Chapter Text
Tim had started the search for his actual biological father not long after Jack had gotten the test results that had ripped what felt like deep, dark chasms in the relationships between every member of the Drake household. Neither of the adult Drakes had told the truth to Tim, though he could feel the shudders and see the change in the landscape that the truth had wrought. Instead, Janet Drake had only crouched down in front of Tim to inform him of her and Jack’s unexpected but necessary departure for a six month dig—even though they were supposed to be home the whole summer—while Jack Drake had watched her with eyes that burned.
But Tim’s eleven (okay, technically he's still ten but it's June and his birthday's in July, which means he is eleven if you round up) and too smart for his own good (if what Ms. Wilson, his teacher last school year, had said was true). He’s also very, very good at listening unobtrusively to the conversations of adults when they’re too emotional to maintain proper volume control, as well as excellent at finding and reading things he was never meant to, quicker than any adult around him ever expected him to.
So Tim knows that in reality, the dig is just a facade, a smokescreen, a misdirection. In truth, Jack Drake had found out something Janet Drake had been lying about for a long, long time. To some extent, she’d even been lying about it to herself. The results of the test Jack had taken Tim to get had ended up sitting out on the kitchen table for a full half hour while he’d confronted Janet about their contents. This had been more than enough time for curious, slippery children like Timothy Drake to slink downstairs, see the fact that there’s no possibility of biological paternity between himself and the person he’d always been told was his father, and slip back upstairs with no adults in the house the wiser to his incursion in that apex moment of their interpersonal drama.
When his parents (well, his parent and his “parent”) are finally gone again, leaving Tim with no idea what he’s supposed to do with the very knowledge that they themselves are handling rather poorly, Tim supposes he might as well try to figure out who his actual father is. Maybe he’ll want Tim, maybe not. Either way, it was the knowledge that Jack Drake isn’t his father that tore this hole in Tim’s sense of identity, and Tim doesn’t know what can properly fill it except, perhaps, knowledge bearing a similar shape in the inverse.
He looks for clues for his real father’s identity in what he can find of his mom’s old financial records, and her personal letters and papers, but there’s nothing that helpful there—at least, nothing that he can find without spending more than the two weeks reading even more of them than he already has. He gives it up on day fifteen, when he finally understands what it truly means to be bored to tears.
He’s not old enough to order genetic tests for himself, either—at least not from anywhere reputable—but Gotham isn’t known as a city plagued by crime for nothing. The mob that backs the service he goes to makes a pretense of having a legit storefront, but Tim’s a Gothamite through and through—it doesn’t fool him. He knows before he even tries to go there that they’ll do what he’s asking, so long as he forks over the right amount of money.
It’s a good thing his parent and “parent” are rich, and therefore had been giving him a sizable allowance for a few years. Tim had been saving up for a really good telephoto lens for his camera for a while. Good lenses are expensive—so he has the money to throw around.
Tim had been figuring he’d find out what the rate for individual tests are, then decide what people are the most likely candidates and therefore the best options to spend his somewhat limited pile of cash on later. Instead, he’s pleasantly surprised to discover that the mob’s been compiling a database of the DNA of a whole bunch of the men with relevance to Gotham’s rich upper crust. They offer a paternity testing package deal—test any one set of DNA against their dataset, all for one low, low price of $6,000. Or, test against selected segments of their full database, for a pro rata price reduction.
It’s better than he was figuring, but even then Tim only has enough money saved to get tested against half of them. Now, he doesn’t want to start presuming too much, but this is probably the most convenient luck he’s had in all of this. Because if he gets negatives on every guy in this database he gets tested against, that will at least eliminate a significant portion of the people in the same social circles as his mother since before he was born. He knows she came from a rich family on the West Coast originally, and that she met Jack towards the end of his time in college in Boston. In fact, Jack loves retelling the story of how they first met, so much so that Tim knows it by heart.
Jack had clumsily bumped into her as she was leaving the campus cafe, making her latte splash all down the front of her brand-new Oscar de la Renta white-with-red-flower-print dress. He’d bought her a new latte and, luckily for him, dry cleaning had gotten the latte stain out, so he’d only had to cover the cleaning bill, rather than suffer the pain of dropping hundreds on replacing her designer dress. He’d managed to strike up a conversation while he was getting her a new latte and they’d kept in contact due to their shared academical focus on archeology. When she’d graduated a few years later, she’d taken a job in Gotham, and the rest was—as they say—history.
Or it had been history, for Tim, until this whole stupid paternity test debacle.
When the bubblegum-chewing lady at the intake desk has finished listening to Tim’s explanation of why he wants to test himself against the paternity package deal, half set, she stares at him a long moment, then says: “Tell ya what. I’ll put ya in for the full set. And you can pay the kid price.”
Tim frowns at her in puzzlement. He’s not sure what the mob is going to get out of giving a kid a discount, or why they’d have a kid discount in the first place. Do a lot of children come here? He's certainly never heard his school peers talking about getting genetic tests done.
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t need to look so suspicious. It’s like a kid’s meal. Lower price, cause you’re a kid’n all that. It’s called customer service. Don’t expect a toy, though.”
Tim shrugs to himself, and agrees to the deal.
When he comes back for the results and it turns out the impossible is the reality—that his father is the actual Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham—Bubblegum Lady asks him for the $1,500 she wouldn’t take from him before.
As hush money, of course. Unless Tim wants this to be front page news by tomorrow. Bubblegum Lady assures him that none of the adults around him would like it if this happened. Not that she has to tell him that—Jack and Janet Drake had already been impressing upon him that for notable persons of high society, reporters are a useful, but very dangerous, double edged sword. Jack’s already upset that Tim’s not his kid. There’s no way he won’t be more upset by the entirety of Gotham knowing about it.
“Non-disclosure wasn’t part of the original service agreement, kiddo,” she says, holding out one hand flat and palm-up, just as matter-of-fact as she’d been when she’d given him a discount and said “It’s called customer service.”
As much as he’s reeling from finding out the results, it’s reassuring to be extorted, so Tim forks the remains of his savings without protest. She’d been way too nice for someone that was supposed to be a mobster the first time he’d come in here. Now, Tim may be out his other $1,500, but at least it makes sense, and because it makes sense, it feels right.
He doesn’t have anything else in his life that’s been making any sense, lately, that’s for sure.
So, golden silence assured, Tim goes home, shoves the Bruce-Wayne-positive test result in one corner of his closet behind the skateboard propped against the wall, and tries to figure out how he’s going to incorporate all these earth-shaking blows into his internal paradigm.
Jack—his mind imagines saying to the man, like he’s sometimes seen step-kids say to their not-bio-parents on TV sitcoms. But something about that seems wrong in a sticky, gooey sort of way that adheres to the inside of his chest as a lump and aches, so he just as quickly abandons it. Dad—he goes back to try instead, but that’s an outright lie, and somehow not sticky-wrong but hollow-wrong instead, so he has to abandon that label in his mind, too.
Tears prick hot at the corners of his eyes, so he tries taking refuge in the coldness of logic. Not-his-dad—his mind proposes—or maybe—should-have-been-his-dad?
The last is the best alternative to “his dad” as a way to think of Jack Drake that he’s come up with so far.
He swallows, wondering why he’s still crouched in front of his open closet, and sees the skateboard again, and re-remembers that board was the last thing his should-have-been-his-dad had gotten him as a gift before the awful truth had been discovered, and his mom and should-have-been-his-dad had jetted off to some remote location of the world again instead of staying in Gotham for three more months. Should-have-been-his-dad had said they’d make a little outing of going to the skate park soon, just the two of them, father and son, but—Tim supposes it’ll never happen now.
He’s a lie of a kid to Jack Drake. In reality, the son of someone that maybe Jack Drake would feel it impossible to stack himself up against, because, well—Bruce Wayne. Kind of self explanatory, even for people who haven’t figured out that the Prince of Gotham is also Batman.
Tim has to wonder why should-have-been-his-dad is still willing to stay around his mom. Why is he still talking to her and going on trips with her when he hasn’t said a word to Tim since that first test had come back? After all, isn’t she the one who gave the guy a lie-kid in the first place?
But then it occurs to Tim that it’s probably less bad to tell a lie than to be a lie. So maybe should-have-been-his-dad knows that he can find it in his heart to forgive her, eventually, even if Tim himself is very much unforgivable by nature.
While finding out the full truth for himself does make him feel a tiny little bit better, there’s nothing much for Tim to do with it besides pretend to the hired help that everything is just fine. Fortunately, it’s not all that hard. The overnight nanny and the house cleaner don’t seem to think much of how he lays around in bed for several weeks after that, though they do tut about the mess of food wrappers and dirtied dishes that fetch up around him. Between the two of them, however, they manage to keep cleaning it away before it can reach an alarming mass, let alone any sort of critical mass.
The nanny eventually asks whether he’s feeling alright, and since lying to people apparently isn’t the worst relationship breaker possible (if his mom is any indication), Tim tells her he’s been feeling under the weather. No fever, but definitely suffering from a kind of achy and tired that has few other explanations besides a mild little cold.
If she finds it suspicious or concerning that there haven’t been any piles of wadded up tissues among the detritus she keeps having to clean up before she leaves every morning, she doesn’t call him out on it.
Though it takes a while, he eventually thinks about resuming his trips out to take pictures of Batman and Robin II, seeing as it was one of the few solo activities he’d liked to get up to before the truth came out. (His life seems separated into two distinct eras now: before the truth and after the truth.)
Except, imagining it, he can only think that he’d be too distracted by the thought of Bruce Wayne, his real true biological father, being right there in front of him, for it to be a good idea. Even if the man is mostly covered up by the cowl and doing his intimidating Batman voice the whole time, the knowing is an unavoidable, burning thing.
He also tries to imagine what it would be like to see Robin going around with Tim’s actual father like he always does, laughing and quipping easily as the duo takes down bad guys. He’d be oblivious to the ugly jealousy that Tim would probably start to feel at seeing one of Bruce’s chosen sons bask in his attention, while Tim sat alone, mostly hoping not to get noticed. And that wouldn’t be fair to him, right? Because it’s not like it’s his fault. It’s Tim’s fault, mostly. Maybe his mom’s, a little.
And that’s when Tim realizes that in the era of after the truth, that hobby might never hold any joy for him again, not to mention that he’s spent all the money he was going to put towards getting that good zoom lens. He can’t capture much better than distant blurs without it, not unless he’s lucky enough for the Dynamic Duo to happen to take a break on a roof near one of his Bat-watching stake out spots. Plus, going out to watch them will only make him a worse person now, by making him feel awful things like loneliness and jealousy instead of admiration and pride.
So he does nothing but sit idle at home for a while, nights included. The damning results from the mob’s morally suspect paternity checking service sit crumpled in his closet behind the skateboard.
Then, something else occurs to him as he’s watching some rerun of The Maury Show. It’s a paternity test episode that funnily enough doesn’t make him feel anything when he used to at least feel surprise or vindication or annoyance after all the personal stories were explained and Maury finally got down to announcing who was the father regardless of what anyone actually wanted. Instead the only semblance of an emotion he gets is a weird little aborted chuckle at the one woman that runs off stage when her baby’s daddy isn’t the one that she was hoping for out of the several equally lousy men there. At least her kid won’t be living a lie for nearly eleven years, Tim thinks. Maybe if she tried that disappointment on for size she wouldn’t be crying in the back room that daddy turned out to be backwards-ball-cap-Craig instead of military-cargo-pants-John or gym-shorts-Greg.
Anyway. While it would make him a terrible person to go upending everyone’s lives by telling his parents he found out what Jack isn’t, and then running off to try to butt in on the Waynes’ lives instead, if Bruce Wayne doesn’t know about this, he at least should be told. That’s the point of all these paternity shows, after all, that people want to—even deserve to—know the truth, even when that truth is awful. Tim himself would hate not having all the facts—that’s why he spent his $3,000 on DNA tests instead of a camera lens. So maybe there’s a way to tell Mr. Wayne without any sort of implication he has to take Tim on as a son?
Then, at least, Tim doesn’t have to wonder whether he knows or not. And hey, if Bruce Wayne one-hundo-p knows because Tim made sure of it, and yet acts no differently around Tim at the next gala they cross paths at, then that really solves the question of whether Tim should let it start to mean anything to himself.
He doesn’t need a second father that doesn’t want him, after all. He’s not going to go chasing after a man that cringes internally at the sight of him, and cause problems for Batman and Robin. They have important work for Gotham to do that they need to be able to focus on.
Tim just has to figure out how to present the information to Mr. Wayne in a way that makes it seem like neither the two perfectly good parents Tim already lives with, nor Tim himself, are in the know. After all, Bruce Wayne is Batman and Batman is a guy who knows how to deal in life-or-death secrets for the good of like, everybody. So as long as it looks like Tim’s doing just fine with his two whole parents, and by all appearances is blissfully ignorant and happy about it, then Mr. Wayne will have no trouble squirreling away this secret like he does so many others, if that’s what he wants to do. If he doesn’t want to bother with knowing Tim. Or with starting some kind of weird custody battle with the Drakes. Or with uncorking the PR nightmare that is sure to follow if even the most basic outline of this situation becomes public.
Yeah, Tim wouldn’t want to deal with this whole Tim-shaped problem, either. But again, if Tim was Bruce Wayne, he wouldn’t like it if he ever found out about all the people who kept this hidden for any longer than they had to. They both deserve to have the truth.
The ball’s in Tim’s court. It’s all up to him to make it happen.
Notes:
Next time: Tim hatches his excessively convoluted plan to send his equivalent of the "You’re my dad! Boogie woogie woogie!" video to Bruce.
Chapter 2: T(im) Is For Trouble
Summary:
Tim goes on an adventure to enact his plan. Various adults are concerned by this (and if they were not, they probably should have been).
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Once his thoughts on how to go about this have managed to coalesce into something useful, Tim pulls the badly crumpled paternity test results out from behind the skateboard for the first time in weeks. He uses the Drakes’ home office equipment to scan and print out a new copy, keeping the crumpled one for himself and handling the new copy with gloves on. (He honestly doesn’t know if fingerprints can mark paper, but it’s better safe than sorry. It would be a big tip off if Batman could only find Tim’s prints on the letter he’s going to mail him.)
He digs up an old newspaper that for whatever reason has remained unrecycled in the service supply closet, and begins the painstaking process of composing a note to accompany the results using cut up newspaper bits.
Since he’s read that best lies have a note of truth to them, he decides that his pretend scenario for the letter will be some idiot mobsters having the brilliant idea to use information they’d illegally obtained through a paternity test as blackmail against the rich idiot persona of “Brucie” Wayne.
Just like Bubblegum Lady had kind of threatened to do with going to the media.
But Tim wants to spice it up. He has to make sure Batman is super focused on hunting evil mobsters down to beat them up instead of hunting Tim down to ask him more questions.
Between writing out a draft of the note he’s going to include with the paternity test copy, then cutting letters out of the newspaper to recreate his handwritten draft, the project takes Tim two days. He’s disappointed that there hadn’t been any color advertisement inserts to work with, because it leaves his note looking rather drab. Some of the smears of glue around the letters had even turned grey from mixing with the newspaper ink smudged on his gloves. A few of the letters are not just cut around their outsides but also torn, thanks to Tim’s gloved fingers fumbling with the delicate pieces of paper.
And he couldn’t always find the words written the way he wanted, either, making him resort to piecemealing more of them together from individual letters and letter clusters than he’d wanted to. Occasionally he’d even used cutouts from some all-caps headlines because they were the first match he spotted, and it was just easier to deal with inconsistent capitalization than finding a differently printed word or combination of letters.
The main two things he feels looking at his finished product—except for the faint queasiness he gets whenever he thinks about the situation he’s in—is, firstly, faint disappointment. In all honesty, it doesn’t look nearly as menacing as the movies and TV all make it seem like letters composed of cut up newspaper bits should be.
The second thing he feels is aggravation over how many letters and words he cut out that ended up useless because they got stuck to his gloves in his gluey fumbling, never to be dislodged no matter how much he picked at them. There had been so much wasted effort stuck to those stupid gloves. He can only hope that Batman can’t somehow tell the difference between a kid gluing down letters and some particularly non-dexterous mob goons doing it.
For all he kind of hates the result, he does think did a pretty good job redirecting the heck out of any connections Mr. Wayne could have made about the information coming from Tim himself with this note. That, at least, is a good job on his part.
The note reads:
Dear Mr. bruCe WAYNE,
we hope you enjoy this little tidbit of information that we were SO fascinated to Learn. Perhaps you will find it interesting too?
rest assured that For now no harm has come to the child. and that all other Interested parties remain very unaware of this truth, including All the Drakes.
It’s useful, having family connections in SCHOOLs, To get access to certain People and their possessions without them ever realizing just how close we can get.
How CLOSE we can still get.
but really, dragging a kid into our little SquaBBlEs is Beneath the both of us. surely you can agree.
so we have a proposal for you. CALL off your little BATMAN from the goings on of PARK ROW MOBs. yes, we know about your connection to him. how you FUND him. we’re sure you have the leverage to call a few SHOTS now and then, even if you can’t CONTROL everything he’s out There doing.
In trade for this favor, we leave the child alone. and we keep your secret a Secret. WE think the bat will probably find it a fair trade.
blowing up tabloid pages with this would give you so many problems. but so long as you’re making sure the BAT stays out of our business, we’ll take care of keeping this information out of yours.
sincerely,
your dearest MOB friends
The envelope’s return address gives Tim more trouble. It needs one, Tim’s pretty sure of that, as his mom had gotten upset the last time he’d helped her address Christmas cards and noticed that he had left that area blank after writing the to addresses in the center.
So after further deliberation, Tim fires up the Drake home office computer again and uses the printer to customize some to and from sticker labels. He messes around with possible options for fonts for quite a while, eventually settling on using Comic Sans for the font of the receiving address label, and Jokerman for the font of the return address label—because Batman would probably consider the name of the font used as a possible clue to its actual sender, regardless of the name that’s on the label.
Tim’s making sure there’s all the misdirection packed into this that he can possibly fit.
Though he does kinda wish he could see whatever Mr. Wayne’s face does as he contemplates whether this label’s font means one of his creepiest Rogues found this extremely personal information out, or whether it just means that mob goons have no respect for the proper use of typefaces.
… Okay so maaaaybe Tim is feeling a little bitter towards Mr. Wayne about this whole position he’s found himself in. Negging Batman’s sizable paranoia is a fair kind of revenge for all this, right?
Tim’s pretty sure this makes them mostly even.
For the return address, he uses the street address of a storefront he suspects is a front for one of Gotham’s actual mobs (it’s a different storefront than the one actually housing the DNA test service. He doesn’t really want Batman going to beat up Bubblegum Lady, because even if she had extorted him, she’d still given him half off, in the end. It’s only polite not to immediately sic Batman on her in appreciation, right? That seems like a fair deal.)
The name Tim puts above the return address instead of his own is some mob underworld guy’s name he’s heard tossed around by some mobsters before. From what he overheard as he paused to eavesdrop on them one night after he’d fallen too far behind Batman to keep taking pictures, this “Matches Malone” is some kind of roguish weirdo who gets around in mob circles. The mobsters had even complained about him knowing too much stuff, basically all the time. It’ll make perfect sense for someone like him to have his name on this, and to be involved in using it to try to blackmail Mr. Wayne.
He’d feel bad, but if this Matches guy is a mobster, or some kind of mob associate, then he and the mobs he associates with probably deserve a Batman beatdown for something.
Now Tim just has to figure out how to get the letter to Wayne Manor without the act of dropping the thing in a mailbox being easily connected to him, either.
As it turns out, figuring out how he could have any chance of Batman not doing his whole detective thing to figure Tim out when he’s mailing the letter is even harder and more annoying than all the newspaper gluing was. Once he really gives it some thought, he begins to understand the level of paranoia about being found out that’s suggested by Mr. Wayne’s whole Brucie act.
The first problem is that Tim doesn’t know what kinds of access to cameras and electronic information systems Batman has. That means he definitely needs to err on the side of caution, which means assuming that he has to avoid doing anything that creates a record with images or names that Batman can access. He probably also needs to try not to stick out to people that Batman can easily find and question later on.
Tim concludes that that means no mailing anything in Gotham. Period.
He has to find a mailbox where no cameras or travel purchases can be traced to him. The only place that seems likely to be easy to manage is out in the countryside.
Except that how he can get out there without running into the “no traceable purchases or interactions during travel” issue is another question. He goes to the library to research—so that his online research is somewhat more anonymous, he hopes—and manages to find out about a bus route that goes between Gotham and Atlantic City. It passes through areas of countryside and accepts cash fare, but even with that there’s the problem of getting off the bus in the middle of nowhere just to stick a letter in a random house’s mailbox.
The bus advertises itself as a speedy non-stop connector between various major New Jersey cities.
That means he’d have to ask the driver to make a special stop, and that would make Tim memorable, potentially to anyone on the bus. It doesn’t seem like it would be very airtight from someone like Batman.
After thinking about it more, and exploring options like taxis and other transportation services, Tim resigns himself to his absolute last idea: hitchhiking. At least with hitchhiking there’ll be no records of monetary transactions like would be kept by a bus or a taxi. There’ll also be no designated driver with a discoverable work schedule to witness and remember Tim’s presence. And it’s not like Batman can track down and question every driver of every car—he’s still a regular man—so the relative anonymity of hitchhiking is really Tim’s best bet. (Tim assumes Batman’s still a regular man, anyway. In all of Tim’s observations of Batman and Bruce Wayne, he hasn’t seen any definitive evidence that he’s actually a secret meta that has information collecting powers, so … he’s ruling it out. For the moment.)
And while hitchhiking feels pretty dangerous, Tim just has to be a little bold for one day, and be ready with some really good cover stories. Ones good enough that whoever gives him a lift isn’t so worried about Tim that they try to file a police report about a hitchhiking kid.
He can only hope he doesn’t end up kidnapped or beaten up, either. Tim saw on the news what happened to that one hitchhiking robot in Philadelphia.
Unfortunately Tim doesn’t live in Philadelphia; he lives in Gotham. Philadelphians are downright pleasant by comparison.
But Tim’s desperate here. Maybe he can take his mom’s extra pepper spray, the one in the back of the junk drawer, with him?
He sighs to himself as he retrieves the spray, his stomach roiling with nerves. It doesn't matter how queasy he feels. This has to be done.
The hitchhiking out goes off far better than Tim had expected.
Sure, Tim was so nervous once he managed to flag down a car that he almost threw up right there on the side of the road, and then he almost fell flat on his face approaching the side door because his legs were shaking, but ultimately found himself getting in the car of some chill twenty-something guy that talked with a cartoonish level of surfer dude. Seriously, Tim hadn’t realized people that talked that way actually existed. He thought for sure it was only in cartoons.
Rather than question what someone Tim’s age is doing alone while trying to hitch a ride from strangers, Surfer Dude just makes sympathetic noises and murmurs ‘dude’ as Tim explains his fake cover story about having to take his dog, one he’d had since she was a puppy, into a big city (i.e., Gotham) vet for special treatment. He nods as Tim further explains that the aunt that was supposed to pick him up fell through, and even though his parents are gonna send someone in the evening, Gotham is scary and now he just wants to go home, sooner rather than later.
While his cover story seems to be accepted, it also manages to touch off a nerve wracking series of questions from Surfer Dude about Tim’s made up dog. Tim makes up all the answers to these questions on the spot and can only hope none of them ended up sounding noticeably contradictory. He didn’t expect anyone to be all that concerned about his fake dog! Surfer Dude then spends the second half of the drive telling Tim about the weird dog shenanigans that his own childhood pet had gotten into. Tim finds himself nodding along and laughing politely in the appropriate places, but not holding onto any part of the anecdotes because he is way too nervous about the fact he’s put himself at the mercy of some random stranger, even if said stranger does sound like that orange Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.
It’s just that the longer he’s sitting in the guy’s car, the more he’s panicking about the possibility of the guy driving him to some abandoned quarry and throwing him in. Who knows when his body would ever be found … if it ever is at all.
Frick, he’s such an idiot. If that is what this guy is planning to do, it’s way too late to get out of it, and panicking is useless.
Just telling himself that doesn’t seem to help him stop panicking, though.
In the end he manages to keep his breakfast down until it becomes apparent that none of his fears are being realized. Surfer Dude takes him all the way to the head of the driveway of the rural residence Tim had picked out as his destination ahead of time. The house isn’t visible from the roadway, given how dense the woods around it are, and how far back it is from the road. Tim is almost giddy with relief as he makes a show of waving goodbye to the man, slipping around the gate blocking the driveway to pretend to walk towards the house.
He doubles back after he’s been out of sight a sufficient length of time. Surfer Dude and his car are both gone. Tim slips his letter in the mailbox and lifts the flag, making sure he only touches all surfaces with the outside of his sleeve.
His singular task completed, he finds himself standing alone on the side of a country road at ten in the morning, the letter safely ensconced in the mailbox behind him, waiting to go out. With any luck, the postal carrier hasn’t even been by yet, and they’ll pick up his letter before the house’s occupants get home and have a chance of noticing the raised flag.
Tim lets himself give one long sigh before starting to walk back to a more major roadway so he can hitch a ride back.
The hitchhiking back doesn’t go quite as smoothly. Tim finds himself picked up by a nice looking lady, which is fine, but she seems excessively worried about Tim’s story of how he’d ended up stranded so far out in the countryside after falling asleep on the bus and getting halfway to Atlantic City when he meant to get off in Gotham. (Haha, whoops, right? Well she certainly doesn’t think so.) He barely manages to talk her down from calling the police immediately. And he only fully mollifies her when she sees he has a working entry code for the Drakes’ brownstone home, and he calls his parents’ secretary to ask her to “make a note about how he ended up on a bus that went outside of Gotham—but he’s home now thanks to a nice lady—for whenever his parents call to ask.”
If the secretary has any misgivings about it, she doesn’t comment. She simply agrees to do so, and reassures the worried lady that Tim’s parents are deeply appreciative of her bringing their wayward son home, and that she’ll let them know Tim had been found as soon as they call in for news in their ongoing search.
Tim may just send the secretary the next few months of his allowance as a bonus for playing along so spectacularly. It’s not gonna be a lot, but she deserves it just for her smooth reaction to that odd and unexpected phone call getting that lady off his back.
Geeze. Responsible adults. As nice as it is to have them taking care of things, they always want to be up in your business for some reason, even when you’re doing just fine.
Of course, Tim’s aware the secretary could follow up her helpful moment with changing her mind and trying to be responsible, too. She could still call his parents and inform them he’s been up to something that responsible adults think kids shouldn’t do.
But Tim consoles himself with the fact that they’re not likely to bother coming back to scold him in person any earlier than they’d already planned, especially if no actual damage was done to persons or property. The worst he’ll have to endure is them scolding him over the phone or something. And if they still remember about it when they get back, it’ll be five-months-from-now Tim’s problem. The only thing Tim really can’t risk happening right now is either Batman figuring out who the letter came from, or having some well-meaning but overly worried adult getting the police involved.
But so long as everything keeps going as planned, Mr. Wayne and the Drakes will all be able to go their merry ways once the letter gets to Wayne Manor. They’ll all return to their regular lives (or the shambles of their regular lives, in the case of the Drakes), with nothing much different except for possessing the proper disclosures they all should have had from the get-go.
Jazz hands.
Really, that Matches Malone guy should end up walking away as the most unhappy person in the whole situation, because Batman will probably get him jail time for something in addition to beating him up. Tim doesn’t think he’ll take kindly to the idea of mobsters trying to use a child to extort someone … even if that child is that very same someone’s unwanted bastard son.
Notes:
Thanks for all the comments so far everyone! I know I'm updating this one week out exactly, but I can't exactly promise updates will remain as frequent as we get further along. We just have the benefit of the fact that I'm working with a chunk of prewritten material at the moment (this account I'm posting on is one I made specifically for fics I haven't fully written before starting to post). So I'm not sure how quickly I might manage to catch up to the end the prewritten material, at which time updates will probably take longer.
Chapter 3: The Postman Cometh
Summary:
It was a lovely day at Wayne Manor. Then came the mail.
Notes:
I have made some minor additions to previous chapters to clarify certain details. At this time there is nothing really critical to the plot or anything, just additional stuff for flavor. (For example, I added a story about how Tim's parents first met, which I think gives a nice background counterpoint to pair with Bruce's perspective on what went down between him and Janet when we get to that in ... a few chapters. And I made a slight tweak to Tim's age—see the end note for the nitpicky details about comic canon ages that I am using.)
I also have changed the US Flag Forever stamp mention to Domestic E-rate Earth stamps. SMH at forgetting that maybe US Forever type stamps didn't exist until the 21st century! Lol.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Alfred deposits a small pile of letters and full-page mailing envelopes some distance from Bruce’s elbow with a droll, “Mail, sir.”
Bruce doesn’t break his typing pace to look too closely at the stack. The sooner he writes this the sooner he’s done writing it, and then he can move on to matters more compelling than a speech to a bunch of business executives. Not quite driven enough by his task to forget to give his butler better than cold inattention, however, he spares a moment to give the older man a quick nod in thanks before returning his attention to the script for the presentation he’s working on.
