cards on the table

by wesslan

Summary:

Tim's parents faked their deaths and fled the country years ago, but neglected to take him with them. He spent some time on the streets, and now at 16, he makes a living as a fortune teller, stalking and hustling the shit out of Gotham's elite by telling them eerily accurate fortunes based on the information he gathers about them.
His life is peculiar but he wouldn't change a thing. When he gets booked for the big Wayne Halloween party, however, he finds himself getting all tangled up with the Waynes, and the more fortunes he tells, the tighter the snare becomes.

or: Tim just wanted to scam Gotham's elite, not end up on the Batfamily's watchlist. But it seems they just won't leave him alone..

 

中文

Notes:

hi!!

apologies, but this work probably has a bunch of inaccuracies about runes, tarot, etc, because while i do find them very neat, i am also so bad at retaining information about the different crafts :,)

anyway, i hope you'll enjoy this one, it was very fun to write :D

there is a chinese translation available on Lofter courtesy of user ETWBF

love, wes

Chapter 1: when in doubt, become a scam artist

In another universe, Tim figured, he might have been a little rich boy. Maybe alternate universe Tim grew up in a big house with distant but somewhat affectionate parents who didn’t commit white collar crimes so impressive that they had to fake their deaths and flee the country. 

Maybe, in another life, in a universe far away, Tim’s parents brought him with them when they disappeared. 

It was a nice thought. Unfortunately, this was not another universe. His reality did not involve riches and inheritance, galas and mansions, or even a sunny beach in the wonderful non-extradition country of Cuba. Instead it involved a drafty and somewhat crappy apartment, and a whole lot of hustling to make ends meet. 

Listen, he could have stayed at the orphanage. It was one of Gotham’s better ones, run by nuns and shockingly non-corrupt. But Tim wasn’t really a Catholic kind of guy, nor was he a superfan of sharing a room with four boys, nor was he extremely eager to be adopted by some weird family. So he’d left. 

Officially, Timothy Drake was presumed dead along with his parents. The nuns at the orphanage had asked his name, but little ten year old Tim had been smart and given them the name Alvin Draper instead. That way, when he’d taken his leave from the orphanage, the missing person report had not had his real name on it. 

So, after all these years, Alvin Draper and Tim Drake were both presumed dead. 

No kid lasted very long on their own in Gotham, after all. 

Tim was a ghost. He was not one, but two dead kids. Now how many people could say that?

For a dead kid (or kids?) his life wasn’t that bad. He’d been on the streets for a bit, but he was a smart kid. He’d made it through Gotham’s seasons by sleeping in the library’s stuffy, abandoned, attic whenever he could break in, and spent the summers learning to pick-pocket tourists. 

Why anyone would want to visit Gotham, Tim wasn’t sure. But they did tend to carry quite a bit of cash. 

With no education, and even less of a legal identity, finding a job had been hard, despite the fact that this was Gotham. Surprisingly many businesses were legit, and the ones that weren’t tended to involve a bit too much gunfire for Tim’s liking. He’d worked at a diner that paid in cash for a while, but that hadn’t lasted for too long. Then there was the gas station, but they’d only been able to pay him under the table for so long before the Big Men In Suits had started becoming suspicious, and then he’d been let go. 

He’d been fourteen and hopeless, jobless, hungry, and with virtually no skills other than picking pockets and shoplifting. He’d almost joined a gang. He’d been the perfect candidate, after all. 

But then he’d seen that shiny, shiny camera hanging off the shoulder of a particularly distracted looking tourist. He’d remembered what he’d used to do before his parents left. And before he’d been able to think it through, he’d snatched the camera and holed up in the library’s attic again, waiting for nightfall. 

Nightfall had come, and to Tim’s delight, Batman hadn’t changed his patrol routes too drastically.

He’d developed the pictures at the library, in the forgotten darkroom with chemicals he’d hoped hadn’t expired, and when morning came, he’d waltzed right into the Gotham Gazette’s offices, sold the two almost-decent pictures he’d managed to get of Batman and Robin to the paper, and had walked out with enough cash to buy himself food for a week. 

Tim: One. Universe: Like, fifteen. But who was counting? A win was a win.  

He’d spent most of his days waiting for it to become night. The pictures sold for a pretty penny, since getting a photo of the bats was not the easiest thing in the world. And when Tim was waiting for the night to come, he’d spent his time reading. 

He did live in a library. Might as well.

He’d picked up anything that sounded mildly interesting, and had read quite a bit on photography while he was at it. Alongside the thick glossy camera guides, came computer science, coding, mosses and lichens in northern Europe, Latin language and Ancient Roman culture, French for Dummies. Just anything he’d been able to get his hands on, really. 

And then there had been the book on the occult arts and practices. Which had then become the books on occult arts and practices. Tim had found it fascinating. The cards, the runes, the charms and spells, the mystique and allure, the different forms of divination, fortune telling, the different paths of witchcraft. 

Was he a believer? 

Eeeh. Not really. But Jesus Christ, it was interesting. 

And it had also been, potentially, a way to make money. A semi-stable profession. 

Lord knows he’d needed money. The library was nice, and all that, but it wasn’t a permanent solution. He’d known that. He needed an apartment. Rent in Gotham could in some places be on the lower side, since no one really wanted to live in Gotham, but it still cost more than Tim was dragging in from his photography. 

But fortune telling was unpredictable. There were guides, of course. What to look for in the tea cups, what the lines in your palm meant, what card meant what. Tim had learned it all, but he’d known he needed to stand out to gain a clientele. He needed something that would make people come back. The craft was only a third of it, another third was charm. 

Tim could be charming. That wasn’t too hard.

The last third was accuracy. There was the artful skill of nonspecific language. Careful phrasing that made the most general of assumptions sound cut and tailored to each individual customer. But Tim had wanted more. 

He’d wanted true accuracy. He’d wanted to be right. 

And… well. He did have his camera. He was a smart kid. And he did know how to go undetected well enough that the Big Bad Bat didn’t even notice him. 

He’d cracked his knuckles, lifted a brand new notebook, and had gotten to work. 

-

Two years later, there he was. An established fortune teller, spellcrafter, and all around mystic man. 

He also had his own apartment. 

And a locked room in said apartment, filled to the brim with pictures, notes, information, printed out online conversations, you name it, all regarding Gotham’s high society. 

If there was dirt, Tim had it. If there were secrets, Tim knew them. If anyone as much as even breathed information about their life , Tim was privy to it. 

Those books on hacking had paid off. 

He used the regular fortune teller ruse on his normal, everyday customers. Fanning out his cards with a flashy quick hand, humming and gently dragging his thumb over the lines in their palms in that particular way that gave people shivers, wrapped them around his finger with what he deduced about them just by observing them. He told them shiny little fortunes, sold them sweet little treats infused with spells, made them little intricate looking talismans. 

It worked well. People walked away happy and dazed, often clutching a spell kit or a lucky charm. Money was sort of steady.

But with Gotham’s elite, that was where the real cash laid. 

He made it his personal mission to know absolutely everything about them, so that when they came into his little living room, all decorated with fabrics and incense and candles, he could be eerily accurate. Spookily correct in his fortunes. He predicted pregnancies, divorce, cheating. Told young women which boyfriend to watch out for, and old businessmen who not to make a deal with. 

To them, he was the real deal. 

He’d booked a few dances and parties over the last year. And though everyone who walked into the little tent he put up swore that they only did it for a laugh, they walked away wide eyed and stunned, finding themselves believing in something that they would never admit. 

Yeah, Tim was pretty damn good at his job. 

It was exhausting at times, keeping up with all the drama and secrecy of Gotham’s high society. Making sure he hacked his way into private texts undetected, and being at the right place at the right time to ensure he could get the latest scoop on who was doing who. But it paid his bills. He could even treat himself to little things. A pair of nice jeans, a concert, some of that delicious coffee from the local café, a new tarot deck, jewelry that didn’t fall apart after two uses.

It was nice. It was regular. It was the way his life worked. 

So when Bruce Wayne (or at least the people who were organizing his Halloween party) reached out and asked to book him for the entire night, he accepted, thinking nothing of it. 

Okay, that was a lie. He might have squealed a little. But only because he was invited to Batman’s house! Not that he’d see much of it, he’d probably be parked in his tent the whole evening. But still! Batman! 

He refreshed all he knew about the Waynes, which was more than he should know. 

There was Bruce, of course. Batman. He was currently really into green juice and was flirting with Selina Kyle, Catwoman, on the down low. 

Dick Grayson, Nightwing. He’d recently been serial dating, according to the papers, but Tim knew it was only a rumor. The only real date he’d been on had been with a romance novel. He did seem a little lonely, and his texts to judge, he wouldn’t mind a real date too much, but he was scared.

Jason Todd. He’d been abroad for a while a couple of years back, studying literature in Switzerland, according to the Gotham Gazette. Tim knew that he’d really been dead, though (Tim tried not to think too hard about the logistics of that one). And that he was not spending his days by furthering his studies on his own, but rather had been making himself known on the streets as crime lord Red Hood. He was currently being double crossed by a member of his crew.

Damian Al Ghul Wayne. Robin. Youngest of the Wayne clan, volunteer at a cat shelter and trained assassin. Insecure, but hid it beneath layers of arrogance and perfectionism. He’d recently been injured on patrol, Tim had been there to see it. 

And then there was Stephanie Brown, Spoiler. Not really a member of the family, but not really not a member of the family. Her father was Cluemaster, and her boyfriend sucked. 

They’d all been at events that Tim had been booked for, but none of them had ever gotten their fortunes read before. Tim wasn’t sure if this particular party was going to be any different, the Waynes did tend to keep to themselves a bit. But on the off chance that today was the day that changed their minds, Tim had their (and everyone else's) information fresh in mind. 

He ate an early dinner, packed his bags, put on jeans and a hoodie, and hailed a cab to Wayne Manor. 

Chapter 2: officer i obtained these human teeth through legal means i swear

Notes:

im back again just one day later, don't get too used to everyday updates though, i'm horribly unpredictable hhhhh

At Wayne Manor, the grounds were bustling with people. Caterers and servers, entertainers and attractions. It seemed the Waynes really went all out. The weather forecast promised a moderately warm evening, if a bit windy, so the ballrooms wide, big doors were open into the garden, which was in the middle of being decorated with a million string lights and jack-o-lanterns. Tim just kind of stood there for a minute, looking at the decorations and people. There were big cobwebs put up in the chandeliers, pumpkins and strings of fall leaves. A band was tuning their instruments on a small stage. Everywhere he looked, there was something new to see, extravagant decorations, delicious looking food, a million fun things to do. 

Tim once again found himself wondering what his life might’ve been like if his parents hadn’t had to flee the country. If they had stayed and he could have grown up in Drake Manor, which now stood abandoned and dusty, seized by the government, just a mile or two up the road. Then perhaps he could have been a guest at this party, instead of an attraction. He could have donned a costume, mingled with people, drinking expensive champagne out of a crystal flute. 

Instead there he stood, ripped jeans and band hoodie, holding bags full of tent and fabrics. 

“Excuse me,” Someone asked him, “Is there anything I might help you with, lad?”

Tim turned, and found himself face to kind face with the Wayne family butler. Alfred Pennyworth. Tim had dug up all he could on him, but he genuinely seemed to be a pretty regular and non-scandalous man, if you didn’t count the whole Batman thing. 

“I’m the fortune teller,” Tim said, holding up his bags as if they explained anything, “I don’t know where I’m supposed to set up.” 

“Ah, of course,” Alfred said, smiling a polite but warm smile, “Right this way, please.” 

Tim’s designated spot was by the doors, right next to the passage out to the gardens. It was a good spot that promised a lot of foot traffic. He got to work setting up his tent. The outside of it was a deep purple with gold, lace trim, and he’d pinned different colours of jewel toned scarves and fabrics onto the inside, letting a few of them drape down, erasing the corner’s sharp edges. A sheer piece hung over the entrance, easy to tie back to show he was open for business, and easy to close when he had a customer. 

He dug out a table and two stools, all collapsible, from his duffel. He draped a stray piece of cloth over the table and put pillows on the chairs to disguise the fact that they were really meant for camping. He nicked a lantern from the garden and placed it in the corner of the tent, and he placed a few candles on the table. Stepping back a little, he admired his work.  

It was a lot of stuff, in no fewer than four different heavy bags, but his job was just as much appearances as it was words and cards. A shabby environment took away the mystical, intimate, magic feeling that was necessary for the scam to work. 

Speaking of appearances. He grabbed the smallest of his bags, and sought out the bathrooms. It would be less than half an hour before guests started appearing, and he could not be in jeans and a hoodie when that happened. In one of the small guest bathrooms, he got changed into a silky shirt and an embroidered robe. He swapped the jeans for a pair of flowy pants, and donned himself out in enough gold and jewels (cheap bijouterie and polished glass) to make his every movement rattle and clink. 

He held his breath while he lined his eyes with kajal, smudging it out to give his eyes a smoky look, and hoping it made him look a bit older. He dabbed on some shimmer on the high points of his face, and tied his hair back with a dark-gold bandana. He scrutinized his appearance, and decided the bandana made him look bald. He pushed it further back on his head and pulled his fringe out. 

Much better. 

He hurried back to his tent, lit the candles on his table, and pulled out his cards and various other items.

The band started playing upbeat, spooky music, the lights outside dimmed, and Tim settled into his chair. 

Time to wait. 

-

It usually took people a few drinks to start floating the idea of going to the fortune teller, so Tim took out his copy of American Gods, cover hidden by a dustjacket with a pentagram on it, and managed to read for quite a bit before his first customers arrived. 

Tim predicted a pregnancy, a divorce, and a new relationship all within the first hour of customers. Some people only came for a laugh, and for them he played up the whole act, while still offering whatever advice he could. 

Some people were outright rude, and those he showed the scariest looking tarot cards, and interpreted them somewhat correctly so they would still apply to the customer’s scandals and dirty little secrets. Those people walked away muttering about how it was obviously bogus, but they still cast nervous glances over their shoulders and texted furiously on their phones afterwards.

He sold a few bracelets made of semi precious stones, offered a calming herbal tea sample to an older woman, and burned a little bit of incense to make his tent a bit smoky. All in all, the evening was pretty regular.

Then Dick Grayson walked in. 

“Good evening,” Tim said, taking in Dick’s cowboy costume. 

“Howdy,” Dick grinned and tipped his hat, “You free for a reading?” 

“Please,” Tim gestured, “Have a seat.” 

Dick sat down on the other side of the table, and Tim looked at him with a calculating expression. 

“What might you want to ask the cards on this hallowed night?” He asked, “I specialize in business and romance. I also do runes and palmistry, though most people go with the cards.”

“How about runes?” Dick said, “I’m feelin’ adventurous tonight.” 

“A fine choice,” Tim remarked, bringing out his little velvet bag. “What do you want to ask the runes?” 

Dick hummed, leaning back. The fringe on his vest swayed. 

“I don’t know. What do people usually ask?” 

“Usually they have a specific question about work or romance. You can also ask for a general overview of either subject.” 

“Let’s do that.” 

“... Which one?” Tim tilted his head, and Dick smiled a cocky smile that only looked half real. 

“General overview of romance, please.” 

Tim nodded and held out the bag to Dick. 

“You’re going to pick five runes in total, don’t think too hard about it. Just pick one that feels right. Place the first one southwards,” He tapped the table to show, “The next one westwards, then north, then east, then the middle. It’s called Thor’s cross. When you’re done, we’ll go through the results and I will explain them to you. It’s important that you think about your query while you pick and place the stones.”

“Gotcha, can I start?” Dick asked, and Tim nodded. 

Dick put his hand down into the bag, and brought out the first runestone. At the sight of it, he balked a little. He put it down at the southern point and looked up at Tim.

“Is that a tooth?” 

“Yes,” Tim said, holding back his grin. 

“Like, a human tooth?” 

“Correct.” 

“Where did you get that?” Dick asked, looking at Tim like he was insane.

“The Earth will always give you what you need, you just have to… dig a little, sometimes.” Tim gave a cheshire grin, and watched Dick’s mildly horrified look. 

In truth, Tim was no grave robber. Loose teeth weren’t actually that difficult to find in Gotham City. In fact, in certain parts of the town, it seemed almost difficult not to find loose body parts littering the asphalt. You just had to keep your eyes on the sidewalk and search. It really was a lovely city they were living in, Tim thought. So charming. 

Tim shook the bag a little, teeth rattling inside, and raised an expectant eyebrow at Dick, who seemed to pull himself together and brought out the next rune. 

After all five of them were placed, Tim inspected the little runes carved into the teeth. 

“This indicates the current situation, this one is what’s in your way, then the positive influences that will help you overcome, then the short term outcome, and lastly the long term outcome.” He looked up, “Basically.”

“Basically?” 

“Runes can take years to understand, I’m giving you the quick rundown.” 

“Okiedokie. So what do they say?” Dick leaned over to get a better look, as if the teeth were going to spell out exactly what their meaning were.

Tim pointed to each rune in turn.

“Disruption, delay, things out of your control. The self, delusion, blindness. Personal development, coming to a good conclusion. Frustration and feeling like there is no progress. Success, and lasting emotional happiness.” 

Dick squinted.

“Yeah, you’re gonna have to dumb it down for me.”

Tim snorted, and started to explain. 

“These runes, in regards to your love life, show that you are standing in your own way.” Dick’s eyebrows furrowed, and Tim continued, tracing the teeth, “You’re unhappy with your current situation. Feeling like things aren’t going how you want them to. But you are the one standing in your own way, possibly because you have unrealistic expectations, both on yourself or on others. What can help you overcome this, is working on yourself. Finding a way to be content with yourself as a person, and not placing your value in how desirable you are. At first, this will seem frustrating, self love doesn’t come at the snap of one's fingers. But eventually, you will find peace and happiness.” 

Dick was quiet for a little, and then looked up at Tim with raised eyebrows and a baffled smile. 

“I have got to get Jason in here. This is, like, freaky.” He hurriedly added, “No offense!”

“None taken,” Tim assured, glad that his espionage had paid off. “Are you satisfied with your reading?” 

“I mean,” Dick said, bringing out his wallet, and not really looking at Tim, “It was mostly what I already knew, but to hear someone else say it… I probably needed that,” He chuckled and paid Tim what was owed. 

Dick stood up, and Tim nodded, putting away the cash.

“Sometimes we are blind to ourselves,” He said, and Dick laughed.

“Jesus, kid. You look like a fourteen year old boy, but you speak like a fifty year old woman.”

“I’m sixteen,” Tim muttered, and Dick just laughed again. 

“I’m gonna fetch my brother. See you soon!”

-

True to his word, Dick had dragged Jason Todd into Tim’s tent. And now, Tim was reading the palm of a very reluctant Jason, dressed as the Green Lantern, while Dick was standing at the back of the tent, listening like Tim’s words were law.

They were nearly done with the reading, and Jason had mostly scoffed his way through it. Tim thought it was time to get a little spooky. Really shake him up.

“Your life line is split in two,” He said, just to see Jason squirm. He dragged a manicured nail across the arch, his rings clinked as he tapped a part of the line, “See the little island, or circle, here? It indicates serious illness, injury, or worse. Perhaps a brush with death, or such, especially considering the size of it.” He was silent for a bit, pretending to inspect the palm more, but really taking great enjoyment in the way Jason was scowling and the way Dick’s eye was twitching. “But it’s fairly close to the start of your life, I'd say it has already happened. Were you very injured, close to death, even, a while back?” Tim finished, making himself sound blasé and lofty.

“No,” Jason grumbled, obviously lying, but Tim played along.

“Oh, well,” He said, letting go of Jason’s hand, “Fate isn’t set in stone, and can’t be predicted, only glimpsed. Most people’s palms change over the course of their lives. Are you interested in a card reading? I specialize in work- and lovelives. I’m sure I could tell you something interesting about your closest confidants.” He smiled conspiratorially, steepling his hands beneath his chin, and Jason huffed. An almost condescending eyebrow-raise met Tim’s inquisitorial one, and Tim didn’t need magic powers to know that Jason was thinking that Tim absolutely couldn’t know shit about his work life. 

But oh, did he know about Jason’s work life. And oh, oh, oh, did he have information that would shake Jason to his very core. 

“Fifty percent off,” Tim said in a sing-song voice, and Jason rolled his eyes. 

“I’m the son of a billionaire, wizard boy, I can pay full price. Let’s hear what the cards have to say about my worklife.” 

“Your brother still staying?” Tim hummed as he shuffled and counted the cards with swift, practiced hands. The edges were velvety and soft after constant use, and some of the cards were bent and scuffed, but Tim felt like it added to the atmosphere. Never trust a handyman with shiny tools, and all that. 

“I don’t know, are you going to tell me any deep dark secrets he shouldn’t hear?”

“One never knows,” Tim said, stopping the shuffle at the cards he wanted. To anyone else, it would seem completely random, even to a Bat-trained crime lord. But Tim knew exactly what cards he was going to pull. He’d manipulated the deck so that he’d be able to tell a story that very much applied to Jason’s current situation. He was somewhat of an artist. 

“He can stay,” Jason said, and Dick chuckled. 

Tim smiled politely, and tapped the deck three times against the edge of the table. 

“Shall we do a three-card spread? It’s a classic.” 

“Do your thang,” Jason said, and Tim did his thang. He pulled the first card.

“Ahh,” He said, holding it up to show Jason, “The Emperor. This shows leadership, and when in relation to business, it often means that there is money to be made.” Jason looked skeptical but pleased, and Tim continued, “It might mean that you organize people, or that you’re the leader of a team. Success is in your future. How’s that sound?” He put the card down.

“Sounds great. What’s the second card?” 

“The second card represents an obstacle. Something that is hindering you from achieving your goal.”

He flipped the next planned card, and nodded solemnly. 

“Ten of Swords,” He said, pointing down at it. “This card, as I said, represents the obstacle to your situation. In this case, well..” He looked pointedly at Jason and tapped the card, which showed a man laying face down with ten swords embedded in his back.

“I’m stabbing someone in the back?” Jason asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Au contraire, someone is stabbing you in the back.” Jason’s gaze hardened, and Tim took such glee in the way pretty much anyone could be so dragged into his craft, if only he told them the right things. Even mega-skeptic Jason Todd was now listening carefully, “There is someone close to you that is betraying your trust. I’d say someone you would never consider, perhaps a… partner in crime? Right hand man? That type of friend or coworker.” Tim pursed his lips, looking at Jason’s now knit eyebrows, “But you already had an inkling of that, didn’t you?” 

“What’s the next card?” He asked, almost sounding demanding, and Tim flipped it up.

“This is the advice,” He said, showing Jason the Death card, and Jason laughed out loud.

“I should kill him?”

Tim scrunched up his nose. 

“Someone doesn’t know their tarot. Death isn’t always literal, very, very rarely, in fact. And I’m not in the habit of predicting anyone’s death, or offering homicidal advice. Death means transformation. Out with the old, in with the new.” He raised an eyebrow, and Jason tilted his head to the side.

“So I should cut him off?”

“Exactly. You should leave the situation, and rebuild. This signifies the end of something, and in your case, it is telling you to part ways with this individual and move on with your life.”

“Interesting,” Jason said, stroking his chin. “But how do I know who this person is? I know a lot of people, you know? It could be anyone.” The way he said it, Tim knew that Jason didn’t really believe that there was a traitor, but just wanted one last chance to make Tim humiliate himself. 

“Give me just a moment,” Tim said, smiling and bringing out a tiny crystal ball.

“You must be fucking joking,” Jason said, and Tim shook his head and held up a finger to his lips. 

“Quiet, please,” He said, while gazing deeply into the glass ball. Jason rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, but shut up. Tim closed his eyes and mumbled the lyrics to a Mott the Hoople song beneath his breath, so quiet that Jason and Dick couldn’t hear the exact words, and put some cadence into it so it sounded like he was reciting a spell. 

He opened his eyes, gazed into the crystal ball one more time, and then flicked his gaze up to Jason, rolling the ball between his hands.

“Does the name Joseph mean anything to you?” He asked, and Jason’s face twitched. 

“No,” He said, and stood up. “It doesn’t.” 

Oh, but it did. Because Joseph Morello was Jason’s closest confidant. He was also, funnily enough, Black Mask's closest confidant. Tim could see that Jason knew exactly who he was talking about. Tim could see Jason going over everything that Joseph had said and done in the last couple of months, and he could see Jason putting the pieces together. 

“Shame,” Tim said flippantly, “Perhaps it will all make itself clear as time passes.” He held out his hand, “Payment, please, if you will. Cash only.” 

Jason muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like That motherfucker, and pressed close to two hundred dollars into Tim’s hand before sweeping the cloth to the side and stalking out of the tent without as much as a goodbye. Dick grinned, said thank you, and waved goodbye to Tim, before disappearing too.

Tim leaned back in his chair, counted his money, and smiled smugly. 

His job was pretty fun, now and again. 

Chapter 3: dont be suspicious dont be suspicious

Notes:

goodmorning people!! (its not morning. its midnight. but i *did* just wake up, soo,,,)

this ones a bit shorter, hope you’ll enjoy! <3

At the end of the night, around four AM, when all the drunk guests had finally piled into taxis and limos, the staff could finally start packing up. 

Tim had made some serious bank during the evening, and though he was absolutely exhausted, he was happy as he collapsed his tent and folded everything down into his bags. He changed back into his jeans and hoodie in the bathroom, but kept the bandana on. His eyeliner was a little more smudged than intended after a whole night's business, but he figured if anyone saw him, they’d just assume he was emo. 

When he had everything, he collected his paycheck and swung past the caterers on his way out, and they tossed him a bag of leftovers. It was tradition among those that worked the galas and parties to give out the leftovers to the staff that wanted. Otherwise, it would all go to waste, which was just tragic. Tim had, at this point, worked enough functions to start recognizing staff, and to be recognized by staff. 

Not a lot of teenage fortune tellers around, after all. 

He munched on croustades filled with some sort of prawn-mixture as he made his way out to the road. Most of the staff, if not all, had their own company cars and trucks, but Tim did not have a license, nor could he afford a car. He looked around for any stray cabs, but they all seemed to have left. 

The trek back to Gotham was long and cold, and with his bags, it wouldn’t be fun. Tim didn’t own a phone other than his trusty landline, which he kind of cursed himself for right then.

But there was no use in feeling sorry for himself. He hoisted his bags up, steeled himself, exhaled, and started walking into the night. 

He got approximately seven steps before someone called out after him. 

“Wizard boy!” 

Tim, being the extremely smart person that he was, deduced that it was him they were calling after, and he turned around. 

There, just over by the gates, stood Dick Grayson, leaning against the tall, iron fence. 

“What?” Tim called back, and Dick strode over.

“Thought that was you. What are you doing?” 

“I’m…leaving? Night’s over. I’m going home.”

Dick looked at him with a disbelieving expression.

“And you’re walking? Do you live close by?” 

“I live in Old Gotham,” Tim said, wondering why Dick would give a shit.

“Old Gotham?” Dick looked at him like he was an idiot, “That’s on the other side of the city! Not to mention, you have to trek through Crime Alley to get there. Are you insane? Like, actually?”

Tim scoffed.

“I used to live in Crime Alley. And I’ve walked further for less. I’m good.” 

Dick squinted.

“You’re not from the Alley. You’ve got a northern Gotham dialect. You almost sound like Bruce.”

“Funny how that works, isn’t it,” Tim muttered, mostly to himself, before giving Dick a sharp nod. “Nice to meet you, thank you for tonight. Goodbye." 

He started walking again, but this time he didn’t make it further than four steps before Dick’s hand closed around his shoulder. He sighed and stopped. 

“I’ll fix you a ride,” Dick said, and Tim wondered if this was how he was going to end up becoming the star of a true crime documentary. 

The young fortune teller disappeared on Halloween night, gone into the unknown. Perhaps supernatural forces were at play? Maybe he messed around with something he shouldn’t have… 

But Tim was tired, and he’d stalked Dick enough to know that he most likely was not going to kidnap him. So sure. He stayed put where Dick told him to, and watched him disappear back into the Manor, presumably to call a cab.

There was no cab, however. Instead, a sleek, black car pulled up a few minutes later, and the window cracked open a smidge.

“Hop in, kiddo,” A man’s voice said, and Tim stuffed his bags in the back and slid into the passenger seat with no protest. A ride was a ride, no matter how strange, and it sure beat walking. 

Then he kind of stopped breathing. Because that was no hired chauffeur. 

That was Bruce Wayne behind the wheel. 

“Where to?” Bruce asked, and Tim stopped staring and closed his gaping mouth. 

That was Batman. 

Batman was driving him home?

“Old Gotham,” Tim cleared his throat, still not fully comprehending what was happening. “Couple of streets behind the clock tower.”

Bruce nodded, and the car silently started rolling. 

Tim had not been in a lot of cars in his post-mansion life. Most of the ones he had been in had been cabs. But this was no cab. This was a modern, quiet, and deadly fast beauty of a machine. Tim barely dared to look at the panel, afraid that he’d accidentally press a button that would eject them out of their seats or turn on turbo rockets, or something. Whatever new cars did. 

“So you’re the fortune teller, huh?” Bruce asked, and Tim could tell that he wasn’t fully Brucie Wayne, but that he wasn’t his regular Bruce self either. This was some careful middleground, probably constructed to be non threatening and polite for Tim’s maximum comfort. 

“Yes, sir,” Tim said, still not fully convinced that this was happening. “Thank you for having me. And for driving me home, you really didn’t need to.” 

“Just Bruce, please. And it’s no trouble.” Bruce said, and he really sounded like there wasn’t any trouble. Tim couldn’t help but to think that surely Bruce Wayne, billionaire and also the literal Batman, would have something better to do than drive home a low-level staff member in the middle of the night. 

But there they were. 

Stranger things had probably happened, Tim supposed. 

“How’d you end up a fortune teller?” Bruce inquired as they exited the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge and drove onto the first of Gotham’s big islands, “Forgive me for prying, but you do seem a bit young to have such a.. time consuming job?” 

“It just sort of happened. My parents aren’t too concerned with what I do,” Understatement of the century, “I get by alright, and it’s pretty fun.”

Bruce hummed.

“Dick, my son, found your work to be very… enlightening. You seem to do well for yourself,” The corners of his eye wrinkled with amusement, probably at his son’s marvel. “And you were a hit with the guests. I’ll be sure to remember to book you again, if you’d be interested.” 

“It would be my pleasure, si- Bruce.” Tim picked nervously at his nail polish. Being booked again by the Waynes would be a surefire way to keep making bigger sums of money, and it would allow him to establish himself as a regular attraction at events, which was good. 

What made him a bit nervous, though, was being on the Bats’ radar. He might have to tone down his work if he ever told their fortunes again. He didn’t want them to start wondering how he knew so much, or end up on some sort of watchlist. 

Tim gave Bruce some directions of where to go once they rolled into Old Gotham, and finally, the car came to a slow, rumbling stop. 

Tim got his bags, and lingered by the passenger door. 

“Thank you for driving me home. It was very nice of you, sir.” 

“No trouble at all, lad. Have a good night.” Bruce waved a little, and Tim returned it, still in a little bit of shock. 

“You too,” He said, and closed the car door. 

Bruce Wayne’s car disappeared into the night, red tail lights fading away on the cobblestone streets, and Tim dug out his keys and entered his shabby little apartment. He fell into bed and decided not to think too closely about anything. It’d work out.

Notes:

if u saw me update this twice - SORRY! i was #struggling 😭

Chapter 4: stalking is a love language, actually

It had been a week since Halloween, and Tim had a day off. He was on his way to a café down the street from his apartment to get a warm coffee and curl up in a nook with a paperback. The November chill had set in, and the heat in his apartment was broken. His landlord was not going to fix it until at least January, if Tim knew him right. So whenever he had customers over he burned about twenty candles, offered tea, and ran his little space heater. But when it was just him, he couldn’t really afford to be doing that every second of every day. So he tended to escape. 

The café was cheap, but very cozy, and a staple of Old Gotham. It blended right in with the whimsical gothic and neo-baroque buildings with their curling jugend decor. 

So what? Tim might have picked up a book on architecture a while back. He might also have gotten very engrossed in it and realized that Gotham was a mishmash of virtually every possible architectural style at the same time. It was fascinating. Sue him. 

He was almost there, when someone called out behind him. He assumed it wasn’t meant for him, and kept walking. But they called out again, and this time he cast a glance over his shoulder just to make sure.

“Hey! Wait up!” None other than Stephanie Brown shouted, eyes fixed on Tim, and so he stopped, a little confused. Had he dropped something? 

“Oh, thank God,” Stephanie panted and put her hands on her knees, catching her breath when she caught up with him, “I thought you were never going to stop. Jeez, you walk fast.” 

She was wearing a short lilac puffer jacket and a deep purple scarf that looked homemade. Tim envied her a little as he stood in his too thin jacket he’d gotten at a second hand store the other week. The wind was never kind during Gotham’s winter, and it bit right through the fabric. 

“Can I help you?” He asked, still very confused, and Stephanie straightened up.

“You’re the fortune teller, right?” She looked at him with big eyes, and Tim nodded slowly.

“I am.” 

“Oh, good! I’m Stephanie, I was at the Halloween thing last week. I was the reverse mermaid. I never got the chance to get my fortune told, because I forgot that I’m allergic to soy and I ate one of Damian’s vegetarian meatball-y things. The ones with sriracha? On the little sticks? Yeah, that evening was Not. Very. Fun. At least it tasted good before my throat started itching. Anyway,” She smiled broadly, “I was wondering if you could read me my fortune, or whatever it’s called? I’ve got cash, you only take cash, right?” She dug around in her purse, and Tim’s head was practically spinning as he put a hand on her arm to stop her.

“I’m… off the clock?” He said apologetically, “This is my day off. Sorry.” 

“Aw, really? But you’re going to that café, right? I’ll pay for your drink, and I’ll pay you double for the fortune. I heard such good things from Dick. Plus, I got Bruce’s wallet, so you know I’m good for it,” She winked, and Tim couldn’t help but to let out a startled laugh and made a split second decision. 

“Okay? Yeah. Sure. Why not? I’ll read your palm, or you’ll have to get a tea. I don't have any of my equipment with me.” 

“A palm reading it is! I don’t really vibe with tea unless it’s got tapioca. Don’t tell Alfred.”

“I… won’t?” Tim said, not sure when he would ever get the opportunity to talk shit about Stephanie Brown with Alfred Pennyworth. 

“Great! What’s your name, tarot boy?” 

“I’m Tim.”

“As in short for Timothy?”

“No,” Tim said, pushing every thought of Timothy Drake away, “Just Tim.” 

“Okay, just-Tim,” Stephanie grinned, “Let’s go!” 

-

Tim took a sip of his coffee and studied Stephanie’s palm. He showed her one of the lines.

“This is your love line,” He explained, softly dragging his thumbnail across it, “It’s…” He quieted, wondering how to best phrase what he wanted to say.

He kept tabs on Stephanie Brown, as he did with most of Gotham’s elite. Not that she particularly belonged to it, but she was elite-by-association. The point was, he knew a lot about her life. And he knew a lot about her boyfriend. 

Long story short, her boyfriend sucked. Like, royally sucked. 

Not only was he generally unpleasant, he was also a cheater. 

“What about it?” Stephanie asked, munching on a scone.

“You should break up with your partner.” Tim let go of her hand and let her recover as she choked on her bread.

“What?” She coughed, and Tim took her hand again and pointed.

“See this? It indicates a bad relationship. I’m assuming you’re currently seeing someone?” 

“Yeah,” She mumbled, staring at her palm, “I am. That’s so freaky. Could you tell that from just looking at my hand?” 

“Yes,” Tim said, blatantly lying, “And I also see that your partner is not good for you. Are they rude? Unfaithful?”

“I… I don’t know,” Stephanie put her scone down, “I mean, I’ve had my suspicions. But I don’t know. And he’s not.. I mean. He’s not the greatest.” 

Tim hummed, and took another sip of his coffee. 

“I advise you to keep an eye on him. You deserve better.” 

“Did you see that in my palm as well?” She asked, and Tim smiled at her over the edge of his cup.

“No. I don’t need a third eye to see that.” 

-

When they’d finished their fika, Stephanie paid him and stood up to take her leave.

“Are you sticking around for a bit?” She asked, and Tim nodded.

“I’ll probably get another cup of coffee and read for a bit.” 

She brought out her phone and handed it to him. Tim accepted, very confused. The screen was cracked and it had a sparkly purple case, and was opened to her contacts. 

“...What?”

“Type in your number,” She said, smile broad and genuine, “So we can do this another time! You’re a real nice guy.” 

“Oh. Sure,” Tim said, smiling back, more than just a little surprised, and he added himself as a contact.

“Great!” She took her phone back and put her hands in her pockets, “I’ll text you!” 

“Ahhh, uh,” Tim scratched his neck, “You can’t do that. I’ve only got a rotary.” Stephanie’s eyebrows disappeared somewhere up into her hairline.

“Then I guess I’ll call you! See you around, Tim!” She waved and left Tim sitting there with his empty coffee cup and wondering what it was that had just happened. 

-

When Tim went out to do what he liked to call research, but what was probably legally classified as stalking, he had to be careful. Not only was there the threat of being discovered by his targets, but there was the threat of Bats, of being shot at, of the general Gotham-ness fucking something up for him. And he had to keep his identity under wraps, lest someone saw his face, made a connection, and exposed him as a fraud. 

He always wore dark clothes that were as nondescript and forgettable as possible when he was out at night. He’d since years back mapped out the Bat’s patrol routes and when they would be where, and each time they changed, he got a mini heart attack and rushed home to update his chart. 

Whenever he had a booking somewhere, he spent a few weeks in advance pouring over texts and emails he’d hacked from the participants. Spent probably too much time following them just observing, and whenever that was the case, he brought along a notebook and jotted down emotions, body language, and words if he could hear them. 

All this information, every detail, every drop of relevant knowledge, then ended up in carefully put together files. All analogue, of course. If he could hack into their stuff, there was probably someone out there that could hack into his. 

These files, along with his ratty laptop and his stacks of notebooks, all ended up in the locked room in his apartment. 

(It was less of a room and more of a Potter-esque cupboard. A glorified wardrobe with deskspace.)

It was his vault of morally gray (or just immoral?) wisdom, and he was currently on a mission to fill it up further. 

The Bats had their own binder. It dated years back, and contained just about everything that Tim knew about them. He kept it locked in a safe, hidden in a false back of the desk’s drawer in his locked room. This was Gotham, after all. Break-ins weren’t exactly rare. He’d also written the entire thing in a cipher only he knew the key to, but one can never be too careful. 

This particular night, Tim was stalking Stephanie.

He felt a little bad about it after their café visit the other week, but he had wanted to see what she was going to do about the advice he’d given her. It would be an important addition to her profile as well.

Tim couldn’t quite afford to buy equipment meant for surveillance, which meant that if he wanted to listen in on a conversation, he had to be close enough to it to actually hear it. This was the reason that he was currently perched on the fire escape outside of her boyfriend’s apartment, listening in through the open window.

They were arguing, and Tim was silently cheering on Stephanie. She was absolutely crushing that loser boyfriend of hers. She had screenshots, receipts, enough evidence to send him to the pits of Tartarus if she so pleased. 

“It’s over!” She yelled, and her boyfriend spluttered.

“Babe, it’s not even like that! She’s just a friend.”

“In the words of Lambretta, a friendly kiss includes no tongue, Ben!” She was livid, and Tim wanted to punch the air in victory. He didn’t know her that well, but no one deserved to be cheated on. Good on her for dumping his ass.

“Babe-”

“Don’t call me that!” Some rustling, “I’m out of here. Don’t call me.” 

The door slammed, and Tim heard the boyfriend groan in defeat. 

He jotted down the encounter in his notebook, climbed down, and started the trek back to his own apartment. He’d gotten all the information needed to update his binder.

-

When he opened the door into his apartment, his phone was ringing. It was too late to be a customer, but he had a sneaking suspicion of who it could be. Not a lot of people had his number. He took off his shoes and walked over to it.

“Hello?” He said into the phone, and a sniffle was heard on the other end.

“Hi, Tim,” Stephanie Brown said, confirming Tim’s suspicion. “It’s Steph, we met the other day? Sorry to call you this late, I just- uh, I wanted to let you know that you were right.” 

“Oh, no,” Tim said, sitting down on his bed, “The boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” She cleared her throat. Tim could hear traffic and the sound of her shoes against the pavement through the phone, “The cheating, the everything. I broke up with him.” 

“I’m sorry,” He said, because he genuinely was. 

“Anyway, you’re probably busy, it’s late. I just… Well, I don’t know. I just wanted to thank you, I guess. Without you, I probably would’ve stayed with that asshole for who knows how long.” 

“My pleasure, and condolences, I suppose.” Tim wasn’t sure what made him continue. Perhaps he felt bad for causing the breakup. It was, after all, his fault that the cheating had come to light. “And I’m not busy, I was just about to gorge myself on ice cream and watch a movie.” 

“Oh?” Stephanie said.

“Yeah, Mean Girls. I missed October 3rd, so I thought I should make up for it.” He stretched the phone’s cord as far as it would go as he walked into his information-room and put away his notebook.

“I missed it too, actually.” Stephanie tried to keep a light tone, but Tim still heard the sadness shining through, ”We’re disgraces to the community.”  

“Well,” Tim said, locking the room and looking around his apartment, he didn’t have any ice cream but there was a small 24h convenience store just around the corner. “A good movie always cheers me up. You’re welcome to join me in my ice cream eating and totally legal wine drinking if you’ve nothing better to do.”

He bit his lip. It was a gamble. He didn’t know how to comfort people, and he and Stephanie didn’t really know each other. But she had called him, and he did feel like he owed her some comfort in the wake of the destruction he’d caused in her life. The least he could do was offer. 

“Really?” She asked, and Tim quietly let out a breath.

“Yeah, of course. Only if you have the energy. Breakups are exhausting, or so I’ve heard.” He slipped his shoes on again. Stephanie laughed wetly.

“You know what? I think I’m entitled to some of that ice cream and totally legal wine after the night I’ve had. What’s your address?”

Tim gave her his address, and they hung up. He trekked down to the store, bought two tubs of ice cream and two bottles of wine. He was a regular at the store, it was owned by a couple in their fifties, and when their son worked, he never ID’d anyone for alcohol. He was too busy trying to pretend like he wasn’t smoking weed in the backroom. It was a mutual understanding. I won’t tell if you don’t. 

He’d been back at his apartment for about five minutes, just enough time to make it look presentable, when his doorbell rang. 

There was Stephanie in her puffer jacket and scarf, eyes puffy and nose red. 

“Can I borrow a pair of pants from you?” Was the first thing she said, not even inside his apartment yet. “These jeans are, like, two sizes too small. They’re super uncomfortable and the thought of watching a movie in them makes me want to barf. But they make my ass look great, and I had to let him know what he’d be missing.”

Tim laughed and pointed towards his bedroom.

“Pants are in the second drawer, take any pair you want. You can change in the bathroom over yonder. I’ll get the movie ready.” 

Before he could blink, Stephanie had launched herself into his arms and was hugging him like her life depended on it. His face was completely buried in her soft puffer jacket, which he now noticed was corduroy. He carefully wrapped his arms around her. She smelled like cold air and sweet floral perfume. Her hair was tickling his nose. 

