her sharp edges and high ridges (Tim's sharp edges and high ridges, they were one in the same), the memories of his father steadily stalking down the stairs, holding a football that Tim had no interest in but was willing to play with for the five minutes he could hold his father's attention (God, they never had been much alike at all, had they?), candid stills of Cass twirling happily in some floaty dress with glittering makeup Tim had helped her apply, or those beautiful, brilliant nights where Tim stalked the night to catch the sight of Robin and Batman and Nightwing flying across the city. "But there's always something happening, how do you even pick what you're supposed to take a picture of," Bart interrupted.
"Well, those news people always take photos of me," Kon grinned, "So I guess they're always gonna be remembering me."
"Unfortunately, you're completely memorable without photos," Tim snarked at him, tossing a paper ball at Kon's face.
Kon, ever so maturely, stuck his tongue out after the wadded up paper struck him right between the eyes. "Very funny, Boy Wonder," Kon commented sardonically, "But seriously, isn't it always just a lucky shot to get a good picture?"
Tim frowned. It took a lot of patience, practice, and practice to take candids, track motion, and get a good focus. "No," Tim corrected, "It takes a lot of work. It took me ages before I got any good at taking pictures."
Bart shot over to Tim's side, grabbing his chair excitedly. "You take pictures? What do you take pictures of? Can I see? Can you show me? I-really-wanna-see-please-show-me," the speedster chattered eagerly.
Kon planted a hand in Bart's big hair, smoothing his fingers through the coppery mess. It was a good power-down switch for Bart, who stopped vibrating and instead settled into his usual twitchy self. "I've been a photographer since before I was 9," Tim informed them quietly, "I learned how to develop film in my little homemade dark room and rack a focus on a moving target at night, but it took until I was 9 to actually start to get good at it, and when I was 12, that's when I could call myself actually good. I have little chemical burn scars on my left foot and right arm from the developer chemicals. I also have some day time shots, mainly landscapes, a few rats, some crime scenes, a couple cats, maybe a little of the suspects I've tailed."
He had never really showed people his photos. Dick, Alfred, and Bruce had seen his shots of fights Tim had taken, and Cass had seen some of his collection of 'Gotham's Rodents', which were standard shots of dirty cops, corrupt politicians, mob bosses outside their shell business, actual rats (the standard Gotham alley rats, the ones that were chihuahua size instead of the average sewer rats, which were typically pug sized and occasionally had two tails or mutated paws), and a single, blurry picture of Dick sprinting at Bruce while Tim lurked in the background holding a baby bat he named Guinevere that Cass herself had taken. "I don't know," Tim hesitated, thoughtlessly acknowledging a little part of him glad he could be authentic with two people in his life, allowed to be hesitant and uncertain and unconfident, the way he was allowed be as Tim Drake.
"Please," Bart begged, "Pleasepleasepleaseplease."
Bart had some seriously good puppy eyes, big and gold and pleading. Still, Tim was immune to puppy eyes by virtue of Janet's lips ghosting against his ears, whispering, 'Don't beg, my viper, wait and strike.' Still, isn't it a disservice to Bart, who was chronologically, like 2 or 3, despite being developmentally and biologically 15 and grew up with only video games to preoccupy him? And also a disservice to Kon, who was biologically and developmentally 16 but chronologically only a bit older than Bart, with Tube Knowledge(tm) but no actual technical experience besides his ever growing visits to the Kent Farm- and his ever growing Kansas accent that was threatening to make Tim start laughing his eyeballs out. "Fine," Tim relented, "I'll show both of you. Do you guys like rats?"
Bart and Kon, apparently, were not a fan of the rats. They liked the landscapes, although they asked why Gotham was so foggy and why the sunrise was that particularly omionous shade of red, but the rats were not a hit. "That ain't a fucken rat, Tim," Kon told him, "I have seen rats. I've seen actual barn rats, and these are not barn rats. They aren't even wild rats. Rob, Tim, listen to me: these are monsters from a bad horror movie."
Tim was still stuck on the 'ain't' bit. "Rob, dude, Tim, Rob-Rob-Rob. I do not like your city," Bart claimed, "You guys have too much murder and not enough Flash Fried Chicken food trucks. You don't even have a Speed-za Pizza."
"Flash Fried Chicken isn't even that good and Speed-za Pizza is just bad naming," Tim muttered, "Pizza Bat or Bat Burger is way better."
"Superpizza is still cleaner than any of those places," Kon interjected, " And Super Scoops. Which means they win because I ain't gonna get small pox with my pepperoni, or in my Superman Classic Cone."
"You haven't lived till you've survived Gotham small pox," Tim commented sagely, even though he was mostly sure that wasn't a thing, "Besides the Flash and Superman are known heroes. PizzaBat and Bat Burger are based off the local cryptid myths of Batman, which makes them way cooler."
Kon gave him a disturbed glance while Bart studied a sunset Tim took when he was 11, set up on the spire of the West Gotham Cathedral in the dead of December. "I would never think to remember something like this," Bart mumbled, "I'd just think the sun was taking too long."