Alfred tucks the silver tray he’d brought the mail pile on under his arm, not moving off to take care of other tasks as he usually does after a mail delivery. He has one remaining envelope in a white gloved hand. “There was also one for the downstairs today,” he says, expression unchanging despite the faint emphasis on downstairs. “Shall I leave it there for later review?”
Bruce can feel his brows creasing, but he doesn’t let himself stop typing. Not yet. “In the Manor’s delivery?” he asks, pushing skepticism into his voice in hopes of drowning out the beginning stirring of a feeling that there is something … wrong. But he’s not quite all the way to alarm. Not yet. “How do you know it’s for the downstairs?”
Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Alfred exhibit the front of the envelope by holding it up. “The return address places it as sent by one M. Malone. I do believe I am acquainted enough with the man to be certain of that much,” he says archly.
Bruce’s hands still. He snaps his gaze to the envelope, confirming the name for himself. It takes him a long moment to read, because for some reason the return label is printed out in one of the most obnoxiously ornate fonts preinstalled on every Windows PC for the last decade or two.
Bruce’s mind whirls, trying to run down his every last memory of the most recent few things he used the Malone persona to do. Then he tries to think further back, to whether mailing a letter is something he’s ever done as Malone.
He comes up with … a distressing amount of blank. He didn’t send this, unless his mind’s been tampered with … Bruce pauses, then sets the thought aside for later. He can leave that for after he checks the envelope contents, at least.
As far as he knows he hasn’t even been out as Malone recently enough for the letter’s timing to make sense, unless the USPS had managed a colossal mail misplacement, and only now found the letter again. He files that away as another very slim possibility.
Admittedly, he muses to himself, sending mail would be a clever-ish way to deliver information back to himself when he couldn’t break his cover, provided there was a low risk of someone trying to intercept and examine simple postal mail sent by the Matches persona—but. But.
The more important point: He. Didn’t. Send. This.
Who the hell could possibly have made a connection between Malone and Bruce Wayne that they would send mail here with his name written on it like some kind of taunt?
And if they made that connection, could they have made any others?
Bruce snatches the envelope from Alfred as he rises. If someone's connected Malone to him—and they shouldn’t have been able to figure out Malone, so who knows if Batman is compromised, too—then he has to treat this letter like, at worst, a possible attempt to kill either Bruce, Malone, or Batman.
It’s a cold comfort, knowing that if Alfred had picked it up and brought it here, then the letter must have passed his basic machine checks for issues like explosives or chemical dangers, and then gone through the basic biohazard decontamination of the exterior. That doesn’t put serious biohazards that can only be found by opening up and looking inside the envelope out of the question, though.
He’s only slightly reassured that the weight and balance of it in his hand doesn’t feel like the mailing contains anything besides paper. It doesn’t mean much, but it’s better than an inexplicable variance from normal weight. “I’m going to have to run scans and open this in a protected environment to check for possible dangers or contaminants,” he tells Alfred.
Alfred’s brows have risen, but he is silent as Bruce comes around the desk and makes a beeline for the clock. Before Bruce can disappear inside the Cave once the clock swings open, Alfred says: “I’ll be collecting Jason from school in forty minutes. Shall I inquire whether he perhaps sent it, and direct him to head straight down when we return?”
Bruce glares at the disruptive entity—perhaps literally, or perhaps only figuratively—sitting innocuously in his hand. A painfully generic US Domestic E-rate Earth stamp sits pasted neatly in the corner. No handwriting, which means there’s very little personality to it, except for the odd font choices on the printed labels. “Please do. I’ll check with Dick. There’s always a possibility he sent it and meant to inform me it was coming, but forgot.”
He doesn’t think it likely, not with the fact that the stamp cancellation mark isn’t from a post office in or near NYC, and not with the fact that Dick is all but allergic to anything Batman has to say about his hero work right now, but he has to be thorough.
“Very well,” Alfred demurs, “Do remember to inform me if his mood is poor enough that you need someone else to ask instead, sir.”
Bruce doesn’t turn to give his affirmative hum, feeling both the weight of his former Robin’s disdain, and the ghost of the Batman cape hanging particularly heavily on his shoulders as he begins to descend into the Cave.
By the time Jason is tromping down the Cave stairs, with Alfred following behind, Bruce has already confirmed Dick had nothing to do with sending the letter.
Fortunately, Dick had been in a relatively good mood. Not enough that he initiated a conversation after business was concluded, no. Instead he’d just asked if that was all and on Bruce’s confirmation, hung up.
But at least Bruce doesn’t have to go shamefacedly to his butler to plead for a bail out.
Otherwise, Bruce has also, in the time he’s had, run the still-sealed envelope through a set of x-rays, touched it with a stone Zatanna had assured him would light up if a magical spell was enchanting the touched object, and manually swabbed the exterior for traces of explosives or biological contamination.
Nothing, on all three. For all that he can tell without opening it, there’s nothing dangerous about it. Though, with the screening all the mail to the manor receives before Alfred even touches it, he’d have been surprised if anything but the magic stone had turned up positive for anything.
“For the record, I totally didn’t send this,” Jason declares, drawing just close enough to stare curiously at the envelope, which Bruce had, after all his tests, placed inside a biocontainment bag until ready to actually open it. Jason rests his fists judgmentally on his hips and wrinkles the bridge of his nose as he takes in the envelope’s exterior details. “For one thing,” Jason says, “I’d pick something way more inventive for the sender’s name, not recycle one of your boring old aliases.”
Bruce catches Alfred’s gaze over Jason’s head, and finds himself mouthing a “boring?” in mild, baffled offense. Alfred gives a silent laugh—that particular shoulder shudder can’t be mistaken for anything else—and lifts both brows in response.
“For another thing,” Jason continues, “I wouldn’t embarrass myself by printing the address for Wayne Manor in Comic Sans. And I definitely wouldn’t use whatever fresh hell that return address is printed in.”
Taking the bagged envelope in hand again, Bruce moves to the Batcomputer and pulls up the folder of fonts on the system. He glances between the envelope and the sample screen for the font he’d already suspected would be a match.
But clocking the font name gives him a great deal of pause. “Jokerman,” he finally declares in a growl through clenched teeth.
Jason outright startles, blinking and glancing between Bruce and the font on the monitors. “That one’s called Jokerman and the other is Comic Sans?” He hesitates. “Are those supposed to be some kind of clue? Like … it’s sent by the Joker, and it’s not something ‘funny’?”
Bruce grimaces. “Or a contrast between him and myself, considering which addresses are in which font. But for all we can tell from the outside, it could just as well be a misdirection. It really doesn’t seem to have a trap built into it, but I’m opening this in the containment unit regardless. A small amount of a chemically or biologically dangerous powder, if sealed carefully enough inside, could have evaded the exterior tests.”
They all move as a group to the containment unit, and Bruce places the envelope, a small knife, swab collection materials, and several different types of cleaning solutions inside before closing and sealing it. Jason watches all this intently, brows creased.
Bruce pauses as he puts his hands into the thick gloves that are inset in the thick plexiglass of the containment unit so he can manipulate the objects inside. “Questions?”
Jason blinks and meets Bruce’s steady gaze for a moment before returning his attention to the unit’s interior. “Just wonderin’ why you put half’a janitor’s closet in there.”
Bruce hums as he takes up the knife and the envelope. “It’s for if there’s an organic danger inside this envelope. My particular concern in this case is something like anthrax. You may remember news reports on an attack made on Federal buildings in DC with it through the mail a few years back. The cleaners will be the first step in rendering exposed surfaces and materials inside safe if that is an issue. A ten percent formalin solution should help neutralize any anthrax spores we may disperse in the opening process.”
“Just say formaldehyde, ya big nerd,” Jason huffs, pressing his nose up against the plexiglass to watch Bruce slide the blade under the flap of the envelope even more intently, but there’s no heat to the insult.
Bruce hums. “And what should I call a boy that knows a ten percent formalin solution can also be called formaldehyde off the top of his head?”
“Robin the Boy Wonder, of course,” Jason scoffs with a sharp sideways grin.
“He has you there, sir,” Alfred puts in.
“Yeah. Outnumbered and outvoted, B. Just give up.”
Bruce drops his voice into his gruffer, lower nightwork register. “Batman never surrenders against even the most insurmountable odds.”
Jason merely responds with a snort, his grin unfading.
Flap sliced, Bruce turns the envelope over and shakes gently. Both he and Jason peer closely.
“I didn’t see anything fall out,” Jason offers with a shrug. “You really think someone’s tryin’ to kill you with mail?”
Bruce shakes his head and intones: “Innocent until proven guilty in a court of law … but as far as I’m concerned, this letter is a dangerous assassination attempt until decidedly proven not a dangerous assassination attempt.”
Jason sighs. “You’re so flippin’ weird, B.”
Bruce ignores the comment and parts the new opening in the envelope, moving the whole thing about to get a look at the sides of the interior and the folded pages tucked within it. With nothing suspicious in sight, he pinches the pages between thumb and index finger and draws them out, motion more awkward than usual with the restriction of the thick gloves.
Bruce lets the pages unfold slightly but doesn’t flatten them to read closely yet, more intent on taking care of all the work necessary to test for harmful contaminants. Despite his attempt to work quickly without reading too much, he notes that the first appears page to be a composition of glued newspaper letters. Proper spacing and neatness is nearly non-existent, which makes even picking out words arduous (and what is with all these font and composition choices that make this material time consuming to parse? It feels like an act of aggression in and of itself.)
The most Bruce bothers to pick out is that the signature ends with something about “mob friends”. He puts a pin in the phrase for later, deeper consideration, particularly the question of which Gotham mobs might create this kind of threat, and send it through the mail. The second sheet is some kind of printout, thank God—probably made with a jet ink printer, going by the slight pricks of ink bleed-through on the backside. Most of the page is taken up by a technical-looking table of numbers, so he spends even less time parsing it compared to the newspaper cutout composition. Whatever the second page is, it will no doubt be supporting information to the contents of the first page. It will be most efficient to completely parse the first page before further evaluating the second. He uses an overhanging camera to very quickly snap photographs of both of them to store on the Batcomputer before retrieving the swab samples and turning on the heat and UV treatment within the containment unit.
“You did follow sanitation protocols after I took the envelope from you, yes?” he asks Alfred as he carries the samples to the lab area.
“Quite,” Alfred drawls. “Did you wish for the bagged gloves and suit?”
Bruce shakes his head. “If the interior material comes back clean, I’d say we can forgo full decontamination procedures. So let’s see whether we actually get anything back on these tests first. The quick version of testing for the outside didn’t turn up anything, but I’ll feel better about it if the quick test for the interior also comes back clean. The more definitive tests will take a day or two to conclude. So unless you need that outfit before then … ?”
“I will manage. Now, unless you had something else for me to attend to, I do believe have other business to return to upstairs.”
“Not at all, Alfred, feel free to get back to your usual tasks,” Bruce says as he shakes his head, and Alfred leaves.
Jason, meanwhile, has continued to trail after Bruce, who pauses as he shoulders open the door to the sterile area of the lab, brow creasing. “You can’t follow me in here, Jaylad.”
Jason’s expression flashes to mulishness in an instant. “I can help you run the tests! It’ll speed things up. You got a lotta samples.”
Bruce shakes his head. “I’d rather you weren’t involved in testing anything that I have the slightest concern involves something as nasty as an anthrax contamination. Not when it isn’t necessary.”
“But I can be safe,” Jason says, knowing he’s sounding whiny, hating that he is, but at a loss for how to tamp down on it. “I can follow all your directions to the letter and wear all the gear and not even complain when the goggles steam up inside.”
Bruce sighs. “As good an argument as that is, protocol requires only opening one sample for testing at a time. We don’t have the kind of lab space that would let us both work on it much more efficiently than I can alone.”
Jason sags, groaning in disappointment. The first argument Bruce made is the one that’s most important to him, of course, but it should figure he’d have a super logically undeniable one to pull out when the first one hadn’t been convincing enough to anyone else.
“It’ll only be about an hour and a half, at the most,” Bruce says. “Why don’t you go find something to read?”
Jason straightens up, lifting his chin and refusing to so much as look at Bruce from beneath eyes heavy-lidded with haughty disdain. “Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll even read it sitting in the Batcomputer chair. Make myself spin in it really fast like you always tell me not to, but you won’t be able to this time because you’re gonna be too busy being a Mister—” Jason mimics the bat-voice as best he can with vocal cords not totally settled in their own drop “—I Work Alone.”
Bruce nods solemnly. “Unfortunately, we all have our own consequences to bear. If you make yourself throw up, I better not hear that you also made Alfred clean it up.”
Jason turns away, throwing his hands in the air briefly. “Tch! My puke control gets zero respect around here.”
He can hear Bruce huff something between a laugh and a sigh as he vanishes into the sterile lab area that’s capable of negative pressure. A light by the door flicks on, indicating the pressurization is active.
Jason grumbles his way over to the Batcomputer chair. It's times like these he wishes Bruce and Alfred didn’t run such a tight ship. This is exactly the kind of moment he needs a few good rocks that he can kick at moodily as he trudges off to wait for Batman to finish keeping all the fun to himself.
Notes:
Next Time: Jason finds something to read. Bruce probably should have let him test for anthrax instead.
(About comic canon ages I mentioned in the beginning chapter notes: I know I have mentioned Tim being eleven in this story quite a bit in prose and in comments, but I realized this might be a bit old when writing the particular flavor of Jason I wanted to have here. I also wanted to be sure we weren't running too close to the original point in time that Tim would have been going to confront Bruce about Batman's increasing violence because of Jason dying and all that. Anyway, Jason was not Robin for nearly long enough in canon and I got sad because crunching the numbers on Tim and Jason's ages for this fic really made me feel it.
To get a bit in the chronological DC canon weeds, the Post-Crisis and Pre-Flashpoint/N52 comics storyline age difference between Jason and Tim is one of the few we can reliably know down to the day in canon. Jason's birthday is August 16, and Tim's is July 19, and their stated ages at key points make it clear that the age separation between them is 1 year, 11 months, and 3 days.
So, all that in mind, I added details about Tim being eleven, technically, to the start of this story. That means if I now did all my mathing right, Tim is actually ten at the start and will turn eleven during this story, and thus Jason will be turning thirteen only 28 days after that. All this was important to me because of one thing: I want Robin!Jason here to be his early days Robin. Where he can just be such an earnest little lad. He is Baby. Pls love him. 🥺
One other thing I also realized only once I got into double checking ages: I deliberately set this fic to start at the end of the school year/beginning of summer with the thought that "Jack and Janet Drake were planning to be home three months at the start of the story because I believe they would choose to come home during the summer to see Tim, as I want to have them emotionally distant and yes, not doing such a great job at being present, but also not being completely intentionally negligent jerks." ...Except now the whole thing with them leaving for a dig, which they basically did so they're not angrily hashing out their huge, newly discovered relationship problem in front of Tim, means they decided to bounce in June ... and oh, look, Tim's birthday is in ... July.
Huuuuuhhh.
So yeah I realized that means they're about to not be here for Tim's birthday now. But I'd like the record to show it was NOT originally my intention for them to pull that at all. I'm ... not gonna gloss over it though. Since it's logically in there. Whoooooops.)
Chapter 4: Knowledge Is Power; Power Corrupts; Study Hard; Be Evil
Summary:
Jason reads something that makes him question whether learning to read was a good idea in the first place.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
After settling in on Bruce’s large computer chair, Jason tries kicking his feet as he leans all the way back against the backrest. To his surprise his feet scuff along the ground, unlike how he remembers them being able to freely swing when he’d first come down here going on … nearly a year ago. Maybe Bruce had been right, recently, when he’d ruffled his hair and said fondly that he’d been shooting up like a weed as of late. Jason had scoffed at it at the time.
He hums to himself, a little disappointed to have some good feet swinging denied him, but also inordinately pleased at the discovery all the same. He goes for a couple bouts of the fastest spinning he can manage instead, as previously threatened. He doesn’t have to stay perched on the edge of the seat or kick at nearby standing objects to get it going thanks to his discovery of his elongated legs. And he doesn’t throw up once.
Ha! Suck on that, Bruce. Jason’s long been a master of the art of the gag reflex. He needs to plot an incident to remind that guy to respect it.
It really doesn’t take long before he’s bored of spinning, however. The semi-faux outrage he’d been channeling at Bruce’s dismissal, one that had helped to stave off any sense of boredom, proves hard to sustain in the calm, shadowed aura of the Batcave. His eyes wander the Cave, catching briefly on the containment unit with the pages of the letter glowing white under the UV light.
Bruce had been moving so fast with all his testing nonsense that Jason has to wonder if he’d really read any of the contents of the thing. What if the pages don’t even say anything threatening? What if Dick had lied about not sending it, and this is all just some weird Dick joke, meaning Bruce is doing all this testing for nothing?
If so, it would be typical.
Jason supposes that since Batman is so busy with his busy-ness, that leaves it to Robin to fix his oversights. After all, it was Batman that told him to go find something to read, right? He pulls up the pictures that Bruce had taken of the pages inside the envelope on the Batcomputer and begins examining them.
Before he even gets past the salutation line of the first page, Jason huffs to himself. The page is filled with words cobbled together out of literal newspaper cutouts, and looks like it must have been a bitch to put together. All those tiny, finicky bits, together with glue—Jason struggles to understand what the criminals that would spend their time making this sort of thing are trying to get out of what they’re doing.
The ones that are simply out there using basic violence or deception in hopes they’ll score easy money, Jason gets—he’s seen what drives people to that. They turn to crime because it seems like a better, easier guarantee of success, even if it means they hurt people or risk ending up in jail. It seems to Jason that to help people like that, you have to figure out how to get them to believe they have other options that are better and worth the effort. Not easy, but maybe doable, like Bruce hopes.
Guys who’ll go to all the trouble of making fancy letters out of newspaper bits like this, though—what’s wrong in their brains, huh? Whoever put this together must have spent at least a day cutting out all the little letters and gluing them on the page precisely enough to deliver a coherent message. Criminals that pull this kind of nonsense clearly have the wherewithal to spend hours doing annoying and boring tasks—so it’s not that different from having a job.
So why, Jason always wonders, why don’t they just … have a job instead? And why does Bruce ever think there’s any reforming you can do with people who do crime like … this?
Honestly.
This is exactly the kind of excessive, unnecessary effort that catapults someone straight to Rogue status, if you ask Jason. In fact it reminds him a lot of Riddler, who makes all kinds of stupid arts and crafts projects, and traps that feel a bit like arts and crafts projects, parts of his evil schemes all the time.
Maybe that’s a clue, though. Maybe this is the opening salvo in one of Riddler’s plots.
Hm.
Shaking his head, Jason sets himself to reading the letter. At first, he thinks the text is making some kind of threat against his own life. That he might even have to field attackers at school or something (ugh, that is gonna be annoying). But as he gets to the final few paragraphs, the whole thing sort of falls apart and becomes head scratch inducing instead.
First there’s the fact they refer to themselves as Park Row mobs. It’s just weird for anyone from there to go around calling the place by that old name if they’re trying to make themselves seem tough, or a more valid threat. The only thing he can think is that maybe they’re trying for a psychological power move by referring to the area with what it was called when Bruce’s parents were killed? Except they’re trading in all the current-day nasty implications that come with saying Crime Alley, even if Bruce doesn’t know what it is offhand (for all they know he’s just that rich and out of touch) … that in exchange for maybe possibly making Bruce remember something traumatic. Hmph.
Then there’s the fact they think Bruce is only funding Batman. You’d think that someone who had figured out Bruce was Matches Malone would have figured out the Bruce-Batman connection better, too. Oh well, Jason can kinda brush past that one, for now. Figuring out how their perp got it both so wrong and so right would be a job for later.
But then the letter starts going on about tabloids and public reaction, for some reason, and that’s even weirder. Like, geeze, Jason knows his street rat brat status is embarrassing to snotty rich people, but it’s not like his adoption is a complete secret. It’s all Bruce has been able to do to keep Jason’s face out of the news on the regular, or so Bruce had complained to Alfred in a conversation they’d started having one time when Jason wasn’t in the room.
There’s no extra scorn from society to be netted on that front. Going public about Jason isn’t a threat.
And even if it was, it’s a way less creepy one than suggesting they can get at Bruce’s kid on school grounds. Why wouldn’t they put it as the threat more towards the end of the message, so it feels like an escalation of the stakes and lingers better in the reader’s mind? Do they really think Bruce Wayne lives in greater fear of tabloid attention than something happening to his son?
What were the chumps who wrote this thing doing?
Jason wishes he could take a red pen, mark the thing up, and send it back. After all, these people were already spending extra time gluing a whole bunch of letters to paper. They certainly could have given more thought to how its composition would affect its impact. Clearly, threat letters are wasted in the hands of a bunch of stupid mobster goons, or whoever these people are. Jason throws up his hands metaphorically, and clicks to the next image, hoping it will be a bit more worthy of a careful reading by someone who thinks.
He doesn’t quite understand what he’s looking at for a moment so long he’ll be embarrassed about it later. There’s some sort of table, four columns, the first with gibberish-looking numbers and letters, and the other three with regular looking numbers. Blinking, he looks to the top of the page, where he probably should have checked first, and his stomach does a weird little swoop when the words “DNA TEST REPORT” hit his brain.
His eyes flit over the page more frantically now, trying to comprehend what he’s looking at. He reads the words “MOTHER: Janet Lynn Drake” once, but finds himself re-reading the words “Alleged FATHER: Bruce Thomas Wayne” several times, just to be sure, and then “CHILD: Timothy Jackson Drake” three times more than that. He tries to place if he’s ever heard the name, but comes up with a big fat nothing. Shaking his head, he runs down the columns of letters and numbers—oh, there’s the word alleles, he does know what those are, so that makes sense that it’s mentioned on DNA test results—
Then, below the table, his eyes come to rest on the words “Probability of Paternity: 99.9999%”, and he can feel his jaw drop, something electric tensioning every muscle up and down his body.
“Hooooly—” Jason whisper-wheezes, reading it all again. “Holy—” he manages to wheeze out a second time. He slaps his forearms down on the armrests of the chair and grips tight enough for his hands to hurt, all the words he’d just read whirling and twisting about each other. The miasma of new knowledge is rearranging itself into something that paints an insane picture—if this isn’t all one huge prank.
Jason clicks back and forth between the two images, finally slumping back when no other explanations present themselves.
More context, though, that’s what he really needs. This says a lot and nothing, all at the same time! Folding his arms as he frowns at the monitors, Jason mutters to himself: “Great, just great. But who in the ever-lovin’ cheeseballs even is Timothy Jackson Drake?”
All Jason really knows based on this is that Bruce has got some kind of illegitimate love child, and the mob found out, and is after the kid. Or—someone else who wants Bruce and Batman to blame the mob. Now that he thinks about it, it is weird for mobsters to go around signing a letter with “your dearest mob friends”.
Gosh he needs that red pen.
A Rogue plot is the primary option on the table still, Jason decides. Maybe it’s Joker’s, like the outside of the envelope suggests. Or it’s Riddler’s, like the whole cryptic arts-and-crafts newspaper cutout letter shtick makes Jason tempted to think. Both of them are the kind of weirdos who’d sign off on a letter with a “your dearest” anything, that’s for sure.
Jason shivers. Sure, Batman and Robin would go out to save a threatened kid regardless of a relationship, but this DNA test thing means they’re unlikely to all go their separate ways and back to normal afterward. How is Bruce going to react? Had he really not known about this kid before?
Well … in the most likely case he didn’t, because just look how it happened with Jason getting taken in directly after Dick—based on that, it would be just Jason’s luck for Bruce to have a “one child at a time” thing. If he had known about this Timothy, then surely he would never have bothered taking Jason in, even after the whole mess with Ma Gunn’s school. Or maybe he wouldn’t ever have taken in Dick in the first place, either, depending on how old this Timothy is. Because he’d have had his own kid to raise at some point in there.
Jason can only hope that Bruce likes him enough now that he’ll keep them both around. Sure adoption is supposed to be forever but, well … Bruce is rich. He’s already using his money to do insane things normal people never could do all the time, so there’s no way unadopting a kid should be that impossible.
Though maybe Jason knows too many of his secrets to let him leave?
Hm. Angle he could play, if he really needs to.
And—maybe if he just works hard enough, like he does with school, then he’ll also get to stay on as Robin once Bruce figures out everyone can be happier if he keeps both of them around. If Tim wants to go out vigilante-ing, well—Jason will be sure to offer to help him think of a great name idea for a new hero. Design a whole costume. The works!
Yeah.
Okay. It’s a plan, at least. No reason to wig out and assume the worst case scenario … yet.
Except—Christ on a cracker, Jason is not looking forward to how insufferable B is likely to get about a surprise kid. That someone is literally threatening right now. And Alfred, Bruce’s butler-slash-pseudo-father—no offense to the man, but Alfred’s all old and proper and British. Just how upset is he gonna be that his employer-slash-pseudo-son Bruce went and knocked up some lady and then took no responsibility?
Jason shakes his head, trying to dislodge his apprehension and confusion. He needs some advice. Normally he’d do recon on Bruce by talking to Alfred, but this time he needs recon on Alfred, too. And there’s only one person he knows that has the first clue about the both of them.
He’d never thought he’d have to do this, and it feels really weird to call up someone he’s only talked to a handful of times, but … it looks like it’s time to go for the desperate measure play.
He’s gotta call Dick Grayson.
“Heeey, uh, Dick. It’s me.”
“ ... Jason?” Dick’s voice comes over the phone. He’s half drowned out by the white noise wind in the background, but as far as Jason can tell he sounds puzzled, not hostile or annoyed. A good sign. Jason can understand the confusion, since it’s not like he’s ever called the guy, even when there was some social event on the books, because Alfred took care of it. So Jason’s certainly never contemplated calling just to … talk.
After his own mini freak out about the contents of the envelope, he’d executed a tactical retreat to the Manor upstairs to use a phone in the family wing—Bruce has to be halfway through his tests at best, and Alfred is still tidying in the other wing of the house, so he just might keep this conversation private.
As private as they ever get living this close to Batman and an ex-MI6 agent, anyway. (Or something like that. Alfred’s always been a bit cagey on the details about certain periods of his “service to the Crown” around Jason.) Between the two of them someone’s gotta be recording even the calls on the landline in this house.
In any case, there’s one other point in favor of Dick being Jason’s best bet: besides knowing the two adults in the household well, he even has personal experience in navigating Bruce showing up with a surprise kid. The irony isn’t lost on Jason that this is apparently about to happen to him. Sometimes the way B handles personal or emotional things—even though he usually means well—is astoundingly stupid. Or weird. Or awkward. Or even just baffling. Jason certainly knows that much, even after living with him for far less time than Dick did. So he’s not about to be overly optimistic that this time will be any different from the rest of his time here so far.
“Yeah, uh, sorry about calling you out of the blue like this, but did anyone tell you about the weird letter we got in the mail today?”
A pause. “One sec, Jay,” Dick says, then the wind cuts to dead silence for a long moment before Dick’s voice returns, clearer and without the background noise. “If you mean the one that showed up today with one of the IDs B uses to go incognito as the sender, then yes. Don’t know anything else about it, though. Why?”
“Soooo—” Jason cringes at his own nervous laughter. “Funny story about that.”
All cheerfulness drops from Dick’s voice, leaving something a lot more Nightwing in its place. “Jason. It’s going to take me a few hours to get to Gotham from NYC. What’s the problem with the letter? What do I need to be ready for?”
Jason winces.
“ … did you … accidentally damage or destroy it somehow? Are you in trouble about it?” Dick asks. Jason’s thrown again by how seamlessly his tone flips to soft and reassuring. ‘Do you need help burying some evidence?’ it almost seems to whisper.
Jason groans, giving himself a mental shake. “No, I’m fine right now, there’s no immediate problem that you have to make a trip for—just—just let me think how to explain, dickhead, geeze!”
Dick huffs a breath but obliges him with a moment of silence. Jason uses it to start pacing and to pull his scattered thoughts into some semblance of order.
“So. We got this letter, supposedly sent by one of B’s secret aliases, so he was all suspicious of it immediately, right? So he didn’t want me handling any of the testing for dangerous stuff on the letter. He’s busy doing it all himself right now,” Jason says after a fortifying breath, “Anyway, I was just sitting outside the lab while he worked on it, waitin’ and bein’ bored—”
“Ahhh. So B was making bad decisions in Robin management again,” Dick cuts in, voice lilting with amusement. “That sounds about right. Continue.”
Jason rolls his eyes, but smiles a little. “Anyway, he hadn’t bothered to read it too carefully before he rushed off to check his samples for dangerous pathogens or whatever, so I just thought—maybe I could do that, right? Start figuring out what kinda person sent it and why, you know?”
“Uh-huh,” Dick says, an encouraging note to his tone.