When was the last time he’d gotten a hug?

He decided not to think too hard about it.

“You’re the best,” She sniffled, “Thank you.” She let him go and took off her shoes and hung up her jacket, “I’ll go get changed.”

-

“Don’t you think he’s kind of hot?” Stephanie asked.

They were sitting on a mound of pillows on the floor of his bedroom, leaning against his bed. Tim’s ancient laptop stood on a stool in front of them, playing the iconic teen comedy. 

“Who? Aaron?” Tim scrunched his nose, “He’s so Troy Bolton.” 

“Oh, my apologies, Mr. Crystal Ball. I forgot that you probably only date the spirits of the dearly departed.” 

Tim snorted hard enough into his glass to make the wine bubble. 

“I’m a fortune teller, not a medium!” 

“Same shit. Your apartment looks like it was decorated by Oda Mae Brown and that lady from The Aristocats. Seriously,” She laughed so hard that her eyes were barely visible, “What sixteen year old boy has a rotary phone and curtains made of velvet?” 

-

A drunken movie night with Stephanie Brown was not how Tim had envisioned his day would end. But he was glad for it all the same.

Chapter 5: but daaaaaad, i PROMISE i'll take care of it myself!!!

Stephanie, or Steph, as she was usually called, had started to become a semi-constant presence in Tim’s life. 

He wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but after their impromptu movie night they had gone out for coffee once or twice, and had plans to do it again.

Tim had never really had a friend before, and he tried to not think about how pathetic that sounded as Steph regaled him with grand tales of her teachers’ idiocy and unfair grading systems or whatever was on her mind that particular week. 

Tim, in turn, told her about unpleasant customer experiences and sometimes, if he could do it without sounding suspicious, gave her breadcrumbs of gossip regarding Gotham’s high society. He always framed it as rumors he’d picked up from other staff members working parties and events, but in reality it was just dirt he’d dug up himself. 

Stephanie loved it. Tim liked having her around. He hoped it could last. 

She hadn’t asked for another reading, and Tim was secretly grateful for it. It felt a little wrong now that he knew her kind of well. He’d even lessened how much he spied on her. Maybe he was growing soft, but something about having a friend seemed to crack and chip away at the rough walls he’d built during his time alone. It didn’t feel too bad. 

One Saturday, Tim had to cancel their fika, because he’d through some miracle managed to book a Fall Market, both Saturday and Sunday, at the very last minute. 

It kind of sucked to cancel on Stephanie, but he enjoyed working the market. He’d done it last year, and the other vendors and workers had mingled afterwards and distributed the unsold perishable goods between each other. He’d been the youngest of the vendors last year, and probably would be this year too, which was great. It made everyone act a little nicer towards him than they probably would have acted towards a fortune teller of older age. Some people tended to look down on the profession. 

It was mid-November, and it was cold. His tent, no matter how fancy, was not insulated. Though he’d managed to strap down the fabric so it wouldn’t flap in the occasional bursts of winds, the cold gusts still somehow made their way inside, chilling him to the bone. To make matters worse, he spent most of the time sitting outside by his little table of goods. 

If he managed to book the Christmas Market as well, he thought, teeth clattering despite all his layered clothes and thick fabrics, he would buy a portable space heater that didn’t require an outlet. And if that didn’t exist, he would invent one. He kept going to the booth next to him for the warm, spiced apple cider they sold. He got a discount, since he too worked the market, and probably because the owners seemed to take pity on him, but it still made his wallet lighter and lighter.

It was worth it, though, because he could hold the cup with both hands and warm up his red and numb fingers. He didn’t own gloves. It was quite difficult to shuffle a tarot deck with gloves on. 

Business was good. The bracelets and talismans he’d made sold like hotcakes, as did the little bags of herb and tea-blends he’d made. With each followed a handwritten note on the different herbs’ qualities and attributes. They were especially popular with the older ladies, who probably also felt a little sorry for him as he shivered and explained what tea was good for what. 

He only did a few readings, people were mostly interested in the goods he was selling, not the services. Tim supposed that was what markets were about. 

He’d been kind of zoning out a bit, trying to burrow as deep down into his shitty jacket as possible when someone spoke to him and snapped him out of it.

“Hey! Look who it is!” 

Tim’s eyes focused again to find not one but three of the Bats standing in front of him. Dick, Damian, and Bruce.

Not in costume, of course, but bundled up in warm coats and scarves. 

“Hello again,” Tim said to Dick, who was smiling widely. 

“How’s business?” Bruce asked, and Tim nodded a couple of times.

“Pretty good, sir. I’m running out of the tea faster than I thought I would. I’m probably gonna have to bring double the amount tomorrow.” 

“Just Bruce,” Said Just-Bruce, and there was a glint of something amused in his eye, “I’m happy to hear it. I may have pulled some strings to make sure you got a spot.”

Tim raised his eyebrows. He had gotten the spot pretty late, after being told the slots for vendors were all already filled. And now it turned out that it was because Bruce Wayne had pulled some strings? 

“What?” Was all Tim managed, head spinning, “Why? I mean, thank you, sincerely. But why?” 

Damian made a tutting sound and rolled his eyes. He was still on crutches from when he’d gotten injured on patrol a while back.

“Grayson is fascinated by you, for some reason. He kept bugging father about it. And Brown won’t stop talking about you, either. Though I can’t see why an obviously fak-” Dick put a gloved hand over Damian’s mouth and smiled even wider.

“We heard that you helped Steph through her breakup- Ow, you little shit! Did you bite me?” Dick flapped his hands a couple of times, and gave a devious looking Damian a betrayed stare.

“Boys,” Bruce said, sounding a little like he wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“We heard,” Dick continued, squinting at Damian, who grimaced back, “That you helped Steph through her breakup. And since you’re pretty good at what you do, we thought that this might be a way to pay you back.” He put his hands in his pockets and Tim nodded again.

“It was my pleasure, really. Stephanie's cool. Thank you again. This means a lot to me.” 

“She speaks highly of you,” Bruce said, something kind in his eyes, and Tim felt his cheeks warm up. 

“I can’t see why,” Damian muttered, and Dick scrunched up his nose. 

“Why don’t you get a reading from him, then, you gnat. I’m sure you’ll change your mind.” 

“The future cannot be predicted, unless he possesses supernatural abilities, which I highly doubt.” Damian looked at Tim with scrutiny and disdain, and Tim leveled a challenging smile back at him. 

“No way of knowing unless you try,” He said, and Damian huffed.

“Fine. But I will not be convinced. It is a waste of time and money.” 

“Hey, now,” Bruce said, putting a hand on Damian’s shoulder as Tim rose and held back the curtain to his tent’s entrance, “Supporting local businesses is essential to a thriving city.”

“Plus he’s like, the real deal, but go off I guess,” Dick muttered, and Tim held back a laugh. 

Damian entered the tent, and Tim hung back for a second.

“Do you want someone to accompany you?” He asked, and Damian rolled his eyes as he leaned his crutches against the table and sat down.

“I am perfectly capable of wasting my money on my own, thank you.” 

“Alright then.” Tim slid into the tent, let the curtain fall back over the entrance, and sat down opposite Damian, “Would you like a card reading, palm reading, or would you like me to use runes?” 

“Cards are fine.” Damian sounded bored, and Tim started to shuffle the deck with hands numb from the cold.

“Anything specific you wish to ask?” He said, and Damian pursed his lips.

“Will father allow me to get a cat?” 

Tim suppressed his chuckle and stopped the shuffle. Not manipulated this time around. It would probably be best to just seem as ordinary as possible when dealing with the Bats from now on. 

He held out the deck to Damian.

“Knock three times on it, please. Think of the question while you do it.” Damian frowned.

“Why? Surely that won’t impact the results of the reading. You have already shuffled the cards.” 

“It’s to make you more connected to the deck. It will help if the deck hears from you directly.” He couldn’t help but laugh at Damian’s disbelieving look. “Humor me.” 

Damian grumbled something, but rapped his knuckles thrice against the back of the cards.

Tim spread the cards out in a wide arch across the table. 

“I want you to drag your hand across the cards - gently, don’t disrupt the spread too much - and when you find a card that feels right, remove it and flip it.” 

“How will I know if it’s right?” Damian looked at the cards with skepticism and Tim shrugged.

“It might feel hot or cold, or you’ll just get a feeling that one of them sticks out. Go with your gut.”

Damian sighed, but did as told. He swept his hand over the back of the cards, and eventually settled on one. He flipped it over, and Tim almost wanted to laugh at how this was already working in his favor.

“Nine of Wands,” He said, “It means struggle, but perseverance. So in the context of your question, this is the starting point, where we are now. Currently, you’re fighting for it, but it might feel like you’re getting nowhere. But this card tells you that you shouldn’t give up, but instead be resilient and persistent.”  

“That’s vague. And how do I know that you’re not just making that up?” 

“You can always google it. But that’s for later. Pull another card.” 

“Why?” Damian raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t the reading done? The cards told me neither yes, nor no, but to keep trying. Surely that’s all.” 

“This is just the beginning. The next card will show the steps needed, and the last one will show the outcome. All good things come in three, you know?” 

Once again, Damian sighed, but dragged his hands over the cards.

The next one he pulled was Three of Pentacles, and Tim hummed.

“Mmmh, this one represents teamwork, basically. So in your case, I would interpret this as the cards telling you to get someone on your side.” 

“That is exactly what I am already doing.” Damian crossed his arms. “That’s what this whole ordeal is about. Convincing my father.” 

“I’m not talking about your dad, I mean someone else in the house, maybe a brother. If you can convince someone else, you will have someone else that’s also fighting for your cause. That might make your dad give in easier. Perhaps you can even create a majority against him.” Tim raised an eyebrow and Damian sucked his teeth. 

“I suppose that it is an adequate plan. I shall see what I can do. Grayson will be easy to convince, he is a soft hearted man. Now,” He put his hand on the cards once more, “Let us see if I am to emerge victorious.” 

He flipped a card over and Tim smiled and leaned back in his chair. 

“Well?” Damian said, “What does it mean?” 

“This,” Tim said, and he leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the table. He picked up the Six of Wands and held it between two fingers, looking at Damian with a grin, “Means victory.” 

“Of course,” Damian said, trying to sound nonchalant but not completely succeeding, satisfaction shining through. “I shall put your suggestions to the test and we shall see if you really are as good as Grayson seems to think. Expect to hear from me again.” 

He paid Tim what was owed, got his crutches, and stepped out of the tent. Tim followed and took his seat in his cold little chair again.

“Well?” Dick said as Damian walked over to them, “Are you convinced?” 

“We shall see. Now, I need to talk to you, in private.” He looped Dick’s arm through his, forcing Dick to bend down so as to not yank Damian off his crutches, and marched away from their father with determined steps, leaving just Tim and Bruce at his booth. 

“What’s that all about?” Bruce asked, looking after his sons with raised eyebrows.

“Oh,” Tim said, burrowing deeper into his chair, “You’ll see.” 

“I’m sure I will,” Bruce smiled behind his scarf, “How much for these?” He held out a couple of herb-bags. “I’m trying to get our butler to expand his tea horizons. One can only drink so much Earl Grey.” 

“One goes for three dollars, but I’ve got a five-for-four discount, so six would run you fifteen bucks.” 

“Excellent. I’ll take these, then.” 

Tim brought out a little bag, stuffed a thank you note and a business card into it, and packed up Bruce Wayne’s purchase. He tried not to think about how bizarre it was that Batman was buying tea from him as he handed him the bag.

“Thank you, come again soon!” 

“We will,” Bruce said, “If I know my boys. Speaking of,” He looked around them, out at the bustling marketplace, “I think I should go ahead and locate them before they buy the whole market. Take care, now.” 

“Bye,” Tim said, pretending this was a normal situation, and waving as Bruce wove into the fabric of the crowd in search of his sons. 

 

Notes:

(hi!! im so sorry if i havent gotten around to responding to your comments! i’m writing this while attending a summer course thats got me glued to my sketchbook ca. 24/7😩
just know that i read every single one and they make me so, so happy and i appreciate them more than you know!!! <333)

Chapter 6: what are you doing in my swamp???

Notes:

finally figured out how to change the language of my browser so that finally it stops underlining every single word i've written with red🥳 only took me like three years

hope you'll enjoy this one! :D

At the start of December, Tim was on his bed, peacefully making talismans and jewelry to update his stock for the coming Winter Market, when someone knocked on his door. 

Tim expected it to be Steph. She didn’t usually show up unannounced but he didn’t put it past her. So when he opened his door to find Jason Todd standing there, he was a bit thrown off his rhythm, which was probably why the first words out of his mouth sounded a little stupid.

“This isn’t Wayne Manor,” He said, and then immediately wanted to punch himself in the face. 

“I’m well aware,” Jason said, and then shouldered past Tim into his apartment.

“Hey!” Tim shut the door and scrambled after him, “What the hell, man?” 

“Jesus, it’s cold in here. Why does your apartment look like you’re roommates with Dr. Facilier?” Jason poked a mobile of animal bones Tim had hanging from the ceiling.

“I don’t know. Why are you inside it?” 

“And what’s this? Arts ‘n crafts session at the primary school?” He’d poked his head into Tim’s bedroom and was looking at Tim’s half-crafted goods. 

“Dude!” 

Jason finally faced him and crossed his arms.

“Are you a meta?” He demanded, and Tim’s eyebrows shot up.

“I wish! You think I would be doing macramé if I had magical powers? Hell no! I’d be making bank as a television psychic or some shit.” He was starting to understand what this was probably about. 

The Red Hood had, after all, had a very violent falling out with one of his closest confidants recently. 

“Then how come that Joseph was- How come you knew that I was bein’ betrayed?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Tim played dumb. 

“The readin’ you gave me.” Jason uncrossed his arms and walked closer. Tim backed up. “It was correct. Extremely so. How could you have known that information?” 

“Listen, dude. I barely remember telling your fortune. Do you know how many customers I get per night at a party that size? Whatever I told you was just what the cards showed me.” Tim’s back hit the wall behind him, and he tried to look as scowling and confused as possible. “Half the time it doesn’t even hit remotely close to home.”

“You said the name Joseph.” 

“It’s one of the most popular names in Gotham for people your age! Every guy your age in Gotham knows a guy named Joseph! I took a calculated guess.” 

Tim was praying to every single God he knew of that Jason would just accept his explanation and let it go. He’d known that getting on the Bats’ radar would probably not be good. But what was probably even worse, and what he foolishly enough hadn’t accounted for, was getting on the Red Hood’s radar. 

Jason was quiet, looking right at him with an intense stare. Probably trying to figure out exactly what Tim was up to. Tim forced himself to meet his gaze, and forced himself not to look at the door to his locked room. That would’ve been a dead giveaway. 

“So.. what, then?” Jason said at last, putting a hand on a cocked hip, “You some typa’ scam?” 

Tim decided to play up his fortune teller persona. He took on an offended look and straightened his back.

“I’m no scam. Reading the cards is an art.” He scoffed at Jason and made his voice condescending and borderline rude, “My deepest apologies for being too good at my job. Some people just aren’t cut out for the craft, I guess.” He clicked his tongue and looked Jason up and down with disdain, and Jason rolled his eyes.

He seemed to have bought it.

“No scam my ass. You’re a downright hustler.”

“Was I or was I not right about your situation? Could a scam have predicted something so accurate? I think not,” Tim said, pursing his lips.

“Whatever.” Jason turned to walk, and Tim made an offended sound.

“Oh? So that’s it? You force your way into my apartment, harass me for doing my job, and now you’re leaving without an apology?” 

“Peace out, wizard boy.” Jason didn’t even cast a glance backwards, just opened Tim’s door.

“My name is Tim! And how did you even find my apartment?” Tim called after him, but he was already gone.

-

After Jason’s little visit, Tim considered backing down. Perhaps he should stop spending time with Stephanie. Maybe he should decline if Bruce offered him another job. 

But that meant losing his only friend, and turning down a hell of a lot of money. Tim didn’t really want to do any of those things.

So instead when night came, he popped himself a bunch of popcorn, cracked his knuckles, and opened the lid to his ancient laptop. Hacking into the Bats’ comm channels was a little challenging, but it was rewarding. 

If he was to keep running into them, he might as well do it well prepared. 

Know thine enemy, and all that. Though they weren’t really his enemies. Whatever. Tim liked information. It made him feel secure. And right then, he’d been a little too close to the truth for comfort, and he really needed some security.

Speaking of security, the Bats should really update theirs. Tim’s fingers were flying over the keyboard, and in a laughably short time, he was listening in on their conversation.

Damian was benched, on account of his injury, and was therefore playing guy-in-the-chair to Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Steph. 

Jason and Steph didn’t really swing with the Bats too often, preferring to do their own thing, but they were still on the same comms. 

Listen, Tim had questioned the ethics of what he was doing many many times. Sometimes, he did feel a little bad about what he was doing. He did. Spying on people was in general not something that was considered extremely noble, he was aware of the fact that it was probably straight up wrong of him to do it.

However... A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do to put food on the table. And this sure beat working at a fast food joint. 

So Tim made sure he was muted, checked it again, and then triple checked just to be absolutely sure, and then leaned back in his chair with his notebook and popcorn to listen and take notes. 

The first thing he heard, however, made him choke. 

“I can’t believe you went to his house,” Said Dick, and in response, Jason scoffed.

“I had to find out for myself how he could have known all that. Thought he was a meta.” 

“Was he?” Bruce asked, and Jason scoffed again.

“No. Just a scam artist.” 

“Hey, now!” Dick laughed, “He’s the real deal.” 

“Indeed,” Damian said, and Tim’s eyebrows shot up, “Whether or not he possesses psychic abilities, I’m not too concerned with. But I must admit, he gives good advice. My reading has aided me greatly in my quest.” 

“Come on!” Jason sounded exasperated, “Dickwing I can understand, but you? You know better than to believe in that no-good-”

“May I please remind everyone that we are talking about my friend here?” Stephanie interrupted, and Tim smiled, “Fortune teller or not, he does give great advice, and he’s a really nice guy.” 

“What quest, Robin?” Bruce asked, and Damian tutted.

“You shall see. The end goal is near.”

“Apropos nothing, B,” Dick said, glee in his voice, “I really think we should get a cat, don’t you?” 

Chapter 7: feast you eyes upon my victory

The Bats had moved on from Tim fairly quickly after their little conversation on the comms, instead getting dragged into a fierce debate on who was the better cook. They couldn’t agree on anything except that Bruce most decidedly was not the best cook, and probably shouldn’t be allowed within fifteen feet of a kitchen. Tim took notes.

He had stopped listening after a while. He was a night owl, but even he had his limits. At around three he’d fallen into bed, and when he awoke the next day he kept on crafting and blending teas to sell at the Winter Market that was to take place the following week. 

-

The day before the Market, Tim was open for business as regular, and his little living room was inviting and soft. His final customer for the day was a nervous looking frat boy.

“So, like,” The jock who’s name was probably Brad or Josh or Kyle or something equally douche-y said, “There’s this girl, yeah? And she’s like, mega hot. I’m talking Megan Fox in that gay- I mean, no offense,” He held up his hands and Tim gave him a puzzled look, “I’m, like, an ally. But I can’t remember the name. But it’s a.. uh.. “

“Jennifer’s Body?” Tim supplied after Brad-Josh-Kyle had made enough of a fool of himself. 

“Yeah! That one. Point is, she’s hot. And I like, I’m not a simp or whatever, but I like chilling with her. So…” He put his hands in the pockets of his letterman jacket. It was dark purple and gray, because apparently Gotham City had an aesthetic that the college was determined to uphold. 

“So…?” Tim asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Do you sell any like, love potions, or some shit like that? I’m tryna’ score a date.” The jock looked embarrassed and Tim took a little pity on him. 

“I don’t sell potions, but I do have a recipe for you.” Tim flicked through a binder, unclipped a paper, and handed Kyle-Brad a recipe for a strawberry chocolate cake. “Does she like chocolate? If not, I’ve got vanilla as well.” 

“No, she likes chocolate,” He took the recipe from Tim. It was handwritten in neat handwriting on thick, creamy paper, and contained detailed instructions for magickal baking rituals. “But why a recipe? Can’t I just buy the cake from you? I don’t know shit about baking.” 

“It’s an easy recipe. But what you need to remember about love spells is that they can’t conjure a feeling, but only amplify what might already be there. And,” Tim raised an eyebrow, “If you make it yourself, it’s a lot more meaningful than just buying her a piece of cake. The secret to love,” At this, the jock leaned in a little, listening intently, “Is to make an effort. Genuine effort. Learn about her interests, show that you care about her. Playing hard to get, or acting as if you don’t care, that’s not gonna get you anywhere.”

“Gotcha,” Josh-Kyle mumbled, reading over the recipe. 

“Anything else I can help you with?” Tim asked, and he shook his head.

“Nah, that’s all I came for. What do I owe you?” The jock brought out some crumpled and sad-looking bills from his pockets, and Tim held up his hand to stop him.

“On the house. Just as long as you promise to try your best and be nice if she says no. You can’t force someone to love you.” 

“Really?” The jock lit up like a Staffy dog seeing a tennis ball, “I swear it! Thanks bro!” He pulled Tim into a bro-hug, and thumped his back hard enough to make Tim’s eyes bulge a little.

“You’re welcome… bro?” 

He walked Brad-Josh to the door, and when he opened it there was someone standing there, arm raised to knock. 

Damian Wayne. 

Were the Bats going to make a habit of showing up at his house unannounced?

He bid Kyle-Josh goodbye, and then Tim and Damian stood and looked at each other for a few seconds.

“Surely you can do better than that?” Damian said at last, wrinkling his nose in the direction that the jock had gone, “He looks downright primitive.” 

“I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just insinuate that I’m sleeping with a frat bro.” 

“I’m here to pay a friendly visit,” Damian said, sounding like he was a little alien trying to pretend to be a human. “Will you let me in? This stairwell smells like mold.” 

“Oookay. Come in, I guess?” Tim stepped aside, and Damian walked inside and put a bag down on the floor of Tim’s living room. 

Tim closed the door and walked after him, very curious and a bit nervous as to what Damian wanted. 

“I’m here to thank you,” Said the young Wayne heir unexpectedly, and he unzipped the bag, which Tim now saw was no ordinary bag, but a soft carrier. Out of it, a tiny black and white kitten padded, sniffing the air warily.

“Oh,” Tim cooed and sank down on the floor with his legs criss-crossed. “Look at that, you got the cat in the end.”

“Of course,” Damian sat down opposite him, and the little kitten bumped his head against his owner's leg, “I always succeed. But..” He pursed his lips, “I would not have come up with this particular plan without you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Tim said. He stretched out his hand for the cat to sniff, and instantly, needle-sharp teeth were embedded in his index finger. He swore and pried his hand away from the kitten, who was gnawing on him and trying to hold on to his hand with its paws.

“He is fierce,” Damian gave a satisfied smile, “A fine specimen.” 

“Sure,” Tim said, grimacing at the little pinpricks of blood appearing, “What’s the specimen’s name?” 

“Alfred.” Damian scratched Alfred the Cat’s ear, and it purred like a little tractor.

“Alfred.. That’s your bu-”

“Yes. I named him after the most competent member of our household.”

Isn’t your father the literal Batman? Tim wanted to say, but he bit his tongue.

“Ah, I see.” 

“Grayson tried to tell me not to go here, what after Todd’s brute visit, but I wanted you to see the fruits of my labor. Following your advice, I worked for a month. Grayson was the first to crack.” Damian reached out for Tim’s hand and Tim let him take it, wary of the sharp little thing that was mewling between them, “After that came Todd. Mostly, I suspect, to annoy father.” He brought Tim’s hand gently down on Alfred the Cat’s head, and now instead of biting, the cat pressed against Tim’s palm, eyes closing in contentedness, “Then Pennyworth, after I showed him the benefits of bringing a feline into the house. I did not much care for this research, but it was needed to convince him.” 

He let go of Tim’s hand, and Tim could continue to pet the kitten. After Damian had apparently demonstrated that Tim was no threat, Alfred the Cat was purring and bumping his head against his hand. Tim found himself looking down at it with wonder. It was so small. 

“Father couldn’t do much against such a majority, and he sent Pennyworth to the nearest shelter on the thirtieth day after my reading,” Damian concluded, a smug look on his face. 

“Effective,” Tim remarked, “Well done.” 

“Thank you,” Damian said, and it sounded sincere, but formal. And then he averted his eyes from Tim, looking down at the little kitten, and in a quieter, younger voice he added, “I’ve always wanted a cat.”

“Me too,” Tim confessed, “But I can’t get one just yet.”

“Why not?” Damian asked, looking confused. “Your apartment may be small, but the size is adequate enough for a cat. One would be content here, no doubt.”

Tim wasn’t sure why he was sharing hopes and dreams and worries with a pre-teen boy. But then again, Damian had come here to show him his new kitten, which if Tim knew enough about the boy, must be a show of vulnerability in of itself. And if not vulnerability, then at least an attempt to reach out, to connect.

“Too spotty of an income,” He said softly, “It’s hard to save money, and some months, if I can’t book any events, and if customers are few, I barely make enough to feed myself. I wouldn’t want to risk a cat going hungry because of me.”

Damian was quiet for a bit.

“Well,” He said firmly, “Seeing as you have proved yourself a worthy accomplice and strategist, you are welcome to visit me and Alfred at the Manor whenever you would like.”

Tim smiled and scratched Alfred the Cat behind his ears. The kitten's small tail curled around his wrist.

“I might take you up on that.” 

Chapter 8: another orphan??? in MY city???

Tim was not surprised when Stephanie showed up at his booth at the Winter Market. What did surprise him, however, was how early she showed up. Steph was not a morning person, or a noon person. If she could, she preferred to rise somewhere around two o’clock in the afternoon. Seeing her awake and up when the market had just opened made him raise his eyebrows. 

“Hi, stranger,” She said. Her face was barely visible from behind her scarf and hat. There was a duffel bag hanging from her shoulder. “How’s it going?” 

“Hi back. It’s.. I mean. No customers yet, but the market literally just started so..”

“Yeah, about that. Are you going to work until it closes?” Stephanie asked, and when Tim nodded, she put down her duffel bag and brought out a collapsible camping chair from it, not unlike the one that Tim was sitting in. She put it together, placed it next to him behind his table, and sat down. 

“Coffee?” She said, reaching into the bag and bringing out a thermos. “Actually, it’s not coffee. It’s hot chocolate. Alfred made it for us.” 

“What are you doing- Wait. Alfred made it for us?” Tim accepted the mug she poured him. It was still hot judging by the smoke that curled up from the little plastic cup.

“I’m keeping you company, of course. You can’t work that late without taking a few breaks, and when you do, I’ll be manning the booth!” She grinned at him, and then frowned. Her eyes raked over Tim, his shoddy jacket with its broken zipper and his already red, numb hands. She unfurled her scarf from her neck and tossed it at him. 

“Thank you,” Tim said, “For both.” He wrapped the scarf around himself. It was still warm and smelled vaguely of shea butter.

“Course! And yeah, he made it for us. What?” She gave him a lopsided smile, “You think I don’t talk about you?”

“I dunno,” Tim said, even though he very much did know, “I just assumed… I don’t know what I assumed, actually.”

“Well, I do talk about you. As does Damian, weirdly enough. But now that I’m here, tell me,” She steepled her hands below her chin and looked conspiratorially out over the people that had started to trickle into the main marketplace, “How does this work, exactly?” 

-

With Steph next to him, the day didn’t feel half as long. He was actually able to go get lunch that wasn’t a sad little sandwich wrapped in plastic. It wasn’t half as lonely as it would have been, and it wasn’t half as cold with her scarf still wrapped around his neck. 

Turned out that Steph was a magnet for his booth, too. Tim had plenty of charm, and he knew how to lure in customers, but Steph. Steph had charisma. She pointed out people whose eyes lingered just a second longer than normal on the booth, and she drew them in like she was born to do it. Where Tim usually relied on people coming to him, and then charming them, Stephanie made people come to her. It was impressive, and Tim should probably take notes.

The only problem was that she was trying to get him to come to Wayne Manor and hang out. 

Now, Tim wouldn’t mind hanging out with Steph. Nor would he mind spending some more time with Damian. Dick was probably fine too. It was Jason and Bruce that he was worried about. 

Dick seemed to think that Tim was the real deal. Just a straight up fortune teller, nothing more nothing less. Stephanie was his friend, and Damian wasn’t his friend, but he had come to Tim’s place with his little kitten, which was basically the same. 

But Jason had barged into Tim’s place, suspicious as can be. And Bruce was… Well, Bruce was Batman. He didn’t know what Bruce thought of him, but he did know that if he spent more time around him, the man might start suspecting that Tim wasn’t all that he made himself out to be. 

“What about the eighteenth?” Stephanie asked, and Tim made a humming sound.

“Can’t. That’s the full moon.” 

“What? Are you a werewolf?” She punched his shoulder and he laughed.

“No. But I have to do my full moon ritual. Get my mojo in check, cleanse my spirit.” 

Tim didn’t do full moon rituals. But Steph didn’t know that.

“The twentieth, then? That’s just a few days before Christmas, we could bake cookies and watch a cheesy movie about a big shot lawyer going back to her rustic hometown to bang the local lumberjack or something.” 

Tim shook his head.

“That sounds fun, but I’m busy that day too. Actually, the entire month of December probably isn’t any good. Maybe in the new year?” 

“Ugh. Sure, but I’ll hold you to that!” She pointed accusingly at him and he laughed again, holding up his hands in surrender. It was at that point that the rest of the Wayne family, sans Damian, decided to grace Tim with their presence once again. Why this family found his little booth so interesting, Tim didn’t know. 

“Hiya, kids!” Dick said, smiling widely at him and Stephanie, “How’s it going?” 

“I’m considering dropping out for this,” Steph said, “I’m having a blast.” 

“Don’t you dare,” Jason huffed, “School is a privilege. And besides, you could do both. Tim does, don’t he?”

“Actually…” Tim said, and four pairs of eyes turned on him, “I haven’t been to school in years.” 

“You haven’t?” Bruce asked, and Tim shook his head. 

“Nope.”

“Why?” Dick asked, “Where are your parents?” He turned to Bruce, “Where are his parents?” 

“Where are your parents, Tim?” Bruce asked kindly, and Tim pressed his lips together.

“Wait!” Dick said suddenly, before Tim could answer, “Didn’t you say you grew up in Crime Alley? Did you mean, like, on the streets?” 

“Ayy,” Jason grinned, “A fellow Alley-kid, huh? I knew there was some edge to ya beneath all that glam and glitz.” He held out his fist, and Tim fistbumped him, only half aware of the concerned looks that the rest of the Bats were giving him. 

“You were homeless?” Bruce asked, and Tim nodded, a little uncomfortable.

“Not anymore, though. Haven’t been for a while.”

“So, what’s the sitch?” Jason asked, putting his hands in his pockets, “Your folks deadbeat or just dead?” 

“Jason!” Both Steph and Dick hissed, and Bruce closed his eyes and muttered what Tim thought might be something along the lines of lord, give me strength. 

“Gone,” He said, and left that up for interpretation. He didn’t necessarily need to give them more clues about his life. And, he didn’t really like talking about it.

“Gotcha,” Jason said, and Tim thought that yeah, Jason was probably the one who could relate most to his situation. 

“So…” Tim sucked in air between his teeth, rubbing his hands together to try to warm them up. He looked at Bruce, “How did you like the tea?” 

“It was very good. The jasmine one especially. I was going to ask if you had any more of it?” Bruce said, thankfully seeming to get that Tim was trying to move on from the conversation. 

“Sure do.” Tim pointed to the table, “Right here, how much will it be?” 

-

Eventually, after a bit more small talk and yet another attempt at trying to invite him to the Manor, this time by Dick, the Waynes left. When the market was over, Steph helped him pack up and then she too was gone. She forgot her scarf, and Tim was secretly glad for it as he walked home in the dark winter night. 

It was late when he got home, and he fixed himself a late dinner and decided to unwind by listening in on the Bats’ comms again. He wanted to know if they were going to talk about him again. 

Once he’d hacked his way in, though, he found that they weren’t talking about him. 

They weren’t talking about anything, really. 

They were just making random conversations. Not even updating each other on what they were doing in the field. Nothing. Just bouncing between topics in a way that almost seemed stilted and half-hearted. As he was listening to the Bats ramble back and forth about nothing, suddenly a new voice cut in. A voice that Tim hadn’t heard before.

“Comms are confirmed to be compromised. Engage protocol A.”

Everything went quiet. No one was left on the line. Tim’s blood was slowly but surely turning to ice.

Suddenly, a little chat box appeared on his screen. It was black with an electric green border, and a pixely message was blinking at him

Who are you?  It read.

Tim didn’t like that. 

He didn’t like that one bit.

He knew that his location shouldn’t be compromised. He had his IP so spoofed that any attempts to trace it would leave the searcher in tears. 

But he still didn’t like that. 

He typed slowly, with trembling hands.

Don’t worry about it.

The reply was instantaneous.

You’re sneaky, but I’ve noticed you on their channels before. Who are you?

Tim didn’t know what to answer. He’d thought he was safe. But apparently, the Bats had some sort of tech wizard hiding in the shadows. Or, it was one of them. Tim would have to investigate.

A fan. He typed, because it wasn’t entirely a lie. 

If I find you on these channels again, I’ll sic Red Hood on you.

Tim gulped.

I mean no harm. He wrote, and the chat box closed. He was disconnected from the comms. Kicked out, barred, banished. 

He went to bed. He didn’t know what else to do.

Chapter 9: boom boom boom boom, where is the damn bathroom

Notes:

i want you all to know that i listened to vengaboys on repeat while writing this. i don't know what that says about me. perhaps only that i'm european.

anyway :D have fun reading!!

The first thing Tim did when he woke up, was take a hammer to his laptop, and toss it into a dumpster that he knew would be emptied within the hour. 

He probably should have done it sooner, but better late than never. 

Then, he got to work. 

He looked over the Batman Binder he’d compiled over the last two years. The voice on the comms had been a little warped by a voice modulator, but Tim had at least been able to tell that it was a woman. So he went over every woman in the binder. 

It wasn’t Stephanie. That much was clear. Tim had seen her search history. She’d once googled what an IP address was. 

It wasn’t Selina Kyle. She wasn’t tight with the Bats like that. 

It wasn’t Harley Quinn, or Poison Ivy, or anyone else that Tim had in his binder.

But this binder only dated back two years. Before that, Tim had been on the streets, and he hadn’t been too concerned with every little detail, had kept most of his information in his head. 

And there had been one mystery that he’d puzzled over, but never ended up solving, too hungry and determined to get off the streets to let it preoccupy him. 

Once upon a time, there had been a Batgirl. And one day, she’d disappeared. 

This was quite some time ago, when Tim had just started gathering intel, and he’d never ended up figuring out who she was. She hadn’t been a Wayne, that much had been clear. But who was she, then? 

Tim had no idea. But it could be her. He doubted a vigilante would just disappear entirely from the scene. Unless she’d died, but Tim had the feeling that if a vigilante had died, that would’ve made the news. 

Tim needed to know who it was. So he called up Stephanie. 

She picked up on the first ring.

“Tim!” She said, “Howsit?”

“All good,” He said, “Look, my client today was a no-show, so I’ve got some free time. Wanna hang?” 

“Do you even have to ask? Gimme a bit and I’ll be there!” 

“Actually,” Tim said, “I was thinking I could come to you? If that’s cool?” 

He did feel bad about it, taking advantage of their friendship to gain information about the Bats. But if there was one thing that Tim had learnt from his time on the streets, it was to prioritize his safety above all. Information kept him safe. And the best place to find out who usually hung out with the Bats, was probably to hang out with the Bats himself, on their home turf.

“Of course!” Tim heard what sounded like Stephanie running down a hall, “Hey!” She called out a bit away from the phone’s speaker, obviously talking to someone else. Someone answered her, but Tim couldn’t make out the words. “Can you pick Tim up and take him here? We’re gonna hang out.” 

-

Stephanie had promised Tim that she’d fixed a ride for him, said I’ll see you soon, and then she’d hung up. 

Tim didn’t have to wonder for too long about this mysterious ride, because after around twenty minutes, there was an obnoxious honking coming from the street outside his house. Tim grabbed his bag and walked out, only to see Jason Todd sitting behind the wheel of an old, fancy car, grinning widely. Loud music was thumping out from the speakers of the car, leaking out into the street.

He gestured for Tim to get in, so Tim opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. 

“Iron Maiden, huh?” He asked, putting his bag between his feet and closing the door. Jason started driving.

“You into heavy metal?” Jason asked, surprised, and Tim shrugged.

“I’ll listen to anything seventies or eighties. Best decades, hands down.” 

Also Gotham’s thrift stores were usually saturated with CDs and cassettes from those decades. Tim’s little CD player and Walkman ran hot with Mott the Hoople, The Cure, and Ultimate Seventies. 

Jason chuckled.

“You’re not what I thought you’d be, wizard boy. I think the only pre-2000’s music that Blondie listens to is Backstreet Boys. Thought you’d be the same.”

“Tim,” Tim said, and Jason nodded as they navigated out of Old Gotham.

“Tim,” He amended, and then he said something that surprised Tim. “I’m sorry about the whole.. Confrontation thing. Got a bit freaked out.”

“It’s alright. I’d be lying if I said you were the first.” 

“Damn, really?” 

“Yeah. Some people don’t like being confronted with their issues, and they take it out on me. Like,” Tim wrinkled his nose, “If you don’t want to hear what I have to say, why would you even ask me, you know?” 

“Word.” Jason snorted, “So… you and Steph?” 

“No,” Tim said, and Jason quipped a smile. 

“Nah, I didn’t think so. But I had to make sure. Let me know if that changes so I can get my shovel talk ready.”

-

When they reached Wayne Manor, Steph was already by the door, practically bouncing. 

“We’re baking!” She announced, as Tim and Jason ducked inside, away from the snow that had started falling.

“By yourselves?” Jason asked, “Are you big enough to operate the oven without adult supervision?” 

Steph gave him the finger and grabbed Tim by the arm. She dragged him in through the halls and rooms of Wayne Manor. Tim barely had time to take in his surroundings. They ended up in a kitchen bigger than Tim’s living room, and there Tim came face to face with the Wayne family butler for the second time in his life. 

“Ah,” Said Alfred Pennyworth, “Master Tim. Welcome.” He smiled kindly, and Tim smiled back, a little weakly. He’d met Alfred before, when he worked the Halloween party. But that was as a staff member. Now, he was a guest, and he found himself strangely nervous.

“Mr. Pennyworth. It’s good to see you.” 

“Just Alfred, dear boy. I hear you are the one that has reignited Master Bruce’s love for tea, well done. Now only if you could get Miss Brown to follow suit,” He sighed and Stephanie groaned.

“I’ll start drinking hot leaf water when they start making it taste less like hot leaf water.” 

Alfred shook his head.

“I fear all hope is lost with that one.” His eyes glinted with amusement, and Tim’s smile turned a bit more genuine. “I heard that you two were planning on baking, so I took the liberty of bringing out the big cookbook,” He said to Stephanie and nodded to the kitchen counters, where a huge and old looking book lay. “I wish you the best of luck. Do let me know if you require any assistance.” 

With that, he excused himself, and Tim and Steph were left alone in the kitchen. Stephanie immediately started flipping through the massive cookbook. It had Wayne Family Recipes engraved on the front, and Tim slotted in next to Steph to peek at the probably hundreds of recipes it housed.

“Alfred usually does all the baking. He’s, like, unfairly good at it. But I thought you and I could make brownies? If you like those?” Stephanie found the recipe she was looking for, way towards the back of the book, and Tim nodded excitedly.

“I love brownies!” He couldn’t remember the last time he had homemade brownies. He didn’t bake much at home, preferring not to waste his food-budget on nonessential things. “Can I just go to the bathroom first?”

“Sure,” Stephanie was still leaned over the book, reading the recipe, “It’s that way.” She gestured vaguely out a door, and Tim opened it and walked into what he thought would be a corridor, but was instead a huge room with a grand staircase and about four different corridors leading god knew where. 

Nowhere was there anything that might indicate a bathroom, so he decided to go up the stairs. It felt like the safest bet. At the top of the stairs, there were more corridors, and Tim wondered how big this house could possibly be, and where the fuck they kept their bathrooms. 

He opened a door that looked like it wouldn’t lead into a bedroom, and instead found himself face to face with mops and brooms. 

Okay, so not that one. 

He kept walking down the halls, padding softly on the longest rug he’d ever seen. It looked Persian, but stretched the entire length of the hallway, so long that it must’ve been custom made. He wondered how big this house was, and as he turned into yet another corridor, he also wondered if perhaps the house was swallowing him alive. Maybe there were no bathrooms, just twisting stretches of rooms and corridors with no seeming end. 

Where even was he?

Near the end of the hall he was currently in, there was a door slightly ajar, and Tim wondered if perhaps that might be a bathroom, but he heard voices from inside, and stopped to listen.

Listen, Tim had done his fair share of eavesdropping. But did it really count as eavesdropping when the people literally chose to have their conversation with the door open?

“No one should have been able to get in,” Bruce said, and Tim got the feeling that it might be him that they were talking about.

“With enough dedication, I’m sure anyone with a decent understanding of hacking could get in,” Dick said, “Honestly, I’m surprised that no one has gotten in before. The important thing is that Oracle got them out.”

Oracle? That must be what she called herself.

“What was it they called themselves? A fan?” Bruce sighed, “Maybe the Twitter accounts were a mistake.” 

“Aw, come on! You can’t take those down, Steph loves hers. And I use mine for really useful things!” 

“Like ranking the Justice League in terms of- and I quote - ‘Girlbossery'”

“People need to know, Bruce.”

“No matter. Have you heard anything more from Oracle?” 

“She said she’d managed to narrow it down to Downtown Gotham, but still too big of an area for us to make any conclusions. She’s running through lists of anyone in the area with a criminal record, but-”

“But that’s half of Gotham,” Bruce filled in.

“Yeah. She’s narrowing it down to anyone charged or suspected of cyber crimes, but nothing yet.” 

Tim felt a weight lift off his shoulders. They weren’t onto him just yet. 

“Does she need any help? I’ve compiled a list of potential suspects outside of Gotham” Bruce said, and Dick laughed.

“Come on, Bruce. You know Babs, if anyone can solve it, it’s her.” 

Babs. That could be short for Barbara. And if Tim’s memory served him right, Dick had a Barbara Gordon in his contacts. They texted a lot. More research was needed, but he’d gotten what he came for, so he stepped up and knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Bruce called out, and Tim tentatively opened the door, revealing what looked like an office. Dick was sitting on the desk, and Bruce was standing next to him.

“Oh?” Dick lit up, “Tim! I didn’t know you were coming over!” 

“Me and Steph are making brownies, but I got lost looking for the bathroom. Your house is too big,” He muttered, and Bruce huffed a laugh.

“All my kids have said the same thing when they first came here, except Damian. He thought it was… quaint.” 

“I’ll show you,” Dick offered and hopped down from the desk and walked over, gesturing for Tim to follow him down the corridor. “This place is a maze. I swear they make it complicated on purpose. This door over here is a bathroom.” He rapped his knuckles on a door that looked exactly like every other one that they’d walked past. “You want me to wait for you, or can you find your way back to- wait. Which kitchen are you using?”