He sounded oddly solemn, wistful in a way. Like he wanted to remember the slow moments of the world when everything moved softly and you felt untouchable for a brief second. Bart was always moving, he couldn't stay still without having to hide his anxiousness. Tim could always tell. "Would you wanna learn," Tim offered, "I can get you two cameras and we could just, I don't know, take pictures of things?"
They couldn't use Nikons like Tim's. Those were not for an amateur, which someone should have told Tim when he was wasting film and burning his skin on chemicals trying to figure how to use a basic lens. But, a standard Polaroid 1977 would work pretty well for both of them. He was pretty sure those ones used color ink. "Can I keep the camera," Kon asked, "Ma said I could take pictures of Pa's prize pumpkin this fall for the county fair."
"I've got my own camera, you guys can keep yours'," Tim confirmed, "Wanna take pictures of Gotham?"
He had mostly asked them jokingly but the looks on their faces was enough to know they'd taken Tim seriously. As if. Even a Super and a Speedster were not equipped to handle a dose of unmitigated Gotham. You had to introduce newbies to the outskirts like Bristol first. By the time you get to intercity, you're too late to realize that the Crime Capital has consumed you whole. That's how Gotham took her prey; baited and lured in, them swallowed whole. "Uh, better idea. What if I just fly you to Kent Farm," Kon suggested, "If I use my TTK as a shield, I can go closer to top speed when I fly and get you between there and Spooky Central fast."
"Wait-does-that-mean-I-get-pie," Bart gasped, "I love pie. Any pie. All pie. If it can be called pie, it is going in my stomach."
Tim imagined taking pictures of a farm in rural Kansas, endless fields of wheat and corn, with the blue, blue sky above. "Sure," Tim agreed, "I've never been to Kansas before."
Tim slid his sunblock and parasol into his backpack , layering the two still-packaged Polaroids and ink cartridges over with his own carefully wrapped camera supplies, exceot for his actual Nikon. That went around his neck, attached to a Blue Beetle-themed camera strap. "Now that's a sight I have not seen in quite the time," Alfred mused as Tim nearly ran into the man's chest as he swung around the corner, "Praytell, dearest Timothy, where will you be going today with your camera?"
Tim felt his cheeks, ears, and nose go warm pink at the endearment. He liked his mother calling him her viper, but he also kind of really liked being known as 'dearest'. The name 'Timothy' didn't sound too bad either since he said it so fondly, the way an old-school grandfather might call his grandchild. "I'm just going to be out taking landscape pictures. I haven't done it in a while, but I'll be back before 6," Tim replied, which actually wasn't a lie so much as not the entire truth.
"And are you going to be developing them in the dark room," Alfred asked.
Hold on a minute. Pause, rewind. "We have a dark room? Really," Tim gasped.
"We do, dear boy. It is located in the Cave, in the event we must develop photos from a crime scene to take a closer look," Alfred answered, "I am sure Master Bruce would not protest to it being used for other purposes."
Tim smiled widely and gave Alfred a quick squeeze around his middle before running off with a quick, "See you later, Alfred! Thank you!"
Tim walked two miles before he caught the Fifth bus down at the nearest bus stop outside the Bristol area before he could get off on to the Second Bus to Gotham Proper, and then jumped on the Eight Bus to the outskirts where Kon waited, showing off his recently acquired blue jeans and black t-shirt with a red Superman symbol stamped on the chest, even though he was still wearing his dumb leather jacket. "I bought the shirt with that credit card you set up for me and the jeans. Ma put the House of El shield on it herself," Kon said as he showed off his new shirt.
Tim was indescribably proud of embezzling a suitable but unnoticeable amount of cash every month from Lex Luthor's accounts and loading a card up for Kon. If Luthor didn't want 14-almost-15 year old hackers with a certain knowledge in embezzlement and wealth reduction to steal his stupid money, then he should have hid his accounts better. And if Bruce ever finds out, he shouldn't have been not-so-subtly training Tim for W.E. work since he came back from Paris, giving Tim the necessary knowledge to successfully embezzle cash for his best friend. It really was as simple as all that, honestly. "Wait a minute," Kon squinted, "Without the boots and the gloves and suit...pft!"
Kon cackled loudly, like he was a curly haired hyena with dumb glasses and a handful of ridiculous piercings. "You- Rob- Tim," Kon wheezed, "You're a pipsqueak! You're about as narrow as a broom handle! Dammit, Tim, please don't tell me you have, like, an actual Gotham accent or I might die."
"Then suffer at my expense, if you must," Tim sniffed, fully leaning into his Bristol inflection.
"I'm, dammit, sorry, Tim," Kon apologizes wheezily, "I'm not tryna make fun of you- mostly- but, snrrrk! I'm so used to seeing you standing so tall and proud that I just can not get my head around this."
"Well can you get your head around this while taking us to the farm? Bart's gonna eat all the pie," Tim responded dryly.
Kon scooped Tim up easily and settled his TTK around the both of them before launching off at almost top speeds. Tim eatched the foggy, dark speck of Gotham with everpresent dark clouds disappear as the skies gave way to blue so intense it was nearly white. "Look down," Kon advised, "Wanna take a picture?"