Jason sighs. “So. Page one was a threatening letter claiming it was sent by an unnamed mob, which was pretty normal stuff. The letter inside was just signed by ‘Park Row Mobs’, so the whole Malone thing is only off the return address. Anyway, from what the letter was saying, I thought they were trying to use knowing about me and where I go to school to threaten Bruce to get Batman to do what they wanted.” He scrubs at a suddenly annoying itch next to one eye with the heel of his hand. “Except … the next page was some kinda paternity test result.”
There’s a long silence. “Do I really have to ask whose paternity was being tested?” Dick asks dryly.
“B’s, duh,” Jason says, then after a pause continues more suspiciously, “ … why? Who else here would someone try to test paternity for? Alfred?”
“Hey, only bad detectives make theories without relevant data, right?” Dick says lightly.
Maybe too lightly.
But dammit, Jason just doesn’t know his vocal tells well enough to be sure. “Uh-huh,” he drawls. He does not need to worry about whatever else Dick thinks is possible enough to worry about. No sir. No thanks. The No Vacancy sign of The Worry Hotel in Jason, New Jersey (population: 1) is super lit up right now. “Like I was saying. The test was for B and the name of some kid I don’t recognize. A Timothy Drake. And the mother was also mentioned, Janet Drake. You know who that is? Or anyone with the last name?”
Dick hums. “There might be a business with that name if I remember right, but as for people—I’m not sure, but I think the company is named after the founding family, so that might be them. Could you start the research into that?” Something jingles on Dick’s end of the line. “I’m gonna start driving.”
“Oh.” Jason feels a spike of disappointment. He supposes that’s shame on him, for hoping for Dick to swoop in and magically solve his every problem. Maybe he should have done some cursory investigation on Timothy Drake before calling. “Okay, I’ll … work on that. But where’re you going?” he asks in bemusement.
A pause. “Uh, to Gotham. Where else?” Dick says, as if that should have been obvious.
Jason splutters. “What—I already said you don’t haveta make a trip. I can manage. Just wanted some advice.”
“Look,” Dick says matter-of-factly, “Back when I was Robin, B must have had three or four paternity claims—at least that I ever heard about—all of them fake. Maybe statistically, it’s really unlikely based on prior cases and the fact that we know that even when playing Brucie, he’s been a stickler about using protection—”
“TMI,” Jason mutters. “And no we did not know. Why do you know that.”
“—but that doesn’t automatically exclude the minuscule possibility that this could be the real deal,” Dick continues gamely past Jason’s muttering. “And no offense, not your fault, etc., etc., but like hell am I letting him get away with not telling me about suddenly having another kid for weeks and weeks and weeks. Again. So. NYC to Gotham drive time.”
Jason grumbles, scrubbing a hand down his face. He’d just wanted some tips for managing this from the original expert, not an additional factor in the drama.
“Besides, if it does turn out B managed to mess up as Brucie, I definitely need to be there to give him hell about it despite how anal he is about ‘carelessness in the field,’” Dick says. “You’re totally welcome to join me for whatever laughing and pointing this entails, by the way. It’s not an exclusive club.”
Though it is reassuring to hear that this whole paternity test thing isn’t new, Jason thinks he’ll pass. He’s not comfortable risking even the slightest bit of what he’s got here with Bruce, especially with some shiny new kid on the table.
“I guess,” he grouses noncommittally in response.
There’s a pause from the former Robin. “You do know even if this kid does turn out to be Bruce’s, that just means you get a sibling, right? I promise you there are so many more bedrooms behind those closed doors in the manor.”
Jason snorts. “Right.”
There’s another pause. Gosh this is awkward, Jason thinks. He’s not sure whether to be grateful or not when Dick decides to back off the older brother routine—relatively new and uncertain to both of them, that’s for sure—by changing the subject. “Well. If B does somehow track down this Timothy kid and run a DNA check on him before I can even get there, call me and let me know the result? I’ll be keeping an ear out for another call the whole way.”
Not likely in three hours, but still not entirely out of the question for Batman, Jason supposes. “Yeah, keep hoping. But … I will if he does,” Jason says. Sensing that Dick might be about to hang up when he’s still not feeling settled on the one reason he called in the first place, Jason quickly interjects: “Hang on. Besides that research, what should I do? Should I try to warn B what he’s about to read? Tell Alfred before he even does?”
“Ah. He’s still downstairs with it, right? And you came upstairs to make this call?”
“Yep.”
Dick chuckles lightly. “Then if you don’t want to deal with the worst part of Bruce’s emotional brick wall routine, all you’ve gotta do is not go back down there. Stay upstairs and you probably won’t even see him until tomorrow because he’ll just stay in his Cave, doing his own research and brooding, or be hunting the city for the senders of this letter. He’ll question his life choices for Brucie, too, if we’re lucky.”
Ignoring it. Jason could do ignoring it. “And what about Alfie?” Is he going to be upset? Judgemental? Dismissive?
“Oh! Yeah, better tell him before Bruce can get around to it, actually,” Dick says, like the question of telling Alfred is just occurring to him. “He’ll probably want to take care of the practical things right away, like giving W.E.’s PR department some forewarning. Since there’s no guarantee that whoever’s behind the letter won’t try to go public with the claim before we can figure this out.”
… Right. Bruce Wayne. Rich. And famous, especially as a local. Being famous is so stupid sometimes. If word gets out that Bruce Wayne maybe has a secret biological kid, everyone will take it as their business even when it should just be family business. Jason could stand to give a few creepily overinvested people a good wallop and a “buzz off!” over the way they act, like they have a right to know about things like this just because the person in question is famous—except he knows it would only stir up even more attention. Ugh.
Jason sighs. “I’ll let him know.”
“Thanks, Little Wing!” Dick all but chirps. Jason wrinkles his nose. He’s still not sold on any of the weird nicknames Dick has come up with so far … even if it is kind of nice that someone wants to bother with some friendly ones. “Anyway, don’t worry,” Dick continues, “I’m sure Alfred will also take care of checking in on B after he’s read it but before he can go haring off somewhere to try to deal with it without saying anything to anyone else. Alfred’s got the best sense out of anyone for B pulling stunts like that. I better get going so I can get there some time today.”
Jason flops down into one the manor’s many stupidly plush armchairs. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t be stupid and crash, huh? Pay attention to the road, not your car karaoke hour.”
Dick huffs. “You tell a guy about the time you crashed a car once … I told you, it wasn’t because I was singing.”
“Hah. That’s what they all say,” Jason replies archly, and hangs up.
Notes:
Thanks to a ch. 2 reviewer who mentioned being amused about Tim using the term "Park Row", since Jason might find it odd that mobsters would use that instead of the current day term "Crime Alley". I have now gone back (as of 3/13/2024) and added that thought in. I also boosted Jason's lit nerd levels in his internal commentary by at least 50% while I was at it. All around, a win-win! (Well, except for Tim, who will someday be receiving back his threat letter with a lot of red text comments on it, and a disappointing B- grade at best. Smh.)
Chapter 5: If You Played DnD You'd Have Known That 2% Is a Bad RNG When Lives Rely on the Roll
Summary:
Bruce does some reading and then does his usual: morosely meditates on coulda, shoulda, and woulda.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“And where, pray tell, do you think you are going so early in the evening, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks drolly.
Bruce just manages to cover his flinch as he snaps the last bracer of his other gauntlet closed. His movement makes the neckline of the cowl rub in a spot where it hadn’t been pressing skin tight. He grimaces as it reminds him of the faint sweat lingering on his forehead and neck.
He’s not sure if he wishes he read the letter before he’d spent so much time on the testing. That would have meant being hit with the news of this possibility when everyone had been lingering around, but the effort feels somewhat wasteful now, particularly of his time. People don’t usually try to kill a guy that they’re in the middle of trying to blackmail, after all.
He’d sat there in front of the computer quietly considering the letter and its contents for a long, long while, and no one had appeared to talk to him or question the conclusion of his tests. He has a sneaking suspicion that someone in the household had already read the thing and cleared out ahead of him entirely deliberately, but despite the space and silence, he still feels like he can barely think past the thudding of his own heartbeat.
What worries him is not that the letter itself had been oddly worded, for something supposedly sent by a mob, though it is a curiosity.
Nor does it bother him that the DNA test had looked legitimate enough at a glance. Legitimate looking data in and of itself doesn’t mean much, in his experience.
No, what truly alarms him is that this is one of only three paternity claims that’s actually gotten his DNA right when he more closely inspected the details.
After the first time someone had falsely tried to claim he’d fathered their child, he’d gone ahead and memorized the features of his own DNA that are commonly used in this sort of testing. He doesn’t even need to pull up the file where he keeps his own DNA’s data to check it, though he does so anyway.
His memory hasn’t failed him.
Of course.
So, there’s that, and that alone is worrying. Whoever sent this has at least gone to the trouble of scrounging up his DNA somehow, so they may be more tenacious and clever about this claim than most are.
Most of the women who’ve tried to get him with a paternity test seemed to expect affable rich boy Brucie to fold like a wet tissue and agree to signing the birth certificate and paying child support without verifying the facts, though it’s hard to be mad about that since he is trying to make people think that Brucie is a bumbling, dimwitted drunkard.
Bruce had almost forgotten how jittery claims like this had always made him, even when he could see at a glance a test had been entirely faked. He’d never admit it out loud, not even to Alfred, but the thought of being responsible for a whole child, starting from infancy …
Well, Bruce had always been something of a thinker and a planner, but Batman had only heightened that tendency. Each paternity claim over the years, even the obviously faked ones, had only spurred him to think more thoroughly through what it would mean if one ever turned out to be true.
The more he’d thought about it, the more intimidating the whole prospect had gotten.
At one point he’d even worked up something he’d tentatively called The Baby Contingency in his head, before becoming discontented with all his ideas for it. He’d ended up writing down and shelving the whole thing in paper-only form in the darkest area of his paper file storage he could find before shoving the whole question from his mind. He used protection. He was always careful. There was only so long he could afford to spend fretting about that remaining 2% risk protection would fail.
He’d only begun to temper his disinclination for the possibility as a whole, begun to think even an infant might be a challenge he wouldn’t mind rising to, after taking in Dick. Because he’d actually come to wish he could have known the boy sooner than he did, to see more of his growth, had more time where his care and guidance would have been needed and wanted. He feels it even more acutely with Dick not really needing, and very much not wanting, anything from him now, as his former ward perhaps overcompensates for his uncertainty about who he is as an independent adult by pushing Bruce away.
… Then again, perhaps he does so because he truly does feel no need for anything Bruce has to offer …
Bruce sighs and sets aside that train of thought, which has nowhere to go but maudlin.
He’s always had procedures for when Batman needs to shepherd children of various ages to a safe care situation, but he’d never really revisited the question of what he would do with a child turning out to be genetically his since shelving the whole “baby contingency” attempt at it. It has been a while since the last paternity claim. Three or … four years, since the last one? Maybe?
While he hasn’t ever fully dropped the booze-loving party animal part of his Brucie Wayne persona, he hasn’t been going home with nearly as many people as he used to a decade ago, that’s for sure. Hell, he’s even been going to fewer social events overall, too. He especially avoids the ones that serve no purpose other than wild pleasure or vapid social jockeying, and those had always been where the most people had shown up looking to get a piece of Brucie’s alleged playboy side.
So all in all, he’s not propositioned nearly as often as he was a decade ago, either.
The tabloids hadn’t been thrilled that the wellspring of gossip on that front had dried up, but they hadn’t exactly been surprised about it, either, given Dick’s wardship. It had been slightly amusing to see them all get so hopeful that Dick aging out would mean Brucie slipping back into his old playboy ways … only to be crushed by Bruce full-on adopting the next kid.
Rich men whose only remaining claims to a playboy lifestyle are getting drunk at parties and doing a very little bit of shameless dirty dancing in public—provided their kid isn’t around to see it—are simply too passé to be worth reporting on, it seems. What is the world coming to these days?
Bruce had genuinely begun to think he was done with having this sort of thing sprung on him.
Serves him right for letting his guard down, he supposes.
Bruce clicks his utility belt on. “Out,” he says in response to Alfred.
“Out in the suit at 6pm on a summer evening?” Alfred says dryly. “Well I do hope your objectives aren’t reliant on successfully hiding within the cover of darkness for the next hour and a half.”
Bruce turns not to the Batmobile, but the unmarked and unremarkable vehicle options stored in the Cave. “I don’t intend to leave the car I’m driving for at least an hour, unless there’s immediate danger in the vicinity. Unobtrusive observation and evidence collection—if the opportunity for the latter presents itself—only.”
Alfred lets him get halfway there before lobbing a more pointed volley. “And I don’t suppose you’d care to enlighten me on what could possibly be so important that you’re leaving Master Jason to take dinner all alone?”
Bruce keeps his sigh quiet as he pauses and turns around to address the older man. He supposes it would be more efficient to have Alfred take care of one issue. “The danger of the letter was not its physical attributes, but its informational contents. One of the two pages is a paternity test that’s supposedly a positive match to me. It’s concerning on its face, even if it is faked, because it looks like they managed to get my DNA for it. As you know, the sender or senders also appear to have connected Malone to me, but they also seem confident there's some sort of contact or influence between my identity as Bruce Wayne and the identity of Batman. At least enough that they’re trying to leverage the child against Batman through me, so there’s a very real possibility he’s in danger of abduction or other harm. Clearly, the additional reference to Malone is meant to put teeth to the threat. I don’t know how—” Bruce shakes his head, and even Alfred’s brows have risen in definite concern, “—but it’s evident we have a serious information security issue on our hands. And even once I verify this paternity test as false, we may still need to ensure this child is being kept safe somewhere until I can take care of the issue. We can only hope the sender hasn’t made a move already.”
Alfred doesn’t so much as twitch as he says: “Surely that should be if you verify it as false.”
Bruce schools his face and body carefully, though he doubts he hides his anxiety from Alfred all that well. “It’s not much more likely than the other eight claims I’ve fielded over the years were. It’s easy to fake a child to match anyone, even in the details, if you know enough about how it works.”
“I suppose so, sir. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the effectiveness ratings for French letters,” Alfred says, a hint of cool steel in his tone.
Bruce stifles the gusty breath he wants to let out. Of course the 2% risk that remains present when relying solely on male condoms has always concerned him, but it’s one of the few options he has complete control over in such encounters. So Bruce has always treated the things like any other piece of nightwork gear: he has always been careful about proper size and application, and even the possibility of tampering.
Point of fact one: Batman and Robin, back in the middle of Dick’s tenure, had taken down a corrupt medical testing laboratory. One of their illegal doings had been supplying falsified DNA tests to the local family court system. Bruce had quietly tracked the legal fallout of the discovery subsequent to the bust. It had taken another three years for the courts to readjudicate a disturbing number of sabotaged paternity determinations. Even now there were still people the legal system was looking to enforce backordered child support on, or to arrest and try for fraud and evidence falsification.
Point of fact two: he’d caught four of the women behind the eight paternity claims he’s faced over the years trying to switch out the condom he’d brought for a sabotaged version before they’d even done anything together. He’d always just gone ahead and switched them back without revealing that he’d noticed, as irritating as the attempts were.
He had perhaps enjoyed seeing their hopes of baby-trapping him coming up as dashed a little too much. But not one of them had ever been good enough at sleight of hand to pull one over on him in the first place, and that only made the whole thing more offensive.
Seriously. Want to screw over the man behind Batman? Do. Better.
And anyway, he’d certainly considered all his other options carefully. The one option for male birth control with better odds than a properly used condom is not always reversible, contrary to popular belief. And the chances of a successful reversal only worsens the longer it’s left in place. All things considered, and given that he’s reluctant to have any doctor messing about with things down there, he’d decided he’d rather have that 2% risk of surprise baby than the more nebulous odds surrounding the loss of the chance of having a baby at all, if he ever does find a woman he truly wants a child with. It’s seemed less and less likely as the years passed, perhaps, but the point is that his options remain open.
As for Janet Drake and the one time that Brucie had spent the night with her … well, she hadn’t yet been a Drake at the time, but an Orwell. And while she seemed to have had some agenda of her own that night, with the way she’d acted, and the way she’d looked at him …
… The thing was, most people at such parties did.
Not all agendas were an issue; some were quite benign as far as Brucie was concerned. They ranged from things as innocuous as simply looking for the “thrill” of the chance to jump the bones of the richest airhead in the room, to things as dangerous as leveraging the distraction of sex in hopes of more easily pumping the richest airhead in the room for information that would make for good corporate espionage.
They wouldn’t get anything real or useful out of Brucie, of course, but it’s not like they ever knew that.
Whatever the case, the two other women that had been showing interest in him that night had seemed the bigger risks. One he knew as the secretary to the son of a man who owned a business currently vying against Wayne Tech for a large ten year government contract, so she was out unless Bruce was in the mood for playing verbal business chess while also playing airhead playboy. The other had seemed primarily interested in his body, which was … fine. Enough. He didn’t really mind that her eyes seemed to be undressing him every time she looked his way.
He had been much more concerned by the fact she’d waxed poetic about how much she loved caring for “sweet little babies” for a good fifteen minutes. Granted she was a neonatal ICU nurse and it had mostly been brought up because the topic of career and work had been brought up, but—
—But, at that point in time, he’d recently been spooked by the first woman smart enough to get his DNA on her faked paternity test. And she’d been so bold as to bring up children in the more casual group discussions among the partygoers before the night he’d spent with her, too. Bruce had dismissed it as a personal interest common among women, and not a danger. But she’d actually pressed him all the way into a courtroom in her attempt to corral him into paternal obligations.
His mistake.
And not to be repeated if he could help it.
So that had left Janet Orwell out of his options that night. She worked as an associate analyst for Drake Industries, a small but growing research and development firm that specialized in material preservation technologies. The business hadn’t yet been a competitor in any of the areas or lines of business that Wayne Enterprises was known for at that time, though the same could not be said for the current day, not with how much Drake Industries had expanded since then.
But more importantly than any business concerns: Janet hadn’t waxed poetic about sweet little babies or children in any way, shape, or form.
Occasionally, there was almost something hesitant about her attention to him. It had been as if she’d been thinking about someone or something else, even as she drew closer and got more flirty and they’d moved away from the larger party to somewhere much more private. But her air of preoccupation throughout their whole encounter was more appealing than off-putting, given his mood and recent experience.
She didn’t act like she had sharks sniffing for his blood in the water, and that made all the difference.
His suspicions that she’d gone after him in the interests of some very specific personal agenda, one aimed at whatever or whoever else had been on her mind that night, had only strengthened when some months later he’d been reading the morning paper. Checking the births, marriages, and deaths section was still one of the best ways to keep up with life changes in the local high society circles, as the old money traditionalists especially loved the pomp and circumstance of knowing ‘the little people’ could see their important announcements.
Thus Bruce had come across the Drakes’ pregnancy announcement, which had also mentioned a quietly held marriage earlier that year. It had even noted Janet’s maiden name, which was the reason he had been absolutely sure she was the same Janet from that party.
And the same one given as the name of the mother on the paternity test now.
According to the announcement all those years ago, the happy couple had met in college and been courting here in Gotham for a year once Janet had graduated.
Only then had the puzzle of what sort of personal interest Janet had been after that night finally fallen into something resembling a sensical picture. She had probably already been engaged, or at least expecting she might become engaged, to Jack Drake in the near future, on that night she’d spent with Brucie. This new piece of information had presented a few viable possibilities for what her aim had been. Perhaps she had been trying to get back at her husband-to-be for something? Or perhaps she’d been having a bout of cold feet that she’d overcome, in the end?
It frustrated him. If Bruce had known anyone else was in the picture, he’d have bitten the bullet and gone with Miss Sweet Little Babies instead …
… but then again maybe he should have known. Or maybe he should have done one better and have established Brucie as slowing down on his proclivities even before having Dick as an excuse, as odd as that might have seemed to observers. Then he could have passed such propositions by more often and reduced his risk, instead of accepting them with the tepid internal excuse that doing so would ‘not fit the cover’.
In other words, he should have listened to Alfred. He knows that Alfred had never liked that particular indulgence for the sake of the playboy Brucie persona—even if the older man has never said it explicitly. But he certainly had said, at least once and with utmost seriousness, that perhaps it was a rather unnecessary risk. And for Alfred, any comment on such matters is saying a lot, especially when it isn’t delivered with his preferred dry sass. He barely even comments on the long term relationships Bruce has had over the years, except for the occasional mild remark if he thinks the person in question is “good for” Bruce.
All those years ago, Bruce had thought that the potential fallout of whatever Janet had been about that night had passed him by. Jack Drake had never come spoiling for a fight over their encounter—not personally, or in business affairs. Bruce had never had to try to talk down her angry husband with the fact that she hadn’t been wearing an engagement ring and hadn’t mentioned having any kind of attachment to someone, because if she had, he’d certainly never have gotten alone with her. And the pregnancy’s due date, which Bruce had literally infiltrated her OB/GYN as Batman to check—not that he’d ever admit doing that to anyone, either—had put the fetus’s likely conception date nearly a month off of the night Bruce had spent with her.
Except that due dates—due dates could be wrong. Maybe he should have followed up more carefully, despite the fact that Janet had never approached him about the possibility of being the father. He very well could have gone in and checked the child’s actual birth weight and development against what should have been expected for the assumed conception date that the due date had implied. After all, being a month off with a due date isn’t unheard of—it’s only an educated guess, and sometimes highly dependent on the quality of information the woman herself gives the doctor.
At the same time, a month in this case could mean the difference between a normal birth and a premature birth, and between it being highly unlikely or completely possible for Bruce to be the father of the child in question.
Really, he shouldn’t have ruled it out so—
“Shall I take care of the usual warnings about a possible media storm to W.E.’s PR team, then?” Alfred says, interrupting Bruce’s racing thoughts.
Bruce blinks himself back to the present moment and nods, clenching his fists for a moment and scoffing internally at himself. He can’t afford to spend too much time standing around thinking right now. Someone’s plotting something and they want to use that child as a pawn. This, Batman cannot allow, genetic relation or no genetic relation. He uses the rest of the walk to the unmarked cars to refocus before adding: “And my personal one, if you can. And let Jason know I apologize for missing dinner, but this can’t wait.”
No, he hardly needs to check birth records at this point. What he needs is some damn DNA samples from this child so he can settle the whole question before anyone else even hears that there is one.
Notes:
[In some distant future, where both Tim and Bruce's nonsense has been revealed to Dick and Jason.]
Jason: Okay lemme get this straight. You decided to send a fake letter threatening yourself to the manor so that you could tell Bruce he's your dad without revealing that you were the one telling him?
Tim: … Yeah …
Dick: And you broke into someone's medical records to try to figure out if you might have fathered a kid, rather than doing the oh I don't know, let's call it the sensible person thing, by talking to the mother about checking it?
Bruce: … Yes.
Tim: (Sighs) And I woulda gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for Matches Malone and not knowing how to swear and insult people like a real gangster. >:Cc
Dick: (Glances at Tim, then shifts his gaze to Bruce, deadpan) … You deserve each other.Next time: Batman's investigation begins.
Chapter 6: Special Guardian Bat Stalker
Summary:
Batman uses his considerable detective skills to investigate a ten year old.
Notes:
So we reached something like the end of my prewritten material at the last chapter. I am retaining at least one chapter of buffer, since I typically like to go through and revise material within the last few chapters as a way to get back into the groove of writing the new stuff.
I was also a little less certain until the last few days how to bridge this part and the ending that I already had in mind. But that transition is starting to take shape. I can't guarantee every chapter will now be out in two weeks, the only thing I'm relatively sure of is that it will not be as quick as each week--two weeks is probably just the most optimistic pace we'll be looking at.
Thanks for reading, and all your comments and amusing observations! I gain inspiration seeing what resonated with people!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Thirty minutes later finds Bruce parked across and a little ways down the street from the Drakes’ brownstone, his cowl off and the shape of the rest of the suit obfuscated with a large jacket—just enough to disguise the silhouette that the tint on the car windows can’t hide.
This is perhaps not the logical first place to look, if he thinks Timothy’s safety is in question. After all, it makes little sense to threaten someone and then give Batman a chance to secure who you’re threatening against your plans. But Bruce had spared a moment to check the news and then his backend into the GCPD’s open cases—and there had been nothing that would suggest the child’s been reported as missing.
Whether that’s a ‘not reported as missing … yet’ or not remains to be seen. It’s possible he and his parents are out of the country, which would be a boon for Batman, giving him a chance to eliminate this threat before it can even act—they should soon enough discover that revealing this parentage claim publicly is not a very good threat against Bruce himself, meaning he needs to anticipate they will escalate.
Their implied threat about being able to track Timothy down in person, about knowing where to look for him, is much more concerning.
Unfortunately, determining whether the Drakes are outside of Gotham based on information in travel systems is a level of data crunching that’s completely inefficient to engage in, as there’s still plenty of travel services Batman doesn’t have backdoor access to, not to mention the fact that he’d be looking at crawling back through months of data, theoretically. He knows that the adult Drakes, at the very least, tend to take long international trips. Their archeological exploits are general knowledge they seem proud to mention in promotional material, and the kinds of digs they go on can run for months or even years, though Bruce sees them in passing at galas often enough that he knows they are not out of town anywhere near that continuously. They are local at least once a year, and frequently enough more often than that.
The bigger question remains whether Timothy ever goes with them or not, and where he is right now.
The side of the street Bruce is parked on consists entirely of townhouses with their fronts taken up by split staircases, one leading up to the front door and one leading down to the entrance of a partially submerged basement level. The dwellings on the other side of the street—the side the Drake home is on—are similar in their front staircases, but all of them have been afforded small yards in the front and back, with narrow alleys separating each dwelling. In addition, a one lane driveway runs down the center of the length of the block behind the homes to allow cars to access private parking in the rear.
The front rightmost window in the upstairs of the Drake home is sitting wide open, but so far he hasn’t seen any activity in the room, and the lights aren’t on. Visible through the window is a closed interior door that presumably leads further into the house. Downstairs, an older woman in a solid blue dress and a white and black checkered apron had been visible from a side window for the first five minutes he’d been parked. She’d been pushing a vacuum cleaner about, but since he’d noted no car in the back of the house on his initial scope-out drive-bys, he’s relatively certain she won’t leave by any entrances he doesn’t have eyes on. She definitely isn’t Janet Drake, and he has yet to see either Jack or Timothy about, either.
For all Bruce knows, this older lady could be either a cleaner, or a house sitter. Further observation will be required….
Cracking the car’s streetside window to allow him to hear any ambient environmental noises, he keeps one eye on the house and the other on the rest of the street, looking to see if anyone more shady than himself is also surveilling the location. He doesn’t see anyone around, for the moment. The street is fairly quiet except for the occasional car passing through, or residents trickling home from work or a dinner out.
Eventually, given his position and location, the increasingly dim lighting, and the low likelihood that anyone is paying close enough attention to his car to see it, he activates the parabolic microphone in hopes of hearing something from the room with the open window. The microphone is designed to look something like a raised headlight, though it’s unlikely to fool anyone on close inspection if they know enough about either parabolic microphones or headlights. He pops the single listening earbud in as he adjusts the microphone to target the open window.
Silence in the room.
He leaves the microphone up, and settles in to wait some more.
Bruce falls to rhythmically clenching his toes inside his boots as a better, more invisible fidget than tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he’s tempted to do. He also takes up a book of crossword puzzles that he keeps in every one of his normal-looking cars just for staging this kind of stake-out. Pretending he’s looking down at some book-based activity helps build the illusion that he’s a private chauffeur who finds himself pulling up and waiting for clients long enough and often enough that he keeps some form of quiet, solitary entertainment with him to cope.
Dusk begins setting into night as Bruce waits. Gotham’s archetypical hazy darkness is spreading out to envelop the houses and objects on the street with the retreat of the sun, and the deeper shadows gradually loom larger everywhere except where the glow of yellow-orange sodium street lights push them back, or the yellow-white headlamps of passing cars slice through them.
It gets dark enough that Bruce might even have missed Timothy coming down the street until he was ascending the front stoop, since he’s too short to be seen over the cars, except for a few factors.
One is the red helmet atop his head, which is rather striking even with the dim lighting and interference of the intervening cars.
But far more noticeable is the fact that he’s running as fast as his legs can carry him, and his slapping footsteps ring loud in the quiet of the well-to-do residential block. Heart leaping at the noise, Bruce takes the earpiece out and yanks the cowl back on. He puts a hand on the interior car handle, expecting to see some kind of foot chase in need of Batman’s immediate intervention.
There is no one behind the boy, however.
As a precaution Batman stays at the ready to sweep out of his car and into action, running through a breathing exercise in an attempt to bring his heart rate back down as Timothy pounds up the steps of the Drake home, one arm stiff at his side from keeping a skateboard tucked up by his waist. The front door swings open before he’s reached the top landing, the vacuuming woman from earlier standing stolidly in the doorway.
“Timothy Jackson Drake,” Bruce can hear her scold clearly, even without the aid of the parabolic microphone, which he is in the middle of readjusting to connect to the cowl instead of the earpiece, and to catch the area of the porch instead of the upstairs window. “For heaven’s sake, where have you been?”