Tim just stared at him.

“What do you mean which kitchen? There are more?” 

Dick laughed.

“I’ll wait for you.” 

-

In the end, the brownies ended up a little burnt, but once they’d scraped away the soot with a knife, they were actually very good. Steph, true to Jason’s word, had played Backstreet Boys from a speaker in the kitchen while they’d been baking. She’d tried to get Tim to play some music at first, but Tim had never used the app she was using before, and after staring at it dumbly for a bit, he’d elected to just let her choose, and ask her to cue some songs that he suggested.

(“Do they have Bowie?”

“Tim. This is Spotify. They have everything.”)

When the brownies were done and the kitchen clean, Steph suggested that they watch a movie, and Tim happily agreed. 

They went into one of the million living rooms, and Steph texted something on her phone, presumably an invitation, because mere minutes after she’d sent the text, the rest of the Bats were ambling into the room, one after the other.

Damian, cat in his arms, was the first. And he looked at the TV where the first few seconds of the movie were playing.

“Is this action?” 

“No, demon child. This is a rom-com,” Steph said through an unchewed brownie.

“Tt. I will only stay because Timothy does. His opinions have not failed me yet.” He plopped down on the couch next to Tim, and handed him a sleepy Alfred the Cat. Tim beamed at the little kitty and put it down gingerly in his lap.

“It’s just Tim. My name’s not Timothy.” 

Timothy Drake was dead. Tim was just.. Tim.

“Very well, then,” Damian said, and reached for a brownie.

Next was Jason, who looked at Tim with Damian’s cat in his lap, and raised his eyebrows so far that they threatened to disappear into his hairline. 

“How?” He asked, slumping down in an armchair and snatching a brownie from the coffee table. “Every time I try to pet that thing, it just hisses like crazy.” 

“My cat has good judgment,” Damian said pointedly, and Jason rolled his eyes. 

Dick made Tim startle so hard he nearly choked on his brownie by vaulting over the couch and landing on Damian’s other side without as much as a measly creak of the floorboards to announce his presence. 

“Oh, I love this movie!” He said, and Steph snorted.

“You don’t even know what movie this is.” 

“Let me guess,” Dick grinned, “A career oriented woman goes home to her hick hometown and finds the true meaning of Christmas?” 

“How did you know that?” Tim asked, staring at him, and Dick, Jason, and Steph laughed. Damian leaned closer to Tim and explained quietly. 

“These Christmas movies are all the same. There are unfathomable amounts of them, and they all share the same shallow plot.”

Tim furrowed his brows and petted Alfred the Cat.

“And they just keep making more of them? Why?” 

“I was just as surprised as you. Upon celebrating my first Christmas, Grayson forced me to sit through hours of this mindless drivel. He said it is, quote, essential for the holiday spirit.” Damian made a tutting sound, and Tim nodded.

“I see.” 

Bruce was the last to enter, and he took a seat in the other armchair. Tim and Steph got compliments on their baking, and Tim had to agree. The brownies really were good. The credit probably went to the Wayne Family Recipes, though. 

When the movie was done, Bruce unexpectedly asked Tim what he was doing for the holidays, if he was visiting family or going away.

“No,” Tim said, shaking his head, “I’ll probably order in. Maybe watch a-” He remembered his smashed laptop, “Watch a movie. Or read a book, or something.”

“That sounds sad as shit.” Jason held up his hands at Steph’s and Dick’s horrified looks. “What? No offense, or anything. I just call it like I see it.” 

“Well, you’re always welcome to celebrate with us. The more the merrier,” Bruce said, smiling at him and the rest of the Waynes nodded in agreement.

“Of course, you’re always welcome here,” Dick said, and Tim smiled, if a bit strained.

“I wouldn’t want to impose. Speaking of,” He gave the clock on the wall a glance, “I should probably get going.” 

“You don't want to spend the night?” Stephanie asked, and Tim shook his head.

“Got clients in the morning, I have to get home.” 

“Jason?” Bruce asked, and Jason nodded. He rose with Tim and Tim looked at him confused.

“I’m driving you,” Jason explained and patted his shoulder twice, like Tim was a trusty old horse.

“Oh, you really don’t have to. I’m fine wal-”

“Walking? To Old Gotham? In a snowstorm? I think not. Let’s go, Timbo. Get them legs movin’.”

And, well. Tim didn’t really want to walk. To Old Gotham. In a snowstorm. So he hugged Steph goodbye, returned the handshake Damian gave him, and was surprised by the hug that Dick gave him. 

“Bye, kid. Come again soon!” 

“Sure,” Tim said, a little dazed, “Will do.” He gave Bruce a wave, and then he and Jason were off.

They listened to an old CD with songs from what Jason called Bruce’s glory days, but which were really from the fifties. But as Jason bid Tim farewell, Tim’s mind was oceans away from The Platters and The Penguins.

No, Tim’s mind was focused on Barbara Gordon. 

Who was she?

Chapter 10: is tax evasion still a crime if you're dead?

Upon revisiting his Batman Binder with the information he’d gathered from Wayne Manor fresh in mind, Tim found that he had actually documented the existence of Barbara Gordon. But only as a short mention written with scrawly handwriting in Dick’s list of friends. It read as such:

Barbara Gordon

(Com. Gordon’s daughter)

• texts - a lot

• good friends

• works at library!! (red hair)

• do not approach, might recognize

 

With a flash Tim’s mind was transported back to when he used to live in the attic of Gotham’s big library. There had been a woman working there, red hair and glasses. She’d talked to him a few times, probably coining him as a street kid on account of the… Well, the everything, really. Tim had been scruffy and wearing the same clothes pretty much every day. He’d written do not approach in case she would ever show up at a party he was working. Chances were, she might not recognize him. His hair was longer, he was cleaner, clothes flowy and silky instead of threadbare and dirty, he was older, and he always wore makeup when he was working. 

But still. Tim hadn’t wanted to risk it. 

Another thing he’d noticed about the woman at the library was the fact that she was in a wheelchair. Tim didn’t know what had happened, but he suspected that was why Batgirl had suddenly disappeared from the scene. She had probably taken on a new role as the Bat’s technical analyst. 

There was no doubt, Barbara Gordon was Oracle. 

Well, Tim thought, adding a new page to his binder. One more mystery solved. With Barbara behind the screens, Tim didn’t dare resume his digital research. Not that that would stop him. Oh, no. Tim had been an old-school stalker well before he’d picked up hacking. He still had his camera, and he still had his skill. 

And, boy, did he have bills to pay. No oracle, delphian or not, would stand in the way of Tim’s rent being paid on time. 

-

The days between Christmas and New Years were the busiest of the year. Tim had handed out business cards with his phone number to the wealthiest of Gotham’s upper class whenever he’d seen them at parties or markets, and the past few days his phone had been ringing constantly. Those five days between Christmas and New Years were filled from morning to night with socialites and businesspeople. Tim had been able to raise his prices by 200%. It didn’t matter to these rich folks. No one had even remarked on it. They just wanted to know what the new year had in store for them, no matter the cost. 

Rich people really were something else, Tim thought. 

What this meant was that this week or so before Christmas was crucial. That time was when Tim needed to find out everything he could about everyone on his list of bookings. 

So he updated all his files, used an internet café to hack into texts and emails. He tailed his customers as they ran their errands, documented any conversations he overheard, noted down where they went, what they liked, who they talked to, who they avoided. Anything and everything that would help him build as accurate a profile as possible of these people. 

It was the twenty-third, and he was nearly done. He had one name left on his list. A businessman by the name of Emile Harris. Tim knew everything about him, except for who he was meeting tonight. 

What Tim did know, however, was that it was not his wife. 

So there he was, camped out on the edge of a roof next to Harris’ penthouse, with a perfect view into his well-lit apartment through its giant panorama windows. 

It was cold, and Tim was sitting cross-legged between an AC unit and the low wall of the roof’s edge. He was leaning forward with his elbows resting on the parapet, camera in hand, using it as binoculars. It was cold and snowy, and he didn’t have any gloves, but he did have Stephanie’s scarf still. She’d forgotten to take it back after she’d worked the Winter Market with him, and he’d forgotten to bring it to Wayne Manor when he’d gone there earlier in the month. It didn’t keep him warm, but it did keep him less cold, so Tim wasn’t complaining. 

Finally, there was movement in Harris’ apartment. The man was walking to his door. He opened it and in walked-

Oh? Tim grinned and snapped a picture. 

In walked Mrs. McGregor. Whose mogul of a husband was overseas on a business trip. How interesting. 

He snapped a picture of them kissing, and as it started to escalate, he decided to leave. He might be a stalker, but even he had his limits. There were some things that you just didn’t do. 

Tim was just about to rise from his position, when from behind him he heard a whizzing sound he’d come to know as the sound of a grappling hook. There weren’t a lot of people who used grappling hooks. Tim's heart raced, and he crouched down even lower behind his AC unit and pulled up the scarf over his mouth and nose to hide any clouds of breath from being seen. 

“I’m telling you, he’s not a meta.” Tim heard Stephanie say.

Or, well. It was Spoiler who said it. Not Steph.

“I know,” Replied Batman, “I had Constantine check. Not a trace of magical abilities.”

Tim hunched, if possible, even lower down. If he was spotted here, it was game over for him. He tried to think of a good excuse, but couldn't really come up with one. There was literally no reason for him to be on a roof in this part of Gotham at this time of night. 

Nor was there a reason for any Bats to be here. They must have updated their patrol schedule. Tim would have to remember to map out their new routes. 

“So?” Spoiler said. Her and Batman were standing just a few meters behind Tim’s hiding spot. He could hear the snow crunching beneath their shoes. “What’s the big deal then?”

“He knows things.”

“It’s his job to read people, B. Like, literally, if he doesn't do it, he’ll be jobless. And if he doesn’t have a job, he’ll become homeless. And then he’ll probably die, or some other tragic shit.”

Tim had to stop himself from snorting. She wasn’t too off, but he did feel a bit offended that she thought he might die if he ended up on the streets again. Come on, Steph. Have a little faith. 

“I hear you,” Said Batman, “But don’t you find it strange how he can be so accurate in his readings? He knew your boyfriend was cheating on you, he apparently gave Nightwing an extremely accurate description of his insecurities, he knew that Hood was being betrayed, even gave the name of the traitor. He said that..”

Tim pressed his lips together. 

This was not good, not good, not good.

“Said what?”

“He alluded to Hood’s… absence.” 

“Yeah? Because his life line was split in two. We googled it. It checked out. I just think that he's really good at reading people. Have you even seen Sherlock?" 

“Still,” Batman mused, “There is something about that boy that makes me wonder if we should keep a closer eye on him. You know that Oracle can’t find any information about him, right? No birth record, no hospital visits, no DNA matches, no nothing. It’s like he doesn’t exist. I don’t think he pays taxes.”

No. Tim didn’t pay taxes. It was actually very difficult to do that when you were legally dead and-

Wait a fucking minute! What had Batman said just then? Rewind. Pause. 

No DNA matches.

Had the Bats stolen his DNA?

He'd freak out about that later. At least they hadn't gotten a match. His identity was safe for now.

 “What? Are you gonna sic the IRS on his ass now?” Spoiler huffed, sounding judgmental. “Are you gonna call the cops on a kid for trying to pay rent? You gonna put him in Blackgate? Huh?” 

“No,” Batman chuckled, “No, of course I’m not. But what I’m asking you is, how much do you really know about him?” 

“I know enough,” Spoiler said so firmly that Tim couldn’t help but to smile, “I know that he’s a great friend. He’s nice, respectful, kind. I know that all of your sons like him, even Damian. He doesn’t like anyone, B. But he likes Tim. And that’s good enough for me.” 

Tim’s cheeks were heating up. He’d never heard anyone say such nice things about him before. Was it all true? Did all of Bruce’s sons really like him? 

Dick had given him a hug last time. And Jason had driven him both too and from the Manor, chatting about music with him. And Damian trusted him with his cat. 

This was too much to take in, Tim decided. He’d think about it more later. Perhaps. 

“That is true,” Batman hummed. “My boys are growing fond of him.”

“You like him too,” Spoiler said playfully, and Tim could imagine her elbowing Batman in the side, “Admit it.”

Batman chuckled again.

“Well. I never said I didn’t, now did I?” 

“I knew it.”

-

They had taken off just a bit later, and Tim had waited an additional fifteen minutes before going home, just to be safe. 

His mind was reeling. 

Batman was suspicious of him, but apparently also didn’t have anything against him? 

He had invited Tim for Christmas. Not that Tim could ever accept. Too risky. But the fact was that somehow he’d become so nestled into the Bats’ lives that there was apparently a seat for him at their Christmas dinner if he wanted it. 

How strange.

Chapter 11: do you see the moon where you are tonight?

Summary:

had to split the christmas chapter in two otherwise it would have gone on for ages - hope you don't mind :,)

Notes:

chapter title is stolen and translated from a song (ser du månen där du är ikväll? - thomas stenström), the melody is auld lang syne, and its just the perfect amount of holiday wistfulness for this chapter. give it a listen, even if u don't speak swedish, it's really good :D

also? christmas chapter? in august? sure. why not. happy holidays everyone.
ALSO! on the subject of swedish things, do you know how weird it is for me to write christmas taking place on the 25th??? in sweden that shit takes place on the 24th. the 25th is just WRONG.

anyway, enjoy! :D

The twenty fourth of December came with little fanfare, and left just as quietly. And then, mercilessly inevitable as always, there it was. 

Christmas.

Tim didn’t really celebrate Christmas. The most festive thing he did was order food. He allowed himself expensive takeout on two occasions, Christmas and his birthday. They were fairly evenly spaced out over the year, and it felt like a celebration each time. Sort of like a hey look! I made it through another six months! 

But he did have one Christmas ritual. It was sad, a little pathetic, and it didn’t really make him feel better about the holidays. Rather, it kind of made him feel worse, but he did it all the same, every year, without fail. 

But this year he couldn’t. Because his laptop was smashed and gone.

Every year, Tim tracked down his parents through various money trails and travel records connected to the new identities they’d assumed. He checked where they were, what they’d been doing. What restaurants they frequented, what purchases they made. He found out every little detail he could about his parents, and how they were continuing on with their lives without him.

Yeah, it didn’t make him feel too good. It actually made him feel small and empty. Like he was void of anything of value. After all, why else would they have left him behind? 

But this year he couldn’t fulfill his little ritual. So right then, he didn’t really know what to do. 

He put on a sweater, and then took it off, because the sweater had coincidentally been red, and Tim wasn’t really feeling quite that festive. He put on a different one. It was dark green, which Tim supposed was also a kind of Christmas colour, but it was knitted, big, and deliciously warm. The heat in his apartment had still not been fixed. 

The day passed, and Tim did nothing except cast glances towards his phone. 

He could call Steph. 

But he couldn’t risk spending even more time with the Bats, no matter how much he really wanted to. Stephanie was his best friend, after all. And the rest of Bruce’s sons were slowly but surely starting to become his friends as well. But he couldn’t. Not for an entire day. 

But as evening neared, and the loneliness grew even deeper, slithering through his veins and laying itself to rest within his chest, he started to think that maybe he didn’t have to spend a lot of time with them. He could just pop by. Return Steph’s scarf that he still had. 

Just a quick visit. Knock on their door, say hi, return the scarf, maybe get a hug? He kind of wanted a hug. 

He hadn’t really hugged anyone, at all, since his parents left. And now that Stephanie (and also Dick, apparently?) had reintroduced it into his life, it was hard not to get attached to the feeling. 

Yeah. Okay. Just a quick visit, and then he would go back home and order his takeout and maybe read one of those thrifted paperbacks he always swore he’d get around to but never did. Yeah. That was a great plan. 

He called a cab to Wayne Manor, grabbed Steph’s scarf, and stepped out into the dark and snowy cobblestone streets to wait. 

-

Tim barely remembered the cab ride. Barely remembered paying the driver. 

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there now. Not by the Waynes’ door, but still by the road, just outside the gates, staring up the dark street towards the empty and abandoned Drake Manor. 

His hair was damp and almost frozen now from the snow, his eyelashes kept collecting snowflakes, and his fingers and nose were stinging from the cold. 

But still he stood there, staring up a dark and snowy road towards something that had once been, but never would again.

He didn’t remember a lot of Christmases from before his parents left. But he had vague memories of warm candles, the scent of pine and spruce, shiny ribbons around giftboxes, that sweet smell of the mulled wine his mother used to drink. Flashes here and there of what he’d had, and what he’d never have again. 

He wondered where they were. If the moon above him shone down on them too. 

What if his parents hadn’t left? Would he be there, then? In a house just a short ride up the road from Wayne Manor, celebrating with his parents? Would he have a Christmas tree to decorate, gifts to give and get given, songs to listen to. An actual family of his own, instead of one he visited under the pretense of giving back a scarf that really could have been given back at any time. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have come. This was a time for family, after all. Tim was not family to the Waynes. He could come back tomorrow morning, before his first clients started dropping in. That would probably be better. 

But he didn’t move. Just stood there by the side of the road, staring into nothing, collecting snow like a forgotten scarecrow. 

“Tim?” Someone said, and Tim didn’t register that they were talking to him at first, but then he slowly turned around, and on the other side of the gates to Wayne Manor stood Jason Todd, one hand on the mailbox. 

Tim hadn’t even heard him come. 

“Yeah?” Tim said.

“What are you doing? Is everything okay, kid?” 

Tim snapped out of his melancholic reverie and pulled himself together.

“Yeah! Yeah. Just fine. I was just, uh,” He held up the scarf, now dusty with snowflakes. He brushed it off a little, “I was just gonna return Steph’s scarf.”

For someone that made a living out of being deceitful, Tim really should be a better liar by now. It didn’t even sound believable to him. 

“Ah,” Jason said, obviously not believing him. 

Tim decided to not embarrass himself further.

“So, uh… Do you think you can give it to her?” He held out the scarf to the gate, so Jason could reach between the bars and grab it. But Jason didn’t. He just emptied the mailbox and then tapped a few numbers on a keypad on the gate. The gate slowly opened with a faint mechanical whirring. 

“Why don’t you do it yourself? I’m sure she’ll be stoked to see ya.” Jason tucked the mail under his arm and gestured for Tim to enter with the other. Tim’s cheeks flushed.

“No, that’s fine. I don’t want to intrude. You could just grab it and I’ll be off.” 

“Nonsense.” Jason strode over and slung a heavy, warm arm around Tim, leading him onto the driveway. “Come inside for a bit. You’ll catch your death. Did you walk here?” 

“No? I took a cab.” Tim wasn’t sure what Jason’s motive was. To embarrass him in front of all the Waynes? Really? Why couldn’t he just take the scarf and let Tim go home with his tail between his legs?

“Really? Then how long have you been standing out here?” The lights from the house were slowly starting to light their way, and the entrance was just a few meters away now. 

“I don’t know, not long, I think. Why?”

“Your lips are blue, buddy. And you’re literally shaking from the cold. You’re coming inside for a cup of hot chocolate whether you like it or not.”

“Oh,” Tim said, and he didn’t really have time to say much else, because now Jason was opening the heavy oak doors into the Manor, and shooing Tim inside. 

A wall of warmth hit Tim the second they crossed the threshold, and he realized how cold he actually was. A shiver ran through him. Jason’s hand disappeared from around his shoulders as he took off his shoes. Tim absently stepped out of his own, hung his jacket on a hook, and took in what he could see of the Manor from the entrance. 

Last time he’d been here, there hadn’t been a lot of decorations, but now, everywhere he looked, there were garlands and candles. Jason dragged him deeper into the Manor, and Tim could barely keep up. His legs were stiff and numb, and he was clutching Steph’s scarf with fingers so numb that he wasn’t sure if they would be able to unfurl from it. His shirt was damp from the snow, and from his hair, water was dripping down his neck and face. 

Jason led him to a big room with sofas, armchairs, a fireplace, and the biggest, shiniest Christmas tree Tim had ever seen. Damian was lying on one of the sofas, cat curled on his chest, reading a book. Dick was leaning over the armchair that Stephanie was in, both looking at something on her phone's screen. Bruce and Alfred were nowhere to be seen. 

“Finally, Todd. I was beginning to think you had gotten lost.” Damian turned a page in his book, but didn’t look up. Neither did Steph and Dick, too engrossed in whatever it was that they were watching. 

“I brought you a gift,” Jason said, clapping Tim’s shoulder, and Damian cast him a bored glance. When his eyes landed on Tim, his expression turned satisfied. 

“Tim. I see you’ve finally come to your senses and decided to celebrate with us. Welcome. Alfred has missed you.” He gave his cat a pat, and it purred in response.

“Tim?” Steph said, now having noticed him where he stood by Jason, shivering and feeling like a melted snowman in the middle of the room. “Oh my God! You’re here!” She smiled widely, and Dick mimicked her expression.

“Merry Christmas, Tim! I didn’t know you were coming.” 

“Oh, I’m.. I’m not staying. I was just gonna return this.” He held out the scarf to Stephanie, and in the corner of his eyes he saw Jason shaking his head. He grabbed the scarf from Tim and put it on a coffee table.

“Oh, you’re staying. If not the whole night, then at least for a while. Sit down.” Before he could blink, Jason was dragging Tim over to an empty couch close to the gleaming tree and the fireplace and pressed down on his shoulders until he was sitting on the middle cushion. Jason draped a blanket over his lap and looked over to Dick.

“Where’s Alfred?” 

Tim wasn’t sure what was happening.

“Right here,” Said Damian, and Jason rolled his eyes.

“I mean the real Alfred, dumbass.” 

“He’s in the kitchen,” Dick said, and Jason disappeared. Tim blinked a couple of times, accepted the situation, and held his red and raw hands out towards the fireplace. The heat was almost painful at first, but quickly became pleasant and calming.

“I see we’ve got company. Should I tell Alfred to set another plate for dinner?” Came a new voice, and Tim looked to the left to see that Bruce had entered the room. 

“I’m not-”

“You are,” Said Dick firmly. “He’s staying for dinner.”

The corners of Bruce’s eyes crinkled.

“Does he want to stay for dinner?” He asked Tim, who didn’t really know what to answer.

“I don’t want to intrude. I was just going to return Steph’s scarf.” 

“You wouldn’t be intruding,” Bruce said, and it sounded genuine. “As I said last time, the more the merrier. You’re very welcome here, Tim.” 

Tim ignored the lump in his throat.

“Oh. If you’re sure, I’d, uh.. Yeah. I’d like to stay for dinner. If you’re cool with it.” 

“Yes!” Steph hissed, she jumped up out of her armchair and was over by Tim in a flash. She leaned down over the backrest and gave him a hug. “I was hoping you would change your mind and come here.”

It was an awkward angle, but Tim returned the hug and closed his eyes briefly. Maybe one night with the Waynes wouldn’t be too risky. 

And even if it was, it was worth it. 

A small weight appeared in his lap, and Tim let go of Steph to find that Damian too had made his way over. The weight turned out to be his cat, now kneading with its tiny paws in Tim’s lap. Damian had dragged over a big pillow, which he put down by Tim’s sofa and sat down with his book, continuing to read. 

“Scoot over,” Said Stephanie to Tim, Even though there was plenty of space on the couch on both sides. She climbed in next to him and stole half of his blanket, huddling up close. Alfred the Cat gave a small hiss, but then continued to knead and purr. 

“What are you reading?” Tim asked Damian, and the younger boy showed him the cover of the thin book. Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats by T.S. Eliot.

“I’ve never heard of it, what is it?” 

“A collection of poems about cats. I could..” Damian looked unsure. It was well hidden and almost invisible, but Tim saw it all the same. Lowly he said, “I could read it to you from the beginning, if you’d like. I haven’t gotten very far.” 

Tim could tell that Damian wasn’t sure if Tim would say yes.

“I’d love that,” Tim responded, trying to make it sound as genuine as he was feeling. He really would love Damian to read to him. And Damian, no doubt trained by the Bat to read people and pick up on lies, looked relieved when he heard the truthfulness in Tim’s words. 

“This one is called The Naming of Cats,” He began, but didn’t get much further.

“Are you having storytime without me?” Said a scandalized Dick, and before Tim knew it, Dick had once again vaulted over the couch and plopped down next to Stephanie. 

“And without me, it seems,” Came Jason’s voice from the doorway. He was holding a tray of cups and walked over to them. “I was the one who suggested the book to you, and now you’re trying to read it without me present? Shame.” 

Damian sighed.

“If everyone is done?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason bent down with the tray in front of them, “Everyone grab a mug. Alfred made it spiced with cardamom this time.” 

Dick, Steph, and Damian all took a mug each of what looked and smelled to be hot chocolate. There were two mugs left on the tray. One for Jason, presumably. And one for… Bruce? Probably. Tim kept his hands in his lap, scratching Alfred behind his ears.

“Timbo? You gonna make me stand here all day?” Jason raised an eyebrow, and Tim flushed and took the mug that was apparently meant for him. Jason grabbed his own mug, put away the tray, and sat down on the couch next to Tim. Alfred the Cat hissed once again, but quieted down when Tim scratched him under his chin with his free hand. 

“May I continue, or will there be more disturbances?” Damian said, taking a sip of his chocolate. 

“Floor’s all yours, Dami.” Dick beamed down at his brother, and Damian cleared his throat. 

“As I said, this one is called The Naming of Cats…”

Notes:

this fic has a playlist, if anyone is interested?? its mostly just songs that sort of fit the vibe, and a bit of what i listen to while writing :]

Chapter 12: i may be stupid

When the hot chocolate was long gone, the book was all finished, and Tim was warmed up, both inside and out, Alfred called them for dinner. Tim, having relaxed where he was sitting between Steph and Jason, immediately became nervous and tense again. Hanging out with people who were all family was one thing, taking part in a big family meal with them was something entirely different. 

The closest Tim had come to a family dinner these past few years was that one time when he’d shared a stolen protein bar with the family of mice that had lived in the library attic with him. He had a feeling that this might be slightly different from that. 

He carefully lifted Alfred the Cat away from his lap and rose with the others, absently folding the blanket that had been draped over him. He tried to trail behind the others as they walked towards the dining room, but Dick seemed to notice. He slowed his pace until he was walking next to Tim.

“So, you overwhelmed yet?” He asked, and Tim looked at him confused. Dick continued, voice calm and low enough that the others wouldn’t be able to listen in. “I mean, you live alone. Probably have been for a while. I know Jason was super overwhelmed when he first came here, and back then it was just me, Bruce, and Alfred.” He looked at Tim with kind, understanding eyes, “But you have had a whole lotta more people to get used to, and way less time. So,” His lips quirked upwards, “You overwhelmed yet?” 

“A little,” Tim admitted, eyes on the carpet. He kept forgetting that these people were raised by Batman. Of course Dick would notice that he was feeling stressed. “It’s not that I don’t like you all. I do. I just.. It’s a lot of people, like you said. And now we’re having dinner? And-” He took a breath, cut off his rambling. Went quiet.

“And?” Dick prompted, and Tim stopped walking. The destination was just a door away, and the others entered the dining room, but Tim didn’t want to have this conversation in front of everyone.

He forced himself to look at Dick. 

“What if I do something.. wrong?” He said, eyebrows furrowed and feeling a little stupid. “I don’t know your traditions, I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m walking in blind, and I don’t-” He bit his tongue, “I don’t like that. I can usually make sense of situations pretty quickly, but this?” He laughed a little, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“You have absolutely nothing to worry about,” Dick said, and Tim had a very hard time believing that. Tim always had something to worry about. His entire life was something to worry about. “Everyone has their own traditions, and this dinner will just be a big mish-mash of them all. Wait till you see the food,” Dick snorted, “It’s not exactly a traditional Christmas dinner.”

Tim nodded, and they walked up to the door. He stopped again, just outside it. 

“Okay,” He said, taking a deep breath. “Alright.” 

“I’ll be there the whole time,” Dick said, voice reassuring. He put a hand on Tim’s shoulder and squeezed a little before letting go, “If it gets too much, just ask me to show you to the bathroom and we’ll take a break for a bit, yeah?” 

“Alright.” Tim nodded, steeling himself. 

It was just a dinner. Just a meal, a free one at that. With people he’d come to actually enjoy being around. He could get through it. This was nothing. Pshh. No big deal. 

Dick opened the door, and in they went.

-

It turned out that Dick hadn’t been joking when he said it wasn’t a traditional Christmas dinner. Even though Tim didn’t ever eat traditional Christmas food, but rather usually lo mein and spring rolls, he sort of knew what was often expected to be on the table. He understood it to be pretty regular food. Good, but quite regular.

But this? This was heaven. 

There were empanadas, spicy stuffed peppers, buttery roasted potatoes, turkey, yorkshire pudding. Stewed meats, steamed dough bundles with vegetarian filling, anything he could imagine, from all around the world. He even, to both his surprise and delight, saw a plate of crispy looking spring rolls. 

The others had already sat down, and Dick and Tim followed suit. Tim was situated at a corner. On his left was Steph, and in front of him, behind the towering dishes, was Jason. Even Alfred (the human) was at the table, though further down, next to Steph and opposite Damian. Between Damian and Jason sat Dick, looking so at ease that Tim almost got jealous. He tried to chill out. This would go fine.

“Where’s Bruce?” Dick asked, and Alfred opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the man in question came in through the door. 

“Just out on a last minute errand. Hope I didn’t miss out on any fun.” He took a seat at the head of the table, right next to Tim. He caught a whiff of a cold, windy scent from Bruce as he sat down, the one that lingers on your clothes when you’ve been outside. He wondered where Bruce could have gone on his so-called errand. Was it Batman related? 

“Not to worry, Master Bruce, we were just getting started. Please everyone,” Alfred gestured at the overflowing table, and smiled warmly. “Dinner is served.”

The first few minutes of the meal consisted of a mix of can you pass me those and people reaching over each other to grab food. Tim didn’t reach for anything that wasn't close by already, and only asked to be passed the spring rolls. He tried to blend in, to be unassuming and forgettable, but when everyone had most of what they wanted on their plates, real conversations started up again among the clinking of cutlery. 

“Maybe Tim will have some not-stupid opinions,” Jason said to Steph before turning his gaze to Tim, “Which is the best starter pokémon?”

“I’ve never played a Pokémon game, actually. I wouldn’t know,” said Tim, and Steph turned to him, eyes wide. 

“Oh, we need to get you on Pokémon GO! You probably have a billion pokéstops where you live. Old Gotham is, like, littered with them. But anyway, when you boot up the game you can choose from three starter pokémons, Bulbasaur, Charmander, and Squirtle.”

Tim had no idea what a pokéstop was, but took in the rest of the information as he cut into one of his spring rolls. Steam poured out from the inside and he took a bite. It was hot, but not too hot, and the crispy shell practically melted in his mouth. 

“Just based on names, I’d go with the bulb-thing. He sounds like a fun one.”

“Come on!” Jason groaned as Stephanie cheered and clapped Tim on the back. “Why not Charmander?”

“I would like to emphasize that I really don’t know anything about this game. I do like dinosaurs, though. And the one I picked sounded like one.”

“Everybody knows that Squirtle is the best,” said Dick, reaching over Jason to snatch an empanada. “He’s such a funky little guy. Plus, he’s a turtle. What’s not to like?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Dick. Perhaps the fact that his name is literally Squirtle.” 

“You’re just jealous because me and my squirty guy stole the Batburger-gym from you.”

“Never, and I cannot stress this enough, call him your squirty guy ever again.”

“You like dinosaurs, Tim?” Asked Bruce. He had about four yorkshire puddings on his plate, and was in the process of adding another. 

“Yeah,” Tim said, wondering if that made him sound like a child, “I think they’re pretty cool.”

“Have you been to the current exhibition at the museum? I hear they’ve got some lovely skeletons on display at the moment.” Bruce put a sixth pudding on his plate, and Tim wondered if they could really be that good. He’d have to try one. 

“I haven’t, I don’t get much time for things like that,  unfortunately. And it sounds quite expensive.” Tim had no idea what a museum visit cost, but it sounded like something his wallet might not appreciate too much, even if it did seem like it would be really cool. 

“There is no admission fee for minors and students,” Said Damian. “I go there all the time to study the works of the old masters. You simply just show your ID at the entrance. Perhaps we could all go look at these bones?”

”That’s a wonderful idea, Damian.” Bruce smiled at his son.

“Sounds great,” Tim said, even though he didn’t really think it sounded that great. 

He, on account of being twice dead and not having even a trace of a legal identity, obviously did not have an ID to flash at the entrance. 

“Speaking of ID’s,” Jason said, and Tim immediately knew that this probably wasn’t going to be good. “What’s your last name?” 

Tim blue screened. 

No one ever asked him that.

No one had ever asked him that since the nuns at the orphanage, and now he'd have to come up with a lie on the spot. He couldn’t exactly use the last name Draper again. Too risky. 

“Uh, Von.. Brussel… trout,” said Tim, whose braincells seemed to have committed mass suicide.

Jason squinted at him.  

”Your name is Tim Von Brusseltrout?”  

Tim fought against the impulse to bang his own forehead into the table. 

”…Yep. That’s.. That’s my name.” 

The table had fallen silent. Everyone was looking at him. He should have known that they would try to find out more about him. He should have prepared a name, should probably not have come here at all. But here he was, Tim Von Brusseltrout, in all his moronic glory. 

Great. 

He wondered if it was too late for him to follow in his parents’ footsteps and fake his own death. 

“Were your family of German descent, Master Tim?” Asked Alfred, breaking the silence with his calm inquiry.“I only ask because I knew a Mrs. Von Bierberstein once.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, digging the hole deeper, and Dick nodded once, still not looking too convinced but not looking quite as shocked either. “It’s an old name. I don’t like to use it.”

The last part was true, at least. Tim had had this last name for about 30 seconds, and he already knew that he really did not like to use it. Possibly because it was one of the stupidest thing that had ever come out of his mouth in his entire life. He probably shouldn’t be allowed to interact with other people ever again.

“Oh, Germans,” Alfred said. “It reminds me of something Mrs. Von Bierberstein once said - of course, this was way back when...”

He swept into a story from his youth, which soon captured the interest of everyone at the table. As Alfred spoke, all the eyes that had previously been fixed on Tim now turned to the old butler instead. All, except for Damian, whose calculating gaze Tim avoided, instead choosing to also turn his eyes to Alfred and pretend to listen.Tim was sure the story was riveting, but he couldn’t quite hear it over the sound of his own thoughts. 

This was a stupid idea. Not just staying for dinner, but coming here at all. He should have known better. These weren’t ordinary people, they were detectives. Literally trained to solve mysteries. And what was Tim if not a giant, very suspicious, mystery of a boy?

-

Christmas dinner, after a good while, turned into Christmas dessert, which was just as impressive and contained infinitely less fuck-ups from his side (probably only because he avoided talking as much as possible). 

When that too was over, Tim wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed. Dick had said something about gifts, and now everyone was walking back to the room with the tree and the fireplace. Tim followed, but was wondering if perhaps he ought to go home instead. After all, he hadn’t brought any gifts aside from Steph’s scarf. Which technically didn’t even count as a gift. 

As everyone settled in, Tim lingered by the doorway.

“I should probably get going,” He said.

“Already?” Steph wined, “You won’t stay?”

“Sorry,” Tim said, and he was a little sorry. Despite his fumble earlier, he had actually been having quite a nice evening. But it was time to stop playing out this little fantasy and go back to reality. “But I don’t actually have any gifts to give, so it really makes no sense for me to stay anyway. And I have to be up pretty early, I’ve got clients in the morning.”

“Perfectly understandable. Rest is important, we won’t keep you if you would like to go home,” Said Bruce, “But before you go, I have a little something for you.”

Before Tim could fully process it, Bruce had handed him a rectangular little gift, wrapped in glossy paper with little snowmen on it, and tied with a red, shiny ribbon. 

“What is this?” He asked, dumbfounded, and Bruce smiled warmly. 

“Our Christmas present to you. Open it.”

Tim opened it. He untied the ribbon, and ran his nails beneath the taped edges of the paper, gently unwrapping it. 

It was a dark box with gold engraving, its weight and size so incredibly familiar in his hands after his years as a fortune teller. 

He opened the box to reveal a deck of tarot cards, new and shiny, unbent and unscuffed. The images were a twist on the classic, colours darker and intriguing, with details that seemed to glow under the warm lights of the room.  

Tim didn’t know what to say. 

“Do you like it?” Bruce asked, and Tim nodded, still stunned. 

“It’s gorgeous. Thank you so much!” He stopped staring at the cards, “Where did you get this?” 

Tim had been in pretty much every shop in Gotham that sold things even vaguely related to fortune telling, but he’d never seen a deck quite like this one before. The box was velvet, and the cards were thick and sturdy, outlines and highlights finely embossed and detailed with gold. 

“I called this coworker of mine whose daughter makes them. Luckily, she is in Gotham over the holidays. I do believe I gave her quite a shock when I walked into their Christmas party.” Bruce chuckled, and Tim remembered the errand he’d been on earlier. Had this been it? 

“I don’t know what to say,” He said, because at least it was better than just staring, “Thank you, really. It means a lot to me.”

“You’re very welcome, Tim. Merry Christmas.” Bruce smiled, and then he did something that Tim almost couldn’t believe. 

He held out his arms, just a little. A small invitation, easy to ignore if Tim would have liked to. 

For about half a second, Tim thought about ignoring it. But then he stepped into Bruce’s hug, and nearly cried when he was enveloped by his arms. He was warm, and big, and had given Tim the first Christmas present he’d gotten in years. Even though he hadn’t had to. There was no reason for him to do it, nothing to gain, but all the same, Bruce had gone out on Christmas, just to get Tim a gift. 

Tim couldn’t remember if someone had ever gone out of their way for him before he’d met the Waynes. Were they all like this? Stupidly kind and caring, the whole bunch? It certainly seemed like it. 

He wished he could return their kindness somehow. But he didn’t know how. How do you go about paying back something that means so much to you? Tim had no idea. 

He let go of Bruce after just a few seconds, but what felt like years, and he said his goodbyes. 

Damian, as proper as always, bid him farewell with a handshake. 

Steph and Dick both hugged him. That, he’d almost expected. But what was new was Jason, pulling him in for a quick hug and squeezing tighter than Tim thought possible, ruffling his hair as he let go. 

“Merry Christmas, kiddo.” He slung an arm around Tim’s shoulders, “Come along, now, Tim Von Brusseltrout! Let’s get you a cab.”

Notes:

hi! just wanted to say that updates may not be as frequent during the rest of the month? or so? the end of my summer-course is coming up and i’ve got a HUGE assignment to finish it off, and then when that’s over i’ll be traveling home for a bit to my family to celebrate my birthday on the 21st, so i might have to deviate from my almost-daily updates, just so you know<3 fear not- updates will still come, just a bit slower ;)
love, wes<3

Chapter 13: wait? i have a WHAT??

Notes:

a bit of a shorter one in between my homework :D

enjoy!

Jason insisted on waiting for the cab with Tim, and Tim didn’t really have a good argument for him not to, so there they stood in the cold winter night, waiting for some poor cabdriver to make the trip from inner Gotham. 

They weren’t talking, but the silence was comfortable, and Tim found himself getting lost in his thoughts again. His gaze drifted away from the far away glow of the city, and instead his eyes once again climbed up the road, into the darkness that led to Drake Manor. It was one of those moments when your brain was mostly void of thoughts, your heart was heavy, but nothing more coherent than a deep and exhausting sadness formed. 

“Okay.” Jason snapped him out of it, “Let’s hear it. Why are you staring up that road?” 

“I’m not,” Said Tim, and Jason shook his head.

“You are. And you were doing it before, God knows for how long. So fess up, kiddo. What’s up that road?” 

Another life, Tim wanted to say. The only one of my fortunes that never ended up becoming true.

“Nothing,” He said instead, “Just an empty house. A guy’s gotta have options, you know?” 

Jason seemed to know what he meant, judging by the understanding look on his face. In a way, Tim mused, him and Jason weren’t actually that different. 

“You getting kicked out of your apartment?” He asked, gentler than Tim had expected, and Tim pursed his lips.

“No, but you can never have too many back-up plans. Just thinking of the logistics. The power is probably all shut down, no?” 

“Yeah,” Jason nodded thoughtfully, “You know who used to live there?” 

Tim kept his voice steady and condescending.

“Some white collar assholes. CEO types, no offense to your dad.” Jason huffed and Tim continued, sounding flippant and mildly bored, “They all kicked it, right?” 

“They did,” Jason’s voice wasn’t as casual as Tim would’ve thought. Street-kid to street-kid, when a rich asshole kicked the bucket, you tended to not be too sad about it. “They got caught in bad weather coming into Gotham Harbor. They didn’t have any staff with them, and they weren’t experienced enough to steer through the storm on their own. Boat capsized. The whole family drowned, including their ten year old son.” 

Tim made a humming sound, and Jason continued, voice strangely quiet. 

“It’s so weird, you know? That kid.. he lived next door to Bruce for ten years, and Bruce and Dick barely remember him. I don’t remember him.” Tim held back a breath of relief. This had had the potential of going very differently. But while Tim was thankful that neither Bruce, Dick, nor Jason seemed to remember him, he couldn’t quite figure out why Jason sounded so sad. But when Jason continued, Tim realized that to other people the story wasn’t the same as Tim himself had experienced it. 

“I’d lived here for a while when it happened, I should have at least seen him on my way to school, or something. But I just didn’t, and then he was gone. Just a kid, not much younger than me. It’s so unfair, you know?” Jason’s brows were furrowed, and he too was looking up the road towards Drake manor. “He was just a little kid. We could have been friends, but now he’s gone. Just like that.” 

Tim had never really thought about it like that. He knew the truth. He knew that he wasn’t dead. But to the rest of the world, little ten year old Timothy Drake drowned alone and afraid in Gotham Harbor's cold and violent waters. 

“His name was Timothy,” Jason kept his eyes up on the road, and Tim was thankful for it. He was getting proper nervous now, and good as he was at being sneaky, this conversation had the potential to expose him. Jason continued. “He probably would’ve been around your age now. You know I..” He gave a quiet little laugh. When he spoke again, his voice almost sounded embarrassed, “I visit his grave, sometimes.” 

Tim blanched at what Jason had said.

He had a grave?

Logically, it would make sense that he’d have a grave. He had died, after all. Obviously there would be some sort of marker. Was it next to his parents? Did he have his own headstone, or was it simply a family grave? 

He wasn’t quite sure how to handle this information, so he said the only thing he was thinking.

“Why?” By some miracle, his voice stayed calm and steady. He felt anything but.

Jason pressed his lips together, eyebrows furrowed and gaze still fixed up the road.

“Just to make sure that someone does. When I-” Jason cut himself off, restarted his sentence, “If I’d died young, I’d want someone to come visit my grave. Just fair that I do the same to someone else.” Tim caught Jason's near slip up. He knew that Jason had died. The abrupt disappearance of Robin, Batman’s descent into anger and grief.. It had been pretty obvious. But it had never made the news, which at first had confounded Tim, but a quick deep dive into Dick’s texts had explained it. 

Dick had asked Bruce to make it public, had nearly begged him to. But Bruce had refused. Instead, they’d buried Jason in the Wayne Family Cemetery on the grounds, and to the public, Jason Todd had just disappeared. Tim figured it might have been a way for Bruce to keep denying it. To keep Jason alive in some way, even if only in the eyes of the public. 