Tim looked down, staring down at some nondescrepit but still beautiful rolling countryside. Tim still had some film and he had switched out his night lenses for some more suitable portrait lenses, which had him fiddling briefly with his Nikon. "Eat my heart out, National Geographic," Tim whispered.
"Someday, I'll get you to the farm at night. You haven't seen stars till you've seen 'em from on top of the barn roof," Kon told him.
Tim squished Kon's face between his hands as his camera settled on Tim's chest before promising, "Kon, if that ever happens, you have my t.v. time forever and you can watch Wendy the Werewolf Stalker every single time and I will never, ever complain."
Kon whooped cheerfully and let Tim take a few more pictures before setting off again. They could see Bart's little trail of energy sparking down the road, which occasionally stopped so Bart could briefly study something he found particularly interesting at the- very literal- moment. "Ma," Kon hollered as he set down, "Pa! I hope you like guests!"
Martha Kent bustled out of the house, drawn out by Kon's yelling. "Oh, hello. I'm Martha Kent," she greeted politely, "I'm guessing you're the Robin? And the one with the big hair over there is Bart?"
Bart waved as he zipped around Jonathan Kent, poking at the man's grease stained gloves and welding mask. "Tim," Tim smiled, "It's Tim, miss. Kon is my best friend."
"Tim is my best friend," Kon agreed, "And Bart is..."
They gave each other a look before deciding, "He's our Bart."
"Guys, look, a cow! Can I touch it? Do they smell? What die cows smell like? What do cows feel like? Can they eat corn, I love corn, have you ever had an elote? There's this one place in Mexico that makes the best elotes, hold-on-I'll-go-get-some-wait-here," Bart spouted as he took off again, leaving behind a small dust cloud that was vaguely Bart shaped.
Tim slung his backpack off his shoulder and dug out the boxed Polaroids and his parasol- or, more accurately, Eloise Edmund-Drake's parasol, his three times great grandmother. It was an old but reliable thing, and was from foggy, smoggy, gloomy, cloudy Gotham that had an average of twenty sunny days a year, the record high being 31. Never consecutively, but anyways, Tim was unused to sunlight. Normally he would just put on sunscreen and be done with it like he did when Young Justice decided to stick their noses into something halfway around the world but the parasol would help reduce glare in the pictures. "Is that an umbrella," Kon snorted.
Tim held up the Polaroid and pointedly commented, "Along with your camera, yeah."
Bart skidded up to Kon's side, bouncing off Kon's solid side while managing to keep his arms wrapped around a large bundle of what looked like churros and elotes. "I got churros too," Bart cheered, "Here, Mrs. Kent!"
Martha pressed her palms against Bart's and Tim's heads, her soft, crumpled paper hands warm and smelling slightly of flour. "Please," she beckoned them inside, "Call me Ma."
"Tilt your hand a little, Bart," Tim directed, "And crunch your knee a bit."
You see, some people are stupid and think they know what Bart is all about within three seconds of meeting him. They think he is impossible to give directions to, incapable of staying still, and impossible to trust with anything that might take a bit of patience. That just means they don't want to actually know Bart and they should be leaving right now, immediately, goodbye, have a...continued daily existence. You can't just make someone who's doing a forever 100 meter dash in a world where everyone else to him is taking a stroll to just stay still and all that stuff for no reason. Give a Bart- or any speedster, really, but Bart is particular flighty case- a hyperfixation and get a hyperfixated speedster who is having fun. "I did it," Bart exclaims, "Look at this, it's a perfect shot of Missie."
"Her name is Margaret, you heathen," Kon corrects.
Ma Kent laughs off to the side, not nearly as offended about misnaming cows as Conner. "You boys wanna try takin' some pictures from on top a hayride," Pa hollers as he pokes his head out.
Hay smells sweet, and a quarter of the bale Bart is sitting on has migrated into Bart's copper colored mane. Tim likes the challenge of a bumpy, unpaved road smoothed only by continuous use. His head jerks around at Kon's soft whistle. "Now this one came out good," he bragged, shaking out his picture.
It's Tim. Tim hasn't had his picture taken since the one Cass got, and before that, it was mostly portrait pieces done for his and Cass's adoption, with two Tim took himself after setting a timer. "I'm starting a collection," Conner says smugly, "I'm calling it CrypTim's Candids: For All Your Boy Wonder Proof of Humanity."
Kon almost falls out of the cart when Tim kicks him which wouldn't matter either way, but Bart still laughs and Tim gets more candids of the two than they get of him. Even with superspeed and TTK, but Tim has his picture taken more in one day than he has in his life, although it means photographic evidence exists that Tim fell down the porch stairs. Pa has them hauling hay like the cows and horses are on their way at top speed, then Ma has to get the leafblower, they're all so covered in hay. But Tim comes home at 5:45 exactly, lemonade still sweet in his mouth alongside cherry pie and a whole bunch of film to develop. Kon slowed down flying for Tim to get late evening shots of Kansas countryside, golden-orange and fading green. "How was it, dearest boy," Alfred asks as Tim toes his shoes off.
Tim plucks a piece of hay out of sneaker and tucks it in his jeans pocket as he says, "I forgot how much I love photography. It was great!"