Timothy’s shuffling from foot to foot, shoulders hunched. “Sorry—” he says a bit breathlessly, “M’sorry Mrs. Mac, I didn’t mean to be out past eight, I just—I forgot about summer.”
“Forgot about summer?”
“About the—you know, the getting darker later?”
“Oooh, good heavens, child,” Mrs. Mac tuts, hustling Timothy inside with one hand, “Honestly, what would we even do if I had already gone and called the police? Must we tie an alarm clock around your neck? Lindy’s going to think I’ve gone and neglected you when she sees—”
The door closing behind the pair muffles the continuing lecture, even with the boost from the microphone, so Bruce aims it at the open window once more and settles back to watching, heaving a quiet sigh.
This does answer the question of where Timothy himself is, and that answer is both good and bad. Good, in that he has not already been abducted by mob enforcers. Bad, in that, in the back of his mind, Bruce really had been hoping the boy had been taken by his parents on one of their many international trips, preferably to some out of the way location that would be too far-flung to bother with for any Gotham mob.
Now he’s going to have to start watching the boy round the clock. Or someone will have to, anyway. But even if he splits the task between himself and Robin and perhaps someone else he trusts like Batgirl, if she’s available and willing, it’s not at all sustainable long term, especially if he has criminals to track down in the midst of it. The only luck they have is that it’s summer, and they don’t have to figure out securing the boy without interrupting his schooling.
Nevertheless, he forces himself to set that aside for the moment. The very first thing—the thing he needs before he can decide anything else—is to determine whether the DNA test is true or faked. If faked, he has every reason to attempt to keep quiet the fact that the threat on Timothy is driven by someone looking to get at Batman, which will mean handing the task of giving a suitable warning to the Drakes, and establishing an appropriate level of security, off to Jim to handle as he sees fit. Perhaps he can make the occasional check-in and set up remote monitoring on those arrangements, simply to soothe his own paranoia-driven concern, until the threat is resolved.
If true, however, his options are … a more open question.
And it won’t be just about keeping him safe.
It’ll be eleven years of this child’s life that Bruce will have missed. With the other two boys, it was more—not acceptable, exactly, but something easier to accept. The difference is that, with them, he didn’t have a right or even an obligation to care for them at earlier points in their lives—others did. Perhaps for Jason there would have been an improvement in the most recent few years of his childhood if Bruce had, but with Dick, it would have ruined something that Bruce understands all too well the preciousness of.
Conversely if Timothy is his, then Bruce … he should have been there all this time. He will have owed it to the child to be there and he’s … failed. Wholly and utterly.
And he has to wonder—what if stepping into Timothy’s life now turns out to be an act of selfishness that adds little to it except disarray and confusion? What if Bruce only manages to dislodge him from the security of his attachment to Jack, the man that’s actually been there raising him this whole time? To do so just because Bruce got his head out of his ass and decided to notice his own so-called rights seems a peculiar kind of cruel. He certainly doesn’t want to do anything likely to leave him worse off, and maybe even deeply resentful of Bruce for it, in the long term.
Bruce groans quietly to himself and bangs the back of his head lightly on the headrest in an attempt to ground himself. It might be for the best that he’d left Robin behind at home, enjoying his dinner, even if it was a bit of a lonely one. It’s a tossup whether Jason being here would serve as a distraction from Bruce’s own thoughts, or fuel them.
Only his hastily righted control and attention to his stakeout keeps Bruce from doing much besides clenching his jaw when an unexpected voice bursts over the cowl’s connection to local comms.
“Nice night to be out for a drive, B! So, just how long were you planning to keep this kid a secret from me? Hanukkah? Maybe telling me was gonna be your big New Year’s resolution?”
Bruce lets out a long, slow breath. Could he perhaps go find a Rogue’s dastardly plot to go throw himself into? Sitting and pretending to still be tied to a chair while listening to a villain monologue seems like it would be much less fraught than trying to navigate a conversation with a confrontational Dick when Bruce is already this stressed about a possible new child.
Who is being threatened. By the mob. Or who knows who else.
“… N,” Bruce starts, laboring to keep all confrontation out of his tone. He already knows Dick will not take him up on the deflection, but he has no better ideas. “Why are you on a Gotham-specific comm line?”
“Hm, that’s weird. I could have sworn the appropriate comm to be on when you’re in Gotham is the Gotham-specific one.”
Bruce pauses. “You’re … not in New York?”
“Nope! Got in a bit ago, actually, but I joined Jay for a late dinner. The plate Alfred set aside to keep warm for you was dee-lish, by the way. As per usual.”
Bruce stifles whatever reaction is trying to bubble up, unsure whether it was going to be a laugh or a sigh. Dick will have to try harder than that to get a rise out of him. It will hardly be the first time he subsisted on a ration bar from his utility belt for the night. “I see.”
Dick snorts. “Alright, B. Let’s not waste time playing coy. I read the letter. You get some DNA from this kid yet?”
Bruce purses his lips. He wonders if it was Jason or Alfred that tipped Dick off on this one, or if Dick had come here for something else and found out inadvertently. Dick won’t have made the three hour drive simply based on Bruce’s inquiry about whether he sent a letter addressed to Malone. And if he’s here for something else, he will undoubtedly take it poorly if Bruce tries to chivvy him into helping out with this, as he is adamant about his responsibility with his own hero group and his own cases these days. It’s honestly a shock he’s shown up in Gotham for anything at all.
Best to remain circumspect. “I have not. But I have located his whereabouts, and am waiting for an opportunity.”
Dick begins to say something about the Drakes, but Batman hushes him curtly as the front door of the house opens again, and the lady in the blue dress steps out. Timothy is behind her, waving farewell as he makes ready to close the door in her wake. Further inside is a second woman—it’s hard to tell from this distance, but she seems quite young, either late teens or twenties. She doesn’t have the mien of a finely finished lady in her prime like Janet Drake, that’s for certain. Her stance is too slouched, she’s wearing jeans, and she has her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Her hair color’s too light, too, unless Janet’s changed hers recently—this woman’s is honey-blonde, rather than the light brown that Janet has had every time Bruce has seen her either in person, or in a picture.
Bruce decides she’s most likely that ‘Lindy’ that the housekeeper had mentioned earlier.
He supposes if she stays overnight it answers the question of where the two eldest Drakes are. Whether they’re in the country or not, they’ll have traveled somewhere too far off to return for the night, making this blonde the babysitter. Or perhaps some sort of regular, more like a nanny or au pair, with the way the housekeeper seemed familiar.
Bruce frowns to himself. He definitely doesn’t like seeing that not only is Timothy living in a woefully insecure location—normal residential buildings, even in a city like Gotham, usually are—but he only has hired help looking after him at the moment. Not that he thinks the Drakes would do any better against an armed group of mob enforcers or a Rogue, no. Nor should one assume any given nanny would run away and leave a child defenseless where a mother wouldn’t. It’s just that if anything does happen, the boy’s primary caregivers and, presumably, most trusted and comforting adults, aren’t even anywhere nearby to respond quickly and in person.
“Care to share with the class?” Dick asks sardonically, bringing Bruce’s attention back to the fact he’s still on the comm.
Bruce pauses then says: “The housekeeper just left. An unknown woman remains with Timothy in the house, possibly a nanny or sitter. I believe Jack and Janet may be out of town. No sign of them so far.”
Dick doesn’t reply immediately, and Bruce idly wonders if that’s because he’s hastily conferring with Jason or Alfred, or simply digesting the information. “You read this whole thing, right? Have you considered that the letter might be some kind of scam? Or even a prank?”
Bruce quirks an eyebrow even as he keeps his attention firmly on the house, hoping to see something more of the people inside through the windows. Dick’s taking a rather long time to get to his actual point, if this whole letter business isn’t it. “It remains a possibility. Why?” he rumbles lowly. “Did you have something to confess?”
Bruce smiles a little at the splutter on the other end of the line. He’s hardly a saint, so if Dick wants to dish it out, he best be prepared to be dished back.
“No,” Dick retorts with a strained-sounding reservation. “And I already told you that.”
Bruce grunts noncommittally.
Dick lets silence reign again for a long moment, then plows doggedly on: “Did you check out the return address on the envelope yet?”
“I have not. It’s not an implausible location for a mob to be operating something out of, but I fail to see how it can be anything besides a misdirection or a trap.”
“Only one way to find out, I suppose,” Dick replies, sounding inordinately cheerful about it.
Bruce cocks his head briefly, considering. He’s not sure why Nightwing is bothering to poke and prod so seriously at this if it isn’t about niggling Batman. It’s not like the young man even thinks to look for permission from Bruce anymore, or takes any interest in Gotham affairs.
It’s time to throw out something likely to drive him off, if being a tease is all he’s after. Bruce has too much to worry about to keep bandying words and pondering unspoken implications with Dick. “Hmn. If you do a pass on it, consider taking Robin. He could use some experience spotting for someone other than Batman.”
“Well I just might, in that case,” Dick says.
Bruce blinks before narrowing his eyes.
“I’ll letcha know what we find,” Dick continues before Bruce can decide on a response. “Nightwing and Robin out.”
Batman revises his estimated chances that it had been Robin that tipped Nightwing off to this ongoing churn of chaos to a solid 4-in-5 chance. He suspects that if that is what happened, then this turn of events is entirely his own fault—he is the one who left the lad sulking in unsupervised boredom. Where said letter had been as good as sitting right in front of his face.
Bruce gives a disgruntled grunt and forces himself to refocus on his stakeout.
Notes:
Nobody:
Tim whenever he finally notices Batman's stalking him, probably: Hm. Engaging in normal every day activities just like you always did before is a good way to seem unsuspicious to other people. Hey, Alexa? I wanna hear some tunes. Play Somebody's Watching Me by Rockwell.
Chapter 7: The Bat-stalkening Continues, Pt. 1
Summary:
Batman’s investigation into one Timothy Jackson Drake soldiers on.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Nothing much happens for a while, at least nothing that’s visible or audible from his current vantage point. To some extent he even gives more attention to the surrounding neighborhood. Ideally, if this supposed mob does finally make a kidnapping attempt to secure their ability to threaten Batman via Bruce, he’d like to catch them before Timothy or anyone with him realizes there even is such a threat looming.
He’d thought that he’d at least managed to teach the mob enforcers and lesser sorts of criminals not to even try to touch a Wayne-associated boy, yet here they are. Dick, in his first few years, had gotten kidnappings and kidnapping attempts made on him at a far more frequent rate than Jason has ever had to field. Of course, many of the Rogues remain incorrigible in this regard and likely will always be a kidnapping plot risk as long as they remain Rogue-level dangers. Plus, all bets are still off on lesser criminals making an opportunistic attempt on Robin once a fight starts, since desperate men will try anything that’s otherwise a terrible idea if it looks like their only chance.
But premeditated attempts? From the regular criminal riff-raff?
No. At this point they all knew better.
Until whoever sent this letter, at least. Maybe … maybe they’re new in town. Overconfidence in their own abilities and underestimating Batman’s might also explain the questionable decision to send a blackmail threat without securing their control over the child’s safety first.
All they’ve done by leaving that task undone is handed Batman a straight path to wrecking their plans.
The apparent belief that Bruce Wayne has some kind of in with the Bat is the one thing about the letter that makes some sort of sense, even if he dislikes that someone felt bold enough to stake their criminal plot on the idea. Bruce has planted more than enough public “evidence” that he’s not Batman over the years that it’s actually rarer to come across people who believe Bruce could be Batman—except for the deep conspiracy theorizing types, of course. (There’s not much helping them—they don’t operate on actual logic, after all.)
That Bruce perhaps funds the Bat or in some way has leverage over him is a much more natural conclusion for people to reach instead, given the fact that Batman at this point has an especially significant history of interfering when people try to mess with those close to Bruce. Not utilizing the cape whenever Bruce’s civilian resources aren't enough to foil the kidnapping would be the only antidote to that, but he’s not about to let any child of his simply languish in criminal hands because he’s worried about that perception.
At some length, Nightwing calls back in on the comm to note that he and Robin are now investigating the location in question, and that Robin has already pegged a guy smoking out back as a mobster with the Russians. Batman points out that the Russians haven’t typically favored operating out of Park Row in recent years, to which Nightwing wryly comments that Robin had already noted that inconsistency with the letter’s demand to stop interfering with mobs in that area, too. Clearly what remains is the question of misdirection or trap, so the pair plan to observe for a while before deciding on whether they’ll engage in more aggressive investigation tactics, and sign off the open comm line.
Bruce ponders Dick, and how well he and Jason seem to be getting along. (Robin, certainly has yet to lodge a complaint about working with Nightwing, and he’s gotten quite confident on making objections about things like that to Batman.) Had it really bothered Dick so much that Bruce hadn’t mentioned adopting Jason until well after the fact? Is that really why he rushed down at the mere possibility of another child, despite the point he seemed to be trying to make about not caring about Batman or Gotham problems anymore?
Hm. If not for his cowl being in the way, Bruce would already be rubbing at the crease between his eyes trying to figure out what his former ward is thinking.
In any case, he’s in the process of debating whether to relocate to the roofs of the townhouses, or the roof of a house behind the Drake home, when the interior door to the room with the open window moves and the light flicks on. From this angle he can’t even see the top of Timothy’s head as he enters the room—he only starts to see it as the boy comes farther inside.
Finally. Something about this whole day that actually seems to be going right.
Bruce shucks the jacket, doing a quick touch-check that all pieces of his suit are in order before making his way to the townhouse roofs. While they appear to be quite flat from the ground, and therefore would seem to be terribly exposed for surveilling nearby houses rising to similar heights, the street-facing edge that’s decorated by a cornice actually rises in a gentle half arch that’s higher than the rest of the roof, perhaps to Bruce’s knees. Lying flat on this arched section shields him from most sight lines—the thing most visible, and this only from the front, is the cowl’s shape, which is little more than an irregularity sticking up at the arch’s apex.
From here he can see that Timothy is now stretched out on his bed, reading a book. Bruce adjusts the cowl zoom to better catch the cover, which is difficult to see since it’s a paperback.
Something about … games and … coding. Probably. Does Timothy have an interest in computers and technology? An interest in coding doesn’t seem to be too common for a nearly eleven year old, so far as Bruce is aware, though he probably would have perused such a book if he’d come across it at about that age …
Bruce cuts off the thought with a harsh sigh. The black hair and blue eyes mean nothing, and the choice of reading material is similarly irrelevant. He must not entertain biases before the facts are established.
He scans the additional view of the room’s interior that his new position affords him. Nothing seems out of the ordinary for the room of a child this age. He lingers briefly over the singular Robin figurine propped up on the top shelf of a writing desk—essentially bootleg, of course, because there is no official, approved merchandise. As such, most of them are of doubtful quality, or get some costume details wrong to varying degrees, or both. For some inexplicable reason, this particular bootleg Robin’s legs are green, as if he’s got leggings on.
Odd.
But an apparent appreciation for Robin is something to keep in mind, if making contact with Timothy proves necessary.
Another stretch of time passes while Timothy remains on his bed, reading. When Nightwing and Robin rejoin the comm line, Nightwing lets Robin do most of the reporting on their findings. There’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary about the location, at least for a mob-controlled job space. There are neither too many, nor too few, mobsters about for the apparent night’s task of cutting and repackaging a variety of illicit drugs from bulk bundles to portions that are better sized for sale to the final consumer. The two younger vigilantes are in agreement that this address seems to be a misdirection, and Bruce is inclined to agree with their assessment.
Nevertheless, it’s as if Dick hears Bruce’s additional unvoiced thoughts, because he states he’s going to wait the place out until there’s an opportunity to get one of the mobsters alone for a little “one-on-one chat”.
“… Just to be thorough, you know,” Nightwing says with a distinctly smirky-sounding air.
Robin sighs, but doesn’t contradict.
“C’mon, don’t sigh at me like that,” Nightwing says. “I thought you wanted to hear more about my wild space adventures, and waiting for that gives me lots of time to tell you about ’em.”
“I do, just—just not here. It’s not as good here.”
“Not as good here?” Nightwing sounds genuinely baffled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Batman contemplates telling them they shouldn’t be taking up the radio with frivolous chatter, but in light of all their getting along he forebears a little bit longer by checking the time. It’s almost eleven at night, and Timothy’s still lying on his bed and reading. Bruce frowns to himself. Does the nanny not bother with setting a bedtime? He’s fairly certain Alfred would have told him to turn his lights out an hour ago at the very least when he was this age …
“It just is,” Robin says, with all the mulish obstinance of someone pretending not to know how to answer a question purely out of reluctance to admit to something.
From the sound of it, Nightwing is now engaging in some suitably hushed pestering for the answer Robin is holding back. It’s most likely accompanied by quick and teasing poking, as Robin is now making squawks of protest, also hushed even if that hush is a bit more strained. Mm. That tone was a grave tactical error, Jaylad, Bruce thinks to himself, smirking.
Carrying out an effectively harrying pester campaign, even when it has to be done stakeout-quiet, is one of Dick’s old specialties that Batman used to find himself subjected to—at least until Dick had hit about thirteen or fourteen and suddenly seemed to find most things more overtly silly than running his mouth and making bad puns, especially when on a mission or case and not in a fight, to be “too childish”.
Bruce had written it off as just growing up and wanting to imitate a little bit more of Batman’s seriousness. He had even felt a bit relieved he would no longer have to flounder about with how to respond to the little hellion (also known as Dick Grayson, also known as Robin) repeatedly poking the Dark Knight in the various weaker spots in his armor until he managed to get a flinch or a grunt that he would then proclaim to understand as “Batman’s plea to Robin for mercy”.
Bruce, of course, had more than once worked to redesign the armor to fix the worst pokable spots—purely for physical safety reasons, of course. If Robin could jab through to a tender spot with a finger, then a knife or a bullet would have far too little trouble doing the same.
Admittedly, though, hearing Jason’s hissed protests and suppressed giggling now makes him just a little bit nostalgic, as ridiculous as that feels. He surely doesn’t prefer getting poked in random and unexpected spots repeatedly.
“Yeesh, N, okay, okay! You don’t—geeze, Louise—oy you big jerkwad, stop, I’m telling you—”
There’s a pause, reigned by nothing but quietly huffing breaths, as the two resettle themselves presumably.
“You were saying, Robin?” Nightwing prompts, sounding quite self-satisfied.
Robin gives a groaning sigh. “It’s ’cause you don’t go as big when we’re out here and we have to keep it quiet, okay? That’s all.”
“… ‘go big’?”
“Y’know … the—the voices! The bits you act out! That. Making it feel … big.”
“... Oh. So you … like me doing the voices and everything?”
Robin seems to have regathered himself fully, and has apparently decided to do a one-eighty on how he’s handling his feeling of embarrassment. “A-duh. M’not some kind of stupid stick in the mud that can’t appreciate a little narrative artistry,” he says with full sarcastic disdain.
“Robin, those words of praise are almost as good as getting applause from a packed circus tent,” Nightwing says airily. Bruce can almost see him putting the back of one hand to his forehead as he tosses it back dramatically.
“Oh, shove off.”
Someone grunts and there’s a series of scraping noises until Nightwing says, “Y’know, if you can’t get out of this hold, I think we should work on your pin escayyyyeowch!”
The scraping noises this time are frantic enough to count as scrabbling before it all goes quiet again.
“Feh. Don’t go getting your nipples all in a twist or nothin’, N,” huffs Robin.
“Holy-moley, kid. Ow.”
Bruce closes his eyes briefly and decides he does not want to know. Both he and Alfred had seen the new suit’s dramatically plunging neckline in newsreels about Titan activities and raised several eyebrows between the two of them, but there had never been a proper opportunity for Batman to put any exploratory comment-questions about that decision to Dick. Perhaps Nightwing’s suit design problems can stay Nightwing’s suit design problems. “ ... Boys. Focus,” Batman intones solemnly over the comm.
“Seriously, B?” Nightwing says. “Is that really all you have to say about this?”
Batman gives this a pointedly long pause. “It does sound like you’ve determined that Robin will not be needing any remedial hold escape training. Good work.”
“Right. Of course,” Nightwing grumbles.
“Darn tootin’,” Robin adds cheerfully. There’s a pause. “Looks like a couple’a guys just left the location, N. Gotta be only three or so left in there if our initial count was right.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Nightwing says with a sigh. “Might need to get the drop on someone soon. Guess we better get back to it.”
The two sign off the comm and Bruce, with a shake of his head, returns his attention to Timothy’s bedroom. Just a few minutes before eleven, the blonde that he’d spotted earlier pokes her head in through the bedroom door, and Tim turns his to look at her. “Lights out, Timmy. I know it’s summer but we don’t want that cold coming back from not getting good rest, okay? And close that window. You’ll be letting drifting gas or smoke in if some crazy tries anything overnight.”
Timothy closes the book and plops it down on the bedside table as he sits up. “But I’ve got that emergency alert radio. If anything happens I’ll just get woken up and I can close it then.”
Lindy’s raised index finger comes up to hover by her head. “Hey, this is not a negotiation, mister. Your parents put in the hire paperwork that they wanted you in bed by nine-thirty, and what time do I regularly let you stay up until, hm?” She points the finger at each of the objects of her instruction as she recites: “Lights: off. Window: closed. You: bed.”
Timothy glances at the electronic alarm clock on the bedside table, then sighs and starts clambering off the bed on the side closer to the window. He pauses as he reaches to grab the bottom of the window to pull it shut, staring down at the street. “Huh. Someone left their weird sticky-up headlight all extended and it looks kinda broken.”
“Huh? What do you mean?” Lindy walks into the room and joins Timothy at the window, squinting down at the street. “Where?”
“The grey looking one. Parked behind that red car,” he says, pointing.
Lindy squints in that direction a moment. Bruce blinks and glances down and—oh, that’s his car, and Timothy’s actually noticed the parabolic microphone.
Batman feels a stirring of unease.
“Huh. Guess you’re right.” Lindy puts her hands on her hips. “This is Gotham, though. They probably shoulda known better than to leave stuff like that out where someone could come along and steal or break it for kicks.”
Timothy glances up at her and shrugs. “Maybe they’re just visiting and didn’t know?”
“Maybe.” She sighs, then her attention snaps back to Timothy. “Alright, nothing we can do about that, anyway. So enough dawdling. Let’s stare at the inside of some eyelids instead of some dweeb’s broken headlight, chop chop,” she says, clapping her hands with each ‘chop’.
Timothy re-grabs the bottom edge of the window with the hand he’d used to point. “Welcome to Gotham, I guess,” he says, and pulls the window shut and the curtains closed.
Bruce lets out a slow breath. Close. Too close. Maybe he needs to rejigger that mike’s appearance if even a child can notice something off about it on a mostly-dark street. Perhaps another false mike to mirror it so that it looks more like a set of headlights than an irregularity?
In another few minutes the light coming through the curtain flicks out. As Batman waits, considering when he might have the best chance of slipping in and out of the house to look for some hairs from Timothy without either Timothy or Lindy still being awake, more of the lights in windows up and down the street go dark, and the relative stillness of a mostly-asleep Gotham (the city never truly sleeps) descends on the residential area. He settles into something like a meditative trance, simply watching over the house.
He’s thinking the ideal time will be around three or four am.
Even a night owl nanny is likely to be asleep by then.
Notes:
Sooooo Jason … but especially Dick … kept goofing around and adding to the conversation as Bruce was just Batman-ing and trying to take investigating a ten year old complete seriously, so I ended up splitting this part (before we get back to Tim’s perspective) into two. Other half of Batman’s, Nightwing’s, and Robin’s investigative work next week, then I’ll be going back to the “posting when the chapter after the one being posted is completely ready” schedule. I really can’t wait for you to all see what off the wall thing Tim does next (upcoming in chapter 9/10). Heck I’m laughing just thinking about this absolute goober of a child. Bruce desperately needs to listen to Robin’s suggestion regarding Tim in the next chapter. You know how Batman is, though, he won’t … but it would have saved everyone so much subsequent headache.
The “emergency alert radio” Tim mentioned is based on the concept of real world NOAA Emergency Alert Radios, which you can find various versions and even different brands of. Here’s an example on Amazon. These alarm systems/radios allow you to set them up with information on your specific location. Using that information they will alarm and display emergency alerts from the NWS and other official agencies for dangers like tornadoes, hurricanes, thunderstorms, floods, wildfires, and other public safety hazards specific to your area. Pretty neat if you want something that’s going to get your attention on serious weather hazards without you having to be glued to your cell phone (if it even does localized danger alerts) or broadcast radio/TV.
I imagine in the DC universe these kinds of devices would also have “villain attack” or “alien invasion” (etc. etc.) alerts in addition to the regular old weather hazard ones, seeing as incidents like that seem about as regularly occurring in the DC-verse as hurricanes or tornadoes are in certain areas of the real world US. Lol.
Chapter Text
It’s a few hours later when Nightwing and Robin, instead of delivering their final findings over the comm, simply show up on the rooftop beside him. They at least hadn’t had the thrilling idea of trying to startle Batman, because their grips and footfalls are loud enough to be purposefully audible to him.
Batman gives them a sideways glance and a frown as the pair line up to stand on the edge next to where he’s flat on his stomach to keep his profile low. They both seem to fail to notice the disapproval: Robin stares curiously and intently at the darkened house across the street, and Nightwing bounces on the balls of his feet briefly as he does the same.
Finally, Nightwing says: “I take it this is the kid’s house?” He pauses and surveils the dark, quiet street with a slow turn of his head. “Huh. Exciting.”
Robin snorts.
Batman grunts. “Any problems?”
Nightwing stares down at Batman for a long moment, then switches his gaze back to the house. “Nah. Seems like Robin does have a cute little start-up drug smuggling and distribution ring being fronted by some enterprising Russian gangsters on his hands, though.”
“B, you remember that import scheme outta the docks you had me looking into, where I couldn’t figure out who the Irish were selling to?” Robin adds.
Batman hums in the positive.
“Yeah, I think these guys might be that piece I was looking for, actually. Now I just need to figure out how to get some hard evidence for their connection, like how they’re communicating. Then we can nail down IDs on the major players and get in there and dismantle their whole ecosystem,” Robin says with a sharp grin, smacking his fist into his palm.
Nightwing starts to mirror the grin. “Gotta love it when aspiring drug lords get put on the endangered species list by an especially accomplished twelve year old, am I right, li’l’ wing?” he holds up a flat palm in a clear invitation for a high-five.
The slight motion of Robin’s head suggests he’s rolling his eyes, even as he rewards Nightwing with a quiet clap of his hand against the older vigilante’s. “Excuse you, I’m almost thirteen, at this point.”
Nightwing huffs, but his grin stays in full force. “My apologies, it does sound so much less insulting to their competence at drug-lording when you put it like that.”
Batman thinks that maybe they really ought to be thanking their mysterious letter writer—most likely some other adult criminal—and whatever grudge had inspired them to send Batman and Robin sniffing about that operation’s final packaging den, but he refrains. Let Robin have his triumphant bantering about the break in an otherwise frustrating case.
“Anyway,” Nightwing says, “We followed one of the last guys at the den back to his apartment and got the drop on him there. He sure seemed cowed enough to spill some beans about whatever we wanted to know. Thing is, though … when we asked him what the Russians’ latest beef with Matches Malone was, he kinda just blanched in confusion. Really didn’t seem to have a clue what we were talking about. It felt a little desperate of him when he recommended we hit up the bars Malone was last seen at a few months ago.”
Batman hums. “And were they the right bars? The Leaky Tile and Houlihan’s?”
“Mm-hmm.” Nightwing nods decisively. He’s silent for a beat, then tilts his head with a judgemental frown. “The Leaky Tile, though? Really? Was Malone looking to get a case of food poisoning?”
“He made sure to stay away from the cocktail shrimp special.” Batman gives the mobster’s apparent truthfulness a moment of consideration. “Discovering the den may help our other case, but this does seem to confirm the Malone name drop is unlikely to be connected to that address.”
“In any case, we left him with the impression we didn’t know about his little drug den, so they shouldn’t spook before we can spare the time to investigate that, too. But yeah, we’ve still got our work cut out for us figuring out this letter’s sender,” Nightwing replies with a shrug. “Your best bet is probably gonna be a lot more investigating the old fashioned way. Pound some pavement, track down some mobsters and some Rogues, and start grilling people until someone spills something useful. We just have to find the right thread to start pulling on.”
Batman contemplates this with a glower out at the dark streets. “Perhaps Malone should get back out there. Bait for the lead.”
Robin shifts to a crouch, still watching the house, though he’s occasionally glancing in Batman’s direction. “When it comes to Rogues we should look up Riddler first, if you ask me. And Joker’s still locked up with him, too—knock on wood and all that.”
Batman nods. “A trip to see what they might say—and to double check for any possible corruption that would facilitate a breakout by either—certainly would be in order.”
“I think you best hope this is a Riddler plot,” Nightwing scoffs. “At least he’s likely to tell you something, even if it’s just a cryptic hint, since he’ll want you to keep struggling at figuring out whatever he’s cooked up. Joker’s more likely to muddy the waters for laughs.”
Batman hums. “If I had to bet, it would be on a new rogue-level threat, rather than either of them. This isn’t quite as sudden and flamboyant as I’d expect from Joker. And it’s too … hm. I’d have expected to be lured into something with more overt riddles before now, if it was Riddler.”