Yeah, Tim thought. Him and Jason really were quite similar, in a way. 

“Anyway,” Jason cleared his throat and his gaze turned to Tim. “I’ve heard your name isn’t short for Timothy, but I have a hard time believing that. What parents name their child just ' Tim'?”

“It’s actually short for Mortimer,” Said Tim, who was not an avid practitioner of the ancient and delicate art of thinking before you spoke.

Jason gave him an incredulous look.

“So, wait. Let me get this straight. Your real, full, actual, God-given name, is Mortimer Von Brusseltrout?” 

“Yup,” Tim said. He didn’t really want to go down in history as Mortimer Von Brusseltrout, but sure. Whatever. In for a penny, and all that. 

“Bull. Shit.” Jason said, and Tim grinned. Fuck it. The Bats must already think he was sketchy as hell, maybe he could play it in his favor and lead them even more astray.

“Okay, you wanna know the truth?” He said, and Jason nodded and his gaze instantly became focused. Tim lowered his voice, and Jason bent down a little and leaned in closer to him. “My real name isn’t even Tim. But don’t tell anyone.” 

Technically, it wasn’t a lie. Technically, his real name wasn’t Tim. Technically, it was actually Timothy. But hopefully, this would lead the Bat’s away from any Tim-adjacent names, and thus further away from his real identity. 

“Jesus Christ.” Jason snorted and straightened up, “What the fuck is up with you, kid?” 

“Oh, nothing much. How ‘bout you?” Tim replied cheekily and laughed as he ducked the playful swat against his shoulder that Jason sent his way. 

The taxi arrived just a little while after that. Tim bid Jason goodbye, and then nearly fell asleep on the ride home despite it not being too late. But once home, he went straight to bed and set his alarm-clock to wake him up at 6AM. His first client was set to arrive at 7 on the dot, and Tim had a long week to get through.

-

The week passed in a blur of hastily looking through notes before welcoming his clients in. It was spent endlessly shuffling and counting the cards in his old deck. He’d need to break the new one in before using it for his clients’ readings, but sometimes he cast longing glances at the little velvet box. He was itching to use it. 

It was exhausting, giving little hints and nudges in the right directions for all of the people that came through his door, but somehow he managed. Sometimes, Tim couldn’t believe the amount of secrets that each person had. How rife Gotham’s elite society was with scandals, how many skeletons had made their home in everyone’s closets. 

Sometimes, he couldn’t believe he was aware of them all.

Though his energy waned as the week between Christmas and New Years went on, his little safe steadily filled up. Neatly rolled up bills decorated the lower shelf of it, and with every dollar he added to the pile, he felt himself grow calmer. It was a guarantee. A small cushion of safety. Something that made sure he’d have a roof over his head and food on the table. 

Before he knew it, his last customer for the year had walked out his door, and Tim was free. 

He slumped down on his bed, utterly exhausted and tired into his very bones. He fell backwards, and closed his eyes. It was the 30th of December. In just a little over 24 hours, he would have survived another year. It left him with a triumphant feeling, but also with a hollow one. 

What now?

Chapter 14: R.I.P (Really Into Prosecco)

Notes:

meant to google one dinosaur name for this chapter and went down a 40 minute rabbit hole. did you know that velociraptors were actually pretty small and had feathers??? i didn't. now i do. anyway! new chapter! yay! enjoy!

Tim woke up on December 31st with conflicting emotions. He’d put off thinking about what Jason had said for the whole week. It had been easy to, what with all the clients he’d had running in and out during the days. But now, he had nothing distracting him, and his mind was free to roam. 

It was time to face the mildly unpleasant haunted house-esque music. 

He had a grave. 

This was something that should have probably occurred to him before, but maybe it was for the better that it hadn’t. Visiting the gravestone of Timothy Drake wouldn’t be a smart move if somebody that knew who he was saw him. 

But then again.. he couldn’t just not visit his own grave. 

He settled on going there later, when the cemetery was most likely to be empty. He’d spend the rest of the day indulging in a few small luxuries. He did have the money to do so now, and it was the last day of the year after all. 

When he’d gone through and counted his cash, setting most of it aside for rent, food, and savings (however meager), he took the rest and stuffed it in his worn wallet. Then, he put on his thin jacket, ratty sneakers, and he was out the door, ready for a moderately fun day. 

-

The first place he hit was his favorite second hand shop. He found a better jacket to replace his current one, which was so threadbare that Tim wasn't sure it was allowed to be called a jacket anymore. The new one was a little big, but it was sturdy corduroy and had big sleeves and a fluffy, warm sherpa lining. The cold wasn’t going to leave Gotham until at least April, and Tim was tired of freezing. 

In addition to that, he picked up a pair of boots that had some wear and tear, but looked to be in pretty good condition. They had a thick sole that added an inch or two to his height, which didn’t really hurt. 

He refilled his wardrobe with just a few items here and there, whatever was cheap and looked nice. Jewel colours, knits and silky materials. The bag he carried when he walked out was nearly full, and it felt good to fatten up his meager wardrobe a little. 

The next stop was lunch. The Bowery was a little bit away from Old Gotham, but for Lizzie’s Diner, Tim would walk a thousand miles. 

It was open 24 hours every day, and was situated right between the Upper East Side and The Bowery. The burgers were cheap, the fries even cheaper, and the milkshakes divine. The prices had barely changed since the diner opened, years and years and years ago, and they could be kept so low only because people tended to disregard them and pay whatever sums they wanted. Lizzie’s was a staple, and people wanted it to last. It went around on donations and the fact that people more often than not left about thrice the amount of money they owed on the table when they left. 

Say what you want about Gotham City. Its people took care of their own. 

(Bruce Wayne had had a standing monthly donation for about twelve years now.)

Since it was such a trek, Tim rarely visited. But oh, boy did he look forward to his occasional visits. 

He probably would have been just as excited for this particular visit if it wasn’t for the fact that somebody was tailing him. 

Now. Tim couldn’t exactly prove it. But someone was definitely following him. Source? Call it divine intuition. Live on the streets long enough, and you get a sixth sense for those types of things. Every time he looked over his shoulder, it was as if someone was just slinking out of sight. He kept thinking he heard footsteps, but one glance towards the sound, and it was as if it had never existed.

Now Tim didn’t really have any enemies, per se. He’d had a muttering customer once or twice, but none that justified stalking. 

It was uncomfortable. Usually he was the one doing the stalking. It felt wrong to be on the receiving end of the crime. 

But if it wasn’t a customer, that only really left one group of people who would have reason to stalk him. The Bats. Tim prayed that it didn’t mean that they’d uncovered his Timothy-flavoured secret, but rather that they were just trying to find out things about him as the person he made himself out to be. He’d overheard Bruce a while back talking about how Tim didn’t have any public records, how he was basically a ghost. Hopefully, this was just them trying to build some sort of file on him. 

Not that Tim was particularly psyched about that either, but it was the lesser of the two evils. And, besides. He’d hung out with and bumped into the Bats on several occasions now. It was only fair that someone who sat down to Christmas Dinner with them would have a file in their system. This was Batman’s crew, after all. 

Whoever the person was, Tim mused, probably wouldn’t have too fun of a day anyway, seeing as all Tim was doing was Regular Normal Ordinary Person stuff. Like eating lunch, for example. 

He turned a corner, and there Lizzie’s Diner was, blue and yellow logo buzzing down at him like a warm welcome. 

He entered the restaurant and chose a booth close to the wall, near the jukebox. He was shrugging off his jacket, when someone slid into the seat opposite him.

Ah, so he’d been right after all.

“Hey, Tim!” Said Dick Grayson with a huge smile on his face, “Fancy running into you here!” 

Yeah, Tim thought, What a coincidence, I’m sure. 

“Hi,” He said, looking at Dick with feigned surprise. “What are you doing here?” 

“Oh, just grabbing lunch. Howsabout we eat together? My treat, of course.” Dick’s smile was still in full effect, looking friendly and inviting, and Tim wasn’t exactly about to turn down free food, no matter how cheap Lizzie’s was. He nodded.

“Sure, just gimme a second.” He slid out of his seat, dug out some quarters from his pocket, and lazed over to the jukebox. It was mostly fifties songs, on theme with the diner itself, and Tim let the sounds of Chet Baker start crackling out of the machine. Within a few seconds, the sound smoothed out, and the speaker could do the honey-soft trumpet and vocals justice. He walked back to their booth to a Dick lost in thought over the menu.

“What are you getting?” He asked Tim, “I’m stuck between number 4 and number 8.” 

“Well,” Tim drawled, “Since you’re buying..”

-

Lunch with Dick was pretty nice. He was easy to talk to, and while they’d waited for their food, he’d insisted that Tim show him what he’d bought at the thrift store. Tim knew that Dick had an interest for fashion, it was nice to hear what he thought about the clothes Tim had gotten. Figuring out his own personal style was still an area he was kind of fumbling around in, mostly focused on making sure his fortune teller persona was up to par with what people expected. And besides, he didn’t really have time or energy to figure out what he liked to wear when he was just Tim. It was something that he promised himself he would get around to, but never really did. It was hard to make it a priority when it literally wasn’t necessary for his survival.

He’d told Dick this, and he’d promised to take Tim out for a shopping spree some time and offer some advice and help. Tim wasn’t sure how to tell Dick that he absolutely could not afford to buy any more clothes than he needed to, but that was a later problem. It was a nice thought, at least. 

Once their food was mostly gone (which Tim was kind of mourning. He was always hungry, today was no exception, and Lizzie’s burgers were just the best), Dick looked at him as he was finishing his milkshake.

“You’re busy Monday next week.” 

“I don’t think so,” Tim said, thinking about his calendar. He didn’t have anything booked for that day, “Why?” 

“No, buddy.” Dick smiled, “That wasn’t a question. I’m informing you of the fact that you are busy Monday next week, because we’re going to the museum to check out the dinosaur exhibit.” 

Tim was speechless for a little bit.

“What?” 

“Yeah. Bruce mentioned it at Christmas, and the plans just became finalized. Meet us there at 12, will you? We’ll make a whole day out of it.” Dick grinned at him, and Tim nodded slowly. 

“Alright.” He really wanted to check out the dinosaur exhibit. But he’d kind of thought that Bruce hadn’t been serious, just musing about plans that would never be realized in that way that people did. “I guess I’ll see you there, then,” Tim said, mood lifted by about fifty percent. 

“You betcha! Whole family’s coming. By the way,” Dick finished off his milkshake and put it down, starting to gather his trash into a neat little pile on his plate. “Damian wants to know what your favorite dinosaur is.”

Tim thought for a bit.

“Probably Brachiosaurus,” He said at last, “Big, chill. Ate plants.” 

“Really?” Dick said, “I would’ve pegged you for a Veolciraptor kinda guy.” 

“Those rats?” Tim scrunched up his nose, “Barbaric chickens, the lot of them.” 

-

After lunch, Tim and Dick parted ways, and when Tim kept traversing the streets of Gotham, he found that his mysterious shadow from before seemed to have disappeared. 

He stopped at a few stores, getting himself a new notebook, stealing a few pens, and bought himself a coffee to enjoy on a park bench. He’d switched jackets to the warmer one, and though the afternoon was cold, he felt warm and calm. 

When evening neared, his stalker (presumably Dick) was back. Perhaps he’d never left. Tim didn’t pay it much mind. Instead, he went to the little corner store by his apartment, bought a cheap bouquet of yellow flowers, a bag of marshmallows, and paid the guy behind the counter double for a bottle of cheap prosecco. He decided to carry the bottle in his hand as he left, to see if it would lure out his shadow.

It did.

By some totally random and extremely coincidental happening, he ran into Dick again as he neared the door to his building.

“Tim!” Dick said, “Twice in one day, I must be blessed. Say, what’s that you’re holding?” 

“Oh, this?” Tim held up the bottle, “Gotta celebrate the new year, now don’t I?”

“Celebrating is all good and well, but you’re not old enough for that,” Dick raised a playful eyebrow, and Tim raised a challenging one back.

“Now, how would you know how old I am?”

“As I recall, you told me you were sixteen the first time we met.” Dick put his hands on his hips, and Tim fished out his keys from his pocket. He stepped inside, holding the door open.

“Oh, Richard,” He said, grin full of mischief. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. See you Monday!”

He let the door close, and snorted at the look on Dick’s face as he made his way up to his apartment. 

He put away his goods, set his alarm for eleven PM, and went to take a long, long nap. He’d need a little bit of rest for the night’s activities. 

-

When his alarm rang, Tim got up, got dressed, packed a bag, and started walking towards the cemetery.

Time to pay himself a visit. 

With fifteen minutes to spare, he finally found it.

 

TIMOTHY JACKSON DRAKE

COVER LIGHTLY, GENTLE EARTH

 

It was next to his parents’ graves, theirs were joined together while his was standing alone. 

Wasn’t that the truth. Even in supposed death they were apart.

He didn’t know who had chosen the text, didn’t want to think about it for too long. He sat down, leaning against it. The night was dark around him as he brought out his things. Cold and lonely as he ate his marshmallows. Unforgivingly silent as he put down the flowers by the cool stone.

In a way, he supposed, the grave wasn’t all wrong. Timothy Drake was dead. All that remained was Tim. This was a place of mourning, and Tim had sorrows a plenty. It wasn’t a grave for a body, but for a life. 

Here lies everything you could have had, He thought, and huffed a miserable laugh.

When the clock neared midnight, he uncorked the bottle of prosecco, ignoring the way the bubbles overflowed, getting his hands sticky and his sleeves wet with icy, cheap alcohol. He took a swig, grimaced at the taste, and shoved a marshmallow in his mouth. 

Overhead, trails of fireworks started whining. The first one exploded in a splash of colour against the black sky. Tim took another swig from his bottle.

“Happy New Year,” He mumbled, leaning his head back against his own grave and closing his eyes. “Happy New Fucking Year, Timothy Jackson Drake.” 

Notes:

those of you who have read some of my previous works might recognize lizzie's diner. invented it for a fic back in march, and now it has taken up permanent residence in my brain lol

THIS CHAPTER HAS ART!!❤️ made by @chel-le-bloop on tumblr, check it out!

Chapter 15: get your OWN hobby. stalking is MINE

Notes:

still struggling through my assignment (it has to be handed in before midnight today and im driving myself crazy trying to recreate a version of Boticelli's Birth of Venus) but i took a break to go to a wine bar?? the guy serving us had knuckle tats that spelled out RIES LING and i can't stop thinking about it GOD i love him

anyway!! as always, hope you'll enjoy!!
love, wes<3

When Tim woke up, he had only one word on his mind. 

The word in question was Fuck. 

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, absolutely not. He’d meant to have his little pity party, drink a little prosecco, and then go home. What he’d failed to consider was that prosecco made him sleepy. So now there he was, sun rising over the graveyard, crick in his neck, cold as shit, still leaning against his own grave. 

It was not good. It could have gone horribly wrong. It was winter, for crying out loud! Sleeping outside in Gotham’s winter was about as good of a decision as applying for a job at Arkham Asylum. It was a miracle that he hadn’t been robbed or kidnapped, or just plain frozen to death. 

But, hey. All his belongings were still on his person, and a new day was dawning and he was still alive to see it. Thank Christ for small - well, giant - mercies. 

He stretched out, muscles stiff from the cold, and he rose from his grave. There was an imprint in the snow where he’d been sitting. 

As he gathered his belongings, he heard footsteps crunching. They were headed his way, and he assumed it would be a groundskeeper, but he still didn’t want to be seen. So he skedaddled away, at once tense and now fully awake from the stress. He crouched down behind a massive statue of an angel a row or two away, to hide while whoever it was passed by. He pressed his back against the concrete slab the angel was standing on, breathing as shallowly as he could to make sure that the clouds from his breaths weren’t too visible in the cold air. 

The footsteps didn’t continue on past him, however. They stopped, right around where Tim’s grave was. 

He crouched deeper down behind the giant stone angel, tense and nervous.

“I’m tellin’ you, B. You gotta get more accurate trackers.” The person said. Tim stopped breathing. He wasn’t looking at them, on account of not wanting to be spotted, but he could hear them clear as day.

Once the person had spoken, Tim thanked whatever gods were out there that he’d decided to hide. Because that was no groundskeeper that had approached. 

No. It was none other than Jason Todd. 

Tim supposed it wasn’t that strange. Jason had mentioned that he visited Tim’s grave sometimes. But what were the odds that he was coming here right there and then? 

“No, obviously he’s not here,” Jason said, sounding irritated, “He could be anywhere in this fuckin’ graveyard.” 

Tim listened to Jason speak, probably to Bruce over the phone or comms, and he tried, in his tired and slightly hungover state, to process what was being said. What was that about trackers?

“I’m not even sure if the tracker is still on him. I mean, it showed being here all night, no? That’s not- No. That’s.. that’s what I’m saying.” 

So there was a tracker on him. Wonderful. Truly. Just great. 

At least Jason didn’t think he was still here. He pressed closer to the stone, hoping he was completely and utterly out of sight. 

“Though, I think he’s been here. Someone has, at least.” Jason sounded thoughtful, and Tim mentally cursed his own stupidity. “There’s an imprint, and a bouquet… Yeah. But again. Could be anyone.” 

There was a silence, and Tim wanted to scream. Of course the Bats would have placed a tracker on him. Of fucking course they would have. Why would he think anything different? That was probably the whole entire reason that Dick had followed him the other day. Tim couldn’t remember a moment when Dick would have placed a tracker on him. Maybe when he’d gone over to the jukebox? He’d left all of his stuff at the booth then, after all. 

Most likely it was on his new jacket. Had there been previous trackers? Maybe not. Before Christmas, they’d thought him a little peculiar, but probably nothing supremely out of the ordinary. But afterwards? After his whole last-name fuck-up? Tim might as well have told them Hi! I’m suspicious. Investigate me!

“I don’t know, B.” Jason sounded tired, “I did tell him that I used to come here. And he did talk about moving into their house if he ever got thrown out of his own apartment.” 

More silence. Presumably, Bruce was responding. 

“Maybe. I don’t think it’s that far of a stretch to assume he was upper class. He’s got that Bristol accent. But Oracle checked, and no kids his age- assuming that that is his age- have been reported missing from there. You know…” Jason went quiet again. But this time, Tim could tell that it wasn’t because Bruce was speaking. It was because Jason was gathering his thoughts. 

“You know, I’m not so sure he even has a name.”

What? 

Tim frowned. 

“I saw it sometimes when I was young,” Jason continued, “People who leave behind kids. Some of them weren’t old enough to remember their real names. I mean, you remember at Christmas? When we asked his last name? He lied, obviously.” 

Bingo. Tim closed his eyes and held back a sigh. He really should have been smarter about the last name thing. 

“And later he even told me that his name wasn’t Tim. I- No. I don’t think he has one. It sounds made up. Maybe he.. I don’t know, B. But maybe he took Timothy’s name because it was someone in a similar situation to him? I..” Jason sighed. “I really don’t know.” 

Tim couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Jason was so close, but so, so far away. He was almost there. And yet, lady luck seemed to smile down upon Tim once again. It was honestly incredible. 

“Whatever. It’s cold as balls. I’m headin’ home.” Jason scoffed at whatever it was that Bruce said, “I don’t care. One way or another, the truth will come out. Just don’t- No!” Jason’s voice was forceful, “Do not pull your fuckin’ interrogation- You do. You try that shit and I guarantee he’ll fuck off into oblivion. Just be normal. Not everything is a god damned case, B. He’s just a kid, okay?” 

Tim held his breath. 

“Listen, I’m coming home. We’ll talk then. If I feel like it. Bye.” 

Then, Jason was silent. But Tim didn’t hear him leave. Instead, all was quiet as Jason kept standing at Tim’s grave. When he spoke again, his voice was low and gentle.

“Someone brought ya flowers, huh?” 

Tim once again mentally cursed himself. Why was he this stupid? Why did he bring flowers to his own grave? Why had he even come here? Why did Jason come here? 

Why had the Bats put a tracker on him? He wasn’t that sketchy, now was he? 

Okay. He was. And the Bats did have a reputation for being paranoid. Tim really, really should have seen this coming.

“Guess that’s nice,” Jason continued, still in that gentle, murmuring tone, “I’ve been bad at that. Should probably get better at it.”

Tim wished he would leave. He wished Jason would just go home and stop being so sentimental and nice. Couldn’t he just not give a shit, like everyone else seemed to?

Jason said something else, but it was too quiet for Tim to hear. He guessed it was a goodbye, of sorts, because just afterwards, he heard Jason leave. His footsteps crunched against the thin, icy layer of snow. 

When the sound faded and Jason was most definitely gone. Tim still waited for about fifteen minutes before he deemed it safe to move again. The first thing he did was run his hands along the seams of his jacket. He dragged them up around his zipper, around the bottom, and then felt around his collar. 

And there it was. 

Beneath his sherpa lined collar, at the middle of his neck, a small bump disrupted the corduroy pattern of the fabric. 

It was so small, and never would have been noticed if Tim hadn’t been looking for it. But it was there all the same. He ripped it off, hoping it didn’t give off a signal as he did, and held it in his red and cold palm. 

It was barely a centimeter wide. So thin it might as well have been a sticker. But Tim knew what it was, and he scowled down at the tracker in his hand. 

Have fun tracking this grave, Batman, He thought, sticking it onto the angel statue he’d been hiding behind.

He left the graveyard, walking towards an exit in the opposite direction of where Jason had gone. 

The walk home was quite long, and he tried to sort out his thoughts. It didn’t go too well. Mostly he worried about Monday. Because come Monday, he would be spending the entire day with all of the Bats, who he was now sure definitely knew something was up with him. 

Whatever. He huffed and shoved his cold hands into his pockets.

That was a problem for future Tim.

Chapter 16: space heater?? i hardly know her!

Notes:

back at it again making this boy MISERABLE lessgo

didnt plan on this much ouch but here we are??

enjoy!

When Tim got home from the graveyard, he was still cold. One might’ve thought that the walk home would’ve warmed him up, but alas. He was still shivering. It didn’t help that his landlord still had not fixed the heat in his apartment. Tim guessed it would be maybe another month before the man actually got off his ass and did something about it. 

So it was cold. And Tim had spent the night outside. So he was very cold. 

Trying to ignore the thoughts about hypothermia and frostbite that ran circles in his head, he dragged his little rusty space heater to his bedroom. He gathered every blanket and vaguely blanket-shaped piece of fabric and laid them on his bed. Then he closed the door, crawled down under the covers, and tried to go to sleep again. It was still a little too early for him to want to deal with daylight. 

-

When he woke up it was much, much later, and he was still cold. But now, he also had a wonderfully stuffy nose to go with it. His space heater had apparently given up on life during his nap. It stood quiet and dead by the bed, not even breathing out as much as a whisper of warmth. He tried turning it off and on again. Tried unplugging it and then plugging it in again. Nothing happened. 

Cool beans. 

He laid down and burrowed deeper into his blankets, shutting his eyes, and ignoring the headache he could feel starting to form.

-

The next time he awoke, he made himself get out of bed. He kept a blanket wrapped around him as he tiredly and with slight difficulty shuffled over to the kitchen. 

He had nothing in his fridge except ingredients. Nothing quick and easy.

Tim sniffled. Cleared his throat, and then couldn’t really stop clearing his throat, because he’d started coughing, and each cough felt like it was tearing his throat to shreds. His eyes were tearing up and he was bent over, supporting himself on the small countertop. 

Okay, he thought. His brain felt like it was rattling around in his skull with every cough that wracked through his body. It made it significantly harder to think. Okay. Water. One thing at a time. 

He started running the sink, let it run for a while, and then grabbed a glass with slightly shaking, slightly numb hands. He gulped down the water, and while his coughing stopped, he winced at the cold temperature of the water. It was like he could feel it every second it was going down his throat and chest. It settled in his stomach like an icy coiled up snake. He shivered. His very bones felt like they were made of icicles. 

Not nice. 

Whatever. He needed food… right?

He opened his fridge again, and stared at the contents. Nothing made sense. Was this his fridge? It was… but were these really his things? 

Why had he even opened the fridge, again?

His stomach rumbled, and Tim remembered that he was hungry. He’d opened the fridge for food. Right. 

He stared at the innards of his fridge again, notch between his eyebrows. 

After an indeterminable amount of time, he settled on a bag of shredded cheese. He wondered briefly if he was supposed to use cutlery for it, and if that was the case, what kind of cutlery? Knife? 

Eventually, he elected to shovel the cheese into his mouth with his fists.

Something was beeping. 

The fridge. The fridge was beeping. Angrily. Why was his fridge angry at him? 

He shut it. The beeping stopped. Why?

Nothing was making sense. Tim took his cheese and went shivering back to his bed.

-

Tim’s phone was ringing. 

It was a horrid, horrid sound. 

Sometimes, he wished he had a regular smartphone. He’d heard the ringtones people had. Some of them sounded like playful guitars, or little bells, chiming softly. 

His phone had a fast, loud, incessant ringing that made him want to toss it, or himself, out the window. 

With heavy limbs and a foggy head, he untangled himself from the mound of blankets on his bed. He stumbled out into his hallway and leaned against the wall, eyes squeezed shut as he picked up the phone and answered with a gravelly voice.

“This is Tim.” 

“Tim!” Said Steph. Why was she calling him? “Where are you?” 

“The French Riviera,” Tim yawned, rubbing his eyes. They were heavy and grimy with sleep. “Thought I’d take a vacation.”

“I’m gonna assume you’re still at home.” 

“Oui, bien sûr. Why would I be anywhere else?” He grumbled, not understanding the point of this call, and Steph snorted.

“Hello-o? It’s Monday.”

“Happy Monday,” Tim sighed. Literally why was Steph calling him? To inform him that it was Monday? Tim had a calendar. It hung on his wall, right over there.

He looked at the calendar through half lidded eyes. Found today's date. Saw the note he’d scribbled in today’s box. Looked at it for a moment before his brain made the connection.

Fuck.

“Tim? Are you, like, alright?”

“Shit!” He said, at once very awake. 

“Theeere we go.” Tim could practically hear Steph’s grin through the phone, “Penny finally dropped?” 

“What time is it?” Tim looked around for a clock, “Actually, I don’t care. I will be there in twenty minutes, tops!” 

-

“I'm so sorry!” Tim was barely out of the taxi before he apologized to the Waynes. “I’ve been..” What had he been? Sick? No. Tim couldn’t afford to be sick, so that couldn’t be it. “...Very busy.. the past couple of days. Totally lost track of time.” 

He sounded hoarse and wheezy, and chalked it up to stress. He wasn’t sure exactly how stress would make him sound like he’d gurgled rocks and broken glass, but hey. Tim had been feeling confused and weird the last couple of days. Sometimes his brain was so slow that it felt as if his thoughts were moving through molasses. As long as anything sounded sort-of plausible, it worked for him.

Also, he was cold. 

God, he was cold. 

It was worse now that they were outside. It was early January, the wind was biting and the snow was falling sideways. Tim hated it. He was shivering so much it was ridiculous. His skin hurt and his hands and feet were numb. 

“Ah! Perfect timing!” Said Jason as Tim approached, “I was just thinking ‘bout how I wanted to speak to my dead uncle.” 

Tim squinted at him, too tired to be sure if he was joking or not.

“You don’t have an uncle? And I’m a fortune teller. Not a medium.” 

Steph snorted, and Tim couldn’t really tell if she was laughing at him or not. He decided not to dwell on it. He didn’t quite have the energy.

“Now that we’re all here, why don’t we all go inside. It’s freezing out here,” Bruce said, smiling at Tim from behind an expensive looking scarf. Tim dimly recognized the small Hermés logo on it. He doubted that Bruce was all that cold, bundled up in a warm coat as he was. But he didn’t doubt for a second that Bruce could see the way he was practically vibrating from shivers. 

“Again,” He said as they were making their way to the massive entré, “I’m so sorry I’m late. It’s really not like me.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Dick laughed. ”We were also late. It’s impossible to be on time with this many people.” Dick had fallen into step next to him, and Tim nodded. He was still so tired, even though he had been sleeping for like.. Three? Days straight? 

He wasn’t sure. The only thing he was sure of was the fact that everything hurt, he was always freezing, his throat was sore, his nose stuffy, and his head achy. 

He was also pretty certain that someone had cracked open his skull and taken an electric whisk to his brain, splatting it around like the worst smoothie ever. He had trouble making sense of things, and he was so tired. Exhausted, shivery, and dizzy.

Dick said something else, but Tim didn’t hear him. He just hummed and hoped that was answer enough. 

Steph and Damian flashed their IDs at the booth, and got in for free. Bruce paid for himself, Dick, and Jason, and then there was just Tim left. As quickly as possible, while the others were taking off their jackets, he walked up to the woman at the booth, mumbled one ticket, please, and handed her cash. 

It stung his wallet a little to pay for entry, especially since he’d taken a cab there too. But it was fine. He had enough money after last month’s business. It was all fine. Fine. No big deal. 

He got his ticket. No one noticed that he’d paid for it instead of showing an ID. Things were going swell. He was a master of stealth.

He walked up to the Waynes and slung his jacket over his arm.

“Did you forget your ID at home?” Bruce asked him, and Tim pressed his lips together. 

They were all looking at him. 

Okay, so maybe things weren’t going all that swell. Perhaps he wasn’t a master of stealth, after all. 

“Yeah, I did. But it doesn’t matter.” He cleared his throat and put some pep into his words, which felt more difficult to do than it should have done. “Let’s go! I want to see some dinosaurs!”

That got them moving. Steph was dragging Jason by the arm towards the first room of the exhibit, and Dick was walking next to Bruce, discussing what Tim thought might be how they would survive Jurassic Park. There weren’t many people around, possibly because this exhibit had, if Tim remembered correctly, been on display for about a month or two now. It was nearing its end. 

Damian was walking next to Tim. And he was being very quiet. The only thing that Tim could hear was his own, wheezy breathing. 

Damian said something, and Tim squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again as he tried to process the words, but ultimately had to stop walking to properly look at Damian while they spoke.

“Sorry, what was that?” 

Damian was not avoiding eye contact, but rather held Tim’s gaze steadily. Almost defiantly. He almost looked a little embarrassed.

“I made you this,” He repeated, slower this time, and held out a thin, hard folder to Tim. Tim took it, and opened it. 

Inside was a coloured pencil drawing of two Brachiosauruses, peacefully grazing in a rolling landscape. A stream ran in the foreground, and the sunlight painted it with brilliant golden and glowing hues. It was a wonderful drawing, and had obviously been made with a lot of care. Tim was speechless. 

“Well?” Damian said, sounding like he was trying to cover up his anxiousness with faux nonchalance, “Is it anything worth having?” 

Tim realized that he’d been staring wide eyed at the drawing for too long. 

“Are you kidding?” Tim said, voice thick from what he refused to admit was probably a cold, “This is amazing, Damian. Thank you so much! I will have it framed as soon as I can. I’d give you a hug if I wasn’t so..” He gestured vaguely with one hand, and Damian raised his eyebrows. 

“Sick?” 

“I’m not sick. It’s just a.. Minor cold.” He furrowed his brows, “It’s not even that, probably. Just an off-day.” 

“You look like a corpse they just fished out of Gotham Harbor. But very well, I shall entertain your delusion for now. Sooner or later, you will see that I am right.” 

Tim huffed a weak laugh as he put the folder with the picture into his bag, and let himself be dragged off to the exhibit by Damian. 

-

The museum was wonderful. Despite his state, Tim really did have fun. There were hidden speakers in decorative foliage, playing ambient noise. There were flying dinosaurs hanging from the roofs high above, there were recreations, bones, anything you could imagine. Each room was a new experience, and Tim and the Wayne family slowly made their way through each one, interacting with everything they could interact with. 

If there was a button, it was almost a competition between the Waynes, sans Bruce, to see who could press it the quickest. Most often, Dick won, once even launching himself over the shoulders of his brother to reach it the fastest. Tim and Steph had laughed so hard they’d choked at Jason’s surprised look. 

Yeah, they were having a blast. But Tim felt himself grow weaker and weaker as the day went on. The others had had lunch before they came, presumably. But Tim had not eaten more than a bag of shredded cheese and some sandwich meat the last couple of days. The large rooms of the old building made it difficult to heat, and it was as if Tim could feel the cold air outside seep through the stone walls. He had to read each information plaque several times for them to make sense. 

But he made it through. He made it through the entire museum, and he made it through the gift-shop. The latter was an easy feat. He wasn’t planning to buy anything anyway (too expensive), so he just stood leaning against a wall while the Waynes practically cleaned out the shelves. 

They headed towards the exit, and Tim was practically dragging his feet against the ground as he walked. His eyes were half lidded, his head was pounding, and everything felt wrong. Bruce was walking next to him instead of next to his sons. Tim wasn’t sure why. 

He wanted to sleep. He wanted to go home. But he couldn’t go home. The government was going to take his home. Mom had told him. 

Wait? He furrowed his brows. Where was he living if they were taking his home? Was it the library?

Someone was talking to him. Tim realized he hadn’t been listening. 

“That’s rude,” He mumbled, and whoever it was stopped talking. 

“Sorry, Tim. Did I say something-”

“Hey, Bruce.” A new voice cut in. Tim couldn’t see who. He had closed his eyes. “Something’s not right.”

“He is ill.” 

“He’s ill? Why didn't you say?”

“It was rude of me,” Tim mumbled. His voice sounded far away, “I’m so sorry, mom. I’ll do better.”

“I thought it was obvious. Tt, and you call yourselves detectives?”

“Tim? Tim, can you hear me?” 

Tim frowned. Someone was touching him. 

Actually, he was probably touching them. He was leaning against someone, balance all gone. 

“I can’t go home,” He sighed. 

“Tim. Kid. Look at me, please.”

“Why can’t you go home?”

“B, this is not the time to ask him questions.”

Tim shivered. 

“They left me behind,” He said, voice barely a whisper. The last thing he heard was panicked voices as his legs gave out beneath him. 

Then, all was quiet. 

Chapter 17: and now, a brief bat interlude

Summary:

some bat povs to spice things up!

Notes:

NOTE
This chapter contains a bunch of POV changes. I sometimes find them to be *very* confusing when reading. If u do too, here's how to tell when it happens:

This is one POV. Wow. So cool. My name is Wesley.

---

(THAT IS A BREAK BETWEEN PARAGRAPHS, INDICATING A NEW POV ⬆️)

This is now a new POV, and I'm a Mysterious Unnamed Voice. Wow, Wesley. That's so baller, babe. Love the use of dashes to signify new POVs.

---

(BREAK AGAIN⬆️)

Why thank you, Mysterious Unnamed Voice! I hope you will enjoy this chapter, whoever you might be! This is Wesley again, signing off ;) <3

Stephanie liked to call herself clever. Liked to think of herself as smart. She had to be, seeing as she moonlighted as one of Gotham’s masked vigilantes. 

But when Tim collapsed outside of the museum, she felt very stupid indeed. 

Bruce, who had been supporting him when he’d started swaying, caught him and lowered him down into a sitting position. Dick was yelling, Jason looked like he wanted to start yelling, Steph herself was saying something about ambulances and hospitals. She wasn’t sure what. She tended to babble when she was stressed. And when she wasn’t. Her mouth usually ran quicker than her thoughts did. 

But now, it felt justified. Even Damian, who’d taken after his father’s stoney approach to emotions, looked worried. 

Tim was slowly blinking, coming to again as Stephanie crouched down next to him and Bruce.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” She said, voice one octave higher than usual, and Tim’s eyes flew open. They were cloudy and unfocused, but panicked.

“No!” He slurred, and Steph frowned, “No! They- they’ll put me back there. I can’t go back!” 

“Back where, Tim?” Bruce asked, as Tim was weakly trying to claw himself out of Bruce’s grasp. Steph couldn’t believe she hadn’t realized how ill he was. His skin was pallid and dreary, eye bags so dark it looked like he’d been punched. Even his voice was raspy and sounded purely unwell. 

“Orphanage,” Tim croaked, and Steph bit her lip. She reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezed it lightly. It was freezing to the touch. Too cold. Even for winter. He kept pleading, voice weak and slurred, not even seeming to notice that she was holding his hand. She looked at Jason.

Tim hadn’t told her he’d lived in an orphanage. But she’d had her suspicions. She knew he didn’t have parents, knew he’d been homeless, but not for how long. There were things that he did or said sometimes that alluded to him having led a different, more comfortable life. Plus, he lacked the rougher Crime Alley accent, indicating that he’d been raised somewhere else before living there. Most likely, his parents had died, he’d been put into the orphanage, and he’d run away. 

But you didn’t just trade a somewhat stable home for homelessness on a whim. 

And Steph knew what this city was like. If Tim had left, there had probably been a good reason for him to. And now he was afraid that they were going to let him go back to the place he’d run away from. 

They knew that they weren’t going to do that. Obviously they weren’t going to. But Tim didn’t know that. 

Jason had seemed to think the same thing. She’d hoped that he of all people would understand. Not that he’d ever lived in an orphanage, but his childhood was, at least in parts, quite similar to what they knew about Tim’s. He knew what it was like to not have a stable home.

He nodded at her, and then looked at Bruce, who was trying (and failing) to calm Tim down.

“Kid says no hospital.” Jason said. “We can handle it. We’ll call Leslie if we need to, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to freak him out even more.” 

Bruce’s jaw tightened, but he gave a sharp nod.

“Jay, would you fetch the car?” 

 

---

 

The drive back home had felt like a hundred miles. Jason thought it a miracle that he hadn’t crashed the car with how many times he’d taken his eyes off the road to cast glances at Tim in the backseat. He’d lost consciousness again sometime after Jason had left to get the car, so Bruce had been holding him in his arms the whole way home. 

Jason didn’t like this. He didn’t like how pale and hollow-cheeked Tim looked, he didn’t like the delirious pleading from before, and he absolutely didn’t like the way Bruce had shaken his head and muttered He’s cold. Too cold when Dick had asked if Tim had a fever. 

Jason was used to solving a lot of his problems with violence. Or at least a good threat. Maybe by waving a gun or two around in someone’s face. He somehow doubted that Tim would benefit from that, though. 

Bruce was carrying Tim inside, and Dick, always the mother hen, rounded up Steph, Damian, and Jason outside. 

“It’s probably hypothermia,” He said, and they all nodded. It made sense. Bruce had drilled them all in surviving harsh weather conditions. Had taught them everything they needed to know about staying warm, the dangers of too low body temperatures and exposure to the elements. Taught them how to recognize symptoms. Tim was a classic case. But that left the question..

“How’d he even get hypothermia?” Steph asked. She was hugging herself, and kept glancing towards the entrance. Jason knew she wanted to follow Bruce. To see how Tim was doing. 

He knew, because he wanted to do the same thing. 

“There was the graveyard,” He said, “Someone had been at-” He stopped himself. Dick knew about Timothy Drake’s grave. Knew that Jason sometimes visited it. But Steph and Damian did not. He wasn’t sure if he wanted them to know. It wasn’t important right now. “There was an imprint in the snow at one of the graves near where the tracker pinged. Looked like someone had been layin’ there. Long enough that the snow hadn’t covered the imprint when I got there. But the tracker never left that spot. It’s still there, far as I know.”

“Could it have been him?” Dick asked, and Jason shrugged.

“Maybe. But why? He must have been out in the cold for a while to catch hypothermia. Maybe overnight.”

“Whose grave was it?” Damian asked, and Jason bit his cheek. He looked towards the road and pointed.

“Up that road there’s an abandoned house.” He began.

“Drake Manor. I am familiar.” 

“The imprint was by Timothy Drake’s grave. He was the Drakes’ kid. They all passed away a few years back.” Jason’s brows were furrowed. He’d been thinking a lot about Timothy Drake lately. 

“Did he and Tim know each other?” Steph asked, and he sighed. 

“I don’t know. But it’s too specific to be a coincidence.” 

 

---

 

Dick felt relieved. He had been right. It was hypothermia. Mild, bordering on moderate. Not particularly bad.

He also felt.. Not so great. Because it was hypothermia. Mild, bordering on moderate. Not particularly good, either.

The working theory among his siblings was that Tim had spent the night (possibly slept?) outside two days ago. Dick wasn’t sure what Tim had been doing these past couple of days since then. Curing a mild hypothermia was not too difficult. Even if Tim hadn’t known he was sick, he should have managed to accidentally recover. 

All he’d needed to do was try to stay warm and eat warm foods. Drink hot liquids. Which were all things that people usually did when they were feeling cold. Tim had an apartment, and he’d been living on his own for a while. Even with the confusion that usually followed, he should have managed to stay toasty and make himself some instant ramen. A cup of tea or two. Not make himself worse and weak to the point of passing out.

Dick had many questions. And he tried to get them in order as he kept on stirring the hot chocolate he was making. Since Alfred was helping Bruce with Tim, Dick had taken it upon himself to fix them all a snack. And if he happened to have made a little more chocolate than usual, and if Tim happened to be awake and would want some when it was done, Dick would just call it a lucky coincidence. Definitely not a ploy to get close to him and ask him some of those questions he had. 

Definitely not. 

He poured the chocolate into a big thermos, grabbed a stack of hard plastic mugs, and started his trek around the Manor. 

Damian was in the library. Staring at a book, but not really reading it. Dick ruffled his hair, poured him a cup, and headed upwards. 

Steph was in a living room, anxiously biting her nails and opening and closing the same four apps on her phone. Dick dug around in his pocket for the linseed stress-ball he usually carried with him and tossed it at her. She reflexively caught it, gave him a thankful glance when she realized what it was, and accepted a cup of chocolate. 

Dick walked towards the guestroom that Bruce and Alfred had placed Tim in, but was stopped outside of the door by Alfred. 

“Not yet, Master Dick,” He said, straightening Dick’s collar. Something he usually did when he was worried. “Poor thing’s exhausted. He was only awake for a few minutes before he fell asleep.”

“Was he lucid?” Dick bit his cheek as Alfred shook his head.

“I’m afraid not. But I am confident some rest and warm blankets will do the trick. Master Bruce and I will keep you updated.”

Dick sighed.

“Thanks, Alfred.”

Well. Bummer. But he did have one sibling left to deliver hot chocolate to.

Jason was sitting on the roof, leaning against the parapet, smoking. He’d been going at it for a while, judging by the cigarette butts that were strewn around him. 

“Can I bum one of those?” Dick asked, and Jason snorted.

“Thought you quit.” 

“I thought you quit.” 

“Touché.” 

Jason lit a cigarette and handed it to Dick, who sat down next to him. It was cold on the roof, and after Tim’s recent diagnosis, they should probably know better than to not wear jackets. At least they had hot chocolate. Dick poured them a cup each. 

“This Alfred’s?” 

“Nope,” Dick popped the P, “Mine.” 

“Yours sucks,” Jason said, but still drank it. 

“How are you?” Dick asked, because Jason still hadn’t looked at him once during the whole time they’d been talking.

“Just thinking.”

“About..?” 

“How long it will take for Bruce to go to therapy instead of adopting children as a coping mechanism.” 

Dick laughed, choking on smoke, and Jason’s lip twitched.

“Glad to know someone else is aware.” Dick gave a fond grin and tapped off the ash pillar that had started to form.

Jason took a last drag and stubbed out his cigarette. Dick followed suit. None of them were even close to finished with their cigarettes, but it was a thing they did. Dick wasn’t sure if Jason knew it was a thing. But whenever Jason was smoking and Dick bummed a cig, Jason usually stopped smoking within a minute after. Probably because Dick had actually quit smoking years before, and Jason felt bad. Most of the time, Dick didn’t even take a single drag of his cig before Jason was grinding his own out on the pavement. 

“You kidding?” Jason said, “I don’t even think Bruce knows that finders keepers don’t apply to children.” 

“Someone should probably inform him,” Dick mused, sipping on his chocolate. 

“Why?” Jason said drily, “It’s not as if we’re running out of rooms any time soon.”

 

---

 

Tim was stable, sleeping somewhat soundly in a mound of blankets, and Bruce took what felt like the first breath since the boy had collapsed outside of the museum.

When it had happened, Bruce’s mind had immediately split in two. One part that was analytical and fast, calculating and logical. Forming plans, identifying symptoms, giving orders. 

And one part that was pure panic. 

Tim wasn’t his son, but the sudden fear he’d felt when Tim had gone limp in his arms seemed to disagree. It was the same exact feeling he got when something happened to his kids. 

His kids. Who were now gathered in the kitchen, looking at him expectantly. 

“Alright, firstly,” Bruce started, “Tim is okay. He has a case of mild-to-moderate hypothermia. Alfred is working on slowly raising his core temperature. Externally for now, but hopefully he wakes up soon so we can get some warm food and drinks into him.” 

“He’ll be fine, right?” Stephanie asked, and Bruce smiled gently and nodded.

“Yes, he’s expected to make a full recovery.”

“Thank fuck,” Jason murmured, and Stephanie and Dick looked relieved. Damian looked deep in thought. 

“In the meantime,” Bruce continued, and all the kids perked up again, “I think we need to go over what it is that we actually know about Tim.”

“You mean Mortimer Von Brusseltrout?” Dick snorted, and Stephanie hid a smile behind her hand. 

“... Exactly. Let’s start there.”

“I’m still not sure he has a name,” Jason said, and Bruce thought about it. 

It was a plausible theory. Especially considering the way he’d obviously made his last name up on the spot, as if never having been asked it before. Jason had also mentioned that Tim had told him that his name wasn’t even Tim. Bruce couldn’t fathom why the boy would use a fake name when talking to them. If he simply didn’t remember his real name, however, it made sense. 

“Then there is the whole graveyard thing,” Dick said, and Bruce hummed.

“We are assuming that he stayed there overnight, yes?” 

“It seems likely, if a bit strange,” Said Damian, voice thoughtful. “But as Todd said, the tracking device is still there. Either it has malfunctioned, fallen off, or..”

“Or it has been removed.” 

“I will investigate,” His youngest offered, standing up with determination written across his face, “I shall go to the graveyard and search for it.” 

“Take Dick with you,” Bruce replied, and Damian dragged Dick by the sleeve towards the door. 

Then there were three. 

“About the grave,” Jason said. “I already told the others, but it was Timothy Drake’s grave he was napping on, assuming that that’s what he was doin’.” 

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?” 

“And that’s not all,” Jason continued, “At Christmas, I found him outside. But he was lookin’ up towards Drake Manor. Had been standing there for a while. I think…” Jason trailed off, and Bruce stayed quiet, letting his son gather his thoughts. 

“I think,” Jason said slowly, “That when he said ‘they left me behind’, he might have been talking about the Drakes.” 

“How so?” Bruce didn’t understand how exactly the two would be intertwined. But if Jason had a hunch, it was probably a good one.

“I think he might have known them. Or, Timothy, at least. They’re about the same age, and Tim says he lived in the Alley-”

“He did,” Stephanie cut in. “I don’t think he was lying about that.” 

“I believe him. But before that, he must have lived somewhere else. C’mon. You’ve heard the kid speak. That’s a Bristol accent if I ever heard one. He sounds like you, B.” 

This was true. Tim had a certain cadence to his voice that was most commonly heard in Bristol. Though the Alley was just a little bit away, the accents were different as night and day. Tim’s was a bit of a mix, though. His time in the Alley had made an impact. But it was undeniably a Bristol accent first and foremost. 

“So, you think he knew Timothy Drake?” Bruce asked, and Jason nodded. 

“Think about it. Kid must’ve been alone for a while. But he finds a friend. I know what it’s like, you latch on quick. Especially at that age. But then,” Jason paused, eyebrows knit and jaw clenched, and Bruce’s heart ached. 

They’d all been sad to hear of the Drakes’ accident, but they hadn’t known them well, if at all. No one really had. Bruce could barely remember if he'd even spoken to Jack and Janet Drake. But after Jason’s own passing and return, the Drake child’s death had seemed to upset his son even further. Bruce almost didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t imagine what it must feel like for Jason to suffer a fate so similar to the neighbors’ boy. To die so young, and then get a new chance at life. To come back, when the other boy never would. 

“But then his friend dies,” Jason continued, “His entire family does. And they leave Tim behind. He takes Timothy’s name, and here we are.” 

“It’s a solid theory. But it needs evidence,” Bruce said, “Right now, it is just speculation.” 

“Well,” Stephanie said. She had been uncharacteristically quiet. Bruce would have to check in with her later tonight, to see how she was doing. “When he wakes up, Jason and I could try asking him about it?” 

Bruce tilted his head to the side.

“I think I should-”

“No, you really shouldn’t.” Jason cut him off, “He’s closest to Steph, and he and I share similar backgrounds. We’re the best options out of all of us, easy. He doesn’t know you as well as he knows us.”

“He’s right,” Stephanie said, “Let us do it.” 

Bruce suppressed a smile at his two kids’ determination. They did have a point. And even if it didn’t work, in the end the truth would come out, one way or another. 

“Very well, then. When he wakes up, we’ll get some food and liquids in him, and then you two can give it a shot. But be-”

His kids cut him off, both rolling their eyes, speaking as one.

“Be gentle. We know.”  

 

---

 

Damian had managed to shake Grayson by suggesting they split up. He did not need someone interfering with his investigation. 

He had found Timothy Drake’s grave. The imprint Todd said had been there was now gone, snowed or blown away. All that remained was a wilting, frosty bouquet of yellow flowers. He was looking around where the tracker was pinging, and though the location was not exact, eventually he found it. 

It was stuck on the wing of a stone angel, two rows away from the Drakes’ graves. Obviously, Tim had removed it himself and stuck it there. 

Damian added the information to his mental file. He plucked away the tracker and texted Grayson that he had found it. He would not tell him the truth, though. He would simply say that he had found it on the ground, looking as if it had simply fallen off of Tim’s jacket by accident. 

The truth he would keep to himself, while he kept investigating.

Because something about Tim was highly suspicious, and he had a feeling it was not in the way that his family seemed to think. But he would get to the bottom of it. 

Damian gave the Drake boy’s headstone one last look before he started to walk back towards the cemetery gates.

 

Chapter 18: back to our regularly scheduled tim-time

Notes:

back to tim's POV!

in other news, i am being followed by a spider. it is about the size of my palm and every times ive switched bedrooms to avoid it, it has found me again the next night. if i never update again, the spider has killed me.

 

Tim was ten years old, and he was cold. 

The harbor was dark, gray, and stormy. The wind was tugging at his clothes and hair, and the waves were crashing down with deafening splashes of foam. Rain was beating down, icy trails of water running down his nose and neck. 

His mother was holding his arm so tightly that it hurt. Her nails were digging into his skin, and Tim was sure he’d get a bruise. But he didn’t say anything. He knew she didn’t mean for it to hurt. She was just stressed. His father was too. They had told him that the government was going to take their house. Tim wasn’t exactly sure why, or what they were doing at the harbor. Maybe they would live in the boat for a little while? They’d gone on a vacation in it before, and it had been pretty nice. 

He kind of wished that they could leave some other time, though. He was sure he would get seasick if they were going to travel by boat in this storm. 

“And you’re sure it will work?” His mother asked, voice raised over the wind and rain, and his father nodded. Unlike Tim’s, their jackets were actual raincoats. They had their hoods up, and all Tim could make out of them was the anonymous dripping, black, plastic fabric. They weren’t looking at him. Or talking to him. The only indication that they knew he was there was the fact that his mother was still holding his arm.

They were at the dock, standing before the boat. It was their second nicest one. Quaint but comfortable, his mother liked to call it. Tim thought it was huge. It bobbed up and down with the waves, threatening to come loose from its fastenings. 

His father went aboard the boat, with some difficulty. And he entered the hut. Tim heard the motor start running, and then his father exited. Went back onto the pier. He loosened the boat, and it was ripped away by the engine and the waves. 

Almost impossibly fast, it went out at sea. Getting pulled in every direction, climbing up, up, up on waves, crashing down, down, down. They watched it disappear further and further away. 

Tim had no idea what they were doing. Where were they going to live? 

“Come on,” his father said to his mother, “Let’s go. The plane won’t wait forever.” 

“With what we’re paying them, they should be waiting for however long we deem it necessary.” His mother clicked her tongue, and his father faced them. His face was partially covered by the hood, but he looked pleading.

“Janet, they are holding our freedom in their hands. Please remember that.”

“I know,” His mother sighed. And then she finally looked at Tim. 

Her face was wet from the rain, and a few inky, dark strands of hair lay plastered against her cheeks. She crouched down to face Tim, and his father heaved a deep sigh.

“I’ll go start the car. Hurry.” 

His father left, not giving Tim as much as a glance, and Tim wondered what plane they’d been talking about. Were they flying somewhere? Tim had only been in a plane once before, and he’d found it a bit frightening. In this weather, turbulence was likely. He worried his lips between his teeth. His parents didn’t like it when he was whiny, and they both had seemed really stressed lately. He would try his best not to cry. 

“Timothy,” His mother said, and she sounded weird. Not like herself. “Your father and I are going away.” 

Oh. That was nothing new. They were always away. They were archaeologists, after all. 

“For how long?” Tim asked, and wondered where he would live in the meantime, if the government was taking their house. 

“We’re not coming back,” She said, and Tim frowned. 

“What do you mean?” 

The car honked, two short sounds that meant his dad was getting impatient. Her mother cast a glance behind her. 

“I have to go.” 

Tim was shaking his head as his mother rose, and he grabbed her jacket-sleeve, tugging at her. He was pulling as hard as he could on the slippery fabric, fighting the tears that were starting to form. 

“Wait! What do you mean?” 

His mother sighed, stopped, but didn’t look at him.

“Please, Timothy. Be a big boy about this, will you? We’ve given you a good life, and now we have to go. You’ll be fine. You’re a smart boy.” 

“You can’t leave me!” Tim cried, “Why can’t you take me with you?” 

“We just can’t! Okay?” His mother snapped. “It can’t always be about you. We’ve talked about this before. Grown ups can’t always concern themselves with the whims of a child. Now, let me go.” 

“No,” Tim sobbed as his mother forcibly pulled away his hand from her arm, “No! I’ll be good, I promise! Please!” 

His mother didn’t so much as look at him as she stalked away from the pier. Tim tried to run after her, but stumbled in his haste. His knees and palms stung as he caught himself on the pavement, and he helplessly watched his mother getting into the car his father had idling. None of them looked back as the car tore away from the harbor, red tail lights disappearing into the rain. 

Tim was ten years old, and he was cold. And he was all alone.

-

Tim was sixteen years old and quite warm as he woke from his dream. 

Despite the warmth, he shuddered. He didn’t like to remember that night. Didn’t like to think about how he’d stumbled around aimlessly, barely seeing a thing through the tears and the rain, before he’d curled up in the pews of a church and fallen asleep. 

He opened his eyes, and was met with a room he didn’t recognize. But judging by the hardwood, the wooden panels, the wallpaper… It was old money. And Tim only regularly hung out with one old money family. 

He remembered going to the museum with the Waynes, and judging by the lack of memories after exiting it, he assumed he’d passed out and they’d taken him home. There were bits and pieces since then, incoherent and mere flashes he couldn’t quite make out. 

There were about four blankets on him, and he gingerly untangled himself from them and stood up on shaky legs. He grabbed one of the blankets to wrap around his shoulders, and walked over to the door to see if he could find someone and get some answers as to what was going on. 

When he opened the door, he came face to face with Alfred Pennyworth. 

“Oh, Master Tim,” Said Alfred, looking surprised, “You’re already up.” 

Tim gave a half-hearted smile.

“Good…” He squinted, trying to figure out what time it was, “Morning?” Alfred’s small smile let him know that he’d probably guessed wrong.

“Evening, rather,” He said, and gestured for Tim to follow along, and they started walking somewhere. Tim didn’t even try to remember all the turns and corridors. “I was just about to wake you up for some supper. I took the liberty of shooing away everyone from the parlor. I supposed you would be rather worn out and not up for conversation just yet.” 

Tim smiled again, a little more sincerely this time. He was really worn out. Felt sluggish and tired. Not having to eat dinner with the entire Wayne Clan was a mercy. He wasn’t sure if he’d had the energy to stay on top of all his lies. Though, he thought, it might get a bit lonely. And it felt weird to eat without them, while in their house. 

The parlor was apparently the room that they’d celebrated Christmas in. The one with the fireplace. Alfred motioned for him to sit down on the couch in front of the crackling fire, and Tim did not have to be told twice. He’d been freezing for days. The hearth felt like heaven.

“Be right back,” Alfred said, and gave Tim’s shoulder a squeeze. Tim wrapped his blanket tighter around himself, and leaned forwards slightly, feeling the glow of the fire settling in on his face. 

When Alfred came back, it was with a bowl of soup and a mug of tea. Tim recognized the jasmine scent. 

“Is this my tea?” He asked, and Alfred nodded, looking pleased as he put the bowl and cup down on the low coffee table.

“Indeed. I will have to place a new order with you soon. It is quickly becoming a staple of this house.” 

“Happy to hear it.”

“If you need anything else, dear boy, do let me know. I will be in the smaller kitchen.” With one last smile, Alfred left him. Tim didn’t have the energy to inform the butler of the fact that he absolutely did not know where the smaller kitchen was. Instead, he focused on eating his soup. It was chicken, mildly spicy with carrots and soft rice. Tim practically inhaled it, realizing just how hungry he actually was. It settled nicely in his stomach, seeming to warm him up from the inside, and Tim closed his eyes, content as he sipped on his tea. 

There was a knock on the parlor doors, and then they opened. Tim turned to see Steph and Jason enter, both with carefully neutral expressions on their faces. He gave them a slight wave, and they sat down by him. Steph next to him on the couch, and Jason in an angled armchair that was facing him. 

“How are you feeling?” Steph asked, and Tim shrugged.

“Tired. Weird. What happened?” 

Steph looked down at her hands, looking guilty, and Tim couldn’t fathom why. Jason was the one who answered.

“Hypothermia. You collapsed outside of the museum, and we brought ya here. Say,” He leaned forward a little in his armchair, “How long have you been sick for?” 

Tim thought about it, tired brain firing on all cylinders, trying to come up with a good web of lies to spin.

“Since New Years, probably? I slept outside, which was probably a bad decision.” 

“Probably?” Jason raised his eyebrows, and Tim huffed.

“Definitely.” 

“I’m sorry, Tim,” Said Steph, and Tim turned to her. She wasn’t looking at him, just down at a fabric stress ball in her hands that she squeezed and pulled at.

“What for?” He asked, and Stephanie looked miserable.

“For not noticing. I mean, I heard that you sounded off on the phone, but I thought you’d just woken up, or something. And then you came to the museum, and I didn’t even notice that you were sick because I got distracted by the exhibit. And then you collapsed, and I should have noticed before that happened. I’m really sorry. I feel terrible.” 

“In your defense,” Tim said gently, “Not even I really noticed that I was sick. I just ignored it. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” 

“Still,” She mumbled, “I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”

“None of us did,” Jason said, also not sounding too happy, “Except for Damian. We all kind of suck.” 

“It’s not like I died,” said Tim, who had legally died. Twice.

“True,” Jason said, “We have a couple of questions, if you’re up for it?” 

Do I really have a choice? Tim thought, but he sipped his tea and nodded for them to go ahead. He had a plan half-formed. With a little bit of lying, and a whole lot of luck, it might just work. 

“Why did you sleep outside?” Jason asked him, and Tim pressed his lips together.

“I was being followed,” He said quietly, and if he’d been anyone else, he would have missed the way both Steph and Jason tensed up, “Someone had been following me all day, and I didn’t want to lead them to my home. So I went to the graveyard and slept there. But then I-” He made himself sound afraid and small, and Stephanie and Jason were now listening intently.

“Then I found a tracker,” He almost whispered. “On my jacket. I don’t know who put it there, but I got rid of it, and I went home. But I guess the cold got to me.”

“You were being followed?” Steph asked, and Tim nodded. He took a sip of his tea and shuddered. 

“I was so relieved when I ran into Dick, because then the person seemed to disappear for a while. But then they came back. I never- I never saw them. But I swear they were there! I know it sounds paranoid and insane, but I promise I’m not making this up!” He looked at them with wide eyes, like he was desperate for them to believe him. In a way he was, but not in the way he made it out to be.

“We believe you,” Jason said slowly, and Tim wanted to laugh. Instead he made his face relieved and grateful.

“Why didn’t you tell Dick?” Steph asked.

“I wasn’t sure if he’d believe me.” He kept drinking his tea, and Jason and Steph were quiet for a bit. Tim prayed that that would be it for their questions, but he should have known better. 

“We realize,” Jason began, “That you might not wanna tell us. But I think we can better help you with… your situation.. if you tell us your name.” 

“My name is Tim,” Tim said. And Jason shook his head.

“You’ve told me that it isn’t.”

Tim stayed quiet. 

“If someone is following you, that’s really serious,” Steph said, and Tim was impressed at how quickly they had adapted to his lie. They knew that it had been Dick, but if Tim hadn’t also known that, this would probably have been a great way of earning his trust and getting him to tell them his secrets. “We can help you.”

“But we need to know what exactly is going on,” Jason filled in. “What’s your name, kid?” 

“Tim.” 

“Your real name.” 

Tim tapped the cup he was holding with his nails. The clink of the porcelain and the crackling fire were the only sounds in the whole room. He took a breath.

“I.. um. I can’t…” 

No. He couldn’t say I can’t tell you. What a great way to sound like he had nothing to hide. He tried to come up with something, but it seemed like he didn’t need to. 

“You can’t remember?” Jason asked him gently, carefully, and Tim pressed his lips together. That would be a big lie. He wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to maintain it. But if he said nothing, neither confirmed nor denied, and just kept looking sad and defeated, then they might just…

“It’s okay if you can’t.”

Score! Tim prayed that they accepted their own theory without further input from him.

“But why the name Tim, then?” Steph asked, “Does it have anything to do with Timothy Drake?” 

And.. that’s not at all what he expected her to say, and he started to talk without thinking it through.

“His name was Tim. Nobody called him Timothy, except for his parents.” 

“So you knew him?” Jason asked, looking at him with searching eyes, and Tim went all quiet again. Jason sighed.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to bring up bad-”

“Tim Drake died six years ago.” And those might’ve been the truest words he’d spoken in a good while. He should stop talking, but the words just kept spilling out of him, weaving themselves into a warped half-truth. “I was ten years old, and one day I looked at the newspaper and saw that he had drowned. I had no one but him, and then just like that, I didn’t even have him anymore. He wasn’t supposed to die, I wasn’t-”

He cut himself off. Jason and Steph were looking at him like he was a kicked puppy, and he grit his teeth. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” He said, voice low and clipped. He put down his tea. It had cooled anyway.

“You slept on his grave,” Jason said, and Tim looked at him with a stoney expression. 

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Jason..” Steph sent a cautious look her brother’s way, but Jason seemed to ignore it. His eyes were trained on Tim.

“Was that what you meant by ‘they left me behind’? The Drakes? Did they take care of you?” 

“We’re done here,” Tim snapped. He stood up from the couch, leaving his blanket behind, and started to walk away. 

He didn’t know when he’d said that. Didn’t know what else he’d said. It was good that Jason and the rest of the Bats were forming their own theories about who the Drakes were and what their relation to him was. But that didn’t mean that Tim had to like the theories. Especially not if Jason thought that his parents had taken care of him. 

That was the one thing that they hadn’t done. 

Steph followed him out of the parlor. 

“Tim!” 

Tim didn’t know why he stopped. But he let Stephanie catch up to him. He crossed his arms.

“What?” He asked, ruder than he probably had to. 

“I’m sorry about Jason. He doesn’t like not knowing things,” She raised her voice, probably to make sure that Jason heard them, “And he doesn’t know when to stop.” 

Jason appeared in the doorway. Tim didn’t look at him. 

“She’s right,” He said, “I don’t know when to stop. I’m sorry.” 

“Whatever.” Tim waved it away, too riled up for it to actually seem sincere, “Where’s the exit? And my jacket? I’m going home.” 

“Going home?” A new voice said, and Tim looked to see Bruce approaching from behind him. 

“Yeah,” Tim sucked his teeth, keeping his arms crossed. “Thank you for your hospitality. And for the food. But I’m leaving now.” 

“I would prefer it if you stayed for at least another twenty-four hours. Just to make sure that you’re recovered enough to go home. You still don’t look quite well,” Bruce said kindly, and Tim wanted to scream. 

“I’m fine.”

“You might feel alright, but objectively, you aren’t.” Bruce tilted his head, “But, if you insist on leaving, then I insist on driving you to a hospital for a real check-up. If they clear you, then I see no problem in letting you go home.” 

Tim blanched. 

He couldn’t go to a hospital. They’d ask too many questions, and they might call social services when Tim wouldn’t be able to produce a parent or guardian to release him. And then they would put him back into the system. And Tim really didn’t want to go back there. He’d run the risk of losing his apartment unless he could escape in time. 

Why did Bruce look like he already knew this? 

“Fine,” He bit out at last. “I’ll stay.” 

“Wonderful,” Bruce said with a satisfied expression. He clapped his hands together. “Now, do you kids want to watch a movie?”

Chapter 19: bruce the real estate icon

Notes:

the spider never came back. but it did send a slightly smaller friend in its stead.
i fled the entire landmass that house is standing on. am now in the middle of the baltic sea. good times.

anyway! new chapter! sorry it took a while, uni has started up again :,)
enjoy! <3

Staying and watching a movie wasn’t as bad as Tim thought it was going to be. He’d been pretty pissed for about the first half, but then he’d decided that he couldn’t be mad forever. Not at the Waynes, at least. They didn’t know Tim’s life story. They only had what Tim had given them. It wasn’t their fault that the theories they were forming were horribly incorrect. 

And besides, wasn’t that what Tim had wanted? For their theories to be as far off as possible from what had really happened?

Also, a movie was probably the best activity for him at the moment. He still felt sluggish and vaguely like his head was stuffed with cotton. He hoped his constant sniffling wasn’t too annoying for the others. 

Halfway through the movie, Damian had marched into the room, scowling and full of disdain. He’d walked up to Tim, and had held out a stuffed dinosaur to him.

“I told you,” He’d said, raising a sharp eyebrow, “I was right. You were sick.” 

“What is this?” Tim had replied, looking at the dino-plushie.

“It is for you. Now, I cannot stay any longer. I have business to attend to. Enjoy your film.” 

Tim had accepted the dinosaur from him, and he’d disappeared. 

Now, once the movie was over, he was still holding it. It was soft, big glass eyes looking kind, like a cow’s. 

They were going to watch another movie. At least, Jason, Steph, Tim, and Bruce were. Damian and Dick were missing, and no one said anything about it or gave a reason for their absence. Tim could take a guess why, though. Gotham City rarely went too many nights without at least one vigilante swinging around. 

But yeah. Tim wasn’t too mad anymore. But he was nothing if not petty. As a sort of revenge for him being trapped, he looked at Steph.

“You a Batman fan?” He asked, and took great pleasure in the way her eyes widened a little, and the way Bruce’s and Jason’s conversation about what movie to watch next faded into nothing.

“Uh, yeah. He’s… cool. You?” She said, and Tim looked thoughtful.

“Not really. I think he’s kinda lame. I mean,” He looked at Jason and Bruce, who were in turn looking at them, “Come on. The guy’s what? Your age, Bruce? And he spends his nights dressing up as a bat and beating up petty thieves? Ridiculous. Just suck it up and go to a furry-convention already.” 

Jason was holding back laughter, nodding like he was thoroughly considering what Tim had said. Bruce, actually capable of holding down a solid poker face, looked mildly bemused in the way a normal adult would. And Stephanie was laughing so hard her eyes were squeezed shut. 

“Anyway,” Tim said, “My favorite is probably Robin.” 

“The sword-wielding mini-monster? Why?” Jason said, still holding back a smile from Tim’s previous comments. 

“Oh, no,” Tim said absently, “The one that died. He was pretty cool. Guess he’s cool as the Red Hood too, though. You know, at least he takes care of the Alley.” 

Jason’s eye twitched.

“What are you talking about?”

“Which part?” Tim said innocently.

“Died? Red Hood?” 

“Oh, did you not know?” He said, shuffling in his seat so he could better look at Jason, “The second Robin, the one from Crime Alley. Fought dirty. Was, like, 13 when he started. Him?” 

Jason nodded, staring at Tim with thin lips.

“I’m familiar.” 

“Good. Well, he died when he was pretty young. And then he came back, and then he became the Red Hood. And now he kind of protects Crime Alley. Everyone’s always like oooh he’s such a criminal! Like Batman isn’t breaking just as many laws by simply existing as a vigilante, committing aggravated assault wherever he goes.” Tim gestured with his hands as he spoke, acting like any teenager would when they were ranting, while secretly observing their reactions. 

“Oh, really?” Jason said, sounding like he was losing his mind. 

“Yeah, talk about wild backstory. But get this.” Tim grinned, “You know Spoiler?” 

“Anyone want popcorn for the next movie? I’m gonna make some,” Steph said abruptly, standing up, and Jason immediately followed suit. 

“Yep! I better help. You’ll burn the house down.” 

“I’d love some popcorn,” Tim called after them as they left towards the kitchen. He looked at Bruce, eyebrows knit in faux confusion. “What was all that about? Did I talk too much?” 

“No, don’t worry,” Bruce said, still looking faintly bemused, “How come you know so much about the vigilantes?” 

“I spent some years in the Alley,” Tim said, “Batman didn’t really give a shit about it. And when Red Hood stepped onto the scene, suddenly things were getting better. People made the connection pretty soon. And I used to be on these forums..” 

“Hm..” Bruce said, “Forums?” 

“Yeah, there’s lots of them. Some of them are actually really fun. I would show you, but my laptop… broke.” 

“What happened to your laptop?” Bruce asked, probably to sway the conversation away from Batman.

“Oh,” Tim said distractedly. He was stroking the soft fur of his dinosaur. Tracing the seams. “I smashed it.”

“What? Why?” Bruce stared at him, and Tim realized that that probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say for someone who was trying not to be too shady. 

Time to improvise.

“It, uh. Had a virus.” 

“So you smashed it?” Bruce, usually quite composed, looked baffled.

“Yeah?” Tim said, like it should be obvious, “I didn’t want it to spread to my other appliances.”

Bruce looked astounded by Tim’s sheer stupidity.

“Spread to your other- You do know that a computer virus isn’t just gonna hop out of your laptop and embed itself in your cellphone, right?” 

“Oh, I have a rotary,” Tim said, which was actually true. But Bruce’s eyebrows shot up, and so Tim continued to say the most stupid shit he could think of. Just to see how far he could really drag this one. “But I was thinking, like, my fridge and oven and stuff. I really need those for, like, surviving. So…” He clicked his tongue, “Can’t have them infested with viruses, now can I?” 

Bruce looked a little bit like he was glitching. 

“Okay,” He said, “Okay. So, I’m getting you a phone and a laptop. And also maybe a crash course on how to use both. Hold on-” He looked at Tim, “How did you even get a virus?”

“You know,” Tim said, trying to sound as flippant as possible. How did people get viruses again? He said the first thing that came to mind, which he kind of regretted as soon as it was out of his mouth. “I download, like, so much porn.” 

“Sure you do, prim boy,” Steph said, entering the room with two bowls of popcorn in her arms. “Name your favorite genre of porn, then.” 

Tim blanked.

“Steph..” Bruce said, but Tim was already talking. Idiot mouth running a mile a stupid minute. 

“The one with.. Uh… The-the sex one. Yeah. The sex porn.”

Stephanie stared at him, lip twitching upwards. Bruce was no better, his eyes were starting to crinkle at the edges. They obviously knew he was lying. 

“The sex porn?” Steph said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yup.” Tim nodded, “That’s the one. Love that one. Can’t get enough.” 

“Admit it.” She put down the bowls on the table and fell backwards into an armchair, slouched backwards, feet on the table, hands clasped on her stomach. “You only got a virus because you downloaded, like, twenty chick flicks in a row.”

“Maybe,” Tim huffed, secretly thankful for the much better option given to him, “Or maybe I’m a porn connoisseur with tastes too refined for you plebes to understand.”

“You wish,” Steph said just as Jason entered with a bag of chips, “What if we’re also avid fans of the sex porn?” 

“Exactly,” Bruce said, teasing smile on his face, “After all, that one is a revered classic, so I’ve heard.” 

“What the fuck is going on in here?” Jason looked between his father and Steph, and Tim put on his best poker face. 

“And you, Jason?” He asked, raising a polite eyebrow in inquiry, “Are you also a sex-porn enjoyer?” 

Steph started wheezing, and Bruce chuckled at his son’s disbelieving expression. 

“I’m leavin’ this family,” He announced, “And I’m never coming back.” He pointed at them, scowling, “Actually. I am coming back. But only so I can leave again. What the fuck?” 

-

”I’ve been meanin’ to ask you,” Jason said when the second movie of the night was rolling. Tim was nearly asleep, a dim fog of illness-induced tiredness still clinging to him. “You said you slept outside on New Years, yeah?”

“Yeah..?” Tim said, at once more awake and wary of where this conversation was going. 

“But you somehow didn’t get better while you were at home. In fact, you probably got worse.” He raised an eyebrow, “How come? You decide to go camping some more, or what?”

Tim stretched and groaned, nose scrunched up in annoyance. 

“There’s no heat in my apartment. It broke a while ago, like, months. I've been trying to get my landlord to fix it, but he kind of sucks.”

“I’m sorry.” Jason paused the movie and stared at Tim intensely. Bruce and Steph were also looking at him weirdly. “Tell me you didn’t just say that your apartment hasn’t had proper heating all winter.”

“Uh..” Tim said, not sure exactly what Jason was working himself up over. Sure, it wasn’t ideal, but neither was the rest of Tim’s life. What was a cold apartment in the grand scheme of things? At least he had an apartment. 

“What’s your address again, Tim?” Bruce asked, and Tim rattled it off automatically, unsure of why Bruce needed to know. 

Bruce excused himself and left the room. Jason and Steph were still staring at him. 

“So,” Steph said, sounding near hysteric, “You slept outside. During winter. Got hypothermia and went home to your apartment. Which doesn’t have heating. During wintertime.” 

“Yeah?” Tim said, still a little confused, “Where else was I supposed to go? It’s colder on the streets, you know.” 

“The str- Here, dumbass.” Steph was almost laughing in disbelief, “You could have come here, and we’d’ve given you a room until the heating was fixed!”

Tim furrowed his brows. Would they really have done that? 

They were hosting him now. Under slight duress, but still. He’d woken up in a guestroom. And they seemed to want to keep him there until tomorrow, at least. And, Tim thought, holding back a snort, it wasn’t like they didn’t have the space for it. The Manor was huge. 

“How was I supposed to know that?” He asked. Because, genuinely. How was he supposed to know that?

“I thought it woulda been obvious,” Jason said. “Ya think we’d invite just any weird kid to Christmas dinner?” 

Tim didn’t really know what to say. And Steph only made his speechlessness worse. 

“Come on, Tim!” She reached over and punched his arm, “You’re always welcome here. If you didn’t know before, you do now. You can always come to us for help.”

Tim thankfully didn’t have to come up with an answer, or think about the frightening sincerity of Steph’s words. Because Bruce entered the room again, putting his cellphone into his pocket. He looked at Tim.

“I own your building now. The heating will be fixed in a week. Until then, you’re staying with us.” 

“You what?”

-

When the second movie of the night was done, Tim was practically asleep on the couch. He’d decided not to argue with the fact that apparently he was staying at Wayne Manor for an entire week. He didn’t have the energy. And… honestly? He kind of wanted to. 

Wayne Manor was warm. And cozy. And did he mention it was warm? 

Tim had been living in an icebox for months now. It wouldn’t be too bad to actually have feeling in his hands for a bit. 

There was the issue of his clients, however. In about three days, Tim had a client booked. 

He raised this issue as Bruce walked him back to his bedroom (he still couldn’t really find his way himself). 

“You usually host your clients in your apartment, correct?”

“Yeah,” Tim pulled the blanket he’d brought from the living room tighter around himself. “I’ve got all my stuff there, and the environment is kind of essential for my whole..” He gestured vaguely, “Schtick.” 

And then there was the issue of Tim not having done enough research on this client. He could get by with a general non-specific reading. But that wasn’t really the way he liked to do these things. And the client in question was some big-shot lawyer, sure to be present at one or more functions that Tim might get booked at in the future. He kind of wanted this to go well. 

Preferably, he would have followed the lawyer around. But that was probably out of the question now. He’d have to try to sneak away to an internet café, or something, to conduct his research. 

Ugh. Maybe he should protest living at Wayne Manor. It certainly made his job harder.

“I see…” Bruce hummed and they came to a stop outside of what Tim assumed was his guest room. “How about this? We’ll go to your place tomorrow, get the stuff you need, and set up a room in the Manor for you to do your job in.” Bruce smiled kindly, “I’m sure we can get it up to standard.” 

Tim stared bleary eyed at Bruce. He was still a bit sick, sure, but there was no way he was hallucinating just quite yet.

“You would do that?” He asked, and Bruce nodded. 

“If it’s something you’d be comfortable with. If not, then you could always cancel or reschedule with your clients and I could tide you over until you get back to your place.” 

Tim furrowed his brows.

“Tide me over?” 

“Pay you what you would usually earn, to make up for lost business.” Bruce said this as if it was a completely normal thing to do, and really should have been pretty obvious and easy to figure out. But to Tim, this was as if someone had said yeah, why don’t we just ride a rhino until the horses become available again?

Free money? Was Bruce insane?

“No, that’s- I couldn’t-” Tim closed his eyes briefly and gathered his thoughts, “I’d prefer to see my clients. If you’re certain that it’s fine with you.” 

“Of course,” Bruce squeezed his shoulder, “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t alright with it. Is there anything you need right now? The bathroom is stocked with towels and a toothbrush. There are some clothes as well, some of Jason’s old, I think they should fit you alright.”

“No, that’s.. That’s great. Thank you, Bruce.” Tim couldn’t wait to brush his teeth and head to sleep. He was dead on his feet. He still had to figure out how to get to a computer he could safely use to hack into his client’s business. But that could wait until tomorrow. 

“In that case, goodnight, Tim. Sleep well.” 

“Goodnight,” Tim said, and then it wasn’t long until he was conked out, borrowed pajamas and all, in a giant, soft bed, miles away from his own apartment.

Chapter 20: peace out, homies!

Notes:

he's been comfortable for a bit too long, i think >:)

Tim’s apartment felt even colder than he remembered. As soon as he unlocked and opened the door, it was as if a gust of northern icy wind came rushing out. Though he was now rapidly recovering, it wasn’t difficult to see how he’d made his condition worse by staying there. 

Bruce was with him. It was still very early - before breakfast early - and Tim felt barely awake as he brought out his trusty duffel bags and started packing. Bruce was looking around, but Tim didn’t pay him much mind. He focused on shoving clothes and toiletries in one bag, taking down fabrics from the walls and packing essential decor into another bag. He packed his old tarot deck, and the one he’d gotten from the Waynes for Christmas, his runes, crystal ball and stand. Anything he could think of that would be necessary for doing his job. 

Except his notebook. And his files. He knew he had a short entry about the lawyer-client already, and he’d prefer it if he wouldn’t have to build his entire profile from scratch. Especially not now, when he was living in Wayne Manor, his job already made ten times more difficult. But his notebook was still in the locked room. 

The locked room, which Tim now noticed that Bruce was looking at. 

“Whatcha have in here?” Bruce asked, pointing, and Tim went with an excuse that would have worked if Bruce hadn’t been.. you know.. Bruce. 

“Black mold,” He said, and realized immediately that Bruce would not shake his head and go haha, damn that’s crazy. 

Case in point, Bruce looked horrified. 

“Black mo-“

“I’m kidding,” Tim straightened up from his duffel bag and swept away his fringe from his forehead. His hair felt greasy. He really needed a shower.

Tim gave Bruce a deadpan look. 

“It’s just my office. I keep all my crafts and stuff in there. But nothing I need right now.”

That was a lie. Tim would really like his notebook. He didn’t need to bring any of his other files or binders to Wayne Manor, especially not the Batman binder. God. That would be a disaster waiting to happen. 

“Ah,” Bruce said, and Tim couldn’t quite tell if he’d bought it or not. Whatever. He had to get Bruce out of here so he could get his notebook. 

“Hey, uh..” He scratched the back of his neck. “Do you think convenience stores sell lozenges? Like, for your throat? Or do you need a prescription?”

“Do you have a sore throat?” Bruce asked, immediately sounding like the worried Batman that Tim had sometimes heard when one of the other Bats had gotten injured on patrol. Tim almost felt a little bad about lying.

“It’s not that bad. Really, it’s whatever,” Tim said, sounding like he was playing it down, and Bruce furrowed his brows. 

“If it’s enough to bother you, then it’s not whatever.” Bruce pulled out his cellphone and tapped the screen a few times. “There’s a convenience store just around the corner, and an apothecary a block away if they don’t have what you need. You ready to go?”

Tim bit his lip like he was insecure about something. 

“Not.. I mean, I wanted to pack some more, but if we need to go to the store now to make it in time for breakfast then… I guess.” 

“Oh, no,” Bruce said, a kind smile and a soft look appearing on his face, “I can go get something for your throat while you continue packing. No rush, Tim.”

Fucking bingo, Batman. 

“If you’re sure..” Tim began, but Bruce was already on his way out the door with a see you soon! as his only goodbye. 

As soon as Tim couldn’t hear Bruce’s steps down the stairwell anymore, he zipped into his locked room, grabbed the notebook, and locked the door again. He shoved the book deep down into the bag with his clothes and toiletries. Hopefully, this wouldn’t blow up in his face. He wasn’t sure if the Bats were going to go through his stuff. He’d like to think they wouldn’t, but Dick had followed him and placed a tracker on his jacket, so really there was no telling. He’d keep a sharp eye on it, just to be safe. 

Tim took one last look around the small apartment. It looked empty and bare without the fabrics and decor that usually decorated it. But it would only be for a week. 

He tried not to think about the fact that Bruce Wayne now owned his apartment building. It felt like a little too much to handle. He shoved the thought away, lest it drive him into a panicked spiral. Would he have to move? How closely would Bruce look into his tenants? Would he appoint someone else to do the job of landlord? Probably, Bruce couldn’t possibly be bothered to shoulder that role himself, could he? Tim might still have to move out. It would be risky continuing his normal stalkerish life if the literal Batman owned his building. 

Jesus Christ. There was the spiral. He’d deal with it later. 

The more pressing matter was that now, with two days to spare, he had to figure out how to get to a computer. He could just ask to borrow one, but conducting mildly illegal things on a laptop under the Wayne family’s roof? Probably not a very smart move. They’d find out in a heartbeat, and he’d prefer if they didn’t, like, throw him into juvie. 

An internet café was probably his best bet. It wasn’t quite as safe as doing it from a laptop of his own, but it would have to do. Tim was secure in his skills as a hacker. Plus, he would avoid attracting the attention of the so-called Oracle if he used some random computer in the middle of Gotham. 

Bruce came back just ten minutes later with a bag of cough drops. Tim accepted it, popped one in his mouth, and off they went. The locking of his door felt like a strange sort of goodbye. He had to remind himself that it was really only for a week. 

-

“I feel it is my duty to make sure that someone has actually asked Master Tim if he wants to stay with us for a week,” Alfred said, putting breakfast on the table. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, cut up fruit, juice, coffee. Anything Tim could ever want was right there. He’d never had a breakfast this fancy. At least not one he could remember. 

“I don’t mind,” Tim said, because how could he? It was strange, sure, but at least Wayne Manor had heating. And his friends lived here. He wouldn’t be as lonely as he usually was. “I’m really grateful that you’re all letting me stay here.” 

“It’s nothin’, Tim,” Dick said, mouth full of pancakes, “We’re ‘appy ta ‘ave ‘ou”

“Master Dick..” Alfred admonished, and Dick swallowed down his pancakes and grinned sheepishly.

“Sorry, Alfie. But really,” He looked at Tim, “We are happy to have you here.”

Tim averted his eyes and mumbled something he hoped sounded grateful, and put some fruit on his plate. He had a cup of tea in front of him, the Waynes still stubborn that he got hot food and liquids in him even though he was feeling a lot better. To make the notch between Bruce’s eyebrows lessen, he put some still steaming hot scrambled eggs on his plate as well. 

“After breakfast, I have arranged for a friend of the family to come over to give you a short lesson in how to safely use the Internet,” Bruce said casually, and Tim already had a sinking feeling in his stomach that only got worse when Jason spoke up.

“Oh, you’ll love Barbie. She’s the best with tech-stuff. When I was..” The pause was barely noticeable, but Tim noticed it anyway. “..Abroad.. I wasn’t too caught up on the latest stuff. I was pretty offline.”

Yeah, Tim thought. Being dead sure does make it difficult to keep your twitter account alive.

“But when I got back she got me up to speed on how to use the newest shit.” 

“Language,” Alfred said, and Tim barely heard Jason’s response, because his mind was reeling. 

Barbie? As in Barbara? As in Barbara Gordon? As in Oracle? 

He chewed his eggs and tried not to think of himself as a doomed man. 

-

Tim was in a small living room on the first floor. He’d even managed to find it by himself, which, considering the size of Wayne Manor, was no small feat. Bruce was busy and would not be a part of the Internet-safety lecture, but he had left a brand new laptop and a smartphone on the table.

For Tim. 

He tried to not think about what they might have cost. Or how many programs on them would track his activity. It made his mind swim. 

People entered the room. Tim heard footfalls and the soft sound of wheels against the hardwood. He gritted his teeth, put on a neutral expression and stood up and turned around to face the people. 

It was Dick and Barbara Gordon, the girl who worked at the library. The former Batgirl. The one who was currently calling herself Oracle. He was about to greet them, but Barbara beat him to the punch. Her face was one of total surprise.

“Oh my God. It’s you.” 

Tim froze. 

Did she know? She couldn’t know that he was the one who intercepted the Bat’s comms. Right? They’d only conversed once, briefly through a chat box. And then Tim had smashed his laptop. She shouldn’t be able to know that it had been him. How did she recognize him? 

“What?” He said, voice faint, and Barbara rolled closer to him.

“You’re that kid that hung around in the library,” She said, and Tim could practically feel himself deflating from the relief. “I used to turn off the alarms for you.” 

Wait. Huh?

“What?” He said again, genuinely surprised this time. 