“If we’re putting up bets, sir,” Alfred chimes in over the comm, “And the options are Joker, Riddler, and a new Rogue for your gallery, then put me down for the secret fourth option.”
Nightwing’s brow wrinkles. “Secret fourth option?”
“A ‘none of the above’, as it were. Someone we would not soon imagine as a possibility.”
Nightwing tilts his head. “So someone like—like, oh I don’t know, Jack or Janet Drake themselves?”
“Precisely,” Alfred replies in an approving tone.
Robin chuckles, then says wryly: “Well, at least one of them being the writer would make sense, if you ask yourself what kind of ‘criminal’ writes a letter as nicely worded as that one is. Not even a swear word or an insult! I’m telling you guys, that letter is weird for the mob.”
“Yeah. Except, why would they?” Nightwing mutters. “ … Write a letter making a threat towards their own kid, that is.”
“Besides them suffering from a far more disturbing sort of moral turpitude than I’ve ever had the impression of,” Batman says, rather echoing the manner of Alfred at his driest, “That’s exactly the question.”
Not anywhere near the main hypothesis I’m favoring at the moment, Batman doesn’t have to say for both his current Robin and his former Robin to know he’s thinking it.
Robin frowns, and motions vaguely toward the Drake home. “Yeah. And it’s hard to imagine why this kid’s parents would care about how easily gangs in Park Row can do crime, anyway. Unless their company is up to something we don’t know about?”
Nightwing shrugs. “The assignment was to theorize someone off the wall.”
“We can look into it.” Batman hums with a sort of dismissive finality, then nods between Robin and the house. “I trust you’ll be ready in the morning to tail Timothy during the day as necessary, Robin?”
Robin’s head snaps to look in Batman’s direction. “Whaddaya mean? You think he’s gonna do something?”
“It has nothing to do with what he might do,” Batman says, giving this a shake of his head. “It’s about what someone might want to do to him.”
Robin puts his hands on his hips and wrinkles his nose. “If he’s really in danger, can’t we just grab him and keep him in the Batcave for a while or something? He’s your kid anyway, so you oughta be allowed.”
Bruce sighs heavily. “That’s not how custody works. And regardless, I don’t regard that test as true until I’ve tested his DNA myself.”
Robin lifts his palms briefly in a limp sort of shrug before returning them to his hips. “So what’re you still lurking on this roof for instead of getting some evidence?”
The tilt of Batman’s head as he looks over at Robin suggests he’s quirking one eyebrow. “Being spotted invading the space of criminals is one thing, but I do try to avoid being noticed by civilians when I’m trespassing in their homes,” Batman says. “They tend to be alarmed. Knocking them out is not very publicly acceptable, even for a vigilante.” He double-checks the time, sighing at seeing that it isn’t even past three yet. “I want to have the best chance that everyone in that house is deeply asleep and will stay that way, so I don’t need to render anyone unconscious.”
“Well … ” Robin drops his hands and stares at the house for a long moment before appearing to shake himself out of his thoughts. “Guess if the only thing happening is waiting, and I’m gonna have to be back out here tomorrow, I should head in for the night.”
He doesn’t exactly seem happy about it.
“Good thing we rode two cycles,” Nightwing muses, “’Cause I think I better back B up on kiddie watch for now.”
“Suit yourself,” Robin says, shrugging as he walks away, his footsteps light. “And good luck?” His voice falls to a mutter as he drops off the back edge of the roof. “ … Though I’m not sure which one of you’s gonna need that sentiment more.”
Even after the purr of a Batcycle’s engine has faded into the distance, Batman doesn’t return the look Nightwing shoots at him, one that has a tilt of inquiry to it.
“O-kay,” Nightwing sighs under his breath before turning around and plopping down to lounge against the sloped part of the roof, his legs stretched out and crossed and his arms folded against his chest.
“It’s hardly necessary for you to wait with me, especially if you have other matters to attend to in Gotham,” Batman says after a long stretch of silence.
Nightwing looks over, quirking a brow. “Yeah? And what matters would those be?”
Batman pauses for a moment before looking over and rumbling, “I suppose I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, lucky for you I don’t have anything else going on—thanks for asking. So what were you gonna do if you got a hold of something to test and I wasn’t sticking around? Leave this kid unguarded? Or just sit here and brood about the coupl’a hairs you stashed in your belt until Robin shows back up for that day shift?” Nightwing says, waving a hand in the air.
“Mmh,” Batman mutters.
“The latter? Tch, yeah, I figured as much.” He lets silence reign for a while before speaking again. “So I take it this one is possible?”
Bruce sighs. “Yes.”
“And that means this would’ve been about … ” he pauses, head turned a little away and tilted in thought, “ … Three or four years before you took me in?”
“Approximately,” Batman confirms, tensing slightly in anticipation of more detailed grilling.
“Huh,” is all Nightwing says, lapsing into a thoughtful silence. “I guess if you’d known about him from the start, things would have been really different.”
“Of course,” Bruce says, then pauses. That statement … hm. “Would having a three year old around have annoyed you?”
Nightwing’s head whips over to stare, surprise clear on his face even with the domino’s muting effect. “What? Of course not.”
Batman waits.
Nightwing’s expression scrunches briefly. Bruce can sense Dick recalculating. “Given the hustle and bustle that I was used to, it would have made things feel less lonely. You and Penny One tried, I’m sure, but he’s got that stiff upper lip, and, well … you’re Batman.”
Bruce supposes he should be offended in some way, but he can only ruefully agree, though he keeps the reaction to himself.
Nightwing shakes his head and chuckles a little. “So no, I’d probably have gotten a bit of a kick out of it. I could have shown off all my tricks to impress the kid, right? Three year olds love that sort of thing. Especially when you tell ’em you’re gonna do it special just for them.”
Bruce contemplates it. Although he has no experience with siblings himself, he’s fairly certain the age difference would have been just right for the younger of the two to be doing his best to stay attached at the hip to his shiny-new, rambunctious, distinctly older foster sibling. The thought of catching sight of Dick at eleven, whooping and tumbling down one of the hallways of the manor, with some dark-haired three year old toddling after him, giggling the whole way, is …
“Hey! Earth to B! Come in, B.”
Batman blinks and then growls as fingers snap right in front of his face.
“Really? Growling at me for making sure you’re not out of it while in the field?” Nightwing asks sardonically.
A glare is the only response he can manage to that.
“Save the pouty faces and the brooding for the Cave where it belongs,” Nightwing says with an exaggerated head motion that suggests he’s rolling his eyes. “Is imagining a world without me really that good?”
Bruce’s annoyance breaks. “World without you?”
Nightwing snorts and waves a dismissive hand, turning away from the waist up and appearing to examine the far end of the street. “Puh-lease, B, let’s get real. If you’d had a three year old you’d never have been there that night. And you certainly wouldn’t have been so open to taking in a kid. Another kid.”
Bruce frowns, brows creasing. “My reasons for taking you in would have been exactly the same. Having a younger child around wouldn’t have changed that.”
Nightwing turns back, a strange grimace on his face and a tension in his shoulders. “So what about your reasons? You probably wouldn’t have even gone that night. Kids keep you busy.”
Bruce shakes his head minutely. “I’m always busy. The only difference is what I’m busy with. I seem to recall quite a number of young children in the audience. It was exactly the kind of event you’d take a three year old to. So, no I disagree. I can’t imagine anything would be different.” He gives this a moment to be considered, then glances over at Dick.
The young man is staring at him with a sort of distracted air, but his attention quickly resharpens. “Be serious.”
Bruce frowns in bemusement. “I’m always serious,” he objects. “And I seem to recall a certain young acrobat lodging many complaints about it over the years.” In fact, in his seriousness he carries with him a multitude of regrets—most everything in his life is characterized by regret or self-recrimination—but Dick is the one thing he has no such feelings about. He’s the one thing for which Bruce is proud to claim whatever credit belongs to him without reservations or second-guesses.
So it’s simply unthinkable, this … idea of some world where he never took the boy in. He doesn’t care to even entertain the thought.
Nightwing stares at him another long beat, then shakes his head. “No, you’re always impossible.”
Well. That, at least, is also a familiar sentiment from a certain young acrobat. Bruce hums, returning his attention to the house. “Impossible would be Batman having handled the past decade of watching over Gotham anywhere near as well without Robin. I could hardly have put a toddler in a suit and brought him on missions.”
Nightwing scoffs, turning away again. “Putting a toddler in a Robin suit and taking him out to fight Gotham crime? Horrifying thought. Never bring it up again,” he says, but he seems to be smiling a little, from what little corner of his mouth Bruce can catch, and his shoulders have gone loose, so Bruce thinks he didn’t completely bungle … whatever kind of response Dick was looking for.
“As I said,” Bruce says dryly, “Not something I would have cared to do.”
Nightwing doesn’t seem inclined to continue the conversation after that—and Bruce certainly isn’t about to continue it when the last thing he said managed to dispel some of Dick’s tension. Nightwing takes up a position to better watch the street compared to the house, leaving Batman to keep his focus on the house. Bruce isn’t sure why Dick doesn’t start demanding more information about his history with Janet Drake (such as it is), but he’s a bit grateful for the reprieve on the topic nonetheless. “There’s only one other matter,” Batman says after at least fifteen or twenty minutes more, once he’s considered the merits of bringing it to Nightwing’s attention. Dick was here for that case, so— “If the test is correct that will leave us with more questions about it than answers. Questions that we’ll need to look into. First, the fact that they had Wayne DNA in their possession. Second, the test’s attribution—or rather, lack thereof. Did you notice the lack of a lab address, company name, or officially licensed tester’s identity on that page?”
“I did. Could have been on a cover page you didn’t get sent,” Nightwing suggests with a shrug. He doesn’t sound very convinced of his own idea.
“Hm. Or perhaps it’s no coincidence that it’s been suitable length of time since we shut down that corrupt DNA testing lab for another illicit operation to start up and take its place.”
Nightwing stares with puzzlement a moment before his face clears. “Oh. Yeah, I remember that. You think the people behind that have regrouped and are back at it or something?”
“I don’t know. But I believe we should keep it in mind.”
Nightwing nods. “Right. I’ll remind Robin to look over our old casefile, too.”
“Good,” Batman murmurs.
After that they wait in silence until about three forty-five, when Batman rises, giving Nightwing an acknowledging nod that the younger cape returns with a lazy salute.
“If you get enough samples to test, just head out and leave watching the kid to me,” Nightwing says.
Batman grunts his agreement and takes one last lingering look at his oldest, then slips soundlessly across the street.
Notes:
Long ramblings regarding Dick, Robin, and what canon elements of his history with Batman that I'm drawing on in this AU:
In comic canon, there have been several different variations in the lore surrounding Dick's Robin. The Robin name not being inspired by a nickname from his parents is one example: one very old story even had Robin as an alias that Bruce used pre-Batman, when he was first studying investigative techniques. It being a nickname that Dick had from his time in the circus/from his parents, and being a name chosen for sentimental reasons like Robin's OG suit colors and styling, is a much more recent invention. However, this sentimental explanation has certainly become the only well known explanation, in both broader canon and fandom-popular history. (To the point that DC writers keep trying to give the OTHER Robins some pre-Robin connection to the Robin name. Recent Batman comic run incident where Tim meets an alternate dimension version of his mom and she reminisces with him about some meaningfully sentimental poetry that mentions robins, I'm looking dubiously at you. Lol.) In the same vein, Dick first became Robin at wildly different ages, anywhere from 8 to 12 or so. Here I've gone with him being taken in by Bruce around 10-11.
Anyway, just like those things, there have also been several different explanations for Dick breaking off as Batman's partner/sidekick. Rather well known is the post-Crisis explanation, where Dick gets grievously injured as Robin, and Bruce is suddenly unable to "deal with the risk", and fires Dick from continuing as Robin, which leads to Dick having very hurt feelings and lots of arguing. In this version of events, Dick ends up walking out to operate on his own and/or being kicked out of the manor for fighting with Bruce over that dismissal.
But here I'm going more with the explanation that was the standing one pre-Crisis, which was that Dick was mostly just trying to figure himself out as an adult and as a hero independent of Batman. He was very frustrated with Batman even in this version of events, feeling like even when he's off with his own team in a whole different city that he's still in Batman's shadow, and that Batman doesn't respect his abilities or value him even when they do work together (see the "New Teen Titans" run from the 80s, including the crossover with the Outsiders that came just before The Judas Contract storyline).
So he dropped the Robin mantle by choice and created Nightwing. The New Teen Titan series is where we see the fabled Discowing version of the Nightwing suit, which if I haven't yet made mention of it as being the suit Dick is currently using in this fic ... should get a nod soon. :)
(If you weren't aware of how just how long various retcons/universe reboots have been inflating the stakes, even in basic histories for other characters, here is a great example. Well before Miller's Batman, and long before Nolan's Batman, there was stuff like this.)
Frankly I think the "Batman freaks out at Robin getting injured and fires him" kind of did a disservice to Bruce as a character (not so hot take, especially in the Robin fandom: a LOT of the developments post-Crisis have turned the man into this twisted thing that one really starts to hesitate to call a "hero" at all, especially when you try to make a coherent person out of them.)
And I think it also made Bruce making Jason Robin seem nonsensical, because WHY make an even LESS experienced and younger kid into Robin after you were so afraid of the older one getting killed that you fired him??? Unless you're horribly callous/self-centered/morally ill??? After all, Jason was just along for the ride for the most part, in the beginning … he was sad and stressed from his mom dying and living on the streets, sure, but he wasn't like Dick where he was an angry little ball of hurt trying to go take out the guy who killed his parents, whether Batman/any other adults liked it or not … with Batman just doing his best to redirect the kid away from outright murdering Tony Zucco lol. I think Bruce could have just adopted Jason and told him he wasn't gonna be Robin any time soon and he'd probably have mostly accepted it, for at least a few years. Instead it's like 6 mo.-1 year … and here Batman goes again, taking a 12 year old out on the streets. SMH.
Now that I'm thinking about it, man, what if they hadn't killed him post-Crisis, but simply had Bruce still adopt him… yet not make him Robin? Could have been a BG chara pulled out when writers felt like it. Like Alfred! C'mon, why can't the guy have a single kid that happily stays at home, right? Ah well…
I'd also like to note that the first time Nightwing and Jason's Robin worked together in comics, it was on a drug ring case. Consider the one going on in the background here the very AU adaptation/nod to that. :)
Chapter 9: The Visitation
Summary:
Tim continues to be unable to be normal about anything. He also helps Batman's investigation.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tim isn’t sure what, exactly, has tugged him up from being solidly asleep when he’s still curled quite comfortably under his thick comforter. He can tell just by cracking his eyelids a bit that the only real light in the room is coming from the nightlight and what little is leaking in from outside. What’s showing around the edges of the curtain isn’t the golden light of dawn or the pale light of day, but the aggressively orange-yellow glow of a streetlight. So it can’t be that it’s morning.
Even when he listens for a while, as his eyes gradually get used to the idea of being open, it’s perfectly quiet. And he certainly doesn’t feel cold or hot or sick or even like he needs to go to the bathroom. So what woke him up?
The only thing he’s got is this weird feeling of something being … off. Like there might be eyes on him. Like maybe something’s breathing or shifting nearby that isn’t him. Like there’s something in the house—maybe even his room—that shouldn’t be here.
Something dangerous.
Tim knows he’s actually gotten more sensitive to how empty or how occupied places are since his parents started staying away for longer and longer, and especially since they said he was old enough to only have a nanny overnight. Trying to stalk Batman and Robin had only accentuated that sensitivity. It’s not something that’s right one hundred percent, of course—Tim doubts his senses are some kind of meta or supernatural thing. He sometimes gets gut feelings that seem to turn out wrong when does a check around, after all.
He’s come to the conclusion that, right or wrong, his brain’s just pinging on something he’s been too distracted to consciously register. The feeling is often, but not necessarily, caused by another living being showing up in the area. Maybe if he keeps working on it he’ll get better at figuring out what’s actually making him alarmed when this feeling happens.
Anyway, given his general track record, he doesn’t want to outright dismiss the feeling and go back to sleep. Not only has it helped him decide to leave an area ahead of some crime incident really kicking off, it’s also meant on more than one occasion that he’s had his camera at the ready before Batman or Robin emerge from the shadows. Tim has mostly just caught sight of Robin in this way, though—perhaps since his brighter costume and demeanor is supposed to be an eye-catching distraction. So far, there’s only been the one time that Tim’s managed to spot Batman: when he had been crouched in the large shadow thrown by a billboard just before he dropped down on a pair of crooks hotwiring a vehicle.
Tim had gone to bed that particular night (very early morning) practically vibrating with excitement, and had had to take more than one nap the next day due to having trouble falling asleep normally. Batman is rather blurred in the resulting action shot, but Tim loves looking at it and remembering the moment anyway.
Because hey, he spotted a hiding Batman. That’s gotta be way harder than finding Waldo.
In any case, what can he do about this feeling from his bed? This is the first time it’s happened here. The idea of straight up walking out of the house shouldn’t somehow feel safer than staying put, but—
Shoot, if it really is an intruder, he can’t even be sure what the best response option is. If there’s someone trying to rob the house, pretending to be asleep or hiding might be about as safe as leaving. But if someone’s come here to attack himself or Lindy, then pretending to still be asleep or hiding somewhere are probably his least safe options. Getting away, then, should be the least problematic in either case, except for the fact that if someone’s here to do harm, he might just end up worse off if he runs into them on his way out. He needs to be smart about the path he takes, out of his small number of options.
Although, all things considered, a robber is … probably more likely? As high as Gotham’s murder rate is, Tim’s pretty sure the main buff to that statistic isn’t coming from kids or their nannies being routinely hunted down and murdered in their homes.
But he’s stayed put while his mind whirls for a bit too long. Before he’s quite decided what to do he catches the faint creak of his door, which he knows happens at the beginning of it swinging open. In a panic, he falls back on how behaves when hiding for his nighttime shots: he goes very still and breathes slowly and softly through his mouth.
On the plus side, he isn’t curled facing the door, so whoever or whatever just entered won’t have seen how his eyes are—were, he hastily shuts them—open. It’s a bit of a double edged sword, though, because it means that Tim hasn’t had a chance of seeing what he’s dealing with, either. He lets his eyelids crack open in the barest of slits as he tries to decide whether continuing to play asleep is actually the best thing to do, hoping whoever (whatever?) it is wanders into his limited field of view.
It’s so, so quiet in the wake of that creak. The fact he’s lying down is probably the only reason he even finds it possible to suppress the shivering that wants to take over his body as his skin crawls and the hair on the back of his neck prickles. He vacillates between the idea of flinging himself at whatever it is, so he can try to stun it before running for it—surprise would be his only chance, he’s sure—and just lying still and praying that whatever is there gets bored, finds something it wants that isn’t Tim, and wanders off.
Can Tim take the fact that whatever has come in here hasn’t grabbed him yet as an indication that it’s not here for him? Or is this just some kind of psyche out before springing the attack like how all the worst jumpscares in horror movies go—
Tim only manages to keep breathing relatively slowly and evenly through force of will and all his practice from nights out in Gotham as a hulking shape drifts between him and the nightlight. The tiny light throws the shape into a distinctive—and suddenly familiar—silhouette.
Holy shiitake mushrooms, it’s more than just some intruder.
It’s Batman.
Tim holds himself utterly still for a long beat, his train of thought struggling to navigate the twist of the switch.
… Hold up. Just a darn minute.
What in the banana shenanigans is this?
Why is Batman here in Tim’s room when he’s supposed to be out beating up Matches Malone and all his mobster friends?
Tim is baffled and a little appalled. Does Batman feel no urgency about mobsters or something? Should he have made the letter seem like it came directly from one of the Rogues instead? This has gotta be some kind of dereliction of duty.
There’s something in Batman’s hand, and he’s angling it in various directions as the fingertips of the other stroke and prod at it. It takes a long time for Tim to recognize it as a hairbrush. His own hairbrush, specifically.
Why would—oh. Oh.
Of course! Batman’s a detective in a notoriously corrupt city. Of course he doesn’t just trust any DNA test he didn’t do himself.
Tim could slap a hand to his forehead, if only he wasn’t still pretending to be asleep. He’s so stupid!
He should have included a lock of his hair in the letter or something so Batman could be his usual suspicious self and run his own check without having to sneak around for testing materials. Tim could have passed the inclusion off as the mobsters providing “proof” of their ability to get at Tim or something. But Tim doesn’t think, so now Batman’s here looking for Tim-hairs instead of getting out there and beating up bad guys.
Sheesh. He misses one detail and Batman shows up to chase a proverbial wild goose. A good informative fake threat letter is a lot harder to write than Tim had anticipated. And here he’d always had the impression from his parent and “parent” that professional criminals turned to crime because they were too lazy to have a real job!
Tim’s got to find a way to fix this.
The only problem for Batman is … today had been Mrs. Mac’s quarterly big cleaning day. Tim knows that she cleans the hair off his brush on her big cleaning day, not to mention that she vacuums and sweeps and wipes everything more carefully than she usually does. She even cleans out the sink drains. Tim saw her at it once and has carefully avoided being in the house on her big cleaning day ever since. Yeetch. He doesn’t know why she’s got a serious vendetta against hair and dust four times a year, but he’s glad short hair is the norm for boys if those slimy blobs from the drain really only get worse the longer your hair is.
The hand holding the brush drops limply to Batman’s side and he moves off again, briefly, returning without the brush and instead crouching down by the small wastebasket that sits in that corner near the nightlight.
But Tim knows there’s only a granola bar wrapper in there, so—yeah, now Batman’s checking carefully around the carpet, brushing at it with his fingers. Maybe he’s hoping to find some stray hairs stuck on it?
This is getting kind of sad to watch, in all honesty. Batman’s been reduced to desperately combing Tim’s floor in the dark with very little hope of finding what he’s looking for thanks to his timing—not that he knows it. It reminds Tim of the dad frantically examining the lawn in Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, in a way.
All that Bat-tech and Bat-knowledge and the guy can’t even find a coupl’a Tim-hairs. Yikes.
Tim wonders how far Batman will go in his search. Is Tim going to have to pretend to still be asleep through the guy plucking a few hairs right from his head? Because if he can’t find any hairs already off of it, then the easiest and most obvious solution would be to get them fresh from the source. So to speak.
Sue Tim, he’s tired and he’s really starting to want Batman to get the hairs and go away so he can go back to sleep. He’s also concerned he’ll be startled into revealing he’s been awake the whole time if Batman does that hair-plucking when Tim doesn’t expect it. That would just be incredibly awkward for both of them. Maybe since Batman’s distracted with his hopeless search of the floor right now, Tim can just … take care of the plucking ahead of time? And leave them somewhere they’ll be easy to find?
Slowly, watching Batman for any sign of turning to look at him, Tim snakes a hand up from under the blankets and pulls a few individual hairs from different locations on his head, doing his best to stay stoically still through his wincing at the resulting twinges.
Equally slowly and warily, he scatters the hairs in placements he hopes look naturally occurring: three on the pillow, and one on the drape of the comforter off his back. One of the pillow hairs he nudges to cling in a faint s-shape.
Meanwhile, Batman has continued to canvass the floor around the edges of the room. Tim stares at him for a beat. Even after all going to all the trouble of laying out the evidence for Batman, he still considers simply popping up and confronting the man on … well, everything.
But … no, he can’t. He just can’t. If he does that, then … then he’ll be in the same place with Mr. Wayne as he was with Jack Drake. He can’t assume the man cares for Tim if there’s a possibility he really just sees him as an obligation he’s being forced to acquiesce to. Tim doesn’t want to find himself a burden to be dropped the moment he’s an inconvenience and a failure at being the expected picture-perfect son. The only way this can work is if the man shows up and acknowledges him as Bruce Wayne because he actually, really wants to. Not because of some kind of social pressure from anyone else, even Tim himself.
So no, he has to stick to the plan. If it turns out he only has a mom from now on because Mr. Wayne goes on ignoring Tim and Jack never speaks to him again, then that’s just the way the cookie crumbles, isn’t it? He’ll have to get used to that. The world will keep turning, even for Tim, just like it always has with his parent’s and “parent’s” increasingly extensive globetrotting. Tim thought he wouldn’t get used to missing them, either, but he’s managed well enough.
Who knows? Maybe in another few weeks, once Batman confirms the DNA results for himself, Tim will get a polite sort of letter informing him on the nature of the relationship he can expect to have with Mr. Wayne in the future, rather than having to wait until a chance meeting at a social event for the yes or the no to be clear.
That would be nice.
Tim sighs quietly to himself as he resettles and makes himself close his eyes. It’s a little unnerving to do so when Batman’s still combing his room for his hair, but there’s not much to be done about that. He tries to keep track of where Batman is even with his eyes closed, going by that persistent aura of bat-threat, but with that being as low-key as it is at the moment, it’s not exactly a good conveyor of direction or exact proximity.
In fact, Tim even talks himself into thinking he’s merely holding onto a residual feeling of that threat at one point. But when he breaks down and opens his eyes to do a double check, Batman is still there after all—this time examining the curtains instead of the carpet.
Luckily, his slip-up goes unnoticed.
Another interminable length of time passes as Tim again pretends to be asleep. He almost spends enough time lying in the quiet and dark that he starts drifting off, despite his best efforts to stay alert until Batman leaves. So he nearly startles when he feels something brushing lightly at his hair.
It’s surprisingly stressful, while he has the feeling Batman might just be looming over him, to stay put and keep his eyes closed, his face and body slack, and his breathing slow and even. He’s acutely worried that even with the blanket hiding his body that the man will be able to tell he’s not actually asleep by some sort of super secret bat-technique.
Will he call Tim out on his faking?
Eventually, and at no cue that Tim can discern—if there was a sign it was probably a stupid visual one—that sense of looming presence truly does fade, and stays gone. After another very long while Tim dares to open his eyes, taking in the room with the slightest movements he can manage before popping up to sitting. From this better position he reexamines his surroundings, looking for so much as a shadow out of place.
Nothing.
The hairs he’d placed are gone, though.
There’s some joke in there about the Dark Knight being Gotham’s special knockoff version of the tooth fairy, stealing your lost hairs instead of your lost tooth and leaving a DNA test under your pillow instead of a dollar, but Tim just sucks in a huge breath and holds it until it aches instead of letting his hysterical giggle bubble up.
For whatever reason—or maybe not whatever reason, he’s dealing with Batman so he’s supposed to feel paranoid and unnerved after his close encounter—Tim finds himself compelled to double check under his bed and in his closet, just to be sure there’s no bat-bedazzled vigilante squeezed into those spaces, waiting to continue watching Tim sleep without him knowing. Why this is worrying him, he’s not sure, but it’s easy enough to double check. As it turns out, there’s not really room enough for Batman under the bed, and even the closet is questionable on space with everything that’s crammed in there.
But he has to check. He knows he won’t be able to stop thinking about it until he does.
Eventually he determines that he really is alone again, so he climbs back into bed. He wishes he could pretend Batman’s visit tonight was just like back when his mom and should-have-been-his-dad were at home more. Back then they would poke their heads in most nights to check on him as he was falling asleep. His mom would even smooth his hair and kiss him on the forehead sometimes, not just ask if he was comfy and then admonish him not to let the bedbugs bite like Jack always had (whatever bedbugs are, and how can you stop them from biting when you’re asleep? It never made any sense, if Tim’s being honest). So he can almost pretend that the brush of something against his hair had been a loving caress goodnight, but—
—But that just now was Batman. Not Bruce Wayne. They may technically be the same person, but they certainly don’t feel like it when you actually get anywhere near Batman. Tim knows what Brucie Wayne is like from the few galas his parents have dragged him to, and he knows what Batman is like from all the time he’s spent admiring the man’s vigilante work, but neither tell him much about what just Bruce is like. He only has the vague clues that Brucie and Batman offer.
Bruce visiting his dark room would be one thing … but Batman doing it felt like quite another. Even if he is certain Batman would never hurt any kid by choice.
After a leftover nervous shiver, Tim scrambles out of bed, padding for the door of his room and engaging the little button lock in the knob. Neither of the adult Drakes had liked him leaving his bedroom door locked overnight, something about it being a fire hazard if they need to rescue him or whatever, but it’s not like they’re home. The more they’ve been away, the more that Tim’s motto has become “what my parents don’t know won’t hurt any of us”, and this is a prime example of when that motto clearly and directly applies.
Of course, Batman could just kick a door like this down in two seconds, and pick the lock in even less, but much like holding a stuffed animal, Tim somehow feels better with it locked than without it, despite how useless it is and how much he shouldn’t even need it, logically.
Tim hurries back to his bed and curls up tightly under the covers just for the slight additional reassurance that doing so provides. Then he stares at the door to his room, willing himself to go back to sleep despite the nervous churning in his stomach.
That little bit of light coming in from the edges of the window has changed from orange-yellow streetlight to pale golden morning sun by the time he manages it.