“Yeah. You used to sleep in the attic, right?” She pushed her glasses farther up her nose, “I was never up there myself, it’s an old, and quite wheelchair-inaccessible building, but I saw you sneak up there a few times before closing. And since you were - don’t take this the wrong way - obviously homeless. I decided you needed a way to get in if you weren’t there around closing time.” She smiled a little. It was a sweet and kind smile, and Tim felt so confused. “I mean, you were just a kid, so I turned off the alarms on the top floor every day so you would be able to sneak in.”

Tim didn’t know what to say. 

“You did?” He managed at last, voice now sounding quite weak, and he had to sit down for a moment. He’d thought the building simply hadn’t had any alarms. He’d thought it was too old for that. And that no one would want to break into the library anyway, so they hadn’t been necessary.

But apparently he’d been wrong. There had been alarms. But Barbara had apparently actively disabled them so that he wouldn’t freeze to death outside in Gotham’s winters.

“Yeah. And now you’re here!” She smiled again, “What a coincidence, huh? Small world, I guess. Guess it was only a matter of time, with how Bruce is.” 

“Babs, we haven’t.. He’s not..” Dick said lowly, and Barbara snorted.

“Not yet, at least.” 

Tim wasn’t sure what they were talking about. He was still reeling from the fact that Barbara Motherfucking Gordon had apparently played quite a significant role in his survival. 

“Hey, Tim?” One of them said, but Tim wasn’t listening. He was just staring ahead, mind running through a thousand snowy nights. Freezing temperatures and unforgiving weather. The attic window with the fire escape. How Tim had jimmied the lock and managed to get inside, all those times. He’d thought he’d just been smart. A thrifty kid. But apparently, he’d had someone looking out for him. 

Someone who didn’t even know who he was. But still saw a homeless kid, sure to catch his death outside, and chose to do something possibly very illegal, risking theft and break-ins, just to let him sleep with a roof over his head. 

He’d been dependent on someone else for his continued survival and hadn’t even known. 

His chest felt tight at the realization. What if Barbara hadn’t been that kind? 

Would he have died? Or been caught by the police? 

“Timmy? Are you okay?” 

And then. He’d managed to save up for rent. Managed to work enough to keep up with it. He had an apartment. Now he depended on no one for survival. He was truly his own. His landlord didn’t give a shit, as long as rent came on time. 

No. His former landlord. 

Now, Bruce Wayne owned his apartment. He depended on Bruce Wayne for his survival. Not that Bruce would kick him out of his flat. No way. But, still. He was there, looming over him. Some sort of picture of dependance. Tim couldn’t depend on anyone. That wasn’t how his world worked. He’d tried that before, with his parents, and they’d left him in a fucking storm. Probably hoping he’d die, but that he’d do it out of their sight so they wouldn’t feel too guilty about it.

He had to get a new apartment. It was glaringly obvious now. And he couldn’t stay at Wayne Manor any longer. What had he been thinking? His entire job, his only way to make money, was to conduct highly illegal activities. He couldn’t do that if Batman was his landlord. He couldn’t do that if he lived under the same roof as the entire fucking Batclan. 

He had to get out. He had to get out of here, get away from the Waynes, and flee as far away as he could. That was the only obvious solution. He couldn’t believe that he’d gotten this tangled up with the Waynes. It had been stupid, foolish, pure idiocy. Tim was supposed to be smarter than this. That was how he’d survived.

Or, he thought hysterically, it wasn’t. Because apparently the only reason he’d survived was because he’d been unknowingly dependent on a Bat.

“Tim!” 

He whipped his head towards the voice calling out his name. Dick was crouched in front of him, looking worried, squeezing one of his hands. He ripped it away from Dick’s grasp and stood up, feeling swayish and dizzy. 

“I have to go,” He said, breathlessly. His chest hurt. It felt like he couldn’t get enough oxygen. He probably couldn’t. He was breathing pretty rapidly, shallowly. 

“What do you mean? Did something happen? Are you okay?” Barbara said, trying to wheel closer to him, but he backed away, almost tripping over his feet. 

“I don’t need a lesson on- on computers. It’s fine. I have to go.” His voice sounded far away. Where was the fucking exit? It didn’t matter. He’d find it. 

Shit. No. He needed his stuff first. The notebook. He couldn’t leave that. 

He all but ran through the halls, ignoring the calls behind him. He swore at the size of the Manor as he desperately tried to find his room. After what felt like an eternity, he found it. He grabbed the backpack with the notebook and his clothes in it and slung it on. He was about to head for the exit with all the composure of a hunted animal, when someone blocked his passage.

Dick.

“Hey,” He said softly, and Tim wanted to sob in frustration, “What’s going on, buddy?” 

He shoved past Dick, who caught his arm.

“Let go,” He wheezed, but Dick didn’t loosen his grip. It felt a little too much like his mother’s grasp on his arm as his father let their boat, and Tim’s life, drift out into the storm. All that was missing was sharp nails, digging in through his clothes. Rain, soaking him to the bone. Tail lights, disappearing into the dark.

“Tim, please.” Dick’s eyes were wide and worried, “What’s going on? Come sit down, we’ll talk it out, yeah? It’s alright.” 

“No!” Tim yelled, “No! Let me go!”

Something in his voice seemed to be desperate enough, because Dick let go of his arm, and Tim practically sprinted away. He flew down a flight of stairs, thought it a miracle that he didn’t trip and break his neck. Then there it was, so, so close. The big, wooden doors of Wayne Manor. 

He ran smack dab into someone shorter than him. They both stumbled backwards, nearly losing their balance. And Tim was face to face with Damian, who was rubbing his shoulder where they’d collided with a scowl.

“What’s gotten into you, Tim?” He said, and Tim could only shake his head. He pulled on his boots, not bothering to tie his laces. His hands were shaking too much. 

“Hey! Where are you going?” Damian demanded, but Tim was already out the door, making his way down the gravel driveway, breath caught in his throat. He scaled the giant iron fence, and when his shoes hit the pavement on the other side, he started sprinting, backpack thumping against his back with every step away from Wayne Manor.

Chapter 21: what would gotham city be without a little murder?

The roaring in Tim's ears subsided a little as he slowed down, but picked right up again when he realized where he’d run to. 

In front of him, Drake Manor towered like a colossal mausoleum. Some sort of cold temple dedicated to his past. 

He hadn’t been there in six years. 

Logically, there was nothing that had stopped him from going there. He could probably have lived there while he’d been homeless. But it was too far from the city. And he’d needed the bustling crowds of the city to get what he needed to survive. 

Not a lot of pockets to pick in an abandoned mansion. 

Without really knowing why, he started down the overgrown driveway. Weeds and grass had found their way up through the cracks in the asphalt. His mother would have hated it. As he got closer and closer to the door, he felt his chest tighten. Was he really going back there?

The feeling in his chest somehow got even worse when his hand closed around the door handle, and the door swung open. It was unlocked. Tim didn’t like that very much. But maybe that was just how they’d left it? 

But, as he took in the empty hallway that stretched out in front of him, he got a sneaking suspicion that the unlocked door wasn’t a remnant from when his parents had left. Because in the thick layer of dust on the floor there was a trail of fresh footprints. 

Which meant that someone had been there. Recently.

Tim backed out of the doorway and onto the driveway again. His steps became faster and faster until he turned and ran again. He cast one last glance at Drake Manor, and then turned his gaze forward. Kept running until the only thing he could perceive was the rapid beating of his heart. 

-

Damian stepped out of a cab outside of Tim’s apartment building. 

-

Tim saw Dick and Barbara heading into the library.

-

Jason’s motorcycle was parked by Gotham City Cemetery. A purple helmet hung from the handlebars.

-

Tim was tired. 

Everywhere he went, there they were. He couldn’t seem to escape them. They were looking for him, no doubt. Every place he’d gone, every place that might’ve offered him some sort of comfort or shelter, was crawling with Waynes. 

The only place that wasn’t full of Bats was the small factory he’d found in Crime Alley. He’d crawled in through a window, high up, and had found himself on a metal walkway above the first floor. The narrow platform wrapped around the big room, giving him a great view of the entire floor below. In a corner on it, there stood a few boxes of equipment, and Tim settled in next to them. He changed clothes. Grabbed a baby-wipe from his bag of toiletries and wiped away most of the grime and sweat from his body. 

The factory was probably not abandoned, but it didn’t look like it was in use either. 

Tim didn’t really care. As long as Batman wasn’t kicking the door down, he was happy. 

Happy was a bit of an overstatement. Tim didn’t feel too happy. He’d rather be at home than in Crime Alley. He’d thought he’d left the Alley behind him, but apparently in Gotham, all roads led to Park Row. 

The walkway’s steel grating was digging into his legs, and everything smelled vaguely of fish. The only comfortable thing he had was a few sweaters that he’d piled beneath him, but even those didn’t quite measure up to a bed. 

Tim huffed a small, bitter laugh. He had been homeless, for crying out loud. He’d only had a bed for about two years now (not counting… before his deaths), and he was already complaining about having to sleep on something uncomfortable? At least it wasn’t that hollow beneath that old bridge he’d slept below once. The one that had flooded and washed away most of his things. The one that had nearly washed away him too. 

He didn’t understand how it had come to this. He felt a little embarrassed about running away. But he couldn’t…

Couldn’t what? Act like a normal person? Lie? Tim could do both of those, fairly well actually. But he’d freaked out. Panicked. There was certainly no going back now. No matter how nice the Waynes were. 

Because that was what they were. So insufferably nice and kind. Too nice. Tim didn’t know how to handle it. They wanted him to depend on them, but he couldn’t do that. He just couldn’t. He’d started to, had almost accepted that they wanted him to stay with them for a little bit until his heating was fixed. But he’d come to his senses. Had made a somewhat sensible decision in running.

Was it sensible, though? Could he trust his senses on this one? He didn’t exactly have much to go on when it came to being taken care of. He was unsure. Too tired to think logically. 

He was so exhausted he might collapse. His legs hurt, he was hungry, he felt like shit. 

And it was cold. He didn’t have a jacket. 

The only things he did have were what was in the backpack he’d taken with him. A few changes of clothes, his notebook, and.. 

The tarot deck he’d gotten for Christmas. He’d thought he’d put that with his decor and other stuff. But apparently he’d slipped it into his backpack. 

He brought it out, stared at the velvet box. Ran his fingers over the embossed cards. Gave them a shuffle, and brought one out.

The Hermit. Reversed

Tim wanted to roll his eyes. 

Isolation, his mind supplied unhelpfully, as if it was a reading he was doing for someone else. You might have lost your way. Loneliness and introspection can be good for you, but be careful about losing yourself to it. Connecting with others might seem scary and unthinkable, but sometimes that’s what we need to do to feel better. 

Shut up. Tim didn’t do readings for himself. This was exactly why. He didn’t need some card to tell him about himself. It wasn’t even.. It wasn’t even real, anyway. 

(He tried not to think about the fact that he’d only gotten this far in his career because of the accuracy in his readings.)

He burrowed down beneath a sweater, leaning against the boxes and the wall. He ignored the uncomfortability of the walkway beneath him, and the fact that it was only afternoon, as he let himself drift off into sleep. 

-

He was awakened by voices. Loud and angry ones, echoing through the factory. 

Tim, careful not to make noise, extracted himself from his pile of sweaters and crept closer to the edge of the walkway, peering down at the floor below. 

There were people there, now. The moon cast strange shadows through the windows far up on the walls, and the moonlight was just bright enough for Tim to make out their faces. 

That was Arnold McBrett. Tim knew him. 

Or, he didn’t know him. But he kept tabs on him. He was a very, very important man and attended all the events that Tim had ever been booked at. So, naturally, Tim knew everything about him. Even though the man never came in for a reading. 

He was a shady man. Liked to make deals below the table, liked to embezzle money. He was a sleazy, strange man with expensive suits and tobacco stained fingers. 

Around him were what Tim would like to classify as henchmen. They stood in a loose circle around McBrett and another man. McBrett was spewing accusations and poison at the man, who was on his knees, hands bound.

The light hit his face just right, and Tim bit his lips as he saw the bloodied mess the man’s face had become.

McBrett raised a hand, and in the moonlight, Tim caught a gleam of cold, dangerous metal.

-

Okay. Listen up. 

It goes like this:

When you’re a kid growing up in Gotham City, you build character pretty quickly. You have to get over the shock of things, because just last month the Gotham Gazette reported that on average, every Gothamite encountered at least 1.3 dead bodies a year. Crime rates were through the roof, the water was so poisoned from mad supervillains' chemicals and God knew what else that not even the microplastics wanted to live there, and if you lived on the bottom floor of an apartment building, you were strongly advised to get extra insurance because people were going to break in. 

So when you’re a kid growing up in Gotham City, by the age of sixteen, you’d seen it all. Nothing should really be able to faze you, logically speaking.

Unfortunately, human brains don’t usually like subscribing to logic. 

Which was why Tim gasped out loud when Arnold McBrett, local businessman and apparently murderer, pulled the trigger on a gun leveled between the eyebrows of the man before him. 

The man’s body crumpled to the floor, and McBrett’s head turned so swiftly in Tim’s direction that he didn't have time to duck. 

It wasn’t a too good situation to be caught in. His eyes were wide, he was in plain sight, obviously having seen it all. 

He was a witness.

Witnesses in Gotham didn’t last too long. 

McBrett pointed the gun at him, and Tim did the only thing he could do. Which was haul ass. 

Now, Tim grew up in a mansion for the first ten years of his life. It had been cushy and the most strenuous exercise he’d known had been golfing. After that, however, he’d spent his fair share of time on the streets. And on the streets, outrunning grown men who had it out for you was just par for the course. 

Tim had run from his fair share of cops. This was no different. 

Except cops usually did not have henchmen who seemed to also have grown up on the streets, the way they appeared to know the alleys and backstreets like the back of their hands. 

In a blink he’d grabbed his backpack and was out the window he’d come in from. He slid down the fire-escape outside it, and hit the streets. Tim tried to shake them, he really did, but at the rate they were going (which was incredibly quickly and stressful and with a side of gunfire), he wasn’t too sure he was going to be able to lose them. 

And to his misfortune, it seemed he hadn’t been quick enough.

He almost screamed when a bullet hit him in the arm. 

Did it hit him? Was it just a graze? 

He’d panic about that later, right now he needed to think. He gritted his teeth and ignored the pain. 

The first thing that came to mind was his apartment. But there was no way he could make it there. They would catch up, and even if they didn’t, he would just be leading them straight to where he lived. Out of the question. 

So, as he sprinted down the empty, rugged streets, shoes slamming against the pavement, he decided to fully utilize his brain to the max. It had gotten him into this shit, now it was going to get him out of it. 

Luckily for him, he was very familiar with a certain vigilante’s patrol routes.

He frantically searched the skyline, and he zeroed in on the clocktower, which showed just two minutes to two AM. If he made a right turn there- and then the fire escape, up up up, as quickly as he could climb it with his arm feeling like it was on fire. Then he might just make on to the roof in time for-

Batman.

Chapter 22: fuck dude the cards sure are on the table now

Notes:

buckle up, folks! :D

“Please, you have to help me!” Tim panted as the vigilante touched down on the roof. Two o’clock on the dot, just like he always did. Thank God for Bruce Wayne’s rigid schedules. 

Batman didn’t even seem caught off guard.

“What’s going on?” He demanded, and Tim didn’t particularly care that Bruce probably most definitely absolutely recognized him. He didn’t really give a shit that he’d actively been trying to hide from the Waynes. Because Bruce didn’t know that Tim knew he was Batman. This wasn’t ideal. Not exactly Tim’s dream scenario. But he kind of wanted to make sure his skin stayed free of any more bullet holes and ensure that his boots were not replaced by sweet kicks made out of concrete. 

Gotham Harbor was gross. Tim preferred his water blue and clear, not brown and corrosive. And blue or not, he preferred water to stay outside of his lungs. If going to Batman for help would ensure that, then sure.

“They’re after me!” He hissed, clutching his wounded arm and probably sounding a bit insane, but his words were punctuated by the sound of running and yelling on the street below. Something about a little motherfucker and where it had gone. Tim wasn’t listening too closely. 

“You have to help me, please! They’re gonna kill me!” 

Batman pressed a hand to his ear, probably activating his comm link. But Tim didn’t hear a single word he said. The world was starting to swim. He staggered a little, and a big hand came down on his shoulder, holding him upright.

“I’ve got Nightwing on it. He’ll find the men who did this to you,” Batman promised, and Tim’s legs gave out underneath him from relief. Batman caught him before he could hit the ground. “Let’s get you to a hospital.” 

Tim’s eyes flew open. Apparently he’d closed them.

“No!” He yelled, probably too loudly, and with a little bit of a slur to his words, “No hospital!”

He understood why Batman would say that. But he had a feeling that Bruce knew that he didn’t want to go to a hospital. That was the first reason why he’d stayed at Wayne Manor, because Bruce had suggested a hospital when Tim had wanted to leave, not without sounding like he knew that Tim was going to say no.

“They will help you,” Batman said, and Tim shook his head. 

Getting his arm checked out would be good. But Tim couldn’t go to a hospital. They’d put him back in the system. And he couldn’t fake his death a third time. That would be a little overkill.

“You don’t understand,” Tim said, fighting against the dark edges that had started to close in around his vision. There was a sudden, bone deep exhaustion washing over him. Absently, he recognized it as the adrenaline leaving his body. “You don’t understand,” He said again, words slurred but pleading. “I’ve died twice already. I ca- I can’t do it again.”

The last thing he heard before passing out was a familiar voice, warped through a metallic modulator, that said,

“The fuck did he just say?” 

-

When Tim awoke, there was a blissful two seconds where he thought everything was just normal. 

But he felt the covers on the bed he was in, and they were thin and papery. Not at all like his patchwork bedspread or his thick, down duvet. 

He opened his eyes, alarmed, and found himself staring right up at a cave roof. 

Oh. This must be the fabled Batcave that the Bats mentioned sometimes while on patrol. Tim never thought he’d see it. Especially not after his little impromptu escape from Wayne Manor. What a world. Full of possibilities. 

His arm hurt, but not nearly as much as it had done before he’d passed out. It was wrapped in bandages, he realized.

“Hey!” Someone called, and Tim whipped his head to the side to see Red Hood, though without the Hood and just a domino mask, standing near his bed, “Sleeping Beauty’s awake!” Hood seemed to have been calling out for Batman, because just a few seconds later, there he was. 

Tim sat up in the bed, which he now realized was a cot in a little medical area, and looked at the two Bats with wide and wary eyes. This wasn’t good. He’d half expected them to take him to a hospital, despite his protests. But no, he was in the Batcave. From what Tim knew about it, they didn’t make a habit out of inviting strangers there. 

“Where am I?” He said, pretending like he didn’t know. According to his observations, the Batcave was either below Gotham City Museum of the Arts, or beneath Wayne Manor. Considering the seeming vastness of the cave system, though, Tim decided that it must definitely be beneath Wayne Manor. No way were there caves this size beneath the city. A rogue would have exploited them years ago if that was the case. 

“Batcave,” Batman said. “We brought you here because you mentioned that-”

“You said you had died..” Jason flung himself down in a chair next to Tim’s bed and leaned forward, elbows on his knees and head tilted, “Twice. But you’re very much alive. Say, kid...Have you taken a swim in a Lazarus pit recently?”

“No?” Tim said, not really understanding, “I don’t even know what that is.” 

“Damn,” Jason sighed and leaned backwards again, “Here I thought I’d found my like. Guess we fumbled this one, B.” 

“Then what did you mean?” Batman asked, and Tim shrugged, trying to figure out the best way to get out of this situation.

“I dunno. Thought I was dying? Just adrenaline…ramblings. Probably.” 

“Uh huh, sure,” Jason said, obviously not believing him in the slightest, and Tim pressed his lips together. 

“I should probably get going. If you’ll just point me to the exit I’ll-”

“Nu-uh, shortstack,” Jason said, and Tim stopped removing the blanket from himself. “You’re not going anywhere until you explain.” 

“I mean, thank you for the- uh. The save and all. But there is nothing to explain, and I do actually kind of have to go now, soo..?” Tim prayed that they would let him leave. But before anyone could say anything else, the sound of motorcycles started building up and bouncing off the cave walls. In rolled Dick, Damian, and Steph, all still in uniform.

Steph yanked off her helmet and ran over to them. Damian didn’t even give them as much as a glance, he just walked away to someplace that Tim couldn’t see.

“Oh, my God! Is he alive? Are you alive? What happened? Are you okay?” 

“Spoiler?” He greeted, “I’m.. fine? I think? I’m not quite sure why I’m here, though.” 

“Because,” Jason said, sounding slightly annoyed, “You said you had died, twice. No normal person has ever died twice. Not even I have died twice. So, please, enlighten us to how the fuck that happened.”

“What do you mean he’s died twice?” Dick said, sounding hysteric, and Steph looked like she wanted to echo the question. There was a bruise blooming on Dick's cheekbone. Probably from handling the thugs that had been after Tim. He felt a little guilty about it.

“I…” Tim swung his legs off the side of the bed, letting them dangle as he tried to avoid looking at any of the Bats that were gathered in front of him. 

Listen. Tim was good at lying. He made a living out of being deceptive. But he found it very hard to figure out how to get out of this one. Apparently, they weren’t going to let it go.

“He has died twice,” Came a new voice, and all eyes turned to Damian, who had come back, and was now holding a very thick folder in his hands.

“...What?” Tim said weakly. And then his heart skipped a beat. 

Because Damian was peeling off his domino. 

“Robin!” Batman’s warning rang out in the cave, overpowering the protests of Damian’s siblings. But Damian kept his gaze steady on Tim. 

No. No, no, no. Why was he doing that? Why did he do that? 

“Relax, father,” Damian said, wrinkling his nose at the way Bruce was still going on about some lecture about secret identities. “He already knows who we are.” 

The What?! That resounded in the cave almost sounded rehearsed, the way that everyone said it at the same time. Everyone except Tim and Damian, who were staring at each other. Damian with an intense glare, and Tim with absolute horror. 

“Earlier today, I paid a visit to your apartment,” He said, and Tim felt his heart drop.

Oh, no. He hadn’t… had he?

“That’s actually illegal. Probably. Entering someone’s apartment without consent.” He heard himself say. 

“Your cards tell you that?” Hood huffed and Tim turned a squinting gaze towards him. He looked around him, found his backpack, and brought out his tarot deck.

“No. But do you wanna hear what they think about you?” He pulled a card at random and held it up, not even looking at it. “They say you’re a bitch,” He said, and Hood looked mildly offended beneath his domino.

“They do not!” 

“Sorry, man. The cards never lie. I don’t know what to tell you.” 

“While at your apartment,” Damian continued, and Tim remembered that he was most likely in heaps of trouble. “I found some… very interesting things.” He opened his thick folder, and brought out a binder from it, handing it to his father. The binder was familiar. Too familiar. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. 

“I can explain,” Tim said, as Bruce opened Tim’s Batman-Binder and froze at what he saw.

“Then explain,” Bruce said, showing the contents to his children. They all took on the same, confused and stunned look that their father was already sporting. 

“Okay, I can’t actually explain. Or I can, but it’s not a very good explanation.” Tim closed his eyes, “And you’ve all probably already decided to put me in a cell until I rot and die anyway so, like, what’s the point, really?” Tim was rambling, and the lack of answers was very unsettling. 

“It is written in code, which I haven’t had the chance to crack. But the contents speak for themselves.” Damian’s voice made Tim open his eyes again, looking defeatedly at the Bats, who were flipping through the binder.

Bruce was next to speak, voice too neutral. “Do you know who we are?” He asked, and Tim, despite his years as a liar and hustler, as a scam artist and swindler, knew that there was really no way he could finesse his way out of this one.

“Yeah,” He mumbled, “I do.” 

“Just to confirm..” Bruce said, and Tim pointed at them each in turn. With a quiet voice he said,

“Bruce Wayne. Jason Todd. Dick Grayson. Damian, obviously. Steph. Oracle, I’m only 97 percent sure of, but it’s most likely, probably definitely Barbara Gordon.”

Jason let out a low whistle. And Batman slowly removed his cowl and sat down in a chair next to Tim’s bed, staring at him with a disbelieving look. Dick and Steph were quiet. Too quiet. They, too, were staring at him. Tim didn’t want to look at them, afraid of what expressions their faces might bear.

This was not how this was supposed to go. This was, actually, so, so far from how it was supposed to go. They weren’t supposed to know that he knew! No one was! 

Tim bit his lip. They were going to put him in jail, weren’t they? 

No. Not jail. That would be too much of a risk. Tim could babble in jail. 

Fuck. That was why they’d taken him to the cave? Wasn’t it? On Damian’s orders. Because he knew that Tim knew their identities. They were going to lock him up. He was never going to leave the cave. They were going to keep him here until he shriveled into a husk and died. 

Or Jason would just take him out back and shoot him. That was also an option. 

“Hey!” Damian snapped his fingers in front of Tim’s face. He was snapped out of his spiral, and once again focused his eyes on Damian’s small, scowling frame. He’d apparently been talking.

“Don’t do that,” Dick said softly, crouching down at Tim’s side and gently prying his fingers away from his bulletwound. Tim realized that he’d been pressing down at it, probably in an effort to ground himself. Dick let go of his hand and straightened up, squeezing his shoulder before stepping out of his little bubble of personal space. He was probably wary of cornering Tim. After all, the last time that Tim had felt cornered, he’d taken off in a sprint. 

“As I said,” Damian continued, “I have conducted some research.” He sounded biting and vicious, and whatever research he’d conducted, Tim knew it couldn’t be good. Damian confirmed his theory by continuing his sentence. “And it now seems only fair that you know who we are, because I know who you are.” 

“No,” Tim said. Because Damian could not know who he was. “No.” 

“You see.” Damian turned halfway so he was facing both Tim and his family. “He has, as I said, actually died twice. Legally, at least.”

“Please don’t,” Tim pleaded, and Damian narrowed his eyes. 

“Once, as a boy called Alvin Draper.” Damian reached into his folder and brought out a newspaper clipping. It was old and yellowed, a missing person’s report from the orphanage on 10 year old Alvin Draper. Described as having black hair, blue eyes, estimated height and weight listed, but no photo.

He then brought out the report that declared Alvin Draper as dead. The Bats passed the papers around, and Tim knew what was coming next. He knew. If Damian had found Alvin, then there was no doubt. 

“Please, Damian.” Tim’s voice was hoarse and sounded weak, even to his own ears. “Don’t do this.” 

His head was swimming with panic. His chest felt tight, and he was clutching himself in some strange, sad parody of a hug. 

Damian brought out another paper. This one was thick and glossy. A photograph.

Tim knew that photo. Or, he didn’t know the photo itself. But he knew the painting in the photo very well.

It hung in the dining room in Drake Manor. And it was him and his parents. The years since had done their thing. Tim was older, looked different. 

But not that different. Not different enough. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his head in his hands. Hunching over in defeat. 

“And once…” Damian paused, letting his family get a good look at the photograph. “As Timothy Jackson Drake.”

Chapter 23: cover lightly, gentle earth

Notes:

Sorry for the wait from last chapters cliffhanger! I have managed to get sick🥳
Everything feels awful and I wish I was never born, much like Tim in this chapter! ;)
Enjoy!!

Once, when Tim was about seven, he’d broken a very expensive vase. It had been an accident. He’d been playing, running through the house even though he wasn’t supposed to run indoors, and he hadn’t watched where he was going. Once he’d turned that corner he immediately knew that he shouldn’t have. The vase had started rocking on its pedestal, and then time had seemed to slow down as it plummeted towards the floor. 

His mother had been in the room, and Tim had braced himself for the yelling. The screaming, the harsh words and the punishment. He’d seen her hands curl into fists, had seen the clenching of her jaw.

But as the last ceramic shards slid to a stop by his mother’s heels, there was nothing. She hadn’t said a thing. A deathly silence had fallen over Drake Manor in the wake of the crash, like a frost spreading out, covering every inch.

Somehow, that had been worse. That silence before the storm of fury. Where everything was just building up to some horrible explosion that you knew was inevitable. Like the last few seconds of a bomb’s timer.

It was in that kind of silence that Tim now found himself in. Damian’s words echoed out into the cave, and the silence after laid like a hand around Tim’s throat, waiting for the right moment to start squeezing. 

“You’re.. Timothy Drake?” Jason said, and Tim kept his face buried in his hands, because if Jason looked as crushed as he sounded, then Tim didn’t want to see. 

“Timothy Drake is dead.” His voice cracked, but he ignored it, “I’m just Tim. That’s all.. That’s all that’s left.”

More of that horrible silence, and then Tim heard footsteps walking away. It sounded like heeled boots clacking against the cave floor. He looked up, and sure enough. Steph was walking away, towards an elevator on the other side. 

“Steph!” He called, desperate for her to come back, but she didn’t answer. She kept her back to him as the elevator doors closed. 

Tim stared at the glowing arrow on the elevator. Looked at the way it glowed, and heard the ding that presumably meant that Steph had reached her destination. Wherever that was. 

As far away as possible from Tim, probably. 

He didn’t get the time to dwell on it, because someone else broke the silence. 

“You lied to me!” Damian hissed, pointing an accusing finger at him, “You said your name was not Timothy and you lied.” 

His eyes were shining, and Tim had never seen such fury on a child so young before. It made him want to shrink into himself, both from fear of being sliced in half by the katana on Damian’s back, and from shame. 

“I’m sorry, Damian,” Tim said. But it didn’t seem like enough.

The elevator dinged again.

“I trusted you with my cat! But this entire time, you were deceiving me! I knew that I shou-”

“What,” came a new, much older voice, “Is going on here?” 

If Tim wasn’t having the worst time of his life, he would probably have found it comical how all the vigilantes in front of him collectively winced at Alfred Pennyworth’s sharp words.

“Why on Earth is Miss Brown-” The old man’s eyes locked onto Tim, sitting on his cot, a heap of Bats in a loose circle around him. Tim saw his eyes wander across Bruce and Damian's maskless faces, to Damian’s still ruthless stare, to Tim’s hunched over and miserable state. 

“Everybody out,” Alfred said, still looking at Tim. 

“Alfred..” Jason handed him the photograph of the painting.

Alfred looked at the photo in his hand. His expression was unreadable. Everyone was looking at the butler, and Tim braced himself. But Alfred surprised him.

“I believe,” He said, lowering the photo, seemingly ignoring it, ”That I said everybody out.” He gave his family a cold look. 

Tim wasn’t sure what was going on. 

“The nerve of this family I shall never understand. For people so brilliant as yourselves, you are glaringly blind to the situation before you. Can you not see that the boy is tired, injured, and in dire need of some space?”

“Alfie, you don’t get it. He’s-” Bruce’s words were cut off immediately. 

“If you all have not left this room within a minute, I shall turn in my resignation and start working for Miss Kyle instead. Lord knows at least she has manners.” He leveled his gaze at his oldest ward and icily added, “Master Bruce.” 

“Take this, Pennyworth,” Damian shoved the rest of the papers into Alfred's hands, “Perhaps you will come to change your mind.”

The Bats, miraculously, left. As the elevator’s doors once again closed, Tim caught the eyes of Jason. He was looking at him with furrowed eyebrows and a downturned mouth, and Tim had to look away. 

“Now,” Alfred said in a much gentler voice, “How is your arm feeling, dear boy?” 

-

Even though Tim was sure his bandages had been applied sometime just before he woke up, Alfred had insisted on changing them and looking over his injury himself. 

“Just a graze,” He’d said, “You’re a lucky one, Master Tim. It could have been much worse.”

Yeah, Tim had thought bitterly, this sure is my lucky, lucky day. 

Now, Alfred was sitting next to him on the bed, holding the papers Damian had given him. The photograph of the painting at the top. 

“I remember this boy,” Alfred said softly, and Tim peeked out at him from behind his drawn up knees. Alfred was looking down at the photo in his hands and kept speaking. “Such a small thing, he was. Shy and well mannered. Of course, I never spoke to him directly, but I always took it upon myself to keep an eye out for the children attending Master Bruce’s galas. Lord knows their parents weren’t always doing too good of a job of it.” 

Tim stayed quiet. And Alfred sighed, kept talking in that quiet voice.

“And then there was the storm. A whole family lost to the sea, and no one to make sure that they were taken care of in death. I found it.. I found it difficult… to let go of my self-appointed duties, even outside of the ballroom. And now, there certainly wasn’t anyone looking out for that little boy. So when the time to bury them came..”

“Cover lightly, gentle earth,” Tim said, quoting the words on his gravestone, voice barely above a whisper. Alfred hummed.

“I thought it a fitting poem, for such a small child. There was no body to lay beneath the earth, of course. But I thought it best that the earth should be given some direction, in case they ever found him and properly laid him to rest.” Alfred paused and gave Tim a tired, almost sad look, “After all, the last child to die under my watch had a very difficult time digging his way out. And you were even younger than my dear Jason was when he passed. I held some shred of hope, I suppose. That if one child came back, perhaps the other one would as well. And I could do better by you the second time around.” 

Tim looked down at the floor. Alfred had picked out the words for his grave? Hoping that he might come back, just like Jason had. He didn’t know how to feel about it. He’d thought that Barbara had been the first of the Bats to take care of him, but apparently, Alfred had been years ahead of her. 

“Say, did you actually…” Alfred didn’t seem like he wanted to finish his question, but Tim answered it anyway.

“No,” He said, “I was never dead. Neither are my parents. It was a ploy so they could escape the country.” He looked at the photo Alfred was holding. A painting of him and his parents. He saw Jack and Janet staring at him for the first time in years, and it made his heart feel like roadkill. 

Alfred seemed to take notice of the way Tim was looking at them, because he gently flipped the picture upside down.

“Without you?” He asked, and Tim had to close his eyes for a moment.

“Yeah,” He said quietly. “Without me.” 

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and without thinking, he leaned into the touch. Alfred murmured something, but Tim couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t need to. They sounded reassuring, and kind, and that was all that Tim could ever need. 

He didn’t know how long they sat there for, Tim leaning on Alfred, pretending like he wasn’t crying. Alfred, too, graciously ignored it, except for when he quietly handed Tim a handkerchief from an inner pocket. 

After a while, Tim slowly wormed out from Alfred’s comforting arm and sat up straight again. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before,” The butler murmured, flipping the picture in his lap again and looking first at it, then at Tim. "Perhaps the years blurred my memory of you. But now, it’s all clear to me once more.” 

Tim barely heard him. He was chewing his bottom lip, remembering that unfortunately, it wasn’t just him and Alfred in this place. Above them somewhere, the Bats were waiting.

“What are they going to do to me?” Tim whispered, and Alfred’s expression softened.

“Nothing, dear boy. You are completely safe here.”

Tim had a hard time believing that.

“But,” He protested, “I know. Like, I know everything. All their identities. They’re not going to let me go back to my old life with that information. What if I told someone?” 

“Are you going to tell someone?” 

Tim wrinkled his nose and looked at Alfred with a small frown.

“Of course not!”  

“Then I do believe that there is absolutely nothing to worry about. As for going back to your old life..” The butler hummed once, laying the papers to the side. “Is that what you want?” 

Tim didn’t understand.

“What else would I do?” 

Alfred smiled. 

“Come tomorrow, I do believe you will find yourself overwhelmed by the sheer amount of options. But I do think that it will have to wait precisely until then. It is very late, Master Tim. What say you we both get some sleep?” 

Tim would love some sleep. In fact, there was probably nothing he wanted more right then than blissful unconsciousness. But…

“Steph,” He said, remembering the way she hadn’t even looked at him as she’d walked away. “And Damian, and Jason, everyone. They’re mad at me.”

“There are a lot of emotions stirring tonight. Mostly, I believe, confusion. They might feel betrayed that you didn’t tell them about your true identity,” Alfed scoffed, “But I must say that that is very rich coming from a family of masked vigilantes. Don’t you worry, you and I shall sort it all out. Tomorrow.” 

“You and I?” Tim echoed, and Alfred stood up and gave Tim a small smile.

“If you think that I am letting you out of my sight again, then I regret to inform you that you are sorely mistaken. We shall face them together, and I shall calm them down if so needed. Now,” He gestured for Tim to follow him, “Let’s get you to bed, young man.”

Notes:

there is more art for this story!! this time it's made by the lovely bandanabiel on tumblr, check it out and show them some love!

Chapter 24: the truth, bruce edition

When Alfred came to wake him up, Tim had already been up for about an hour and a half. He’d taken a shower, brushed his teeth, changed clothes, taken another shower because there was nothing else to do and the Waynes had hot water, and then he’d sat on his bed slowly driving himself insane for a while.

Alfred’s knocking on the door felt like both relief and like impending doom. 

They’d decided to do it one Bat at a time, because Tim genuinely didn’t think he’d be able to handle all of them at the same time. And also, not to cast shade over the butler, but Tim wasn’t sure that Alfred would be able to wrangle all of them if things got out of hand. Maybe he would, he’d certainly been able to send them all out of the cave yesterday, but Tim didn’t want to take any chances. 

So Tim and Alfred were on the way to the kitchen. Where Tim and Bruce were going to have breakfast. 

He stopped outside of the door, and Alfred too came to a halt. He was quiet, letting Tim gather his thoughts and get his breathing under control. 

“You’ll be there, right?” Tim asked, and Alfred reached out and gently tugged at Tim’s collar, smoothing it out over his sweater. 

“The whole time, Master Tim. Now,” He opened the door to the kitchen and stepped aside, “Breakfast awaits.”

Tim took one last deep breath, and then entered the kitchen.

Bruce was sitting at a seat next to the head of the table, and was dressed in sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a robe. Tim felt overdressed as he slid into the seat opposite Bruce. He stared down at his empty plate, waiting for the first blow. But, no blow came. Instead, it was a question. 

“Coffee?” Bruce asked, holding the pot up in inquiry, and Tim was so stunned that at first he just stared for a few seconds before he found his voice again.

“Yes, please.” 

Bruce poured him a cup, and then silence settled as they each sipped their coffee. Alfred had taken up place by the stove and was making what looked like pancakes. Tim wasn’t too concerned. He doubted he’d be able to stomach anything anyway. 

“I’ve spoken to my children,” Bruce began, and Tim was taken so off guard that he almost spilled his coffee. He put the mug down and looked at Bruce, who calmly continued. “Though we each have different questions and different things that we’d like to talk to you about, there are a few topics that overlap. We thought of a way for you to avoid having to repeat yourself with each conversation, if you’d be comfortable?” 

Tim nodded slowly. He would like to avoid having to repeat the same thing over and over and over. Otherwise, this day would become even more tiresome than it was already promising to be. 

“I’ve got them all in what’s called a group chat, and if I start a call within that chat, I will have the ability to mute them all,” Bruce spoke very slowly, and Tim realized that he must still think that Tim was incompetent with all things tech. Which begged the question if Damian had only found, or looked for, parts of his stalkerish behavior. 

Did they still not know he’d been the one that Oracle had discovered hacking in to their comms? 

Jesus. What did they know about him? 

“I know what a group call is,” Tim said, and Bruce raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Call them, and mute everyone except Damian, please.” 

“Are you sure, Master Tim?” Alfred said, coming round the table to put down a fat stack of pancakes on Tim’s plate. They glistened, perfectly fried, and Tim’s stomach grumbled. 

“Yeah. I need to ask him something.” 

Bruce called, and barely one signal went out before everyone had connected to the call. Bruce did as told, and muted everyone except for Damian. Their contact pictures split the screen into four squares. Tim tried not to look at them too closely. 

“Damian,” Tim greeted hesitantly, and Damian didn’t answer. “I need to know exactly what you know about me, so that this conversation can be as effective as possible.” 

More silence, and just when Tim thought that he wasn’t going to get an answer, Damian finally spoke. 

“Your name is Timothy Jackson Drake. You have a disturbing amount of information about my family, which you have gathered by stalking us, as far as I can tell from the binder you so helpfully put together.” There was an emotionlessness to his words that made Tim squirm in his seat. “You do not currently have a legal identity, since Timothy Drake is presumed dead. The nuns at your orphanage recognized your picture, but called you Alvin Draper. Who is missing, also presumed dead. You currently work as a well established fortune teller.” 

Damian went silent again, and Bruce muted him once more. Tim wanted to find whoever invented the mute-button and personally hand them the keys to the city. Not that anyone would ever want the keys to Gotham City, but it’s the thought that counts.

“Okay,” He took a breath. “Okay. Before you ask whatever questions you have, I want to, uh. Show my hand completely… so to speak.” 

He pressed his lips together, pretended the phone with the rest of the Bats wasn’t there, and spoke.

“I’m also the guy who hacked into your comms. And I’m not a real fortune teller. I mean, that one’s kind of obvious, but-”

“You hacked into the comms?” Bruce was outright staring at him now, and Tim clamped his mouth shut. He should have known that Bruce wouldn’t take that lightly. He should have shut up about it. There was no reason to tell them that if they didn’t already know. But now he had and Bruce had sounded mad at him and-

“Master Bruce, tone,” Alfred said calmly from where he was doing the dishes, and Bruce cleared his throat. Tim’s head stopped spinning at the sheepish look Bruce was now giving him.

“Sorry. I was just surprised that it was you, is all. I didn’t think you were… You did say that you thought computer viruses could spread to your toaster, so..”

“I don’t have a toaster.”

“Well. Your oven, then. No matter. I just did not expect it to be you, of all people.” Bruce chuckled, and Tim felt his shoulders untense a little. “What was that you were saying about fortune telling?” 

Right. Tim picked up where he’d left off.

“I’m obviously not a real fortune teller. But I get my readings accurate by… uh. Stalking. I guess. I call it research, but it’s probably stalking.” Bruce raised an eyebrow, and Tim hurried to correct whatever weird notions Bruce was forming about him, “I only do it so that I know what to say if people come to my readings. I don’t do anything else with the information, like, sell it or whatever. It’s just so I can be accurate. I just..” He sighed, rubbed his eyes. 

“I just wanted to be accurate. I got into fortune telling because I thought it sounded cool, and you could charge quite a bit for readings, especially at events. And I needed the money. But I didn’t want to be a complete scammer, you know? I wanted to be right.” 

“And this… research?” Bruce said, and Tim wasn’t exactly sure what more information he could want about it, but it cleared up pretty quickly as Bruce continued, “This is how you found out about us? You looked into our lives and found out about our identities?” 

“No.” Tim shook his head. “I’ve known since I was nine.”

“That’s why there’s no discovery chapter in the binder.” Bruce stroked his chin, “You didn’t need to add it, because you already knew. I was wondering about that, it’s so meticulously organized, aside from how exactly you came to know.” 

Tim briefly marveled at the fact that they’d already seemed to have cracked the cipher he’d written the Batman-Binder in. Maybe it hadn’t been as complicated as he’d thought. Or maybe, having the key be Robin had been a foolish choice.

In his defense, he did not think that the literal, actual Robin would ever attempt to crack it. 

“If Damian found the binder, he would have found the rest of my files. The ones on my clients.”

Bruce almost smiled.

“I do think that my son had a so-called… one track mind, when he went looking for information. But,” He tilted his head a little, and Tim took a sip of his coffee, mentally preparing himself for whatever it was that Bruce was going to say next. 

“You’ve known since you were nine? How so?” 

Okay. That was a reasonable question. This was going surprisingly well, this far. Tim wondered when his luck was going to turn.

“Because of Dick. Before I...” He furrowed his brows, “Before Timothy Drake died, I used to photograph you all. Like, when you were on patrol. I’d only done it for a little bit, and I saw Nightwing do this trick. It looked super complicated, and I googled it at home, and I realized that only a few people in the world could do it. And then, you know. It wasn’t too difficult to put it together. Only one of them lived in Gotham, after all.” 

Bruce made a humming sound, and Tim decided to eat his breakfast while Bruce pondered that information. He shoved half a pancake into his mouth. It was amazing. 

“About Timothy Drake,” Bruce said carefully, and Tim swallowed his pancake. It wasn’t chewed enough and hurt going down. “You… Could you talk us through that, do you think?”

Tim suddenly wasn’t that hungry anymore. Nor was he particularly eager to make eye contact. Nor did he really want to be there, having that conversation. 

But he was there. And they were having that conversation. So there was nothing to do but grit his teeth and get through it. 

“My parents left.” He kept his eyes downturned, “When I was ten, they packed their shit and faked their deaths. They left me behind, out by the harbor.” He gave a wry laugh, “I guess they thought that I’d die, or something. But I didn’t.”

“The orphanage,” Bruce mumbled, and Tim nodded.

“Yeah. I walked into a church, fell asleep, and when I woke up I had three nuns staring down at me. I gave them a fake name, because I-” He laughed again, almost hysterical. “I thought my parents were coming back for me. And I thought I can’t let the Drake name be associated with this. Isn’t that fucked up?” He looked at Bruce now, somehow unable to stop laughing, “I thought they were coming back. And I wanted to protect them. When they left me for dead!”  

He realized that he wasn’t laughing anymore. 

He was crying. But he couldn’t stop talking. The words just poured out of him. 

“And then I saw that they’d declared me dead. Timothy Drake was dead. Along with his stupid parents. I’d thought I’d be able to go back to being me, but the tabloids fucking killed me. I wasn’t supposed to- That- That wasn’t how it was supposed to be!” 

He buried his head in his hands, unable to meet Bruce’s pitying eyes. 

“That’s what you meant,” Bruce murmured, and Tim didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. Bruce seemed to realize this. 

“When you passed out outside of the museum, you said they left me behind. That’s what you meant, right?” 

Tim didn’t answer. He thought it quite obvious. 

“I think that’s all for now,” Alfred’s gentle voice came from behind him. “I think that Master Tim could use a little break.” 

“I’m fine,” Tim said, even though he absolutely didn’t feel fine. But he heard Bruce disconnect the group call, and heard him approach. He rubbed his eyes and looked, just to see that Bruce had crouched down next to Tim’s chair. 

“I’m so sorry, Tim,” He said, and Tim furrowed his brows, blinking away tears. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. You’re right. That’s not how it’s supposed to be, and I’m really sorry that that’s how things turned out for you.”

“You’re not mad?” Tim managed, and Bruce, to his surprise, shook his head.

“No. I admit that my reaction yesterday could have been better. But I swear to you, I’m not mad.” He smiled a little and cast a glance at Alfred, “As Alf has made very clear to me, I would be one of the largest hypocrites on Earth if I was mad at you for keeping your identity a secret.” 

“Yeah,” Tim sniffled, “You fucking would.” 

“Would you like to be alone for a bit?” Bruce asked, “I could leave you here with your breakfast, or you could take it with you to your room.”

“To my room,” Tim said. “But then I want to talk to the others. I need to- I need to talk to them.” 

Bruce might not be mad at him. But the way Steph had left, Damian’s outburst, Jason’s frown… He needed to sort this out. He needed to fix it. To explain himself. 

“All in due time, Master Tim,” Alfred said, placing his plate on a tray piled high with more breakfast food than Tim could possibly eat in a lifetime. “All in due time.”

Notes:

in this chapter, you might've noticed that i put my own spin on how tim originally discovered that the batfam is also the waynefam. since jason died before tim's parents fucked off, it means that he was already robin when tim was out photographing as a kid. but in this story, nightwing never left gotham for bludhaven. so while tim doesn't go to the circus and doesn't see dick-robin do the quad-somersault, he does see nightwing do it, goes 'fuck thats neat. what is that called', googles, and then sees that dick grayson is one of the few people than can do it. just to clear that up a little. maybe it was obvious to y'all, but i'm running on no sleep and my head is swirly with the aftermath of being ill, so my brain uuuuh.. does not... like... work

ALSO!!! MORE ART<3333 CHECK IT OUT

 

all my love,
wes <3

Chapter 25: in case you've all forgotten, i'm literally a criminal

Summary:

more conversations! some better than others,,

After breakfast, Tim allowed himself an hour of peace before he sought out Alfred again. 

Second on the list of Bats was Steph. Steph, who was not yelling at him, but not not yelling at him. 

“You knew all this time who I was.”

“I did,” Tim said, and forced himself to meet her eyes. They were in the kitchen again, a platter of untouched fruit and berries between them. Alfred was making them hot chocolate. Tim wasn’t sure how many warm beverages this day would include, or if the Bats were over his little hypothermia scare yet. 

Judging by Alfred’s quick whisking, they probably weren’t. 

“You’re my best friend,” Steph said, and she looked hurt, “You could have told me. You could have come to me with this! I thought you trusted me.” 

“I..” Tim sighed, “I do trust you.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Miss Brown,” Alfred said, voice kind, “Inside voice please.” 

“Sorry. But why didn’t you tell me?” 

“How would you have taken it?” Tim asked. He dragged his hands over his face and looked at her, silently pleading that she’d understand. “What if you’d freaked out if I told you that I knew. And, then what? Was I supposed to also tell you that I’m legally dead? And a criminal?” He smiled a little. It was bleak. “You think I was itching to say that to a literal crimefighter? No offense, Steph. I love you. But fuck no.”

She sighed, but reached out to take his hand. She squeezed it tightly, and Tim squeezed back. 

“I love you too, dumbass.”

Tim pursed his lips, holding back a smile.

“... But you’re still mad at me?” 

“I’m not mad!” She protested. 

Tim’s lip twitched. 

“You’re a little mad.” 

Quick as a cobra, Steph’s hand slunk out of his. Tim barely had time to react before she’d reached for the fruit platter and chucked a grape at him. It hit him squarely between his eyebrows and bounced back onto the table. Tim plopped it in his mouth, giving Steph a grin. 

“Shut up, tarot boy. I’m hurt that you didn’t feel like you could come to me, but...” She looked at him, eyes earnest. “I get why you didn’t, I guess.”

“You guess?” 

Tim laughed and ducked as another grape came flying. 

They were quiet for a bit, eating from the plate of fruit. Alfred got done making the chocolate, and put a cup each down. They drank it in silence.

“I’m sorry I stormed off yesterday,” Steph said, eyes fixed on the marshmallows in her cup, “I do that when I’m upset.” 

“It’s alright,” Tim said, and she shook her head.

“I should have stayed. Made sure no one said anything mean, or overwhelmed you, or something. It was a bitch move to just leave.” 

“Eh, I forgive you. Alfred came in clutch just after you left.” 

She snorted. 

“Yeah, I heard. Thank God for Alfred, huh?” She grinned at the butler and Tim saw him smile a little to himself as he was washing the pot he’d made the chocolate in. 

“I’ll drink to that.”

The clink of their cups felt like progress. Like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. 

Maybe the rest of this day wouldn’t be so horrible. 

-

Next was Jason.

Tim had an inkling of where that particular conversation was going to head, and his suspicions were confirmed just two seconds after Alfred and Tim entered the library. 

“Two dead boys in one room,” Jason said, voice monotone yet somehow cutting, “It’s gettin’ a bit crowded.”

He was standing by a window, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Tim barely managed to suppress his wince at Jason’s words. 

“Hi, Jason.” Tim walked closer but still kept a distance between them. He’d seen what Red Hood looked like when he was angry. And though he didn’t think that Jason was going to brutally murder him inside of the Wayne’s library, he thought it best to stay out of his personal space. 

After his conversation with Steph, he was hoping to get through this one in a similar manner. Give his reasoning, explain himself, make it alright again. 

Alfred started dusting, moving silently and seeming at ease. Like he was just conducting his household duties as normal. Tim knew he would probably interject if it got nasty between him and Jason, but that didn’t make meeting Jason’s sharp eyes any easier. 

Jason kept talking without acknowledging Tim’s greeting.

“Though I suppose only one of us actually died.” He tilted his head, “None of your deaths were actually real, were they, Timothy?” 

“Tim,” He corrected automatically. This was already taking a different turn than his earlier conversation.

“Oh?” Jason repeated, words dripping with venom. “You sure it’s not Mortimer, then?”

“What do you want, Jason?” Tim snapped, and was surprised at the anger in his own voice. But, now he was on a roll. No backing down. “I can do this song and dance all day, but it would be easier to just cut to the chase. You’re obviously mad. Just tell me what you're mad about and we can both move on with our lives.” 

Somewhere on the other side of the room, Alfred stopped dusting.

Jason looked taken aback for about one single second, and then his jaw set and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“You’re Timothy Drake. I told you about visiting your grave, and you didn’t say anything. Didn’t let me know you were alive, standin’ right next to me.”

“My name,” Tim ground out, meeting Jason’s icy gaze with one equally cold, “Is Tim.” 

“It’s Timothy Jackson Drake,” Jason spat. He pushed off the wall and towered over Tim, “And you let me keep mourning you!” 

“Boys,” Alfred said. “Easy now.”

Tim ignored him, and seemingly so did Jason.

“Before you told me, I didn’t think that anyone was mourning me. How am I supposed to handle that information? Fuck, man.” Tim threw up his arms. “I didn’t even know that I had a grave until you told me about you going to visit it. How am I supposed to deal with that? Huh?” 

He stared at Jason, incredulous and near hysterics for the second time today. Jason stared back, eyebrows knit. 

Apparently, Steph’s reaction had just been luck. And apparently, Tim’s luck had run out.

“Was I supposed to be chill about the fact that I have a grave? Was I supposed to be like oh, by the way, that’s my grave that you’re visiting? My bad.” He gave a disbelieving laugh, “Genuinely, my fucking bad, bro. I was too busy having a damn crisis to inform you of my most well-kept, deepest, darkest secret which - by the way - ensured my continued survival and independence. I’ll do better next time! For sure!” His voice was loud and bitingly sarcastic, and Jason was probably about to say something no doubt equally as harsh back, but suddenly, Alfred stood between them. 

Tim became aware of the fact that his chest was heaving, and that he’d clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. 

Jason didn’t look too composed either. 

“Boys,” Alfred said again, looking at them with raised eyebrows. “I understand that emotions are running high, but I highly encourage you both to think your next words through.”

“No need,” Tim said, looking Jason up and down with a scowl. There was an expression on his face that Tim didn’t bother reading into. “I’m done here. Where is Damian?” 

Might as well get it all over with.

“Master Tim, are you su-”

“Please, Alfred. Where is Damian?” Tim turned away from Jason, and kept his gaze steady on the old butler. Alfred sighed, but said,

“I do believe he’s in the parlor.”

“Thanks. You don’t have to come with, I can talk to him alone.”  

Alfred’s eyes softened.

“I’ll be just a shout away, should you need me.” 

“Thanks, Alfred,” Tim said again, putting a bit more sincerity in it this time. 

He turned and left, hoping that he’d be able to find his way to the parlor by himself. 

-

Damian was, indeed, in the parlor. He was reading, and didn’t even look up when Tim entered the room. 

Tim waited. 

Eventually, Damian’s eyes wandered up and met his. His eyes were pure steel, and Tim already knew where this was headed. 

But he’d try to keep a level head. Damian was a kid. He couldn’t take out his anger at a child. That was just straight up wrong. He wouldn’t stoop to that level.

“I don’t take kindly to betrayal,” Damian said, and Tim nodded. 

“Understandable,” He said. “I’m sorry for lying to you.” 

“Sorry.” Damian put away his book and rose, “Is not good enough. I trusted you, and you lied to me.”

Tim, admittedly not completely calmed down from his conversation with Jason, felt himself grow irritated.

“I know. I'm sorry I lied to you. I thought that things would get worse if I didn't lie. I did what I thought was right.”

There. That was a good way to put it, right? From what Tim knew about Damian, he would probably understand having to do something for the greater good.

It appeared that Tim had thought wrong. Damian stalked up to him and jabbed a finger at him. 

“You are lucky they have taken my weapons from me,” He hissed. “I do not trust lightly, and you were foolish enough to break that trust. Lying to me will not go-”

“You lied to me too,” Tim snapped. He saw Damian’s confusion behind the anger. 

“When have I-”

“I didn’t tell you who I was or what I knew. But neither did you, yeah? You didn’t tell me you were Robin. Why should I have told you who I am?” 

He regretted the tone of his words as soon as they were out of his mouth. 

“Sorry, I just mean that-”

“I did not tell you about my secret identity because I, along with my family, protect Gotham.” Damian looked furious, and Tim bit his tongue. “If people found out who we are, catastrophe would follow. Criminal scum would use it against us, and countless lives could be endangered! Surely you cannot say the same.”

“What about my life?” Tim bit out, trying as hard as he could to keep his cool. Damian is a child, he kept repeating in his head, He is a child. A child. Be nice. 

“What about it?” Damian asked, raising an eyebrow. Tim, as nicely as he could muster, answered. 

“My life would be fu- screwed.. if I told people who I was. Unless you’ve forgotten, I am one of those criminal scum that you’re talking about. You think it would have been a smart move to tell Robin that I’m a criminal?”

“Your crimes are hardly of-”

“And furthermore, I am a minor with parents who are presumed dead,” Tim felt his temper rising. He tried and tried to keep his composure, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. He needed this conversation to end. “If people knew who I was, I would get shipped off to the nearest orphanage. I’d lose my apartment. My belongings. My independence and freedom. I’d lose everything that I’ve worked for years to achieve. My entire life would be ruined.”

Damian was quiet. There was still a small scowl on his face. Something about it looked different from before, but Tim was too tired to figure out what that might mean. He sighed.

“That’s why I didn’t tell you. It was a survival strategy. I just wanted to-” He cut himself off. Damian’s eyes on him felt like needles in his skin. He needed a break from people. Needed to scream into a pillow, maybe. He wasn’t sure. He was just tired. 

“It doesn’t matter,” He muttered. 

Mentally giving himself a pat on his back for not screaming at a child, Tim walked out of the parlor and tried to find his way back to his room. 

-

He managed, somehow. And when his door was just a few meters away, he allowed himself to relax.

He really should have known better.

A door opened behind him, and Tim kept walking, praying that he’d be ignored. 

“Hey, Tim!” Dick called out, crushing Tim’s hope like a snail beneath his shoe.

Tim kept walking. Dick gently caught his arm in some new, stranger version of last time Tim had tried to escape him in the Manor. This time, Tim wasn’t in the middle of a mental breakdown, nor was he full of panicked energy. This time he was tired, and he allowed Dick to spin him around. 

Dick let go of his arm and gave him a little smile. Tim just looked at him.

“Can we talk?” Dick asked, and Tim’s gaze hardened.

“Sure,” He said through clenched teeth. “Of course. What’s up Dick? What might you be mad about?” Tim raised his eyebrows in challenge, “You wanna tell me how stupid I am for not telling anyone about my identity? You wanna yell at me a bit? Maybe tell me what a dirty fucking liar I am?” He threw his hands up in surrender, “Let’s have it, then, because I can’t fucking take any more-”

Tim’s words were cut short when his head collided with Dick’s chest. 

“No, you silly child,” Dick mumbled. “I want to give you a hug and tell you how sorry I am.” 

He was holding Tim tightly, arms wrapped around him, and suddenly Tim felt like all the air had gone out of him. 

Dick’s hoodie was soft. Tim nearly collapsed against him. He brought his arms up and clung onto Dick like he was a lifeline and Tim really was drowning in Gotham Harbor. It certainly felt like it. This whole day he’d been treading water like his life depended on it. 

“I’m not mad. Or,” Dick chuckled a little, “I’m a little mad, but mostly because you’re not a real fortune teller. That kind of sucks. Not gonna lie, I’m real bummed about that one.” 

“Sorry,” Tim whispered, and felt Dick’s chest rumble with another laugh.

“No, don’t be sorry. I’m sorry.”

“About what?” Tim asked, because what did Dick have to be sorry about, really? Out of everyone, he’d probably been the one to react the least to the shocking news about Tim’s life.

“Everything. I’m sorry your parents left you. I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to tell us who you were on your own. I’m just sorry, Tim. It’s really unfair.” 

Dick’s hoodie was starting to grow damp. Tim pretended that he had nothing to do with it. 

“Alfred told me about Jason. And I can guess how the talk with Damian went. I tried talking to Dami before, but he’s… I don’t know how much you know about his background, but he takes certain things very seriously. He doesn’t like when things aren’t the way he’s been told they should be.”

“It’s fine,” Tim said, trying not to go boneless at the way Dick had one hand on his head, stroking his hair with slow, gentle motions. It was nearly enough to make him sleepy.

“It’s not.” Dick said firmly, “I’m going to talk to him. To Jason too. We’ll sort it out.”

How? Tim wanted to ask. How are you going to sort this out? But he didn’t say it. Instead he slowly extracted himself from the hug and hastily wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. He sniffed and looked up at Dick. 

“Do you want to watch a movie with me?”

Dick’s smile was kind, warm, and soft.

“Of course I do. Should we invite Steph too?”

Notes:

there is more art for this story!!!!<3333333

check out this awesome piece by chocolatewobblermuffinwagon on tumblr!

also, you may have noticed that there is now a work "inspired by" this one by user BHATC. guess what! THAT'S EVEN MORE ART!!!!

aren't they all amazing??? show 'em some love<3

Chapter 26: a CHILD???

Notes:

sorry for not updating as frequently as i usually do. school is killing me dead and then for some reason keeps beating my dead body further into the ground. the next update will probably also take a while to come out :,)

Gun to his head, Tim could not have recounted the plot of the movie they were watching. He didn’t have a clue what it was about, didn’t know any of the characters’ names, didn’t know what genre it was. 

He assumed it was action, on account of all the gunfire. 

But he couldn’t have said it for sure, because Steph was warm next to where he was under his blanket, and he was slowly sinking deeper into the plush couch, head on her lap as she braided his hair over and over. She’d practically pulled him down, insisting on trying out different hairstyles on him. 

He was sure he looked ridiculous, hair in what he thought was three (or four? Or five? He honestly didn’t know how many) different ties now. He didn’t know where she kept getting the hair ties from, didn’t know if his hair was in little ponytails, or if they were braids, or twists? All he knew was that sometimes, gently and feather light, her nails scraped against his scalp, sending waves of calm down to his weary, heavy bones. 

Dick had Tim’s feet on his lap, and his own on the coffee table. Occasionally he would point something out in the movie, and Steph and him would theorize or speculate or complain or whatever it was that they were doing. Tim didn’t know. He could barely hear them. Sometimes he hummed a little so it would sound like he was engaged in the conversation. But really he was laying with his eyes glazed over, almost closed, walking a tightrope over the abyss of sleep. 

All was calm, and Tim could nearly forget the tiresome day he’d had. He could nearly see past the arguments, the shouting, the frustration. 

Because there he was, between two of his friends, safe and sound with too many tiny elastic bands in his hair to count. 

The disruption to his calm started quietly and far away. It was easy to look past at first. 

Footsteps, at least two sets, marching closer and closer. 

Tim ignored it to begin with. This was a big house with many people in it. It could be anyone, going anywhere. 

But then it grew louder. And Tim furrowed his eyebrows, because it really did sound like they were coming towards the TV-room, didn’t it? Judging by the way Steph’s hands had stilled in his hair, she heard it too. 

When it became supremely obvious that whoever it was was coming straight for them, Tim looked towards the door and prayed that it was just Bruce. He felt a little bad for thinking it, but he hoped that there was some sort of emergency in Gotham that required the Bats. He couldn’t deal with someone coming to pick a fight with him. 

Please let it be Bruce. Please, please, please, let it be Bruce. 

The door to the TV-room slammed open, hitting the wall hard enough to make it rattle in its hinges and probably denting the wall with the handle. 

What happened next happened so quickly that Tim barely registered it. 

Jason marched into the room with eyes that were practically glowing, and in an instant everyone was yelling, and Dick and Steph were on their feet.  

Problem: Since Tim had been laying halfway on top of Dick and Steph’s laps, and because they were no longer sitting on the couch, that meant that Tim was also no longer on the couch.

Rather, when they so thoughtlessly shot to their feet, the force launched Tim’s body forward and sent him sliding over the coffee-table with such speed that he went straight over the edge on the other side, like a disc in the world's worst game of shuffleboard.

He hit the floor hard, nose first, hopelessly tangled in his blanket. 

The pain made him see stars for a second, and his eyes teared up immediately. He kept laying face down for a bit, to try to understand what the fuck had just happened. 

The heated conversation that had started as Jason entered the room came to a very sudden halt when Tim hit the floor, and he raised his head and croaked out a pathetic I’m fine!

This, apparently, did not assure the people. Instead, they looked horrified. 

“Jesus, Tim,” Steph said, crouching down next to him and helping him untangle himself from the blanket, “Your nose!” 

Tim rose to his feet and brought a hand up to his nose, touching it gingerly. His fingers came back coated in blood, and at once he became aware of the warmth that was leaking down over his face. He was certain he looked a right state, blood over half his face and hair tied up like several tiny antennae. The very picture of grace and composure, for sure.

He also noticed that not only had Jason barged into the room. He was followed by Bruce. 

Jason to keep arguing with him, probably. Bruce, Tim assumed, to stop him. 

But Bruce did nothing to stop him, he just stood there, staring at Tim. Eyebrows furrowed, eyes wide, and hair looking grayer than ever. 

“It’s not that bad,” Tim mumbled, looking confused at Bruce and Jason’s expressions. They still looked, for lack of a better word, horrified. It was just a bloody nose. Tim literally had a gunshot wound in his arm. 

Or. He had a graze. Which was healing very nicely and only hurt a little. But still. He’d been shot at. This was a bloody nose, not a bazooka to his stomach. 

“Jason,” Dick commanded, standing a little bit in front of Tim like he was shielding him, “Leave.” 

“I’m not here to-” Jason was swiftly cut off. 

“He’s had enough for one day!” Dick kept on arguing with a scowl. It was a bit touching. “I thought better of you. What good does it do you to act like that? Alfred told me everything. I’m really disappointed in-”

“He was nine!” Jason almost shouted, gesturing wildly towards Tim and looking at Dick with eyes teetering on the edge of crazed. 

“What?” Dick and Steph said at the same time, and Tim too wondered what Jason was talking about. 

“Tim,” Bruce spoke up, and all eyes turned to Tim, who was a little busy trying to catch as much blood as possible from his nose so as to not stain the hardwood. “What you told us… Is it true that-”

“Jesus, can someone give the kid a napkin?” Jason interrupted, before digging one out from his own pocket and trying to walk past Dick to deliver it. Both Dick and Steph moved to block his path, and Jason rolled his eyes so hard that Tim was worried they might get stuck up his skull. 

Dick took the napkin, handed it to Tim, who cleaned himself up a little, tore it in two, and tilted his head up as he stuffed his nostrils. 

“As I was saying,” Bruce kept talking in a strained voice, and everyone remembered that he and Jason had probably burst in there with a purpose in mind. “Is it true that you were only nine years old when you started following us around on patrol.”

“Yeah?” Tim said, sounding like he had the cold of the century from the tissue stuffed up his nose. 

“He told us that already, though?” Steph said confusedly, and Jason dragged both of his hands across his face. 

“Nine. Years. Old.” He again gestured towards Tim, “A literal child, without training, followed Batman around Gotham Fuckin’ City! Can someone please react to this?” 

“Oh fuck,” Dick said, slowly turning his eyes towards Tim, “Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Nine?” 

“Remind me again how old you were when you started as Robin.” Tim raised a cool eyebrow, not sure if the napkin sticking out of his nose and his hairstyle added any strength to his argument. Judging by the way that Dick shook his head, eyes wide and voice slow and full of horrified realization, it didn't. 

“No. Not the same. I had training and an even more trained adult there to supervise. You did not.” 

Tim really didn’t see the big deal. Sure, it was Gotham City. Sure, Batman was more often than not in dangerous situations. But it wasn’t as if anyone had seen him. Like, ever. 

He told them this, but it apparently didn’t help his case. 

“Tim, you do understand that-”

“Nope.” Jason cut off his father and stared at Tim with determination. “My time to speak.” 

Everyone tensed, and Tim set his jaw, preparing himself for a continuation of their previous argument. But Jason surprised him.

“I’m sorry,” Jason said, and Tim almost didn’t believe his ears. “I took it way too personally. I know firsthand what it’s like to die young, and somehow your death hit too close to home. I mean,” He laughed a little, “If the Earth hadn’t decided to spit me back out I woulda been just like I thought you were. Just another dead kid, y'know?”

Jason took a steadying breath. Tim wished he could do the same, but he didn’t dare breathe too loudly, lest he disturb whatever was unfolding here.

“And then you came. And I told you about mournin' this kid, and then I found out that you are that kid, but didn’t tell me. It just-” He ran a hand over his face again, suddenly looking way more tired than before. The rest of the Bats were quiet as death around them. Jason continued.

“Listen. I’m fucked up. I’m a bit messed up from when I came back, that’s just the way it is. But I know what it’s like to be homeless. I know you do anything to survive. And I know how hard it is to trust. Survival comes first. I should've listened to you, but I let my emotions get in the way of it. I’m sorry, I really am. I hope you can forgive me.”

Jason looked disheveled and exhausted and a bit like Tim had been feeling this past day or so. Tim was just about to open his mouth to answer, when Jason held up a finger and furrowed his brows again.

“But,” He said, and Tim gulped, at once tense again. “You’ve also been stalkin' me. Me. As the Red Hood. A crime lord. In Crime Alley. Do you realize how dangerous that is?” 

Tim huffed. It was very difficult to do with tissue in his nose, but he managed.

“I used to live in the Alley. You know this.” 

“I shoot people, Tim!” Jason threw up his hands. “My guys also shoot people!”

“Ah,” Tim held up a still bloodstained finger and grinned, “Butcha don’t shoot kids!” 

“Other people do! I can’t be everywhere!”

The rest of the Bats’ eyes were bouncing between Jason and Tim like they were following a ping-pong ball. Since Tim didn’t really have a good answer to Jason’s argument, their gazes stayed on him, waiting for one. But apparently his lack of answer was taken as an invitation for the rest of them to join the conversation. 

“It is an incredibly dangerous pastime that I think we can all agree ends now,” Bruce said, sounding a bit more composed than his children looked. “Since there will be no need to gather more information about us, there will be no reason for you to put yourself in unnecessary danger any more.” 

Tim clicked his tongue. It tasted like blood. 

Sure. He could stop stalking the Bats. It wasn’t as if they were ever going to want a reading from him ever again. The Waynes, as it were, could officially be removed from his pool of customers. He’d still need to keep up with his other clients, though. Which reminded him…

“I still have a client!” He blurted, mildly panicked. “I’m supposed to-”

“We’ve contacted him,” Bruce assured, “He’s been informed that you are currently out of commission and has been given compensation for the late notice.” 

Tim thought about it. And in the grand scheme of things, he found that he didn’t really care if Bruce had canceled this one client. Not with everything else that was going on. He couldn’t find the spare energy to give a shit. He’d get new clients. 

He slumped down on the couch again, leaning backwards and rubbing his eyes. 

“About your… nighttime hobby?” Steph prodded, and Tim stuck out his tongue.

“Yeah, yeah. I won’t be following you anymore. No point to it now anyway,” He grumbled, and though he couldn’t see it, he could practically feel the Waynes relaxing. 

“And,” He added, a bit quieter, “I do forgive you, Jason. I didn’t like the way you acted, but I guess I can see why you reacted the way you did. As you said,” He looked at Jason with more calm than he’d felt in ages, “It’s hard to trust sometimes. It goes both ways.” 

“Thank you,” Jason said, and then his face melted into a grin. “But hold up. You’re legally dead, but still very much alive. And I was very much dead, but still legally alive. What does that make us?” 

“Uh,” Tim said, giving him a lopsided smile, “Criminals, I think.” 

Notes:

more art more art more art!!!!!

check out this awesome painting by dandelions-could-never on tumblr!

and these wonderful drawings of tim by bellflower-purple, also on tumblr!!

and this beautiful drawing of tim's headstone by deadly-halowos - would ya believe it - also on tumblr!!!

so many wonderful people making so much amazing art for this story! my heart is bursting with love<33

Chapter 27: teen movie shopping montage

Notes:

hi! i was gone for a while, schoolwork is pretty heavy this time of year. lots of assignments, lots of short deadlines, lots of crunch ;-;

i unfortunately can't promise that the next chapter will come quicker. i'm also trying to write a few whumptober-entries because apparently im going for the burn-out speedrun world record??

anyway, thank you for your patience! i hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

much love,
wes

It felt like he’d been staying at Wayne Manor for ages, but in reality it had only been about two official days. This was the third one. He supposed all of the heavy conversations and the incredible amounts of stress he’d been feeling near constantly sort of stretched time out like a taffy. After yesterday's movienight and almost broken nose, he’d elected to take dinner in his room. 

He liked the Waynes. He did. But he was fairly sure that Damian would’ve liked to eat dinner with his family, and he didn’t want to either make Damian stay away from his family, or endure a stilted and awkward meal if the kid decided to show up despite Tim’s presence. 

So, dinner in his room. It had been nice to relax a bit. He’d gone to sleep without saying goodnight to anyone or bringing down his dishes, mostly again to avoid Damian. But when he’d woken up, he’d found that his dinner tray had been removed from his room. 

Tim would have liked to think that he’d have woken up if someone came into his room, but then again, he’d been absolutely wiped out yesterday. He’d probably slept like a rock. 

Day three at Wayne Manor. Only four days left until his heating was fixed and he was scheduled to go home. 

What the fuck was he supposed to do for four days?

He didn’t have any clients, so focusing on that was out of the question. He didn’t even have any bookings in the far future. Possibly because he had been away from his phone for a bit. 

Tim found himself on the floor, going through the stuff in his bags. One of them was just full of decor and fabric, things that he’d have no use for now that he wasn't taking any clients. Originally, he’d been supposed to set up a room in the Manor to conduct business in. That plan had been pulverized with the unraveling of the Tim-mystery. 

There was the folder with the picture that Damian had drawn him. The one with the dinosaurs. He’d had it with him when he’d passed out, and he assumed that somehow, probably when he’d been asleep or passed out, it had found itself into his bags. He wondered who it was that kept going into his room. He didn’t mind it, per se, but it did unsettle him that he hadn’t noticed even once. Perhaps the most startling of all was when the plush dinosaur that Damian had given him, which he’d forgotten in the living room on his first night here, had stared at him from the windowsill one morning when he’d woken up. That had nearly been enough to convince him that the Manor was haunted.

Seriously. Privacy. Did they know what that was?

He didn’t want to think about the plush or the drawing anymore, because his stomach kept sinking when he remembered what Damian thought of him now. So he kept rummaging in his bags. 

There were a few of his clothes. He mourned the loss of the sweaters he’d left behind when he’d fled from Arnold McBrett. They were probably still laying on that metal walkway, ready to soften the floor for the next poor bastard to sleep there. Or they had been stolen already. Regardless, the clothes in his bag would not last him a whole week without the sweaters. He could not wear the same shirt every day and get away with it. That might’ve worked when he was freshly homeless and had about four belongings to his name. But now, he’d had access to a washing machine and more than one change of clothes for a few years. 

He’d gotten spoiled, sue him. 

Well. There was an activity to kill time. Get more clothes. An activity that would even get him some change of scenery. He could ask someone to take him to his apartment. Maybe they could stop for coffee on the way? 

Mood raised and the wafts of boredom that had circled his head now dissolved, Tim grabbed his wallet and walked out of his room to search for someone with a driver's license. 

He found all three of them in the kitchen. 

Jason was leaning against the kitchen counter, looking at Bruce and Dick with raised eyebrows. 

“Well?” Jason said, looking intently at his family as they chewed what seemed to be some sort of breakfast muffin. “How’s it taste?” He noticed Tim, who could barely say hi before Jason had stuffed him into a chair and put a muffin in front of him too. 

“Eat,” He commanded, looking threatening, and Tim obliged, feeling very confused. 

“It’s good, Jay,” Bruce said, and Jason wrinkled his nose. 

“Good,” He said, making finger quotes around the word as if it offended him, “Tells me nothing. Ain't you supposed to be smart? Tell me something of value.” 

“It really is great!” Dick said, munching on his own muffin. Jason rolled his eyes.

Tim’s eyes widened as he chewed. It was not just great, it was amazing.

“This is the best muffin I’ve ever had,” He garbled through unchewed, spongey, goodness. 

“You were homeless. That also tells me nothing,” Jason grumbled, and Tim swallowed, narrowed his eyes, and sucked his teeth.

“Very well,” He said, perhaps laying his dusty Bristol dialect on a bit thicker than usual, “It’s moist and quite airy, except for the bottom. The bottom is dense and gummy, which I’m attributing to the fact that you’ve probably used too much banana or…” He inspected the muffin, tearing away a chunk of it to reveal the whole inside, “Did you use a tin? If you do, you should remove them from it as soon as they’re out of the oven, otherwise the steam doesn’t have anywhere to go and ends up absorbed right back into the muffin. Other than that, nice balance between the sweet and the savoury, it doesn’t feel too heavy, which I feel like banana recipes have a tendency to do. I’d recommend adding a bit of cardamom for a hint of warmth, at least now in the colder months.” 

Tim had his fair share of experience when it came to constructing recipes, after all. He usually sold them as love-spells. 

Everyone was quiet for a bit, Tim raised an eyebrow, and then Jason’s face cracked into a grin.

“See,” He gestured to Tim and looked at his family, “That’s good critique. Not your fucken’ mm, that’s good. That tells me nothing at all. It’s garbage!”

“Anyway,” Tim said, taking another bite, “I don’t have that many clothes. Could someone take me to-”

“Oh my God!” Dick shot up from his seat, “I’ve been waiting for this. Let’s go.”

Tim wasn’t sure exactly what it was that had gotten Dick so hyped, but sure. If he got his clothes out of it, he’d go along. But before they could leave, muffins still in hand, Bruce stopped them.

“Wait just a second,” He said, and Tim and Dick halted in the doorway, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Tim. Why isn’t your DNA in any database?”

Oh. Fair enough.

“Bruce, respectfully, I’m way too smart to be arrested.” Tim ignored the snort from Jason, “And my parents… Well, when you commit crimes of their magnitude, you can’t really afford to play fast and loose with your DNA. We had a private doctor. My mom even had a home birth.”

Really, it wasn’t that hard to figure out. Come on, now. Still, Bruce didn’t look satisfied.

“But they should have collected a sample when you were put into the orphanage. Did you not get to see a doctor?” 

“Again, Bruce, I say this with all due respect. But you have way too much faith in this city. Plus.” Tim huffed a small laugh, “I didn’t stick around for that long, after all.”

Bruce made a humming sound, and Tim furrowed his brows and pointed a finger.

“Also, once again as respectfully as possible, how the fuck do you have my DNA?” 

“We have your prints too,” Jason said from where he was still leaning against the counters. Tim whipped around to face him. 

“What?” 

“Dude,” Jason raised an eyebrow that indicated he thought Tim was just a little bit stupid, “You’ve been to our house. Several times. You’ve eaten dinner, handled plates and glasses. Obviously we have your DNA and prints. Plus, Dick even nicked a few hairs from you when he hugged you once.”

Tim looked at Dick, who shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry ‘bout that. You ready to go?” 

Honestly. One of these days, Tim was going to have a very stern conversation about privacy with the Bats. For now, he allowed himself to be dragged out to the entrance by Dick, who was practically bouncing as he walked. 

-

They got in a car that probably cost more money than Tim would ever have in a lifetime, and Dick handed Tim his phone. Open on it was the app that Stephanie had played music from once when they’d been baking at the Manor. 

“Queue some songs,” Dick instructed him as he pulled out of the driveway. 

Tim wasn’t exactly sure how to work the app, but he saw that the car had a CD player. He opened the glove compartment, and score. A bunch of dusty-looking CDs lay haphazardly stacked at the very back. He rummaged through them, pretending not to see Dick’s amused look on him as he slid one into the slot. 

Tiny Dancer whispered out of the speakers, and Dick turned up the volume until the piano was audible and at a pleasant volume. 

“Elton John, huh? And on CD, no less. You and Bruce are gonna get along swimmingly,” Dick said, shooting him a smile. 

“Bruce listens to Elton John?” Tim had a hard time seeing the Batman rock out to I Think I’m Going To Kill Myself. 

“Oh, are you kidding? When he first took me in, the only fucking song he ever played was Don’t Let The Sun Set, or whatever it’s called. The one with the saxophone guy.” 

“Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me, and his name is George Michael, you cultural sandpaper.” 

Dick choked on a laugh and Tim felt his own lips tug upwards into a small grin.

“But that song? Really?” Tim asked, “I thought Batman would have a… I don’t know.. Darker taste?” 

“Come on, ‘Losing everything is like the sun going down on me?’ His tragic backstory and him choosing to become a creature of the night because of it? Please, the song fits him to a T.” Dick snorted, and Tim supposed that he did have a point. 

“And you?” He asked, “What do you listen to?” 

“Anything,” Dick replied easily, “Been really into industrial metal lately.” 

Tim felt like his disbelieving stare was justified. Dick was wearing a light blue jacket with small clouds and rainbows lining the hem, a Mariah Carey tour T-shirt beneath it. 

“What?” Dick grinned, “Everybody thinks that Jason is the cool, edgy one, but they always forget who it was that introduced him to music in the first place.” 

-

Their talking had distracted Tim from the road. He’d been trusting Dick to take him to his apartment, but after a while he realized that they were definitely not heading towards Old Gotham.

No, instead they were heading towards a mall. A giant one, at that. 

“Hey, uh…” Tim said, looking around as they were driving as if there was going to magically appear an exit that said Tim’s Apartment. But no such exit appeared, instead they were slowing down as they entered a massive parking lot. “Where are we going?” 

“Shopping!” Dick said, as if it was obvious, “You said you didn’t have any clothes, and I did promise you a shopping trip, didn’t I?” 

Tim was about to ask when on Earth he and Dick had ever discussed going shopping, but then he recalled their lunch at Lizzie's Diner. He’d just bought a few clothes and had run into Dick, who’d been stalking him. They’d gotten to chatting and Dick had said that they should go shopping sometime. 

It seemed that that time was now. Only problem was…

“Dick, I… um,” Tim’s cheeks reddened with shame. He usually wasn’t ashamed of his situation, but right now he was feeling a tad bit embarrassed. “I don’t actually have money to shop for new clothes. I thought that we’d go to my apartment to pick up more clothes from my wardrobe. I can’t… I can’t go shopping. Sorry.”

“Aw, Tim,” said Dick with a faux condescending tone as they pulled into a parking spot. He shut off the car and turned to look at Tim. “It’s so cute of you to think that you’re going to be paying. Real sweet, a humble king, right there.” Tim could see him holding back a smile. “But I’ve got Bruce Wayne’s money and no limit on my card. So this is my treat. Consider it a gift, if that makes you feel better.”

Tim’s protests were shut off with the slamming of Dick’s car door. He looked in at Tim through the window, exaggeratingly miming that he couldn’t hear him. 

Well. Tim knew an opportunity when he saw one. When was the next time someone was going to take him on a shopping trip and pay for his clothes? Probably never. So he got out of the car, stuck his tongue out at Dick, and followed him into the bustling mall. 

-

Shopping with Dick Grayson was like entering another world. 

They started at a café, because Tim still hadn’t eaten breakfast, even though it was nearing lunchtime. At said café, when Tim was munching on a croissant sandwich and Dick was sipping a coffee drink that Tim would bet didn't contain a single drop of coffee, Dick had asked him what kind of clothes he liked. 

Tim had answered I don’t know. Clothes. Preferably ones that fit and don’t have holes in them.

Apparently, that had not been an adequate answer. 

This had led to Dick introducing Tim to another app. Dick had typed in Men’s fashion into the app’s search bar, and thousands of pictures had appeared. It was not Google. Tim knew Google. This was something else. You could save the pictures to little so-called boards, and they hadn’t left the café until Tim had saved 50 pictures of clothes and outfits he liked to the board that Dick had titled Tim’s Fashion Adventure!!! 

This was apparently meant to give Dick an understanding of what Tim liked, and therefore help him decide what stores to go to. Tim was amazed that there were people who shopped like that, instead of just going to the cheapest place and praying for a miracle.

So those cheap stores that Tim was naturally drawn towards, Dick strode right past in favor of ridiculously expensive brand name stores and local chains that promised high-quality small-batch collections. 

And, let’s be honest. The clothes in those stores were amazing. Tim was not about to argue that fact. The fabrics were thick, glossy, sturdy. Not like the paper thin T-shirts and plasticky acrylic knits that he usually found. These were clothes made to last. The stores smelled of leather and flannel, had good warm lighting instead of glaring fluorescents, and the staff greeted Dick like an old friend. 

Dick apparently had eyes like an eagle, which Tim really should have seen coming. The second Tim felt the fabric of something or looked at something for a second too long, Dick grabbed it and off to the fitting rooms they went. 

The day passed in a blur of colours, textures, and price tags that made Tim want to vomit. Probably sensing Tim’s wariness of spending too much money, Dick usually didn’t let him look at them. But when Tim was in the fitting rooms there was no stopping him from sneaking a peek at the outrageous numbers on the tags. He tried to not think about it. 

Tim was used to taking money from rich people, it was just that usually he provided a service for it. This was not that. This was him spending money that was not his.

But this was a gift, he told himself. A gift. 

And Dick’s father was Bruce Wayne. The billionaire. He could probably spare a shopping trip's worth of money. 

(Despite the fact that the T-shirt Tim had in his hands apparently cost 60 dollars. Was it made of gold?)

They ended their shopping trip at a restaurant, carrying several bags between them. Tim was pretty sure he’d never have to buy clothes again. Dick had insisted on buying two jackets for him. 

(“No one needs two jackets, Dick.”

“I’m going to pretend like that sentence didn’t just give me an aneurysm.”)

But at that point, Tim hadn’t even wanted to think about it anymore. If Dick wanted to throw away his money on bettering Tim’s wardrobe, so be it. There was obviously no stopping him. And it did actually feel… cool… to have the clothes he now did. He liked them. Actually liked them. And they fit him well, and would last for years. 

Strange. He couldn’t quite remember having clothes that he really liked. 

They ate. Tim shoveled food in his mouth like he was starving. Which he kind of was. Apparently, shopping was exhausting. Dick kept smiling at him, asking questions and acting as if this day was completely normal. Tim answered and kept up the conversation best he could, but eventually they settled into a comfortable silence, Dick seeming to get that Tim was absolutely wiped.

They listened to Elton John on the way home, and Tim nearly fell asleep to Daniel. 

Once home, Tim practically fell into Dick’s arms. 

“Thank you,” He mumbled into Dick’s chest, and he felt the embrace tighten.

“My pleasure, Tim. Let me know when you want to go again, I love to-”

“Oh, no,” Came Jason’s wry voice from the hall. “Did he take you shopping? I’m so sorry, man. That couldn’t have been easy.” 

“I’m dead,” Tim said, leaning more on Dick for support than for a hug at this point. “My feet are dead. My head is dead. I know more about seam-quality now than I thought was possible.”