Notes:
Can you all image how freaked out the Bats would have been if they'd opened up that threat letter and a whole lock of a child’s hair fell out to go with the DNA test and newspaper letter note??? (Changing to utter confusion as to what is happening when they find out Tim is still living all hunky-dory at home, not being held hostage and having bits of his hair cut off for threat letters??? All the clues making even less sense than they already do without the hair! The even greater levels of emotional whiplash! Batman would probably start questioning whether he's having some kind of psychological break for how little sense it all makes, except that everyone is experiencing it with him...)
Next time: Robin returns, ready to foil any and all mobster attempts to carry out their threats and/or kidnapping plots. And as we all know, those’ll be hitting hard and fast any second now … any second now …
I know I'm behind on comment responses as well but I didn’t want to delay posting Timmy being a little weirdo any more than I already had. XD; Hope you enjoyed.
Chapter 10: This Will All Look Batty-er in the Morning
Summary:
Robin’s back and ready for action.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jason feels a bit odd, being out as Robin in the bare light of day. It’s not like he’s never been out in the suit during the day, of course, it’s just rare, and it still feels funny to him. It doesn’t help that the Robin suit seems plenty colorful at night, but becomes so much more gaudy and unnatural looking in daylight.
Of course with the getup being acrobat circus performance inspired and all … it makes sense. That still doesn’t fix that it feels weird.
Bruce and Alfred hadn’t been home when he’d woken up this morning—he’d trotted into a kitchen that felt oddly quiet and still, only to find a note penned by Alfred saying he was driving Bruce to an “appointment,” whatever that’s supposed to mean. Jason had wanted to yell when he looked around and realized he’d not only be foraging for his breakfast, he’d have to make all his own calls on how to handle this tailing job and hope that when Batman caught up with him, he’d approve of all Robin’s decisions.
Geeze, he never should have turned in so fast last night, should he? Be a little responsible, give Batman an inch, and he’d take a mile.
Typical.
More importantly: what had happened? Had Bruce not gotten the DNA to test? Had he gotten some kind of crazy injury in some fight gone wrong after Robin went to bed? Or had there just been some kind of corporate meltdown this morning that had made both Bruce and his butler rush out and leave him no dang details about what was going on with the kid?
Cause this appointment sure hadn’t been mentioned before today!
Jason had huffed to himself before he began stomping about to handle things all by his lonesome. Fact of the matter was, Alfred was usually much better about being informative. It didn’t really help with his resurging feelings of worry and foreboding, much like he’d gotten when he’d first read that stupid letter.
By time he had been done with eating, though, the house hadn’t magically re-filled with people with all the answers just because Jason was miffed, so he’d decided to go out to take up his tailing job. He’d elected to start out in full Robin gear for the shortened travel time in and out of the city that having a Batcycle represented. He’d tried the comm—just in case—and had been surprised to hear Nightwing respond. The former Robin had said that he was still out at the Drakes’ house and that he’ll see Robin when he gets there. Jason had tried to ask him what had happened last night, but after a pause Nightwing had simply stated: “Meet up with me out here and I can fill you in on everything—in person.”
The foreboding had redoubled to something like indigestion. Between Bruce’s sudden appointment and having to hear whatever’s going on in person … but Jason had shoved down the conclusions his mind spun up ruthlessly, finding a bit of solace and focus in donning his gear.
Now, arriving in the neighborhood that the Drake home is in and hiding the Batcycle—with some difficulty given all the people that are out and about heading to their jobs compared to last night—he shimmies the loosest set of streetwear he owns on over the Robin suit. It hides the bulk of the armor. It doesn’t hide it well, exactly, but enough for him to pass as a bit of a chubby young teen. The key point is that his leg and torso muscle contours, as well as the light armored shape of the Robin suit’s chest plate and utility belt, aren’t obvious.
He leaves the mask in place, for now, since he’s gotta scale to the townhouse row’s roofline again to talk to Nightwing. With the street clothes, however, he feels better prepared for any contingency the tailing job might throw at him. He can either rip the street clothes off and become fully Robin, or rip the mask off and become fully Jason Todd. The latter will be key if he needs to follow the kid on street level or into a public building, where the Robin domino would draw more attention than it would be worth.
He takes a deep, steadying breath as he slips up and over the edge of the roof, keeping low even once he’s up there out of caution for the fact that it’s day instead of night, and that these townhouses are not that tall.
Nightwing’s sprawled on his belly facing towards the house, as Batman had been last night, although he’s keeping an even lower profile with his head than Batman had been, and he’s got a creamy white blanket over his body. The roof is light-colored, too, so it’s apparently intended as camouflage. He turns his head and gives Robin—Jason—both or either, whatever—a nod and a weak smile as he lifts up one corner of the blanket in invitation.
Jason presses his lips together in a frown and swallows thickly, coming to a stop in a crouch next to the older vigilante before acquiescing reluctantly to sprawling out under the blanket.
It’s … unexpectedly cozy, being huddled underneath the blanket. Not quite as cozy as huddling under Batman’s cape, but a pretty good alternative.
When Nightwing doesn’t seem inclined to start talking immediately, instead giving the house yet another careful look, Jason starts to feel annoyed. “Alright, well my face is here, facing yours, like you wanted, so start talking. Because if I’m gettin’ the brick wall treatment because you’re actually B in a suit you stole from Nightwing, I’m warning you now, I’m gonna riot.”
Nightwing makes such an awful, appalled face that Jason mostly eliminates the likelihood Batman’s playing musical-suit-and-facial-disguise games. “If he ever puts this on I think I’ll riot.”
“Guy could never pull off the popped collar look anyway,” Jason grants sagely. Then he levels Nightwing with a serious look.
Nightwing’s grin at Robin’s declaration fades to seriousness in response. “Right. So, um … ” he hesitates, “Congrats, J. You’re officially a big bro. According to the bat-DNA test.”
The weird mix of feelings is instant. On the one hand, there’s relief, and a little triumphant moment of “I knew it.” On the other, he gets a shot of pure nervous adrenaline, but not the good kind like in a fight, rather one that makes him feel a bit wobbly. He opens his mouth. Realizes he doesn’t know what to say. Closes it again. Nightwing looks like he’s about to speak just to fill the awkward silence when Jason finally reboots enough to say his first passing coherent thought: “Doesn’t this technically mean I was always a big brother the second B adopted me? You shouldn’t be calling me ‘little wing’. I’m more like a—middle wing. Or something.”
Dick seems to be as blindsided by the statement as Jason is for saying it out loud.
But in the next moment Dick recovers, and Nightwing goes on to say: “Nonsense. It’s still a great nickname. My nicknames for things have always been practical, concise, and accurate … with just a touch of cheerful fun.”
Robin scoffs. “Oh, is that why B said you named everything when I asked why he added bat to literally everything? As if he was washing his hands of responsibility for the embarrassment?”
“As I said,” Nightwing reiterates staunchly, “Practical. Concise. Accurate. And fun.”
Robin rolls his eyes. The mind of Dick Grayson is where ingenious verbal wordplay goes to die, clearly. Dick’s Robin had loved to throw out puns 24/7, but that stuff is D-rank material at best, if you ask Jason. Nevertheless, Jason still occasionally throws them out in the midst of a Robin tussle. He can’t always use his A-rank material, after all. And it lends a sense of continuity to the mask. Plus, puns have their uses in making Rogues distracted (by forcing them to pause and groan with regret over comprehending what they’d just heard. Heh.)
Sure, he understands why Dick uses them. He just holds himself to higher standards most of the time. “Right,” Robin says, drawing the word out skeptically.
“Anyway, you being a big brother doesn’t change that you’re still younger compared to me. In fact, as far as I’m concerned you would be the little brother, and Timothy would be the littler brother.”
“Hah. Well, be my guest. Start calling Timothy ‘littler wing’ or something equally ridiculous as soon as you get to talk to him, and see how well that turns out for you.”
Nightwing grins, though it looks more like a baring of teeth. “Gauntlet thrown, gauntlet taken up. Little wing.”
Jason huffs. It’s Dick’s funeral. And Jason immediately gaining the title of “favorite sibling-in-law of Bruce’s new bio-kid” can hardly be a bad thing, even if it kinda ends up being by default. “Whatever. Look, B and Penny One were out when I left to come here and the note they left was cryptic. Any idea where they’re at?”
Nightwing shrugs. “They’re probably still consulting B’s lawyers. Penny One mentioned over the comm when he told me the test results that B’d made an emergency appointment with them.”
Robin blinks. “Oh. That fast?”
Nightwing chuckles weakly. “The fact it was A telling me and not B is, in fact, a commentary on the man’s state of mind at this point, I think.”
Robin grimaces. “He’s … that mad he has an oopsie baby?” he ventures as a guess.
What seem to be several stages of delight and grief play out on Nightwing’s face all at once. “An … oopsie baby.”
“Yeah?” Robin says, hesitantly.
Nightwing’s grin goes Robin-cheeky, and he sing-songs the phrase under his breath. “Heh. I’m gonna use that on B and see what his face does.”
Jason winces internally. “Maybe don’t. It’s not that funny.”
Nightwing glances over at him. “He’s not mad, Robin. Just upset. And excessive worry makes the emotional constipation worse.”
“Are you sure that’s all he is?”
Nightwing regards him consideringly. “Pretty sure. You know, he tried to tell me the results over the comm … ” he pauses, then sighs. “But I had to ask if that’s what he was about because he wasn’t saying anything. He managed to make one of his affirming noises in response to that, but still, he just … I don’t know. I was about to do the whole ‘two grunts yes, one grunt no’ routine when Penny One took over the line and actually explained it in real words. He seemed a bit exasperated. I could hear him distantly telling B to go change because he ‘could not be paid any amount to ferry you to your lawyers in broad daylight in the Batsuit. Sir,’” Nightwing says, doing a light imitation of Alfred’s accent, complete with the droll tone that so often lampshades the butler’s sarcasm. He sighs again. “If B was actually angry, instead of that good ol’ sad-stressed-upset miasma of his, he’d have managed to be more verbose and functional than that.”
Robin nods slowly, trawling through his mental index of “Bruce-Wayne-Batman-isms” and finding that lines up pretty well with his own understanding of what certain kinds of silences from the man mean, even if his own index is likely far smaller than Nightwing’s is.
“Oh,” Nightwing says, breaking his train of thought, “Some other things I need to tell you. B planted a few bugs in the house, so you’ll find those on the usual comm channel, as long as you’re in range.”
“What the hell? I thought he was a kid, not a criminal,” Jason sputters. “Why are we listening in on his house?”
Nightwing shakes his head and gives a helpless sort of shrug. “Batman gonna Batman. You know how it is. He said he only put them on the front and back doors and in the kitchen, the dining room, and the living room, but not in any bedrooms or bathrooms or the basement, which I’m sure he saw as ‘showing restraint.’ I figure they’re mainly gonna come in handy to make sure no one’s going out either entrance without you knowing about it. You don’t have a good vantage point to watch both doors on that house.”
Robin grimaces. Nightwing’s got a point on that last one. He tunes into the channel, but still mutters his complaint: “Eavesdropping on a ten year old. Good grief.”
“Yeah … and one other thing. This has all got B thinking about an old case. It was a DNA test manipulation scheme we busted a couple years back. He wants you to keep it in mind as we investigate this. You should read up on the archived case file when you next get a chance.”
“Manipulation scheme?” Robin prods, cautious neutrality plastered over his instant curiosity. Batman wouldn’t be fooled, but he’s not sure what Nightwing sees.
The brief sketch Nightwing gives him of the old case leaves him frowning. “But … how is a court gonna be fooled by one fake DNA test? Don’t they go looking at a whole bunch of evidence?”
Nightwing shakes his head. “Not exactly, in this sort of scenario. Only a court-ordered and administered test can be used to establish a legally binding paternity. Supposed to protect against people submitting suspect results from suspect sources, I think. But that means that if crooks can manage to get in on the court test’s administration and processing, somehow—then the results can be manipulated to suit.
“Most people would hardly think to question court results. Those that do could hardly investigate it like B and I could. Child support can easily run a hundred thou’ or more, over a single kid’s childhood. So there were enough customers willing to pay 10K to get their court test botched. Enough to make it lucrative for the criminals pulling the manipulation off, that was for sure. For the most part it was being purchased by fathers who wanted to get out of all responsibility, but sometimes women used it to nail someone well-off for support money. Guys who shouldn’t have owed any.” His tone goes darkly sarcastic as he glares out over the street. “The crooks themselves held their ‘product’ out as a ‘smart financial decision.’ One of them even said that straight to my face when B and I were bringing them in.”
“And the kids were getting screwed no matter what,” Robin mutters as the full scope of the implications unfurl in his mind. “They’re either deprived of money, or treated like a meal ticket. Financial decision. Ha.” He adds even more grouchily: “Please tell me you at least bloodied that particular bastard’s nose.”
Nightwing nods briskly, a sharp delight stretching his smile to something that would have been frightening for any non-vigilante to behold … had they been looking. “Oh, don’t worry. He had to choke that one out through his already broken nose. Courtesy of Robin’s fist.”
Robin’s grin stretches to match Nightwing’s. “Good.”
It kind of did explain why B had thought twice about accepting the results right away, Robin has to admit to himself. Annoying when the guy turns out to have a more valid than usual reason for the paranoia.
Nightwing sighs and begins to stretch in place as best he can without lifting the camouflaging blanket too much. “Anyway. Enjoy your watch, huh? You’re going to be the first between the two of us to know what the kid’s actually like when he’s awake.”
‘Oh no,’ the thought suddenly occurs to Jason like some kind of sneak attack, ‘What if he’s one of those super spoiled rich snob brats that’s gonna convince B to make me live in a fireplace like—like a Jayderella?’
(Who would he even be able to get for a fairy godmother in this town, anyway? Catwoman? Awful. Terrible. No offense to Catwoman but she is not a ‘magical’ kind of gal.)
“B said he’s got a Robin toy in his room,” Nightwing continues, seemingly oblivious to Jason’s sudden internal turmoil. “So if you gotta jump in to defend the kid from some kidnappers, maybe watch out for the hero worship reaction.” He laughs a little. “Or figure out how to use it to your advantage. Your choice.”
Robin gives himself a mental shake. This is not the time for re-doubting what this kid is gonna mean to his life with Bruce. And as Robin, it would be plain wrong to act on any such fear. ‘Now you’re just being ridiculous, Jason,’ he tells himself in his most stern Robin voice. ‘The fireplace thing would not happen. And no respectable Gothamite goes around magicking things up, so you won’t have a fairy godmother shuffling you off to a stupid ball at all. Worst case scenario: the kid makes the Manor so miserable to live in that you have to move down to the Batcave. Or he steals Robin out from under you.’
Jason pauses.
It’s fine, it’s whatever. Having to live in the Batcave would be whatever. That’s not any worse than a condemned apartment block—in fact it’ll be better simply for the fact he’ll still have access to electricity and hot and cold running water. Plus he’ll still have plenty of opportunity to lodge any complaints about any problems with B or Alfred, even if he has to live down there.
But at the same time … he’d rather live in a fireplace than have to give up Robin just because Timmy’s greedy little paws really want it.
Fudge it all, no, he’s already made a plan for that problem, too. A perfectly effective plan. He just needs to not panic and stick to said plan. And then, everything should be just fine.
“Looks like you got some really hard thinking going on there, R. You got a concern you wanna raise?”
He blinks. “Eh? Oh. Uhm.” Robin flounders about for an appropriate-sounding answer. “Just … thinkin’ about what the kid might be like.”
Nightwing nods shallowly. “Gonna be looking forward to hearing about your observations,” he says as he slips out from under the blanket. “Gotta admit, I am hella curious what kinda kid B’s genes have come up with.”
“Yeah. No kidding,” Jason chuckles, still vaguely discomfited.
Nightwing tilts his head at him, keeping the blanket slightly lifted as he lingers in a crouch. Just how transparently is his apprehension about all this showing? He can’t tell. His discomfort redoubles at that, but Nightwing changes the subject.
Well. If the apprehension is showing, at least Nightwing has the restraint to refrain from pouncing on it every time he so much as sees it.
“Would you mind if I did some work on that drug case of yours while B’s got you busy with this?” Nightwing asks.
Robin hesitates, honestly a bit surprised about being asked. Batman would just butt in if he saw fit and then maybe tell him about it—if the information he dug up was somehow decisive instead of just gravy for the case file.
Finally, though, Robin simply offers the query a shrug. The sooner they nab those people, the better. “Not really. Just try to save me a chance to make a few of the final punches, huh? Don’t go hogging all those for yourself.”
“Big bust day dibs? You got it,” Nightwing responds with a grin. “I’ll leave you to this, then. Good luck!” He calls back as he creeps off towards the best spot available for descending from the roof of the townhouse row: “Don’t go losing the kid, and don’t get spotted!”
“What, by some ten year old?” Robin scoffs, appalled. “Fat chance, dickwing. Get lost already! I got this.”
Notes:
It’s a good thing Bruce has Alfred. Man is so tilted by the DNA results that he’d’ve shown up for his Bruce Wayne appointment with his family law lawyers in the Batsuit.
(Or at least driven himself halfway there before realizing, and then ended up being horrifically late and looking rumpled enough that his own lawyers would have been internally judging him for what would look to them like him coming straight from an all-night party. Smh.)
Chapter 11: The Life and Times of Timothy Drake
Summary:
Robin collects some Tim-facts, and he’s … not sure how to feel about what he’s finding out.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Okay. So. Maybe what Robin’s ended up gotting is a whole lot of boredom. This isn’t really a surprise, just an annoyance—stakeouts in real life are almost always more boring than even the cop shows on TV make them look. Inured to the reality, however, Jason simply goes digging into his emergency literature.
The literature is something that had not come standard with the Robin gear as Dick had employed it. No, Jason had had to figure out how to stuff as much readable text onto the most compactable material he could find, and then fit it into whatever utility belt space wasn’t already packed with what Batman deemed “useful and necessary” gear himself. Because he’d asked Bruce, but the big boob had given him a funny look and a very doubtful sounding: “I’m not sure tiny literature is going to be worth the effort and space it’ll take to bring it out into the field, Jason.”
Worth it? Worth it? He’d tried arguing that if he gnawed his own arm off on a stakeout because he was just that gee-golly bored, Batman would have no one but himself to blame for his newly one-armed Robin. After all, he was the one refusing to figure out how to fit one—Jason had only asked for one!—very tiny novella into Robin’s utility belt. Bruce had stared at him blankly for a long moment after the warning on boredom-induced arm chewing, before seeming to come back to himself with a snap.
“I see. In that case: new Robin assignment,” he’d announced, pushily shepherding Jason down into the Cave. “Equipment development. Figure out how to fit the most reading material you can into the belt without outright removing, or hampering access to, any of the existing gear.”
“Hmph. I thought you said we weren’t supposed to be cops, and yet here you are, copping out on making sure I have important gear,” Jason had complained. Bruce hadn’t even cringed at the terrible pun, as he’d hoped.
Jason blames Dick for overexposing the man. F. Rank. Material.
Anyway. Jason had gone to work despite his complaining, his fingers teasing out the Gotham street map tucked into his utility belt. It was laser printed on an ultrathin sheet of a polymer compound that folded as crisply as tissue paper but didn’t retain creases or disintegrate when submerged in water. Nor did it cling to itself like plastic wrap did.
It had amazed Jason just how small the stuff could fold.
“Hm. You hardly seem to need me at all, from the looks of it,” Bruce had said with a self-satisfied smirk as he had watched Jason consider the map, then go scrounging up a leftover roll of the material used for it.
“Of course I know what I’m doing. I’m Robin,” Jason had grumped in return.
Thereafter he had studiously maintained his slouchy pout for whenever Bruce would stop in throughout his designing and printing process, but the man had stayed smiling no matter how many glares were shot at him. “Nothing better for getting familiar with your equipment, and knowing all its limits, than fabricating and maintaining it for yourself,” Bruce had declared. “I should have started assigning you development taskwork weeks ago.”
Ugh! Fine! Whatever! Jason had simply done his level best to use up every square foot that had been left on the roll out of sheer spite. When all was said and done, he’d gotten twelve different little volumes of highly compactable reading material out of it. He kept one in the belt, and switched it out with one of the eleven other options whenever he had to crack it out long enough to read most of it while on some kind of watching and waiting duty. Bruce had only seemed more pleased that Jason had fabricated so much that he’d used up the whole supply of the no doubt expensive material in one go.
Feh. Billionaires. Impossible to spite them just by using up all their stuff. Jason had shifted from being grouchy toward Bruce to exasperated with himself. He probably needs to trash something worth at least a mil for it to register to a madman as rich as Batman.
Admittedly, Jason’s super justified revenge plots clearly need work, because he probably should have seen that one coming.
In any case, all of that means that today, Robin can treat himself to a little dive into his favorite Victorian era poets while he waits for something to happen at the Drake house. Nothing stirs there—at least, nothing visible to the outside—for quite a while.
At first the only hint someone’s even still alive inside is the sound of food preparation, which is accompanied by a female voice humming to herself, and a faucet periodically running, all of which starts up around nine. A long while later, a young voice says “morning”. The female voice returns the greeting. That’s followed by a long silence that’s punctuated only by the quiet clinking of silverware on dishes.
Robin lets his gaze drift between his book and the house, still concentrating most of his attention on the bugs’ audio transmissions. Again: Batman has him spying on a ten year old and his probable-nanny. There is zero cool factor to this and it is so not going in his next pen pal letter to Kid Devil.
So far he hasn’t even heard anything interesting over the Holy Invasion of Innocent Civilian Privacy, Batman! bugs, but that’s not much of a surprise.
After the clinking dies away and the subsequent sound of running water does, too, the woman finally says the first substantial thing that morning: “So, Tim. Something I wanted to ask you about.”
“Hmm? Oh. Uh. Yeah?”
Jason perks up. He simultaneously makes a mental note that the kid had answered to Tim. Possible shortened name—that’s good. He might start feeling like Alfred (no offense) if he has to toss the full Timothy out there every time.
“Your birthday’s coming up in three days, right?”
There’s a strangely long pause. “Uhm, yeah, it is. The nineteenth. Why?”
Huh. The kid doesn’t … well, he does have the more upper class sort of accent, rather like Bruce’s is when he’s not playing a part, but at the same time he doesn’t talk as pretentiously as the worst of the rich snobs Jason’s encountered at that one gala he’s been to so far. Of course, Jason also knows—as well as anyone who’s ever been in his position in the social pecking order does—that plenty of people can sound perfectly nice with everyone they don’t think of as totally beneath them, only to flip like a light switch as soon as they’re dealing with someone they do think of that way. So what if Tim talks nice to the nanny—it’s an encouraging sign, but it’s not a guarantee of anything.
Robin will probably be stuck observing long enough to dial in his evaluation of the kid’s full demeanor before long, though. He continues to listen carefully.
“Well, I was thinking—I know your parents were supposed to be here, right? I assume that they might have been planning to do something with you. So I was wondering if you still wanted me to take you? To wherever or whatever it was.”
There’s another strange pause.
“Tim?” The woman’s voice says uncertainly.
“It’s fine!” Tim interjects in a rush, and rather loudly. “That’s, uh, really nice of you, Miss Lindy, but I don’t even know what they were planning.” His voice falls back to something on the softer side of normal, though whether that’s because he’s actually gone quieter, or because he’s moved away from the bug, Jason’s not sure. “It was supposed to be a surprise. So I don’t know where they were gonna take me. It’s fine.”
“Oh—I see,” the woman says, sounding vaguely disappointed. “That’s … hm. Well, alternatively, I know I don’t get back here until a bit later in the evening, but if you wanted to invite a friend or two over for the night to celebrate, you could. Your parents did say you could have friends over, if I was okay with supervising, and their parents were okay with me being the one in charge.”
Tim half-sighs the beginning of his response: “I’m—that’s still, uh, really nice of you, but I don’t have anyone. It’s okay.”
Jason raises an eyebrow. The kid’s got no friends?
“What? Not even that one boy—I remember you mentioned, uh—Ives? Wasn’t it?”
Tim’s sighing this time is distinct and audible. “He’s at summer camp until August. Anyone I’d want to invite is at one right now. My parents were supposed to be here, otherwise I’d be at summer camp, too. Probably the same one as Ives.”
‘Huh. Well. That sucks,’ Jason thinks to himself, frowning. Maybe Tim is past the excitement of turning double digits, but birthdays still matter. It’s gotta be depressing for him.
Jason tap-tap-taps a finger against the rough material of the roof beneath him, thinking. It’s funny how his whole “Batcave hostage” protection idea just keeps getting more pros to it. Because even if B does want to get to know Tim going forward, the fact remains that he’s not so great about putting proper importance on sentimental events.
For Pete’s sake, the man had seemed baffled when Jason had given him a birthday present.
But—something special would happen for Tim’s birthday with Alfred right there to make sure of it, regardless of Bruce’s planetoid-sized density on such things. And if Tim really does like Robin, what better place to have his birthday than inside what is technically Robin’s base of operations? A kidnapping to the Batcave would pretty much have “amazing birthday celebration for one (1) Tim who doesn’t yet know he’s the Bat’s kid” baked into it—once the kid got over being upset about kinda sorta being held captive by vigilantes, of course.
The upset probably wouldn’t last long.
… Unless Tim is a crybaby. Jason sure hopes not. That’s only slightly less annoying than being a snobbish a-hole.
Anyway. It’s like Jason had already said. It’s not really a kidnapping. The fact that Batman even seems to worry about what a bunch of lawyers and judges would say about it because “blah, blah, custody laws, blah, blah, legal problem described by some phrase in a language that even the people who invented it stopped thinking was cool a millennia ago, blah” is weaksauce.
“Well, then … ” the woman seems to have lost a lot of the peppiness of her earlier offers. “ … I hope you’re at least planning something fun?”
“ … Kinda? I was just gonna go to the skatepark. I’m trying to learn a new trick.”
“Oh, yeah?” This response seems slightly recovered from the earlier disappointment. There’s the faint scraping sound of something light being moved. “Hey! What about skatepark friends?”
‘This lady is really trying hard to get the kid some kinda celebration,’ Jason thinks in bemusement.
Tim sounds absolutely baffled. “They’re all older teens? Maybe even in their twenties? Why would they want to celebrate some kid’s eleventh birthday? I’d feel weird just asking.”
Jason winces. What are they even at for the probable-nanny’s birthday party attempts score here? Oh-and-three?
“Ah. I see,” she says. There’s silence as footsteps fade out and back in—someone, or both of them, moved rooms, maybe? “Wait,” she picks up again, sounding concerned, “They don’t pick on you or anything, do they? There aren’t too many creepy people with tattoos hanging around?”
“What? No? I know what the dangerous ones are, anyway; no regulars are creepy like that.”
She makes a doubtful humming sound.
“Really!” Tim says insistently. “One time this banger did come around and tried to sell them some drugs, but Chelsea—she’s a regular who always wears headbands with lots of ribbons on ’em, and poofy short skirts, and all this pink stuff, she says it’s ‘fashion’ or something, I don’t know. Anyway, the guy came up and she just smashed the end off of this glass soda bottle she’d only half drunk and said—uhm well she said some really bad swears so I won’t say what she said. But then she threatened to cut him with it if he didn’t scram and take his, uhm. Stuff. His stuff with him. But another bad word instead of ‘stuff’, so I can’t say that, either.”
“Oh my god, I can’t believe this city sometimes,” she groans. “Drug dealing in broad daylight at a skatepark.”
“It’s not a big problem,” Tim says hurriedly, as if he’s just realized his skatepark visiting privileges might be in danger. (What did the kid think was gonna happen, telling his probably super-white-bread nanny a story like that? Jason can almost see the clutched pearls off of her voice alone.) “It’s only happened the once! Chelsea and her friends are there pretty much every day. And they even make the moody teens that show up to drink illegally go do it in the corner farthest from the ramps. They threatened to let all the kids still learning how to do an ollie use their passed-out bodies as practice obstacles to ollie over if they ever get drunk enough to bother anyone else there. And,” Tim rattles on, in what may well be one breath, “Geoff keeps making me keep all my safety equipment on, even when it’s hot and I’m getting all sweaty inside my helmet and guards. He says having to call an ambulance for me would ‘ruin the chill hangout ambience.’ It’s annoying. I think you’d like them.”
Jason barely restrains himself from slapping a hand to his face. Holy smokes, the first thing either him or Dick will need to teach this kid is ‘risky information control.’ There are some things you just don’t tell adults, especially when it isn’t a danger to you at the moment. It’s only gonna be double true when he’s trying to deal with Batman being in charge of him.
Fortunately for Tim, however, the nanny doesn’t seem quite worried enough about any of these worrisome stories to ban him from going there. She mostly seems interested in venting her exasperation about “those typical Gotham low-lifes out there in public.” The furthest she goes is to tell him to stay away from the people drinking, and especially not to accept any food or drink anyone tries to give him or sell him. Besides that, she does give a curious aside about how “I know your parents probably won’t say anything, but I’m going to have to let them know about this, Tim.”