“I getcha. Once I took him with me to buy a new pair of shoes and we left with four belts. No one needs four belts.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Tim laughed as Dick playfully shoved him off and ruffled his hair. He pretended like he didn’t lean into the touch. 

“Go take a nap, or something. You look like a zombie. Movie later?” 

“Wake me up when it’s time, please?”

“You got it.”

Tim cast a last look at Jason and Dick, who were heading down the hall already bickering about what movie to watch, and he grabbed his bags and went up the stairs to his room. 

-

When Tim opened his door, plastic and paper handles of the bags digging painfully into his fingers, he found that there was already someone inside his room. 

A short someone that stared at him with a gaze that stopped Tim in his tracks. 

“Hello,” Damian Wayne said, “I would like a reading.”

Notes:

check out this AWESOME piece of art of Tim and Dick at the Wayne halloween-party!!!

Chapter 28: whoopie my beloved

Notes:

i am going to commit the most gruesome aggravated assault with a deadly weapon you could possibly imagine and THEN SOME towards whoever invented research reports, and then (in about 5 months or whenever the FUCK the hateful and elusive fire-orb decides to grace my GODFORSAKEN country with its presence once again) i'm going to launch myself into the sun!

anyway! long time no see! i hate university and also winter! many kisses! i love you! take this!

yours in perpetual northern europe winter darkness (the sun is literally gone),
wes <3

Tim closed the door behind him and put down his shopping bags, all without taking his eyes off the youngest Wayne. 

“What?” He asked, not really computing, and Damian’s jaw tensed.

“I would like a reading.” 

“Okay…” Tim was aware that he was probably looking alarmingly similar to a deer in headlights, but he couldn’t really find it in himself to stop and gain some composure back. “What?” 

“I would like a reading.” Damian looked as if he thought that Tim was extraordinarily stupid. Tim didn’t think it was too off of a take. He’d certainly had brighter moments than this one. His intellect really wasn’t shining through at the moment. “From you.” 

“Okay.” Tim took a breath, wondering what the fuck was going on. “Okay. Yeah. We can do that. Have a sea- well.. I don’t really have any good chairs. Or a proper table. But uh, the floor okay?”

Damian responded by folding down onto the ornate carpet with his legs criss-crossed, and Tim walked over to his bags and ruffled through them until he found his new tarot deck. 

If he rummaged around a little bit longer than necessary to allow himself to gather his thoughts, that was nobody’s business but his own. 

Deck secured, he sat down in front of Damian, mimicking the criss-cross position and desperately trying to grasp after his cool and collected fortune teller persona. Damian’s face didn’t betray any of his thoughts, and Tim, usually good at reading people, felt supremely out of his depth. 

Damian didn’t like him. He had trusted Tim and Tim had broken that trust. Tim was aware of this. Damian also didn’t believe in the whole fortune telling thing. This was something that Tim was also aware of.

So what in God’s polluted Gotham could Damian possibly want from him?

“Alright,” Tim said, taking the fancy cards out of the velvet box and easing them into a practiced shuffle. “What’s on your mind?” He internally cringed. What was on Damian’s mind? Murder, probably. More specifically, Tim’s murder, probably. 

“Well,” Damian started, and… there was something there in his expression that hadn’t been there before. Something younger, less stoney. “There’s this person that has been lying to me.” 

There was a hiccup in Tim’s shuffling, but he ignored it, steadied his hands, and lowered his gaze to the cards, nodding once to show that he was listening. 

“At first I was very cross, but after some contemplation I realized that my actions were not…” Damian clicked his tongue, and for all he was trying to hold up his indifferent facade, Tim could tell that something had definitely shifted. “They might have been out of order. I would like to ask your cards for guidance.” 

Oh. 

Tim met Damian’s eyes, and finally clocked what that expression on his face was, however miniscule. It was regret. Or something close to it at least. Something reconciliatory. A careful and quiet hand reaching out. 

“I see,” Tim said, keeping his voice neutral. “How about a three-card spread? Like the one we did at the market? Past, present, future.”

“That would be acceptable.” Damian sounded strained, and Tim knew that Damian wasn’t big on emotion. Wasn’t big on apologies or admitting he was wrong. Him even being here was probably something close to a miracle. And as much as Tim was a vindictive little bastard, as much as he took pleasure in seeing certain customers squirm, he elected not to let the child suffer. Because, after all, that’s what Damian was. A child, trying to right a wrong. 

A business-like approach was probably what Damian would prefer. So that was what Tim would give him. 

He straightened and held out the deck to him.

“Knock three times, please. Think of your question while you do it,” Tim said, an echo of the only other reading he’d given Damian. It hadn’t been too long ago, but it felt like years.

Damian huffed quietly, no doubt also recalling.

“Really?” 

“Humor me,” Tim’s lip quipped upwards. Damian rolled his eyes, but yet again his knuckles rapped the back of Tim’s deck thrice. 

Tim spread out the cards in a wide arch across the carpet, and without guidance Damian slowly dragged his hand across the back of the cards. He eventually settled on one, and flipped it over.

The Seven of Swords stared up at them. Tim worried his lip between his teeth, feeling the sudden urge to be somewhere else. 

“Well?” Damian asked, “What does it mean?” 

“Lies,” Tim answered, stomach sinking. “Deceit, betrayal.”

“That sounds more like yo-”

“It goes both ways,” Tim answered, wondering how best to explain it. “It can mean lying and deceiving. But also...”

“Being lied to,” Damian muttered, and Tim wanted to close his eyes and disappear. But…

“It can also mean letting things get out of hand. Running away from commitment, or meaning to tell the truth but putting it off for too long. Your problems getting worse ‘cause you don’t deal with them.” 

“Why didn’t you?” Damian asked quietly, and Tim almost didn’t hear him. 

“I was afraid,” He replied, just as quietly. “I didn’t know what you would think of me… I put my survival first. Now I know that you wouldn’t… That nothing would happen had I told you. But I didn’t then. I don’t know. It just… sucked.” 

Damian gave him a quick glance. 

“For me too, you know,” He said, jaw tense. “I do not like not knowing who I can trust.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tim said. “I really do mean it.” 

Damian was quiet for a little, and then he broke their gaze and looked down at the cards again.

“What’s the next one? Present?” 

“Yeah,” Tim said, exhaling to steady himself. “Go ahead.” 

Damian flipped the second card, and Tim hummed a little at the accuracy. It felt almost spooky. Almost a little too accurate. 

He didn’t have time to dwell, though. Instead he had to tell a now worried-looking Damian that though The Tower looked incredibly intense, it wasn’t going to murder him. 

“It means change,” Tim said, keeping his eyes on the card. “Letting go of what was, because it was built on faulty foundations, accepting the change, and moving on.” 

So far, the reading really had been strangely accurate. Tim squinted at the fanned cards, as if they were going to reveal something to him. He remembered pulling The Hermit when he’d run away from the Waynes. Also a little too accurate. 

He’d have to ask Bruce about it. 

“Change,” Damian said, clicking his tongue, “Is not… my favorite.” 

“No,” Tim nodded, “I’m not too fond of it either, but sometimes change is necessary for life to progress. You’ve got roses in your garden, right?” 

“Indeed. They are Pennyworth’s. He takes great pride in them.” 

“Well, if that’s the case, then I bet he prunes them every year. Sometimes when pruning, you cut down the bush to half the size it was. It’s a huge change, you have this big, wonderful rosebush, but you chop half of it right off.” Tim looked at Damian, who seemed deep in thought. “Because if you don’t, it will be full of withered parts, it might get diseases, and the flowers won’t be as big when they come in. But if you cut it, if you let it go through that big change, your roses will be healthy and strong, with big, beautiful flowers. You get me?” 

Damian hummed, and Tim took it as a yes. 

“What is happening now,” Tim said gently, “Is a lot of change. I know it is, and I know it kind of blows. But I think better things might come of it. Especially now, when we’re both honest with each other.” 

“I do value honesty,” Damian said, and Tim smiled a little. 

“As do I, believe it or not.” 

The sound that came from Damian was not exactly a snort, but it might as well have been. He started tracing the cards again, eventually settling on one at the very edge.

The last card was flipped over, and Damian’s hand lingered as he looked down at it with distaste.

“The Fool?” He asked, wrinkling his nose, and Tim had to stop himself from laughing. 

“It doesn’t mean-”

“Your deck is calling me an imbecile? What is the meaning of this?” 

“It means new beginnings,” Tim said, doing his hardest to not sound thoroughly amused at the way Damian was looking at the card as if it had purposefully offended him. 

”Hm,” Damian said after a long while, a thoughtful and softer expression on his face. “Very well. That sounds… better.”

Tim took a small breath and smiled a little at Damian. 

“I think so too. A new beginning sounds pretty good.”

Damian fixed Tim with a gaze of pure determination. There was a brief silence, and then…

“Then a new beginning we shall have.” Damian rose, “Now, come. If we do not get there soon they will choose a movie without us and I simply cannot allow that to happen again.”

Tim rose, not able to fully hide his smile, and as they descended together towards the living room he felt lighter than he had in days. 

-

“Aw, are you two buddies again?” Dick sing-songed as Damian and Tim walked into the living room. He was next to Bruce on a sofa, the latter looking at something on a tablet. Stephanie was in an armchair scrolling on her phone, and Jason was in another sofa looking bored.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Grayson. I do not have ‘buddies’. I have allies. And Tim has proven himself a fine ally indeed. My previous actions and thoughts were but a brief lapse in my otherwise impeccable judgment.” Damian sat down by the armrest of the other couch, leaving space for Tim between him and Jason.

“Why does he always talk like a nineteenth-century war general?” Jason murmured to himself as he grabbed a bowl of popcorn from the table.

“Aww, you’re buddies again!” Steph cooed.

“Bestest of,” Tim deadpanned as he too sat down. “What are we watching?”

“I think we should watch Ghost.” Dick said, sounding smug.

“For the last time, Dickface, he’s not a real psychic.” Jason gave his brother an exasperated look. “Just because Whoopie Goldberg can talk to Patrick Swayze doesn’t mean that Tim can.” 

“Whoopie can perform miracles and don’t you dare slander her!”

“Ghost? I love Unchained Melody.” Bruce looked up from his tablet with an oblivious look on his face.

“You would.” Dick rolled his eyes at his father, and Tim couldn’t help but snort as he grabbed a blanket.

“So…” Tim said, “Are we watching Ghost, or what?” 

“Absolutely not.”

Notes:

"omg wes!! you're back!!!"
unfortunately i am not, university killed me. this is my dead corpse writing and they're gonna put me back into the dirt soon but i'm banging thsi out while i still have access to mylaptop and oHMYGOD THEYRE COMI-

Chapter 29: are you serious on god for real no cap???

Notes:

all of my notes for this story disappeared from my phone (irretrievably). i'm being so incredibly brave about it. you wouldn't believe how brave i am right now. it's actually incredible.

but, maybe i was lucky that they didn't disappear earlier, because boy oh boy, we're nearing the end!!

hope you'll enjoy this one!
love, wes

Bruce had said a week. Tim was supposed to stay at Wayne Manor for a week while his apartment’s heating got fixed. Now, he was basically halfway through. Day four passed by in a haze of snowball fights and hot chocolate in front of the TV. Tim ate well and slept well, enveloped in a kind of warmth that was more than just the big fireplaces and working radiators. 

Tim had never had people. 

He’d had regular customers, people that had come to get their fortunes read from the very beginning of his career. But there was always a wall of professionality between them. This time, it was different. This time, he was allowing himself to actually know someone. Several someones. They knew who he was, who he really was. And he knew who they were. It was something real, something mutual and sincere. 

And it was scary, by God was it scary. But it was also so very freeing. Tim had been Atlas, all alone and staggering, stumbling, cursing beneath the weight of his world. Now, he had a whole bunch of people that helped him hold it up, that helped ease some weight off of his shoulders. It felt nearly surreal. 

But as day five passed, Tim was growing anxious. In just two days, he’d be going home to his own lonely little place again. And though the heating would be fixed, he suspected that somehow his world was going to become colder all the same. 

He didn’t know if he’d keep seeing the Waynes as often, didn’t know if they would want to keep this up, or if this was a temporary act of kindness driven on by the mountain of secrets they shared. But as it was, he couldn’t dwell on it too much. He didn’t have time, because it was officially day six and any second now, Barbara Gordon would knock on his door. 

Last time he’d seen Barbara it… hadn’t exactly gone too well. 

Tim would like to think that he was a bit more stable this time. This time, he knew that his entire life wasn’t about to implode. Still, he was nervous. 

There came the knock on his door, gentle and soft, and Tim stood up from his bed on shaky legs and went to let Barbara in.

He ignored the way his hand was trembling as he turned the doorknob, and tried to smile at Barbara like she was smiling at him.

“Hello Tim,” She said, looking at him with a kind expression, “Can I come in?” 

“Hi Barbara, of course.” Tim stepped out of the way.

“Oh, just Babs,” She said as she wheeled into the room. She positioned her wheelchair in front of his bed, and Tim closed the door and sat down on his quilted bedspread. It wasn’t quite like his own one back at home, but it did offer a bit of comfort. 

“Babs,” Tim corrected, and then a silence settled. Tim wanted to squirm, his skin felt itchy and he ran a hand through his hair twice. It was still trembling slightly. He ignored it again.

“So,” Babs straightened her glasses. She was wearing a thin, green knitted sweater that Tim thought looked exceptionally soft. “You’re the hacker, huh?” 

Tim bit his lip. It didn’t feel as catastrophic as he thought it would. If anything, it almost felt a little funny now. 

“Yep.” 

“So me coming to the Manor to give you a lesson in Internet safety was probably the most ridiculous thing to ever happen?” She looked like she was holding back a smile, and Tim couldn’t help but to break out into one of his own.

“Yep.” He laughed. “Kind of was.” 

“Well,” She looked at him with her head tilted a little to the left, “I have to say I’m very impressed with the way you snuck into our comms. It was nearly undetectable, very nice work. Especially for someone of your age.”

“I’m not that much younger than you, and you still caught me,” Tim pointed out, and she laughed.

“I’m Oracle.” She winked, “Nothing gets past my all-seeing eyes. Not even a fortune teller extraordinaire.” 

“Mmm,” Tim hummed in playful disagreement and pointed a finger. “You didn’t notice the texts, though.” Babs raised her eyebrows.

“The texts?” 

“I’ve been in all your texts for… I don’t even remember how long.” He pursed his lips in thought, “Or, not yours specifically. But the Waynes’. And Steph’s.” 

Barbara’s eyebrows shot up even further.

“Jeez, kid.” She huffed, “I might have to recruit you to ensure you never become my enemy. How would you feel about being my right hand man?” 

Tim laughed. Wouldn’t that be a sight? The oracle and the fortune teller. What a strange pair they would make. They’d probably be unstoppable. It was a fun thought. 

“I’m sorry,” He said suddenly. “For the whole… You know, freaking-out thing.” 

“I’m sorry,” She said, “For the whole freaking-you-out thing.”

“No, it really wasn’t your fault. I just…” This time, Tim did squirm. “I’d kind of been on my own for so long, and I thought that I’d managed fine. But then you said that thing about letting me into the library when I was younger, and I kind of… I mean, the whole…” He sighed in frustration and Babs stayed silent, letting him gather his thoughts. 

“I have a hard time leaning on others.” He settled on eventually, “I don’t know what exactly the others have told you, but the thing is, you helped me survive. And I can’t depend on others for my survival. That has never worked out too well for me, like, in general. And then it turns out that I would probably have freezed to death because of you and I got… Well. Freaked out.” He huffed a pathetic little laugh, and Babs’ kind eyes suddenly felt difficult to look at. 

“I understand,” She said. “It must have been a difficult thing to hear, especially from someone that you knew was close to the Bats.” 

And the way she said it, without pity or looking down on him, made Tim want to melt into a puddle. 

“It kind of was.” He shrugged, as nonchalant as he could muster. “But I got over it.” 

“I’m sure it feels better now that everything is out in the open, but remember that you’re still allowed to feel strange and iffy about it.” She righted her glasses. “Everyone in this family are Olympic gold winners in repressing their own feelings in favor of some convoluted cause they think is more important than actually dealing with their own emotions.” She wrinkled her nose, and Tim gave a lopsided smile. “I’d hate for you to do the same. If something or something that someone does makes you uncomfortable, that’s okay, Tim. I don’t want to overstep, but your life hasn’t exactly been easy. No one is expecting you to be perfectly fine all the time.” 

Tim thought about his fights with Jason and Damian. About running away from the Manor. About… well. Most of the things he’d done in a state of distress.

“Man, I sure hope they don’t,” He mumbled. 

“I mean,” Babs pressed her lips together to conceal a smile. “Bruce deals with his problems by becoming a crime-fighting bat. I guarantee that whatever you need to do to feel alright won’t be as strange as that, at least.” 

Tim snorted, and well. Now that he thought about it, he probably wasn’t all alright just yet. Maybe he would never be. But, hey. 

At least he wasn’t a crime-fighting bat.

-

Barbara and Tim had moved past the heavy conversation after a little bit, and they’d instead settled on discussing the specs of Tim’s old laptop (Rest in Pieces). She’d winced when she’d heard how old it had been, and had promised to make Bruce give Tim a good computer. Tim mentioned that Bruce had given him both a laptop and a phone before she’d arrived last time, but he wasn’t sure what had happened to them.

(Babs had shaken her head and said,

“No, Tim. Those were standard Wayne-Tech. I’m talking Bat-tech.” 

Whatever that meant.)

She’d left after a while, because the evening had set, and soon the Bats would be out patrolling. They hadn’t been out for a little while, due to Tim (he refused to feel guilty about it. Refused. It only half worked). Oracle, Tim had learned, was usually always on their comms, keeping watch and helping out from behind the screens. 

“You sure you’re good on your own? Alfred will be in the house, just get him if you need anything.” Dick fussed for about the millionth time, looking at him intently from behind his domino mask, and Tim nodded.

“I’ll be fine. Swear to God. Now go, before they leave without you.” He shooed Dick to the entrance of the Batcave, and Dick disappeared behind the clock with a laugh.

Wayne Manor suddenly felt a lot colder. 

He knew that Alfred was somewhere around, but still the emptiness seemed to weigh down on him. He’d only been staying here for six days and he was already getting too used to always having people around him. That wasn’t good. If he thought this was lonely, going back to his apartment was probably going to be even worse. What if they completely broke off contact with him and-

He cut his thoughts off before he could send himself into a spiral. 

Instead, he went to bed and tried not to think too much about it. After all, he was going home tomorrow. No use in stressing over the inevitable. 

-

Day seven came, and when Tim opened his eyes he half expected Bruce to be standing over him pointing at the door with Tim’s bags by his feet. 

Bruce obviously didn’t stand over him impatiently waiting to send Tim home. That would have been very strange. Bruce was, after all, a somewhat normal person. If you didn’t count the whole adult-man-dressed-as-a-bat thing, of course. 

But even if Bruce Wayne wasn’t immediately escorting him out of the house, it was still time to leave. It was already mid-morning. So Tim rolled out of bed, straightened the covers and pillows, and started gathering his things. He hadn’t spread out that much, not wanting to get too comfortable during his temporary stay, so it went fairly fast. The few things that were outside of his bags quickly got shoved into wherever he could fit them. His new clothes would have to stay in the shopping bags during the move, there simply wasn’t room. 

The folder with Damian’s drawing and the dinosaur plush went into his backpack instead of a duffel, to make sure they didn’t get squished during the process. They were far too valuable to risk it.

Room tidy and bags packed, the clock was nearing lunch already. He wondered if they’d let him stay for lunch. Maybe he should just ask what the plans were? They didn’t seem too eager to get rid of him, but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome. 

To his pleasure, he found both Bruce and Steph in the kitchen. They were eating what looked like breakfast, even though noon was rapidly approaching. 

“Late night?” He asked them, and Steph replied with a half-groan half-sigh. Her eyes were barely open, merely squinting at the eggs on her plate. Bruce looked practically chipper as he sipped on a cup of coffee. 

Man, Tim would kill for some coffee. He didn’t reach for the pot, though. Instead he shuffled a little uncomfortably in place. How could he phrase his question without sounding like he was eager to leave?

“Something on your mind?” Bruce asked casually, and Tim stopped fidgeting. 

Right. Family of detectives. Tim decided to just spit it out.

“What’s the plan for today?” 

“Plans?” Came Dick’s groggy voice from behind him. “Day’s barely started and you’re already thinking of plans?” He gave Tim’s shoulder a pat as he passed him and started pouring himself a heaping cup of coffee. 

“Who’s makin’ plans?” Jason said, dragging a hand over his face as he too emerged. “Sun’s not even up yet.” 

“It’s four minutes to twelve, boys,” Bruce amusedly informed them, and both Dick and Jason looked as if that information was totally irrelevant. They slumped down at the table, leaving Tim still a bit anxious by the doorway.

He’d miss this, he realized. He’d miss breakfast at the Manor, the way the Wayne family dropped in one by one to sit around the table and share a meal, barely awake.

“No.” He said, fidgeting starting up again, “I meant, like, I’m packed and ready to go. When do you want me out of your hair?” 

“You’re leaving?” 

And there was the last one. Damian had his eyebrows wrinkled and his eyes were squinting at him like Tim was a particularly difficult Rubix Cube. 

“Well, yeah?” He said, and suddenly everyone looked a whole lot more awake. They were also looking right at him. All of them a mixture of confusion and incredulity as he spoke again, “It’s been a week. My heating’s fixed. Time for me to go.” 

“Well, I could drive you home whenever you want to after breakfast,” Said Bruce, whose voice was drowned out by Stephanie’s spluttering.

“You’re already going?” 

Tim smiled a little.

“My time is up. The week passed quickly.” 

Jason hummed as he stirred a cup of tea.

“I honestly thought you’d stick around.”

Tim frowned. What did Jason mean by that?

“Stick around? For how long?” 

“I don’t know,” He shrugged. “Thought you’d pull the Steph Special and stay until you got forcibly removed from the premises.” He snorted, “Not that that’s ever happened. Couldn’t get rid of her if you so tried.” Stephanie slapped his arm and rolled her eyes, but didn’t protest. 

No one protested. Which made Tim supremely confused.

“Why would I do that? I don’t live here. I can’t just stay however long I want to. You live here, this is your house. You’re a family. I’m just your guest.”

The silence that followed made Tim very uneasy. Why were they looking at him like that?

“C’mon now, kid,” Jason said, expression a bit more serious now, yet softer than Tim had ever seen it before, “By now, you’re also part of this family. Ain’t it obvious?” 

Pause. Stop. Hold up.

Why was no one protesting?

Tim did not know what to feel, what to think. His brain had been rendered to mush by just a few words. 

Jason had called him family?  

That must’ve been an overexaggeration. Sure, he’d been staying at the Manor for a good while now, and they did invite him to family activities, to Christmas dinner and movienights and the museum exhibit. But that was just out of politeness. Because he’d befriended them. Tim didn’t have family. He wasn’t even alive, legally speaking. 

Tim had no one, and he was no one. That was the way he liked it. 

Except.. 

Except he didn’t actually like it that much, did he? Hadn’t he just yesterday night loathed the mere thought of going home to his lonely little apartment? 

Stephanie, to his shock, looked a bit sad. Worried, almost. No one ever worried about Tim. 

It felt… good?

“Listen, Tim,” Said Bruce, breaking the silence. “I know it would be a lot of change, but I know that I’m speaking for everyone when I say that you are very welcome to stay with us as much as you want to. Even permanently, if that’s something that you’d like. As Jason said earlier, you’re family to us.”

“I’m not, though?” Tim said, because he wasn’t. That was just not true. 

His head was spinning. 

Okay, maybe being part of the Wayne family would be a dream come true. But that was all it was, a dream. Not reality. Things like this didn’t actually happen. You didn’t just randomly stumble upon a whole family inviting you to their midst, permanently. 

That wasn’t how things worked.

“Buddy,” Dick said, staring intently at him. “Be for real right now.” 

Tim laughed, taken off guard, but his thoughts were still a jumbled mess of what? He looked at Damian, because Damian definitely would not let an outsider into his family. 

But Damian’s look was the same as before. 

“Surely this is not news to you, Tim?” 

“No, it is. It is very much news to me,” Tim sank down in a chair and his gaze hopped between the Waynes. “What the fuck?” 

“If you don’t want to-” Bruce started, and Tim shook his head.

“No, it’s not- it’s not that,” He said, feeling his face grow red with embarrassment. He could barely get the words out, and when they finally did come out, it was as a near whisper. “I just… I’m family to you?” 

“Of course you are!” Stephanie said sharply, and Tim looked to Bruce for confirmation. 

“You are.” Bruce’s words sounded so final that Tim’s heart skipped a beat.

“Are you sure?” Tim asked him, because he had to. Of course he wanted to stay with the Waynes. That would be the best thing to ever happen to him. It would be surreal. Something he could never have imagined. But, the thing was, he’d had a family before, and that hadn’t really panned out. They’d left him to fend for himself, abandoned him completely. What’s to say the Waynes wouldn’t do the same?

He didn’t think they would. They seemed too good to do such a thing. But he needed to hear it. 

“I am,” Said Bruce, all warm and gentle, and Tim didn’t even know what emotion he was feeling. 

Everyone else was silent. It felt like Bruce and Tim were the only people left in the world. He was a beggar on the floor of a cathedral full of gold, pleading for answers.

“No,” Tim insisted, letting all his words spill out of him, “Are you sure? Because I can’t take it if you change your mind. I can’t do that again. I don’t- I need to know that you won’t take it back, that you’re sure you won’t tire of me.” 

Bruce looked pained.

“Tim, your parents' actions are inexcusable. To abandon your own child like that…” His gaze hardened and he was shaking his head slightly, “I can’t even begin to imagine what went through their heads. I would never abandon one of my own like that. I can’t even entertain the idea. It’s awful. The life they gave you was far less than you deserved, and I’m so sorry.” 

“My parents didn’t give me anything. I made my own life.” Tim said, almost defiantly, ignoring the way his eyes were starting to water. Bruce’s face softened.

“I know, and I’m so proud of you.” Bruce smiled, kind and gentle, “You’ve been dealt an atrocious hand, but somehow you’ve managed to turn it into a royal flush. That’s no small feat, Tim. I hope you realize that.” 

Tim laughed wetly.

“I actually prefer a three-card spread.” He wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his sweater. “It’s a classic.” 

“So I’ve heard,” Bruce’s hand reached out and squeezed Tim’s hand lightly before letting go. Tim pretended that he didn’t want to hold onto Bruce like his life depended on it. 

“But why me?” He wrung his hands together and stared down at the table, “I’m a fake fortune teller with stalkerish tendencies. I’m not exactly the cream of the crop, here.”

“I’m a crime lord,” Jason huffed. “I shoot guns and murder people. Get on my level.”

Bruce closed his eyes and looked like he wanted to ask the Lord to give him strength.

“Jason.” 

“It’s true!” Jason grinned. “If Timmy here thinks that he’s too rough around the edges to be a Wayne, then he’s got another thing comin’.”

“A Wayne?” Tim hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but apparently he’d lost all the brain-to-mouth filter that he had. Not that there had been much to begin with.

“You could always hyphenate,” Jason mused. “Drake-Wayne. Very posh.” 

“This family is always in the spotlight,” Bruce explained, “If I take you in, people are going to start asking questions. The easiest way to avoid it would be for me to either foster or adopt you.” Upon seeing Tim’s wide-eyed stare, Bruce backtracked. “But I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves here. This is not something that we expect of you. If you don’t want a part of it, you can say no. It’s a very big decision, take all the time you need to make it. There is absolutely no rush.” 

“And,” Dick piped up, “Even if you don’t want to be part of the family officially, we still want you around, you know.”

Tim was quiet. 

The decision wasn’t exactly hard. Of course he wanted this. God, was that even a question? 

But what Jason had said weighed on his mind. He didn’t know how to feel about it. 

“I could…” He started, and then he cleared his throat. “I could be Tim Drake again?” 

“If you wanted to,” Said Bruce. “You don’t have to add Wayne. We’d figure out a way to get your old identity back alive.” And he said it so easily. Like it was the simplest thing in the world.

And maybe it was? 

Legally, the Drake family had died out. There was not a Drake left in the world. Except for Tim, and he could have it again. Reclaim his name and build something new out of it. Something better. Forge his own future, on his own terms, with his own name.

He’d kind of missed having a surname. And Von Brusseltrout certainly wouldn’t do.

“Yes,” He said, voice hoarse. “I’ve made my decision. I- This is something I want. But only if I can be Tim Drake again.”

He heard Stephanie utter a soft ‘fuck yes’, before there were two tiny arms around him. 

Silent as night, Damian had managed to sneak up on him. 

“You will not regret this. Alfred and I will make sure of it,” Damian promised him lowly and ferociously, and Tim didn’t know if he was crying or laughing, but he hugged Damian back all the same.

Notes:

check out this absolutely fantastic edit on tiktok!! it's actually insane how much it looks like the pinterest board i made for this story when i first started writing

also?!?!? if you're here from that one tiktok that recommended this fanfic??? hi!! glad to have you here! hope you're havin a good time!!

Chapter 30: what's the difference between an oracle and a fortune teller, really?

Notes:

i finished writing my research report. it landed on 172 pages with appendices counted in, which is literally longer than this entire story (155 pages). it was hell. anyway, now that it's done i finally had time to sit down and write again, i hope you will enjoy this last chapter of cards on the table<3

Tim knew that it would perhaps be wise to take a moment to think about this further. He knew that he was making possibly one of the biggest decisions of his life, that this would change everything. Nothing would ever be the same again, and there was so much to consider, so much to think about. But he really didn’t want to think about it anymore. He didn’t want to poke holes in the pipe dream that was starting to become reality. He didn’t want to overthink and calculate the likelihoods of a million failures and catastrophes. Tim just…

He just wanted a goddamned hug. From his family. 

And he got one. First from Damian, low and vicious promises of Tim being looked after by both him and his cat whispered in Tim’s ear. Small, strong arms almost holding him in place rather than hugging, which Tim supposed was fair. In some peoples’ eyes he supposed he could be seen as a flight risk. It wasn’t like his track record for staying put after emotional conversations was the greatest. 

Then from Bruce. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to. He knew that they would have lengthy conversations later on, discussing how to proceed and what to do. But for now, Bruce was solid and steady, and that was all that Tim needed. 

Dick came next.

“We’re gonna go on so many shopping trips, you and I,” Dick said with glee, chin on top of Tim’s head. 

“I changed my mind. Please someone drive me back to my apartment.” 

“Not a chance!” Dick squeezed harder, and Tim laughed before being yanked out of Dick’s grip and into a broader, stronger chest. 

Jason’s hoodie smelled faintly of gunpowder and motor oil, probably because he was the edgiest person Tim knew. It didn’t matter much. What mattered was that he was hugging Tim hard enough to make it difficult to breathe. It was good that someone was holding him together, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to do it himself. 

“Wouldya look at that, Mortimer,” Jason said, voice low and gruff, but still kind and sincere. “Another dead boy, back alive.” 

Tim punched him in the side, and Jason snorted. 

“We’re gonna hafta work on your punches. Barely felt it.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Tim mumbled into his chest in his best Crime Alley drawl, “Bring it on.” 

Jason huffed and let him go, tousling Tim’s hair as he went. 

“Oh, you’re gonna regret sayin’ that.”

Then, finally, came Steph, who flung herself into his arms with such force that he probably would have tipped over had Jason’s quick hands not reached out to steady him. He got probably half of her hair in his mouth in the process, and though the hug tasted vaguely of verbena and lavender shampoo, Tim buried his head in the place where her shoulder met her neck and shut his eyes tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of her shea butter lotion and fruity perfume. He felt her gently stroking his hair, nails softly scratching against his scalp, and melted into goo. 

Really, it was all because of Steph, wasn’t it? Her persistent invitations to the Manor, that first reading in the coffee shop with numbers exchanged, the drunken chick-flick marathon that followed, and her forgotten scarf that had led to Christmas dinner. Steph seemed to read his mind, because she whispered,

“I didn’t really forget my scarf, you know? I knew you’d return it.” 

A few hot tears dripped onto her sweater. Tim pretended that they weren’t his. 

“Thank you,” He whispered back. “But I don’t believe you for a second.” 

“Shut up, stupid boy. It was all part of my master plan. Just keep hugging me,” She muttered. And Tim laughed, gladly obeying. 

-

Tim was going to keep his apartment, but he’d still keep the majority of his stuff here. Dick and Jason were helping him unpack, and Dick was playing some truly insane mix of early Britney Spears and ICP in the background. 

(He’d thought about what to do with the apartment for about three seconds before Jason had leveled him with a steady look and said,

“Keep it. Trust me on this one. You’re gonna want to get away sometimes.”)

“You really did sleep on your grave, that one time, huh? I feel like we glossed over that pretty quickly, ‘cause that… that sure is something.” Dick said as Tim handed him a bag. They’d moved his things to a bigger room. A room that was practically bigger than Tim’s entire apartment.

Tim felt defensive.

“It’s my grave! How was I supposed to be chill about that?”

“I was pretty chill about my grave,” Jason butted in, slotting Tim’s worn paperbacks into a massive bookshelf that was definitely too big for his meager stack of books. It was okay though, he'd have plenty of time to fill it. Tim leveled him with a flat stare. Britney Spears kept singing about a circus in the background.

“Oh, is that why you demanded it be removed mere weeks after you came back? I’ve seen your texts. You literally threatened to go on a killing spree unless Bruce removed it.”

“… Fair enough. Didn’t sleep on top of it, though. And while we’re on the subject of strange things, fuck kind of a name is Mortimer Von Brusseltrout, anyway?” Jason raised an eyebrow. “Did you really think we’d believe that?” 

“Hey,” Tim laughed, “It wasn’t that bad. It could have been worse.”

“How?” Dick asked, staring at him in disbelief, “Literally how could that possibly have been any worse?”

-

"By the way," Jason said a while later when Tim brought out his fancy tarot deck to put in his bookshelf. "How you likin' that deck?"

The way he said it made Tim immediately squint at him with suspicion. 

"It works well. Too well. You've done something to it, haven't you?" 

Jason threw his head back in laughter, and Dick groaned behind them.

"You owe me twenty bucks, Dickface." Jason held out his palm, and Dick reluctantly put a crumpled bill into it. 

"What?" Tim asked, now turning his suspicious gaze to the both of them.

"Bruce had Zatanna enchant it. It's legit. We bet on how long it would take ya to figure it out," Jason grinned and pocketed the twenty, and Dick dragged a hand over his face.

"Couldn't you have stayed oblivious for just one more week?"

-

After a few minutes, Steph shooed both Dick and Jason out, and her and Tim got to decorating. Tim had most of his fabrics and decor with him from when he was supposed to conduct his fortune teller business in a room at the Waynes. Now, there was no need for it, but it was still his stuff. He liked it, and he wanted it around him. A reminder and a tether to what he'd managed to build himself during his time alone. But this time it was in a place that he could feel at home in, instead of a rundown apartment where he was one missed rent away from eviction. Steph was the person that has spent the most time with him in his apartment, and she had an idea of how he wanted it. She was of great help and he almost teared up when he saw her hold up two different pieces of fabric to the wall, seeing which would go best next to the windows.

They draped the fabrics along the walls, along the corners to soften out the space. They hung his lights and lanterns, his mobiles and suncatchers, and after a while, it truly did look like a home.

“All that’s missing is your velvet curtains,” She said, hands on her hips as she inspected the place with pursed lips. “That’ll really bring the whole thing together. I love Alfred, but not every room needs linen curtains. There are other fabrics, y’know?”

“I thought you thought my velvet curtains were ridiculous,” Tim said, and Steph turned to him with a teasing smile. 

“Well, they are. But it suits you. Ridiculous curtains for a ridiculous boy.” 

He stuck his tongue out at her, and she brought over a bag and plopped down on the bed. 

“C’mon. Bruce gave you a new, cool laptop,” She brought out a dangerously expensive-looking laptop with a Wayne logo on it from the depths of the bag, “And we’ve got just enough time for The Devil Wears Prada before we have to get you over to Babs.” 

“Babs?” Tim asked, and settled in next to her. 

“A surprise for later. Now, take me to your best pirating website!”

-

Babs was apparently waiting in the clock-tower, of all places, and when Tim entered the top-floor his jaw went slack.

There were screens everywhere on the far side of the room, each showing a different district of Gotham. Different coloured lights were flashing in a few places on the map, and a small sheet tacked onto a wall showed each colour’s meaning. Red for bank-robbery, blue for car-theft, yellow for assault, and so on. One wall was covered with a giant map, red string and gang-symbols over different places, marking turfs. Spread over different sections were different Bat-symbols. Tim saw blue wings, a red helmet, a purple hood, a red R, and the classic bat symbol. There were boxes of files, mind-maps, and everything one could possibly desire for a classic lair. 

It looked almost like his own little information-room in his old apartment. But a million times better.

“Abandon all hope, ye who enter my lair,” Barbara spun around to face him from her place by the biggest desk Tim had ever laid eyes on, and smiled smugly at the no doubt awestruck look that he was sporting.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever seen,” He said, voice almost a bit faint.

“Did you bring your laptop?” She asked, and Tim nodded absently, still taking it all in. 

“Boot it up and get your ass in a chair,” She gestured to a cleared space on the desk that wrapped around about half of the clock-tower. 

Tim obeyed, not really knowing where this was headed. A lesson in hacking, maybe? 

“So, little fortune teller,” She said once she’d helped connect his laptop to her system and he was sitting in a comfy computer chair. She steepled her hands below her chin. “We’re really not that different, you and I. Oracle, fortune teller, kind of the same, really.” 

“Ah.” He grinned, finally having regained some of his composure, “But do you know the crucial difference between an oracle and a fortune teller?”

“Do tell,” Barbara said, looking at him over the rim of her glasses with a fond but exasperated look in her eyes.

“Only one of us gets paid.” 

She lightly swatted his arm, and he laughed, feeling better than he had in ages.

“Watch it, or I might not let you join patrol tonight.” 

Hold up.

Record scratch. Freeze frame. Zoom in. Top text: JOIN. Bottom text: WHAT?

“What did you say?” Tim asked, because he must have misheard.

“What?” Barbara looked positively gleeful, “You didn’t think I brought you all the way here just for a show and tell, now did you?”

“You’re gonna have to explain.” Tim wasn’t sure if his ears were working properly.

“Well, you’ve got the skills, that much is true. It would just be a matter of giving them a new purpose. This team could really do with a new set of eyes, and you’ve proven yourself an excellent observer.” She huffed, “Hell, you even made a business out of it. Anyway, the job is yours if you want it.”

“I’d… I’d be like you?” Tim asked, not really believing it. But Barbara nodded. 

“Damian showed me a few pictures of your little…” She waved her hand around, looking for the word, and Tim filled it in for her.

“Information room?”

“Yup,” She snapped her fingers, “Information room. Or stalker-lair, however you wanna call it.” She winked. “Point is, I love it. I want you on my team. As do the others. Patrol tonight looks like it won’t be too busy, none of the major players are out of Arkham, night seems calm, perfect for a newbie.”

“That would- It’s- Oh my God!” Tim stared at her, “You’re joking, right?”

Barbara looked uncertain for a moment. 

“No, I’m very serious, Tim. You obviously don’t have to if you don’t-”

“Jesus Christ. When do we start?” 

Because the thing was, Tim loved knowing everything about everyone. He loved having the upper hand, observing and calculating, collecting information until his notebooks were bursting. What better way to do it than this? Where he also got to work with the honest to God Bats? 

This was his dream job. 

“Can I also gather intel?” He asked eagerly, “I’ve still got my camera, and I could really be an asset. This is- Oh my God.”

“Hey,” Babs laughed, “One thing at a time, buddy. Bruce would have to train you a bit before you got out on the streets, but I’m sure you could. From what I've heard, I honestly don’t think he could stop you if he tried. But for now, are you ready to play guy-in-the-chair to the Bats?”

Tim didn’t think he’d ever be more ready.

He told Babs this, and she laughed again and handed him a headset identical to her own, showing him which button turned on his mic.

“You’ll need another name though. Fortune Teller is a bit long for comms. It needs to be snappy.”

Tim put on the headset and thought about it for a second. He wanted to stick to the fortune-teller theme, after all, it was how he'd gotten to know the Waynes in the first place. It felt important to keep.

“How about…” He grinned, wider than he’d ever done before, “Seer?” 

Babs smiled at him, and flicked on her mic. Tim heard a slight crackle in his headset as Oracle opened the comms for the night. 

“Good evening everyone, Oracle here. Since Batman gets to have as many sidekicks as he wants, child-labor laws be damned, I thought it was time I got one of my own.” She cast a soft glance over to Tim, “Everybody say hi to Seer, the newest member of our team.” 

“Seer, huh?” Jason said, and Tim could hear the faint whooshing of the wind as he and the others swung through the city. “Suits ya. Glad to have you on our team.” 

“Seer? That’s just perfect!” Spoiler whooped, and Damian spoke next.

“A very fitting name, indeed. You will be a fine addition to our team.”

“Welcome, Seer,” Said Bruce, smile in his voice, “How’s Gotham looking tonight?” 

Tim looked at Barbara, who nodded, and he turned his gaze to the blinking lights on his laptop’s map of the city. He took a breath, assessed the situation, focused on one of the red dots, and flicked on his own mic.

“Good evening, folks. This is Seer.” He leaned back in the chair and smiled, heart bursting with happiness. “There’s a robbery in progress at the National Bank, any takers?”

-

A FEW WEEKS LATER. CITY OF HAVANA.

It was a wonderfully sunny day in Cuba. The sky was azure and enchanting, the ocean lapping playfully against the shore. Way out on the water, a couple of sailboats were bobbing up and down on the gentle waves. 

The sun hit Jack and Janet’s balcony in just the right way, and they were both leaning back in their expensive chairs, now and again reaching for their champagne glasses. The drink was refreshing and cold, and they clinked their glasses together once before sipping on it. They settled down into their chairs again, closing their eyes contentedly. Janet had a book by her side that she’d given up on reading. It was too hot to do anything except drink cool drinks and relax. 

It was a wonderfully sunny day in Cuba, when suddenly the sun was obscured by something and a shadow was cast down over Jack and Janet Drake. They opened their eyes, and squinted through their sunglasses.

Above them, standing on the railing of their balcony, was the towering figure of a man, dark cape billowing in the coy breeze. 

Decorating his chest was the hauntingly familiar outline of a bat. 

Notes:

...and then jack and janet go to JAIL for a multitude of financial crimes and horrendous child neglect/endangerment/take your pick, really, and tim lives happily ever after with his new family!

for outtakes/deleted scenes/alternate POVs, check out factory rejects!

i can't believe this story is over. what am i supposed to do now? :,)

thank you to everyone that's taken the time to read this story! kisses on your forehead!!

all my love,
wes

EDIT 27/1/2024: check out this supercool art of tim (tumblr)!!

EDIT 3/2/2024: and check out this amazing comic of the "my computer had a virus so i smashed it" scene (tumblr)!!

EDIT 7/2/2024: and look at this beautiful art of tim giving jason a reading back in chapter two (tumblr)!!

EDIT 23/2/2024: also check out this cool art of tim in his fortune teller get up (tumblr)!!