That’s when the front door opens, and a woman fitting Batman’s description of “Lindy” the nanny emerges. Tim is lingering in the doorway behind her, sidled up against the edge of the door and leaning his weight on the doorknob with a hand on either side, wiggling back and forth idly with the swing of it.
Tim himself doesn’t seem to be phased by that last looming semi-threat—he only blinks up at her with a flat expression and a shrug—which only gives credence to Robin’s passing thought that maaaaaybe the adult Drakes wouldn’t even mind these things the same way the nanny at least somewhat seems to. Jason can’t exactly rule out that they’re not one of those sets of Gotham parents that have given up on worrying about crime in the way that outsiders to Gotham (and the rich that live in a money-purchased bubble of semi-safety) usually do.
“Crime incident desensitization” is something that happens in this city. Even among parents. Jason had just figured that, while the Drake home isn’t a Bristol estate, it is still in a really nice Gotham neighborhood. So they oughta be the kind of rich that’s distanced from the worst of Gotham’s average reality to keep worrying about that sort of thing.
Not the Drakes, though? Apparently? Jason wonders if they justify it to themselves with the fact that there is no minimum age to leave a kid home alone during the day in the state of New Jersey. Or … what.
Enough people are like that, thinking what they’re doing isn’t a problem if it’s not illegal.
Well. Maybe there’s a good reason Tim doesn’t understand risky information control when it comes to parental authority figures.
Bruce’ll sure learn this kid fast …
The apparent lack of concern on the part of the adult Drakes makes no sense though, Jason decides as he examines Tim with a critical eye. Kid is bite sized, has big blue Bambi eyes, and appears to possess very little muscle mass. He looks like the kind of well-off that’ll go down in a single punch and then act surprised that anyone would dare to punch him in the first place. Funny how far of a cry that is from Bruce … though his “Brucie” act belies that reality well enough. The dissonance between real Bruce and socialite “Brucie” is downright creepy to witness.
“I’ll see you tonight at the usual time, okay?” Lindy is saying as she moves down the front steps, all the while looking back towards where Tim continues to linger in his lean on the front door. “You know the rules about not answering the doorbell or spam calls—and call me or Miss Mac if there’s an emergency.”
“After I call 911 if it’s a serious emergency,” Tim says, sounding like he’s reciting a rote instruction, and looking appropriately bored by it.
“Exactly. But also remember what I said about people at the skatepark, too. You leave and come straight home if you feel unsafe while you’re there, got it?”
“Uh-huh.”
Tim says it seriously-sounding enough, but somehow Robin doubts he’s gonna bother. Though … that’s not exactly what he’s worried about in this situation; what he took away from the skatepark stories is that the place has nice enough regulars to make it a moderately well supervised location, despite Gotham being Gotham. With an eyebrow quirking steadily higher, Robin concentrates more attention on Lindy walking down the sidewalk to the street before she slips into a car and drives away. She’d had a Gotham U student ID on a themed lanyard hanging off the backpack slung over her shoulder, so maybe she’s … leaving to attend classes?
Dang, he wouldn’t have thought rich people would let their ten year old be home alone for any percentage of the day. Not when they can just hire more people. Yet here they are: Tim’s stepping back into the house, and shutting the door. Mini-me Brucie here is officially home alone. And while it might be legal in the state of New Jersey … is it really advisable and safe?
In this city? At the kid’s age? With the mob threat hanging over his head?
Hm. Yeah, right.
Robin listens carefully, but the bugs remain mostly silent except for the occasional shuffle, thunk, or clink of Tim doing … whatever he does in there when he’s home alone. The usual kid stuff, probably. He’s not talking out loud, whatever he’s up to.
Well, as long as it doesn’t involve bodily harm or property damage, they should be good.
Because meanwhile, Robin’s still pondering the absence of the nanny, and whether he’s being more paranoid about kids Tim’s age than he should be. On top of all that, he’s formulating an all-new, smarter-than-Batman plan. Because regardless of anything else, if it turns out that the kid is as latchkey as he now suspects, he can just take it as a completely valid excuse to snatch him and book it for the Cave the second the supposed mobsters that are after him show up, regardless of Bruce’s whole “we can’t kidnap my own biological child, Robin” routine. What’s Batman gonna do, be upset that Robin made sure Tim got safely to one of the most secure locations in the tri-state area in the middle of an actual kidnapping attempt?
Please. Nightwing will surely join forces with him in giving Batman whatfor at even entertaining the thought.
And speaking of …
Robin clicks open the comm line as he hears rhythmic thuds in the house that get quieter before all sounds of movement drop off entirely. Kid’s gone back upstairs, maybe … ?
“Hey, N, you still up? Or is anyone else listening?” Robin asks into the comm, then waits several beats. He’s about to assume Dick has already headed for bed when there’s a quiet beep of another comm joining the line.
“Yeah, I … mmph, ’m still here,” Nightwing says, though he sounds like he’s trying and failing to abort a yawn. “Just looking over your drug case file and waiting for B and/or Penny One to get back before I turn in.”
“Geeze, you sound terrible. Why are you still up if you’re this wiped? I don’t need a monitor on a simple stakeout.”
“And yet here you are, asking if I’m still up because you need something. Funny how that worked.”
Robin huffs. “Shut up, I considered it a longshot. And this is not urgent, F-Y-I. But next time I’ll remember you don’t act like a sensible human being any more than B does.”
Nightwing splutters. “Excuse me?”
Robin keeps right on rolling. “Now are you gonna let me get to the actual thing I was trying to ask about?”
There’s a pause, and this time when Nightwing speaks he at least sounds significantly more alert, though there’s still a little irritation underneath the down-to-business tone. “Right. Then. Lay it on me.”
“Does B know about this nanny’s schedule? Is he actually okay with it if this kid is being left home alone, like … all day?”
“All day?” The irritation drops away, changing to something purely serious. “When? Just today, or all the time?”
“Dunno,” Robin says, narrowing his eyes at the quiet house. “I’m still trying to figure that out. But nanny Miss Lindy isn’t supposed to be back before tonight. According to their convo before she left in her car.”
Nightwing hums. “Let me just—” he trails off sounding distracted, so Robin waits. “—Okay, so B’s file indicates there’s also a housekeeper that was there during the day yesterday. Maybe she shows up soonish?”
Robin internally sighs at finding out Bruce already has a file on the kid. He’s totally not surprised. And even his sense of disappointment is vague. Frankly, he’d have had to ask if B had come down with something if there wasn’t already a file. “I’ll keep an eye out. But it sounds like the kid’s allowed to roam around the neighborhood—to the park and things like that—so I’m not sure I’ll get to watch the house the whole day. But, the thing I’m wondering is … is it really a problem? I mean. It’s not like it’s—”
“—Illegal in the state of New Jersey?” Nightwing echoes him perfectly, then snorts.
Robin blows out a breath through pursed lips. Guess they really did have the same training in ‘when child abuse and neglect is and isn’t actionable.’ Granted, what Batman had taught Jason on the topic had probably been developed together with Dick in the first place …
“Thing is,” Robin presses on with a shake of his head, “I’ve lived alone in worse conditions. And I survived it just fine.” At a beat of silence, he bristles, adding: “No pity parade speeches outta you, Wing. I’m just saying. I know my perspective on this is kinda screwed. Or so B and Penny One liked to tell me,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “But let’s try to be reasonably un-paranoid for a second: it’s not like he’ll starve to death or kill himself accidentally because he doesn’t understand that a gas stove or electrical outlets aren’t toys. Not in a mere less than eighteen hours. He’s a kid, not a baby.”
On the other hand, Jason also knows well enough from experience that while a kid could have themselves convinced six ways up and down that they’re just fine being their own adult most of the day—that they like it, even—it can feel so much more scary in retrospect. It’s weird, like—as soon as Jason’d felt secure enough with B to let go of the whole “it was fine” schtick with himself, he’d started having nightmares about being alone like that.
And they’d lasted for weeks.
It had been so bogus, honestly. Jason’s still pissed off about his brain being all illogical about it—all that freaking out it went and did long after he was no longer in that situation had sucked.
And sure, if being alone all day bothers Tim, it’s still gonna be a little less intense for him than it was for Jason, since Tim doesn’t seem to be left to his own devices all day and night—plus he has a house with working utilities, and probably spare money he can access somewhere as a just in case—but.
But.
Jason had begun to understand, after getting to know Bruce and starting to meet all kinds of people in trouble while being Robin, that just because someone is in an objectively less scary situation doesn’t have anything to do with whether theirs is a problem for them.
Feelings are crap. And hard to be objective about.
But then that’s why he’s resorted to asking the opinion of the first reasonably thoughtful person he could, Jason supposes.
Nightwing sighs. “Yeah, I mean, I—I hear what you’re saying. He’s not completely helpless, and old enough that he probably feels he can handle being on his own for long periods just fine, like you did. And besides that, there are probably adults out there that think it’s fine, too—there are some states where it’s legal to leave a kid alone at home for brief periods starting as young as eight, after all.” He pauses. “But.”
Wanting to be sure Nightwing has all the factors, Robin offers up one last additional detail as it occurs to him: “He’s also turning eleven in three days, going by the conversation he and Lindy had this morning, by the way. If that means anything.”
“Practically old enough to be starting Robin training at the age you did. Yep, hardly a baby,” Nightwing rejoinders with amused levity, and Robin’s glad that the man isn’t there to see whatever passes across his face when his gut twists in response to that idea. Nightwing continues: “That means he’s—barely under being exactly two years off from you, right?”
“Something like that,” Robin says brusquely, dismissively, forcing himself past the twinging anxiety. There’s a beat of silence. “So what was your ‘but’?”
Nightwing sounds like he’s fighting back another yawn. “Huhh—oh, right. Well. It’s just. During the day is one thing. Whether or not any of us are comfortable with it or not, it’s not serious enough to take immediate drastic action. If he was alone at home for more than one full day at a time, though … I do think that’d be a cause for outright alarm, even at his not-a-total-baby age.”
Robin snorts, thinking of how scrawny the kid is. The thought of him trying to defend himself against anyone with his lack of muscle and training is concerning, but it’s true enough that the size and strength issue is not going to prevent him from safely sleeping in a bed overnight, barring an attack happening. Especially if he has the appropriate amount of blankets when it’s cold out. “Guess so,” Robin concedes.
Nightwing hums in the sort of agreement that sounds like he’s holding back an additional comment. “Anyway, my ‘but’ is that—seeing as someone out there in the criminal underworld has found out about the genetic relationship, that issue is a bit moot, isn’t it? B’s gonna have him covered with rotating watches until he figures out what to do long term, and that would be true under those circumstances no matter how old the kid was.”
Robin sighs gustily. “Yeah. I just … I dunno.”
Nightwing grunts. “Nah, it was a fair question. And something to keep an eye on. There’s only so much being alone that can be good for a kid his age, right? For now, I’ll make a note. Just keep observing like you’re doing, because these are exactly the kinds of details we need. And lemme check …” he trails off, then abruptly pipes back up with: “Okay, looks like the car they took is back in the garage, so they’re probably both here. Anything you want me to ask B right away?”
‘Finally,’ Robin grouses to himself. “Knowing when I can expect him to show back up out here tonight so that I can go home would be nice,” he says, letting just a hint of wry annoyance into his tone.
“Also a fair question. I’ll go get someone on letting you know, if I don’t come right back with it myself. Nightwing out.”
Notes:
Jason: Screw you, old man! You suck! *uses up 50k worth of Wayne Industries-patented micro sheeting to print bootleg literature*
Bruce: *very discreetly wiping away a proud tear* My boy is so creative and driven to succeed.And before anyone wonders why Tim is telling the nanny all that stuff: it's true that he was doing a little bit of inadvisable infodumping (mostly because he's got a lot going on and no one who's even shown an interest in him but her that he can talk to about things that interest him, with all his age group friends being away at summer camp) … but do you all really think Tim wasn't doing a single bit of creative editing to minimize certain aspects that he knew would unnecessarily freak her out, while emphasizing things she would like, in that conversation?
See, the thing is, he is just baby, and therefore still in the process of
1) learning how to hold back from saying too much at inappropriate moments
and
2) taking his ability to shapeshift into whatever people need and expect him to be at any given moment to the next level.
… Hence, as Jason will find out later, Tim is certainly not completely oblivious about how to be discreet about things, despite the first impression Robin's gotten here. ;)
Chapter 12: Second Perspectives
Summary:
Alfred and the Drakes' secretary have some thoughts.
Notes:
So I started writing the secretary before I ended up stumbling across the fact that Drakes had a secretary named Jeremy with them in one canon portrayal of their travels. Ah well, it doesn't necessarily mean this can't class as canon compliant anyway, since that canon event involving him as their secretary would be an event happening a number of years from now, and my OC secretary could still have quit between now and then (if this fic somehow still stayed in line with those events, anyway).
Note also that the secretary is the reason I added the Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism tag. She's basically a wine mom just ... without the mom part. And while she's not a horrific drunk or anything like that, I just thought you all should have a heads up that some of her attitudes/actions towards drinking have a ... mildly concerning bent. And at this point, I don't think Tim (...or Bruce, for that matter) are helping her with that at all. Oops. Tim's chaos grows! (You all weren't thinking it was only the Bats and that one lady he hitched a ride from that he threw into alarmed disarray, did you? lol)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Alfred trails Bruce from the garage into the manor proper with an internal sigh. Predictably, the whole way to the kitchen and its accompanying informal dining area, the man is entirely engrossed in whatever he’s messing about with on that … mobile phone contraption of his. It ought to be called a mini-batcomputer, but Bruce has always insisted that once the infrastructure and mass production catches up enough to increase availability, the brick-like mobile phones that have mostly been the purview of well-off techies in this past decade will be more like this Wayne Tech prototype, and nearly everyone will have one.
Alfred can certainly see how Bruce finds the thing useful, but what use the common man could have for a handheld computer—with a phone installed on it as practically an afterthought to all its other features—escapes him. Surely only someone as wealthy as Bruce can cart such an expensive and complex piece of tech about everywhere without being paralyzed by the fear of dropping and breaking it. (And surely only a phone Bruce has custom-made for himself will ever be so completely durable.)
He anticipates a distracted Bruce slowing to a stop in the middle of the largest open space between the kitchen table and the kitchen’s island countertop, and steps smoothly around him to continue deeper into the kitchen without pause.
“Dammit,” Bruce mutters to himself, brows furrowing as a growing frustration is evidenced in his increasingly jabby presses to the navigation buttons of his mobile phone. He wanders towards the kitchen table with slow steps as Alfred retrieves his tea making supplies. The next curse from Bruce is just as quiet, but it has a much more vindictive hiss to it than the previous one.
Alfred doesn’t so much as twitch at the clattering thud of the mobile phone being tossed to the wooden surface of the table. Nor does his pour to fill the electric kettle with bottled water waver in the slightest at the harsh scrape of one of the table’s chairs being yanked out far enough for Bruce to flop down into it. His only visible reaction to the master of the house’s untoward noisemaking is a quirk of one brow as Bruce tests the structural integrity of the chair with how carelessly he drops his considerable height and muscle mass down into it.
It holds up.
But then Alfred would have confidence in tangling with the horns of a bull when brandishing the legs on those chairs, frankly. Bruce had decided long ago to get them reinforced, and it’s moments like these that prove it a prudent measure.
Bruce heaves a very quiet groan and presses the heels of his hands into the bony ridges of his eyebrows, then rubs small circles in spots closer to his temples, his elbows propped on the table.
Alfred sighs internally again, pivoting to ready a pot of headache-soothing tea blend instead of enough of the rose-infused black for two that he’d been planning. One Batman all-nighter, a lorry-sized load of worry, and then a meeting with a bevy of blasted lawyers … perhaps he should have anticipated a headache before even spotting the signs Bruce had one growing.
“I don’t have either of the Drakes’ personal numbers,” Bruce mutters lowly, not moving out of his hunch. It gives him the appearance of intending to say it only to the air, or perhaps to himself. But Alfred knows he wouldn’t have said it aloud at all if he hadn’t meant it for the consideration of the only other person in the room.
As he stirs to dissolve a spoonful of honey in the cup for Bruce, he remarks mildly, “Shall I take it, then, that you don’t intend to sue for determination of paternity and custody rights immediately, sir?”
Bruce’s head whips up to glare at him with a wide-eyed look that’s borderline betrayed.
Anyone less used to Bruce’s looks might have twitched, but Alfred merely raises that one eyebrow higher. It is perhaps helpful that no matter how hardened by adulthood the man has gotten—even when those world travels had given him back to Gotham honed into a weapon in mind and body—Alfred has an excellent and vivid recall of exactly how such expressions looked on him as a child.
Of course, he’ll never confide it to a soul, but it’s more of a double edged sword than some might think. Difficult to be cowed, yes … but equally difficult to ignore the echoes of concern and sympathy that … other sorts of expressions had once engendered in Alfred for a grieving and angry child.
Bruce’s expression goes flat again as he grits out, looking away and out the nearest window: “The lawyers strongly recommended against going straight to a court filing. They seemed certain securing legal rights would go much more smoothly and quickly if I first reached some kind of understanding and agreement with Janet Drake—and Jack Drake, if he wishes to remain involved—ahead of time.”
“Ah, I see. Then it is to be a case of more flies with honey than with vinegar,” Alfred observes, settling the readied teacups onto saucers and adding two painkillers to the set meant for Bruce. Perhaps he would take the suggestion … or perhaps not. “If I might also be so bold, it is likely better for the lad in question if you strive to maintain at least an amicable façade with his mother?”
The tilt of Bruce’s frown turns wry and he glances at Alfred before shutting his eyes and slumping back in his chair. “I’m beginning to think you had my meeting with my lawyers bugged.”
“No,” Alfred says as he brings Bruce’s tea over to him at the table, serving the cup and saucer directly in front of him and settling a tray with a pot of refill and extra honey within easy reach. “I fear this is merely a case of ‘sensible advice that few wish to hear.’”
Bruce grunts his way back upright from his backward slump. His eyes narrow at the pills on the plate, but to Alfred’s mild surprise he downs them with a swig of tea without questioning them.
That bad, then.
Good Lord. Not even Bruce’s suffering over all this is anything he can sit here and feel vindicated about. The Bruce that had fathered Timothy would have resented finding himself saddled with any sort of responsibility for a child, Alfred has little doubt. But that man, the one whose fake playboy antics had seemed a bit too real at times, the one that Alfred would have liked to say “I told you so” to … he had ceased existing within a year of Dick’s arrival at the Manor.
Or thereabouts.
Alfred moves back over to his own cup near the stove top, sipping it as he lets Bruce settle—and, he can only hope, lets those painkillers get to work—in silence. Finally, it feels appropriate to remark: “So you are seeking to contact them first through more typical personal channels?”
Bruce hums an affirmative and reaches for the previously discarded mobile phone, settling into pressing buttons at his usual pace and force. “I expect I’ll have to get past a corporate secretary or personal assistant of some sort to get a personal number. Though if my name alone doesn’t get me anywhere, there’s still the option of informing whatever employee I get that if the Drakes won’t communicate with me directly, then the only thing that will result in is an emergency court filing instead of a normal one.”
“Indeed.” Alfred can’t deny he’s rather interested to hear this conversation play out. Though he does hope it will turn out more productive than adversarial, for both Bruce’s and Timothy’s sake. “Very good, then, and good luck, sir,” he says with a nod.
It is at that moment that Dick walks in, dressed in a sweatsuit and lacking his customary bounce in his step. His eyes are a little on the duller side, too. Heavy lidded. Alfred faintly hopes these two things mean Dick is waking up from a brief nap.
The logical side of him knows that is highly, highly unlikely.
But Dick manages to dredge up some shambling version of his usual sharpness as his gaze zeros in on Bruce. “B. I’m only gonna say this once—and you’re lucky I’m here to notice it at all—but you need to get your act together when it comes to Robin. When it comes to Jason,” he says, as sternly as his overall weary air can manage.
Bruce startles—his fingers go still on his mobile. “What? What’s wrong? What happened?”
Dick’s face scrunches with irritation. “Nothing’s happened, per se. But I think he’s more nervous about your new kid than he’s letting on in front of you.” He folds his arms. “You need to be more thoughtful about what you’re doing with him. Or, maybe more importantly, not doing. I know you have a brain. Use it to work out what the kid’s thinking like you’d work a case if you have to.” He shrugs. “Just—figure it out. Cause if you don’t, and whatever’s rattling around in his head finally goes and smacks you in the nose, remember—that’s not ’cause I didn’t say anything.”
Bruce is utterly still for a long moment—in bewilderment, or Alfred misses his guess—before his brows furrow and he says: “I’ll … look into it.”
“Good,” Dick says pointedly. As brusquely as he’d locked on to Bruce, he turns to Alfred. “It was the lawyers you were at all this time, right? Jason wasn’t sure.”
“We were.” Alfred frowns, casting about the room. “I left a note for him; and it is not where it was. Did he not find it?”
Dick’s frown softens. “It only mentioned an appointment, according to him. No specifics.”
“Blast,” Alfred mutters, finally managing to scrounge up the note from the dark corner on the other side of the refrigerator. He narrows his eyes at it in consternation. “I had intended to inform him as to our specific destination, but Master Bruce was pacing like a tiger in a cage and muttering about ‘not one second more’.” He grimaces. “It must have … slipped my mind, somehow.”
Alfred could have sworn to writing ‘with Bruce’s lawyers’ after ‘appointment’, but the blank space where it should have been glares up at him accusingly. An unconscionable oversight.
When he gives this finding one last disgusted huff and turns around, folding the note up and slipping it into one pocket, he finds Dick peeking into his pot of rose-infused black. Approaching silently, he gives Dick’s wrist a quick and light whack, leading to him jolting in surprise with a squawk and dropping the lid back into place. “I was just curious what was in it. Yeesh!” Dick protests.
Alfred narrows his eyes. “And have you slept since you arrived here yesterday evening, Master Dick?”
Dick shrugs one shoulder, not quite meeting Alfred’s eyes as his attempt at a disarming grin turns decidedly stiff. “Aw, I got busy looking over the file on Robin’s open drug ring case. You know how it is.”
“Indeed,” Alfred says dryly. “In which case a caffeinated black is entirely unsuitable for your consumption at the moment.”
“Fine, fine,” Dick waves the admonishment off, moving away from the stove top.
Alfred takes up the pot and pours the rest into his emptied teacup from earlier. “I expect that an apology to Master Jason for the note oversight is in order.”
Dick shrugs again. “I was able to fill in the blanks for him. No real harm done. The only question I couldn’t answer was when B will be back out there tonight.” His eyes slide over to Bruce, a small smirk picking up at one corner of his mouth. “Although what I’m hearing is, the note’s missing explanation is B’s fault. He was rushing you out the door, Al.”
Bruce gives Dick a flatly sour look before returning his attention to his mobile. “As usual,” he deadpans. “To answer Robin’s question, I expect I’ll be out there around six, same as yesterday.”
Dick raises an unimpressed eyebrow—perhaps at that ‘as usual’ sour grapes comment. “You thinking rotating eights?”
Bruce’s thumb holds position over the call button. “Yes. I would prefer Nightwing make his appearance at one am, to again be relieved by Robin at nine.”
“Fine. How long do you think we’ll be at this? Have you considered calling in anyone else to help, yet, so we don’t run ourselves ragged? Even if it’s Batgirl or Batwoman or Gordon or somebody?”
Bruce grimaces. It would be awkward for him to explain this to Batgirl, no doubt, and she does not suffer being kept in the dark well enough to be able to count on her agreeing to hours of stakeout time—watching a child, no less—without an explanation. Alfred graciously refrains from reminding Bruce that Kate is a blood relation, and it would in fact be the courteous thing to do to ensure she learns about having a newly discovered first cousin once removed … well. If not immediately, then sooner than the rest of the public does.
Though that may be all too soon, if a bunch of self-serving criminals are indeed in possession of the information.
“I’ll … consider it,” Bruce says, sounding like the partial agreement is being pried out of him by force, “Depending on how my conversations with the Drakes go.”
Alfred understands what he means by that depending. If all goes well, Bruce will convince them to let him host Timothy in Wayne Manor starting immediately, most likely by revealing the mob threat and asserting the boy needs to be in a more secure location.
If not, well … the bat-guard rotations outside the Drake home may go on for some time, since even if Gordon threw his weight behind taking the threat seriously, guarding a child from something this nebulous isn’t usually within the GCPD’s purview.
And Bruce seems rather convinced, at least for now, that it’s best for his potential custody case to handle the matter as above board as much as possible. A kidnapping by Batman may be many things, but it is certainly not that.
It’s a real shame. Privately, Alfred thinks Robin’s “protective Batcave kidnapping” suggestion has merit. Besides, enough machinations present themselves for defraying suspicion towards Bruce having any hand in anything suspicious. Alfred would particularly favor blaming those bloody mobsters for Timothy’s “disappearance”.
With the cooperation of the Drakes, they might even be able to kick up such a media fuss about the kidnapping of a sweet, innocent little boy by violent criminals that the GCPD would be all hands on deck for hunting down every mob enforcer they can find, instead of what they can otherwise be expected to do if a threat is reported: ignore it at best … get in Batman’s way while he’s dealing with it at worst. It would be a magnificent irony to manage to whip even the part of the city’s police force that’s still corrupt and ineffective—despite the years of pushing for reforms—into being out for the mobster heads for something the mob didn’t even do, simply thanks to an unbearable level of public outrage.
Dick huffs a little “huh” after Bruce’s statement, giving Alfred a significant glance. Alfred tilts his head in agreement, bemused that Bruce is willing to concede even that much this soon. Bruce’s attention has already moved back to his mobile phone, however, which is faintly beeping as it dials whatever number he was entering earlier.
“I’ll go tell Robin,” Dick says, “Then hit the sack.”
“Nonsense,” Alfred says, setting his half-finished cup down. He’s regretful that this will make him miss most if not all of Bruce’s impending phone conversation, but needs must. “I shall inform Master Jason, and you shall retire to rest directly. As I said—I do owe him that apology.”
Toni Withers considers her job pretty cushy, by all rights. With the two key owner interests of Drake Industries spending most months in a year globetrotting in search of archeology fame, the large majority of her job as their executive assistant doesn’t even involve meetings. Her largest responsibilities consist of keeping at least one chair warm and giving the janitors a reason not to “forget” to vacuum the whole time the Drakes are away. The other task that mostly fills her time is filing and screening correspondence—whatever emails, phone calls and official mail find their way to her at the office.
It is Toni who decides what messages and tidbits of information are worth relaying to the Drakes over whatever slow and limited reception they have, an especially important consideration when they’re at one of the more remote sites for their digs. Other than that, there’s occasionally the dreaded time-consuming task of faxing lower management reports to them, so the two can read them wherever and whenever they have time. But the latter is really the worst of it.
Despite the fact that she spends most of her time in the office alone, it’s better to be there, because she’s pretty sure if she was home every day, she’d have a hard time resisting the call of her little wine cooler. It keeps a good dividing line between her and any temptation to overindulge simply because of the stress of life. After all, David isn’t home during the day to spirit the wine glass out of her hands like he does when she is obviously sloshed but still not calmed down enough to stop herself. She always gets downright weepy if she keeps going at that point.
It’s embarrassing.
With the way she’s been on edge the last few days, the risk of doing that right now would be particularly acute. The ironic thing is that nothing much has even happened, by most objective definitions. But what little had happened had left her uneasy and conflicted about what to do with it.
It had been such a peculiar phone call.
The call had been from the Drake home, but that hadn’t been the weird part. The weird part had been some stranger being on the line, someone who definitely did not work for the family, all upset about the Drakes’ son, Timothy. The woman had ranted at some length about Tim riding too long on a bus and needing a lift home from her, a stranger, before she’d let Toni get a word in edgewise.
Once Toni had been able to get her to shut up and listen long enough to pose a single question, she found out that this stranger had picked him up at a highway rest stop somewhere between Gotham and … Atlantic City?
‘How, even?’ Toni’d wondered as she’d hastily flipped through the pages of her file of travel expenses for Tim as the lady resumed babbling in worried distress. The Drakes have always had Toni handle any arrangements for transportation and accommodations that involve them or Tim, as far as she knows—so it seems odd that they’d have arranged a trip for him on their own, though it is entirely possible … Tim is their kid, perhaps they’d just … felt like handling it themselves … on a whim?
Compared to the thick files for the elder Drakes, which are starting to bulge with plane ticket records and a long history of rented ground transport and hotel rooms, Tim’s file boasts a small number of records, and those for outside of Gotham are mostly airfare—all from the rare trips where his parents had taken him along, mostly when he was much younger and they were working more digs that stayed close to modern civilization. The remaining content in Tim’s file is the monthly renewals of his GC-Pass, which should only let him take however many rides his little heart could desire on Gotham’s inner-city transit system.
She had found a grand total of one receipt for an inter-city bus ticket. That one had been due to airline scheduling constraints of his parents’ travel, and the ride had taken him from Gotham to the bus station in a smaller New Jersey town, where a staff member of his boarding school for that year had been waiting to meet and drive him the rest of the way to school grounds. The Drakes had been able to pick Tim up by personal vehicle at the end of the school year, so there hadn’t even needed to be return arrangements.
When she thinks about it, she can perhaps fathom a kid with rich parents like Timothy meaning he has enough money squirreled away to buy a bus ticket on his own. His parents have been gone about a month at this point. And she remembers the overnight nanny had asked her, soon after they left, to send a note to his parents about him feeling under the weather, though it was not anything serious. That had gone in one of the “home base affairs” update emails Toni already sends them every week.
It was at that point that the thought had occurred to her that maybe being sick meant being stuck in bed and getting very bored, given it was summertime. A trip to a beachside amusement park and boardwalk could have sounded very enticing. The NJ Tourism Association certainly had splurged on TV ads for the place this year. She was really getting sick of hearing the overly cheerful female voiceover in that commercial prattle on about the supposed glories of New Jersey shorelines.
So maybe Tim had been watching TV while sick, been drowned in repeated viewings of that ad, and gotten a wild idea to go himself as soon as he felt better. It was … a reasonable enough narrative, at least.
Still—Atlantic City.
And he should have known better than to outright leave Gotham without telling someone!
Still, despite how alarmed she’d been about it, all she’d done so far was to call Tim that evening (to be sure Lindy would be there to be filled in all about it, too) to lecture him about not running off on trips out of Gotham all by himself. Tim had more or less confirmed that being cooped up had driven him to the crazy idea of going to the beach, but thought better of it halfway through … after a nap on the bus.
Apparently, after abandoning the bus ride at a rest stop, he’d been trying to figure out how he could hail a cab to get back home right away when he “saw there weren’t any taxis driving around like in NYC.” That was when the lady from the phone call that day had stopped to ask what he was doing there all alone, and had offered him a ride after he told her he’d fallen asleep on the bus when he shouldn’t have. Yes, he’s sorry for worrying people. No, he doesn’t plan to try something like that again any time soon.
Really, honest, Mrs. Withers, when I thought about it I realized that I would just feel strange and lonely at the beach all by myself!
Or so Tim had said, and with such innocent aplomb that something in her feels suspicious about it as a knee-jerk reaction.
Maybe she’s been having to deal with rich businessmen for too long. Those types always have an ulterior motive when putting on an act, but at least their goal is pretty reliably “get more money,” meaning it’s not hard to figure out what they’re really up to. For better or worse, she thinks she can pretty safely rule that out as being the driving factor for a ten year old.
When the Drakes next get back, she’s putting in for a vacation. Maybe she’ll even go to the beach.
But not one in New Jersey.
Toni extracts an agreement from Tim that “any time soon” means “not before my parents say I can”, and she reminds him that no matter how nice someone seems, he absolutely should not accept rides from them unless a trusted adult says it’s okay. Just because it all turned out fine this time doesn’t mean it will turn out fine next time. She insists she keep a note on him with her number, too, because if he gets into this kind of situation again, or if there’s something he wants to do outside of the city, she is more than happy (and has plenty of time) to arrange proper accommodations for him. It’s most of the job that she does for his parents, she tells him, so she’s something of an expert.
Toni had gone home after that conversation and drunk one very large glass of Masseto 1987 merlot to beat back her imaginings of that child standing on the side of the road trying to figure out why there weren’t taxis everywhere like in NYC. Dear god is she ever glad she and David have never had kids.
But now she’s left with the question of what else she should do about it.
What she keeps circling back around to is that he got back home fine, no injuries, no permanent harm done. So even if she does tell his parents before they return, what would that accomplish? They don’t really like hearing about things at home that they’re going to want to take action on, but that also aren’t such complete emergencies that they need to cut their trip short.
And this … feels like it falls into that category. Unfortunately.
She hates it. Staying silent about this until they get back feels … just … morally wrong.
Her only solace is knowing the Drakes still have an overnight nanny for the boy, so at least she can feel sure that he isn’t wandering about all night like some kind of juvenile delinquent. If it weren’t for Lindy, she’d be debating whether she should just—impose herself on the Drake house to be sure the boy is staying safe. Only until his parents get back, anyway. (He tried to take himself on a vacation to Atlantic City. Who knows what other crazy things that little brain of his is thinking of trying to do!?)
In the midst of her brooding, the phone rings.
Toni blows out a sigh, trying to ignore how relieved she feels to set aside the whole Timothy Drake question. She was starting to get really worked up about the kid.
Again.
She puts the phone to her ear. “Drake Industries, offices of Jack and Janet Drake, Toni speaking. How may I assist you?”
“Hey, Toni,” greets Lloyd on the other end of the line in his usual decades-of-smoking-damaged rasp. He’s a sixty-something fellow who mans the lobby desk but looks like he’s in his eighties. “Got a hot one for ya. Bruce Wayne. Says he wants to speak to the Drakes, pronto.”
For a moment, none of Lloyd’s words really make sense. “Hot—?” She startles as the most important part sinks in. “What do you mean, Bruce Wayne?”
Notes:
Absolutely startled to realize it's been about a month. Busy season at work is mostly over now, but between this and the next chapter ending up on the longer side, plus the whole upcoming convo between Bruce and the secretary ending up being a bit boggy (since it's setting up a bit of a ticking clock on certain story events and I was having a time deciding what details to include or not >.>) ... yeah, it's just taking longer to write.
Shoutout to the reviewer that mentioned being curious about Alfred's POV a while back. Maybe not exactly what you were wondering about, but I liked the idea of showing where his thoughts are, and this was the result. I liked thinking about just how long he's known Bruce, and what that might entail. :')
I also have a lot of thoughts about technology levels in comics over the years. This fic is somewhat trying to be set in the late 80s early 90s, because Tim truly was a 90s teen, but I've taken the liberties of letting some things be a liiiiittle more advanced than they really would have been. And actually it's been so funny to me, reading the 80s New Teen Titans run, because there's a weird dissonance to having both this futuristic tech stuff (for comic plot convenience purposes) while certain other things are now incredibly outdated looking. Like they have spaceships, and Cyborg's got a largely robotic body, and there's other weird specialized tech making certain plot points run etc etc, but for personal communication and correspondence? Nope, you're all still rocking those corded phones and typewriters! (There's one of the latter on Dick's apartment desk when Deathstroke attacks him in The Judas Contract storyline. Wild. They updated it for the more recent animated movie adaptation.) I was born in the late 80s and I think my mom got her old typewriter out during my childhood twice at the most. We always had a computer and printer, even if it the original PC actually made use of floppy disks and had only six colors on the screen, and the printer in question was one of those dot-matrix ones that used ribbons instead of ink cartridges.
Needless to say I think there's arguments for playing a little more fast and loose and on a broader scale with historical norms for tech than how even the comics handled it back in the days when Jason was Robin and Dick was just debuting as Nightwing. I just cannot with Dick being relegated to a typewriter when they've got all kinds of wild tech to enable extreme training in Titan's Tower ... and they're also traveling the universe in spaceships. lol.
Chapter 13: For Want of a Scooter
Summary:
Bruce v. Secretary … FIGHT!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
For a moment, none of the words really make sense. “Hot—?” She startles as the most important part sinks in. “What do you mean, Bruce Wayne?”
“Lucky you, huh?” Lloyd says like he didn’t even hear her, false cheer ringing clear despite his rasp and the downgrade to audio quality that comes with phone lines. “I’ll be cheering ya on!”
She sucks in a deep breath but holds back the shriek of, ‘Lloyd, you scumbag, don’t you dare just drop Bruce effing Wayne on me and run—’ at the beep signaling she’s been switched over to another caller.
Ooooh-hoo-ho. She lets out the breath from between her teeth. Lloyd better watch out. The sugar he puts in his coffee? Salt. The powdered creamer? Sand. The man’s days until a coffee experience from hell are numbered. Maybe she’ll even take those Cuban cigars he keeps tucked in his breast pocket and throw them in the lobby fountain. He hadn’t even had the decency to scrounge up more details about what Bruce Wayne wants besides “to talk to the Drakes”, which was pretty much a given for Lloyd to know what other phone line to foist Wayne off to in the first place.
Great. Perfect. Wonderful.
Toni’s job may generally be easy, but the Drakes had, in fact, hired her with more than her skills at filing paperwork in mind. Within the very brief space of time it’s appropriate to let the line stay silent, she pulls herself back together, fully focusing in on the task of handling her high-profile caller. Mindless panic is for chumps—and in a town like Gotham, it can get you killed, quite frankly—so if it’s truly necessary, then it’s definitely something to indulge in later. Thus the only thing that comes out on her exhale is a poised, if a bit breathy-sounding: “Drake Industries, offices of Jack and Janet Drake, executive assistant Toni Withers speaking.”
“Hello, Ms. Withers,” the voice on the other end opens. “This is Bruce Wayne, and I’m hoping you might be able to put me in touch with one of the Drakes directly for a talk.”
And—yep, voice vibe checks out. This certainly sounds like Wayne—a smooth baritone with a mostly mainstream American accent that has just a hint of something else peeking through in the odd syllable. Toni had once spectated a passionate water cooler debate as to whether that something else could be chalked up his upbringing under the stiff formality of the Waynes’ longstanding and famously British butler, or whether it was an influence of his time wandering the globe … wherever it was that he’d wandered for a notable portion of his twenties, anyway.
He’s sounding a bit rougher than what she remembers from whatever video blurbs she’s seen of him over the years, though, usually a clip of him giving some kind of speech or presser. … Actually, now that she thinks about it, she did see him once in the flesh, but even then only in passing, as the Drakes had taken her along to a gala because they planned to talk business with someone else, and it was a serious enough discussion that they wanted a note-taker. Being already married to David, she hadn’t been interested in joining the gaggle of women making eyes at the man at that particular moment.
And anyway, the wine selection at that gala had been fantastic. Much better than a conversation with Bruce Wayne could ever be. Salut!
Figures she’d get a conversation with Wayne and not a great wine selection right now, of all times. She’d been hoping for a stress reducer, not a stress multiplier.
“While I’m sure they would be pleased for the opportunity to speak with you,” Toni says, perfectly poised with just that slightest bit of perkiness that suggests Wayne has her fullest attention, “I’m afraid Mr. and Mrs. Drake are currently on an archeological expedition in a remote area, and thus have very limited ability to communicate. I can relay a message; or, if it must be face to face communication, I can set you up for a meeting at a future date, when they’re back in the country.” As she speaks, she pulls out her hard copy version of the Drakes’ scheduling book, opening it to the pages that will let her set down a note about scheduling him once the return date is settled.
There’s a pause from Wayne. “Exactly how ‘future’ are we talking?” he asks tersely.
Toni shifts in her seat. She’s never heard any rumors of Wayne getting unpleasant with staff—in fact, rumors are usually about the opposite—but something in his tone is setting off a bit of an alarm. A very distant one carried on the wind, perhaps, but— “I’m afraid I can’t say for sure. This trip, as far as I know, was a surprise opportunity. They have yet to inform me when to make their return arrangements for. I can inquire with them, if you like. At this particular site, they have typically been able to reply to my messages every three days or so.”
“Three days?” Wayne repeats, as if the words are a rank insult.
Oh great, he is going to be one of those. Goodbye, rumors of affable politeness even towards his staff, hello rich asshole reality. Apparently even Bruce Wayne is just one more of those supercilious CEO types who can’t comprehend being told ‘no’ or ‘wait’ after all.
Figures.
“Yes,” she says, keeping her tone firm and flat. She will be a wall. A professional. No obvious emotional crevices for Wayne to dig into and exploit. “I believe they have to travel on mountain footpaths simply to get somewhere with reception. It’s hardly an unusual problem to have when selecting the most unusual archeological sites in the world to explore, I do hope you understand.”
“Three.” A pause. “No, Ms. Withers. That won’t do at all,” Wayne says, tone gone unnervingly dark.
Toni grimaces to herself, tensing even more. “Let me assure you that this by no means implies a disinterest in whatever business proposal you were calling about. In fact I’d be happy to take any time needed to set down a complete outline of whatever you wanted to discuss, in the interest of saving everyone time and getting you ahead on those formalities. I can send it to them ahead of any meeting we may schedule.”
There’s a long pause. “Business.” She can barely hear him taking in and letting out a long, deep breath. “No. You’ve misapprehended the nature of this call, I’m afraid. This regards a purely a personal matter.”
Toni blinks. “Oh. My apologies, I didn’t realize—neither of the Drakes mentioned … ” She combs her memory for even an incidental mention of something, some reason Bruce Wayne would have to be personal with them, but comes up empty.
“I doubt they would have,” Wayne returns smoothly. “This is … an issue I just discovered this week.”
Just discovered, and personal, but which suddenly can’t even wait? She frowns, mind whirling with ideas that have no truly useful clues to hook onto.
The fact is that the Drakes really are far from driving distance to major civilization or even a small airport—they’d needed a bush plane just to get to their dig. Unless Wayne plans to fly himself out there and paradrop into the place, there’s nothing anyone can do. Least of all Toni the mere secretary.
She explains about the bush plane and remoteness to Wayne.
“I see.” His tone is hard to read now. “And you’re sure it will be three days before they’ll venture near their only means of long-distance communication?”
Toni scrolls her inbox somewhat idly, looking over the receive dates and times of a number of their emails. She already knows what dates and times are on their communications, especially since the Drakes require her to work during those odd hours to be sure she’s there to act on whatever they send immediately, but she feels compelled to double check. “Their responses come between ten or eleven pm every three days rather reliably, yes. And their most recent communication was last night. I understand the round trip to get from an isolated Mongolian mountain range, to some other less isolated Mongolian mountain range where they can send and receive, takes them the whole day. By this time today I would project that they’ve gotten back to their dig site and been there for hours already.”
She doesn’t enjoy clocking in and dealing with their messages so late at night every three days, of course, but the other option would have been for them to take on the expense of a dedicated satellite phone service so they could communicate at will. She’d overheard them discussing the idea just a few months ago. While Wayne probably has such cutting edge tech at his fingertips—hell, Wayne Industries had launched its own satellite not too long ago, hadn’t it?—smaller outfits like Drake Industries have to make do with less luxurious budgets.
She’s hardly upset they passed up the satellite phone, though. It means she’s safe from the threat of being constantly on-call no matter what part of the world her bosses are off haunting, and that is a benefit to be treasured.
“Then I’ll be ready and waiting—between ten and eleven, three days from now. Do they call in to your office? Or to some other line?” Wayne says.
Toni’s brain stutters over the statement briefly, but just as quickly recovers. Did she call it, or did she call it! These A-lister types always think they can invite themselves places and order around anyone who has a title lower than “chairman”!
“I didn’t say, sir,” Toni replies, with as much neutrality as she can muster. “Are there any details you’d like me to put into the request to schedule a meeting with them regarding your personal matter?”
There, the perfect denial, a no without the word even being in it. She can only hope Wayne’s not actually so dense—as the tabloid gossip would have one believe—that he can’t even take a hint.
There’s a pause. “Allow me to be perfectly blunt, to be sure you understand,” Wayne says, each word going terse and sharply enunciated, and Toni goes stiff, something that feels electric prickling up her arms and neck. “If they won’t talk to me directly in three days, then the next contact we have will be with my lawyers after I file in court on an emergency basis. If nothing else, tell them that they can count on that.”
Her eyes go wide. What … what in God’s name had the Drakes done? She’d thought them both smarter than to offend someone as rich and influential as Wayne. And not even in business, but personally?
She doesn’t know what she can possibly salvage here, but she’ll certainly have to try. The Drakes will have her head if they’re slapped with some kind of court summons out of the blue.
She … might actually have to let Wayne be present three nights from now she realizes, to her own distaste. They won’t be happy she arranged for his presence at their regularly scheduled communication time without permission, but surprise court summons that she knew of yet did nothing to avert are, she judges, the worst of the two bad options.
Lord, she does not get paid enough for this kind of headache.
“I … can’t guarantee they’ll be willing to speak with you, even if you’re there by the phone,” she begins cautiously. “But you are correct in surmising the Drake Industries office is where I handle those communications.”
“And if I were to arrive at the front door of said office at ten, on the third evening from now?”
She grimaces, but does her best not to let it show in her voice. “Then I’d have someone waiting to let you in and bring you up. And we’ll see whether the Drakes are willing to speak with you while you’re here.” She grits her teeth briefly, but forces her jaw to relax so Wayne doesn’t hear it as she adds: “If you find that acceptable, Mr. Wayne.”
“I do,” he says, voice gone flat and unreadable again.
And if she has to blackmail Lloyd and enlist at least two security guards to be ready and willing to throw the man out on his million-dollar keister if he gets uppity enough to try to force her bosses to talk to him even if they also tell him ‘no’ … ?
Then at least seeing security drag Wayne away will no doubt be a memorable experience.
The memory of Batman casing his room in the middle of the night seems utterly surreal by the time Tim wakes up the next morning. It’s not like he finds a bit of evidence that it actually happened left behind, either, besides the door he’d locked himself—though he supposes if there had been any evidence but that, he might have had to question if it had been Batman at all.
His off-kilter feeling seems to persist even once he’s gone downstairs and had breakfast. Lindy’s grilling about his plans for his upcoming birthday doesn’t help. It’s nice of her to bother asking, but for one thing it’s a hopeless endeavor, and for another thing he can’t quite shake the awareness in the back of his mind that she’s only been like this ever since his parent’s and “parent’s” secretary had called up to lecture him about taking rides from strangers and rat him out about what the secretary believes was his “attempt to go to the beach alone”.
It had seemed like she’d wanted to believe he’d ended up on that bus out of Gotham on a whim (because he was bored or something?), so he’d just kind of gone along with it when she’d called back to ask for a more detailed explanation about why he’d gotten a ride home from a stranger. The spontaneous, possibly ill-advised “trip” he’d “chickened out on” had explained away his hitching a ride back home neatly enough, but … he’s wishing he’d had a better idea for a cover story.
The problem is that both she and Lindy now seem to think that any day could be a day he might “on a whim” want to “go haring off” somewhere at random again. So ever since that call, Lindy has made a habit of asking him what he plans to do on a given day—sometimes she asks the day of, sometimes she asks a couple of day ahead, and sometimes she asks about the same day on two different days, as if she thinks she’s going to discover his earlier statements were lies on the cross examination.
Except, as long as he has nothing better to do, his plans genuinely are just “go to the skatepark” every day, with random alternatives like “go to the library” or “go to the mall” or “stay at home and mess around with his Legos/Hot Wheels/camera/whatever” mixed in when he’s trying to avoid getting heat stroke because of how sweltering the weather happens to be.
He’s said to her several times now that the whole “trip” was a one time thing—it’s not like he has more letters about surprise bio-parents to send clandestinely—but since the secretary and Lindy can’t know about the real reason, he’s stuck with their continuing suspicion that he’s a flight risk for random out of town vacations.
What would he do at the beach alone, anyway? Drown? Get burnt the color of a lobster? He doesn’t even have any friends in town to go with, that’s been well established, and he’s not so into reading fiction or sunbathing, which are the only two activities he knows about people going alone to the beach to do.
Not that explaining any of that seemed to help allay the suspicious questioning.
Thank goodness Lindy is a dedicated college student who either can’t fathom skipping classes ever, or at least worries more about the consequences of that than she does the possibility of Tim unexpectedly getting on a bus to Niagara Falls … or wherever. He doesn’t get what adults are thinking sometimes. Even when he tells them the truth they just don’t listen.
With a sigh, Tim gathers up the rest of his supplies for the day—several bottles of water and a bag lunch packed courtesy of Lindy—and dumps them into a backpack. Then straps on his gear and grabs up his skateboard, managing to suppress the grimace as it reminds him of his not-dad once more.
He almost doesn’t know why he’s still bothering to go out and practice when no one’s gonna care what he achieves with the board. Especially not now, and least of all the man who’d originally bought it for him and actually bothered to get the exact print design Tim had wanted, too.
Except—
Except that as long as he can push past all those thoughts, it’s actually pretty fun and relaxing to spend most of the day flying up and down the ramps. The negative feeling he has about this particular board itself doesn’t change any of that. Besides, when he’s whipping up one of the steeper curves at speed, then getting propelled right up into the air—for just that briefest of moments he can pretend he has any idea what swinging on Robin’s grappling hook would feel like. He doesn’t want to give that up quite yet, either.
Maybe he can save up for a cheap but different board, if seeing this one’s gonna keep bothering him so much.
As Tim backs out the front door, pulling it closed behind him so the locked latch catches, he still feels that strange, lingering surrealness that has been haunting him from the moment he woke up. Even the mid-morning sun seems to beat down on the surrounding neighborhood with an intensity it usually doesn’t, hurting his eyes to look at. Tim hunches his shoulders and squints against the glare, walking slowly down the front walkway to the sidewalk. He doesn’t suppose there’s any reason for Batman or Robin to be hanging around, but given the lingering feeling he takes in the surrounding houses with quick glances, even checking building roof lines, but …
But nothing. At least as far as he can tell, nothing seems to stick out. If either of them are here, he can’t spot them, which doesn’t seem right because it’s not even dark out, which is when they’re best at hiding.
Maybe it’s possible for Batman’s paranoia to be genetic?
Or … maybe it’s just catching. He does tend to be more suspicious of his surroundings during nights out—when the streets belong to Batman and Robin—and then also more suspicious right after close encounters with one of them, or the Rogues …
Well, who knows? Certainly not Tim.
As he drops his skateboard to the sidewalk and puts one foot on it, he wonders if Mr. Wayne has the DNA test results by now. If he’s looking at them like Tim did those paternity test results with Jack Drake all those weeks back, and wondering what on earth to do with them.
Or if he’s already decided.
It’s barely been seven or eight hours since Batman got those hairs, so … he probably doesn’t even have results yet. Maybe. It took the mob a few days to get DNA results back, and he figures Batman can’t possibly be worse at it than them. (If he somehow is, then Tim … maybe Tim’ll have to be a fan of just Robin.)
Tim huffs a sigh and kicks off, working his board up to a fast click as quick as he can. It’s a good thing he’s going to the skatepark, he decides, because otherwise he’d just be sitting around thinking about this all day.
And he really needs to not.
Tim hadn’t spotted him as he came out of his house, Jason’s pretty sure. If he actually had, the kid would surely have reacted in some way. And that’s good. Not being spotted equals good.
It should figure that B’s kid would be a naturally suspicious little bugger.
But Jason quickly realizes he has a much different and more serious problem. As Tim turns and begins to roll his way down the sidewalk, Jason rises from where he’d been lying, letting the camouflaging blanket drop to the roof and entirely forgetting about it, because his mind is stuttering over his options for following Tim.
The Batcycle is too noisy, obvious, and fast—unsuited to discreetly tailing the kid on his skateboard for sure.
But all the buildings in this area are too short to give chase by grapple.
And as much as he hates to admit it, he’d have to be a speedster or meta to be able to run fast enough for long enough to keep up with someone absolutely booking it on a skateboard like that, holy crap!
Jaw going slack as he gets to the end of his list of chase options and finds approximately zero of them up to the task, Jason stares, standing frozen as the kid’s form gets smaller and smaller.
A beat, a breath, eyes going wide—and then he scrambles into motion. There’s a steady stream of curses repeating in his head like a mantra as he nearly dives headfirst off the roof. He saves it halfway down, though he scrapes his hands up something awful in the process since it doesn’t even occur to him before it’s happening how easy it can be for skin to get riddled with splinters and tears when gripping things without Robin’s usual protective gloves.
Jason barrels out onto and down the sidewalk, cursing himself. It has a slight incline downward in the direction Tim is headed, but that only adds to the kid’s advantage since he has four whole freely rotating wheels.
He bets Batman would have been prepared for this. He’d probably have stuck his hand in the bushes and miraculously retrieved a board with the bat-logo on it and some kind of attached rocket booster and everything, declaring that Dick had christened this the Batboard three years ago, back when he’d first placed this secret equipment cache here. Then he’d have the nerve to simply hop on the thing and jet away without further explanation and a completely flat expression, like neither his Greenland-sized levels of over-preparation, or the sight of Batman on a tricked out skateboard, are weird whatsoever.
The freak.
Tim is already absurdly small in the distance. All he can do is hope that the kid being on his skateboard and going in this particular direction means he’s actually going to the one skatepark in the city, because Jason’s totally going to lose sight of him soon, despite the fact that he’s bolting after him at top speed.
He’s gone several blocks when he notices that on the block up ahead, a group of kids that look Tim’s age, or possibly younger, are drifting from one house’s front yard to the sidewalk. Jason finds his eyes zeroing in on the scooter that one boy among them is mounted on.
A terrible idea begins to take shape in his mind.
A terrible, but tantalizing idea.
Because he can’t stand by while he loses track of Tim and lets him get kidnapped on freaking day one of guard duty. That would be a failure too huge to bear up under—he’ll have to move himself into the dang fireplace out of the shame of it.
So, despite the fact it’s making him wince internally and feel pretty much the opposite of heroic, his hand is already sneaking into one of the pockets on his hidden Robin belt and slipping out a quick-stick tracking bug as he closes the distance between himself and the group of kids without slowing.
He’s careful to maneuver such that he takes most of the impact after he bowls the kid on the scooter over. It’s even easier to attach the tracker to the inside of the back of the kid’s shirt as they go down together. The boy shrieks and the other kids around them yelp and jump back to avoid getting taken down by stray limbs.
Jason’s already getting to his feet as the boy is just figuring out what happened from his position on the ground, and is starting to whine in confusion about it.
Jason grabs the scooter. “Sorry about this,” he says, various spots across his body smarting from cushioning the boy’s fall, and still a little winded from his extended run—though not too badly, given his Robin conditioning. “But this is an emergency.”
He darts forward, making sure the scooter is rolling as expected before resting one foot on it and using the other to push the speed even faster.
“Hey! ” he can hear the boy wail behind him, “Where are you going? That’s mine!”
“You’ll get it back by tonight!” Jason yells back.
“Give it back!” the boy yells.
“You big jerk! That’s not yours!” another one of the kids shouts.
Multiple sets of feet clap loudly against the sidewalk as the boy gives chase and the rest of the group runs in his wake.
But just like Tim had managed to leave Jason in the dust, now Jason leaves the kids shouting and pelting after him in the dust, too. He gets to a speed so quick he’s a little afraid the scooter will rattle apart under him, but he keeps it up long enough to bring himself back within sight of Tim, who’s still moving at a fast clip, and still going in a direction that could be towards the skatepark—small mercies, he supposes. The noise of the kids first gets distant, then falls off altogether. He risks one last glance back, and judging by the way they’ve stopped running and are instead hunched and crouched limply, they’re all too winded to continue.
Tim turns down a cross street. With one last grimace, Jason follows, leaning into the turn.
Notes:
My Brain: You know, you should probably change those tags from "Angst with a Happy Ending" and "Some Humor" to "Some Angst with a Happy Ending" and "All the Humor"
Me: [harried like Mr. Incredible trying to drive the family RV through villain-caused chaos] WE WILL GET THERE WHEN WE GET THERE.I honestly expected this to be a lot more on the angst side of things and I don't know what happened but I keep adding ridiculous asides. I still haven't even gotten to my idea for Bruce's penultimate suffering from being surrounded by all these partly feral children. But finally the clock is ticking down to Tim's birthday and it's so close I can almost taste it.
Snippet that didn't fit into the convo with Bruce and Toni even though I really wanted to (because Tim causing MAXIMUM CONFUSION!!!) But Alas, I could find no way to fit Toni somehow coming to the mistaken conclusion that Tim's in the mob in there, not with everything else that needed to happen:
“But most importantly,” Bruce says, “I know the truth about Timothy. And what I really want to know now is why I’m first hearing about it, of all places, in a letter from some mob.”
Toni’s first thought is: ‘So—wait. The truth? Is that what that Atlantic City trip was about; that Tim was doing something for the mob?’
Which is quickly overtaken by the more alarming:
“But how the hell is Jack and Janet’s ten year old in the mob!?”
Chapter 14: 360°
Summary:
Robin's investigation continues. Some questions are answered … more are asked in their place.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
As it turns out, Tim is going to the skatepark.
So maybe he could have skipped stealing the scooter. But it’s not like he could have been sure of it at the time, and if Tim had gone somewhere else …
Jason gives the scooter a sour look where it’s lying next to him. What’s done is done and he’s just going to have to hope that kid will be amenable to Robin offering to make it up to him when he tracks him back down and returns it later.
Jason levers himself up on his arms to peek a glance at the skatepark below. At least he likes his new stakeout spot much better than the townhouse roofs. Here he’s taken up watch on the corner of a four story building that’s across the street from the skatepark on the south side. The roof’s flat surface has a low wall ringing it that goes far to hide him from just about anyone on the ground, especially if he lies flat. It’s way more secure from accidental spottings by random people that happen to try looking up at the nearby roof lines, plus there’s a much better chance there will be buildings tall enough for him to discreetly tail the kid at grapple speeds away from this location—if Tim goes somewhere else besides back to his lower density, low-rise Gotham neighborhood, anyway. Because as long as Jason can use his grapple, he can keep up with the skateboard for sure.
Which—speaking of—someone’s gonna have to have a stern talking to with that kid about his lack of attention to personal safety. Jason’s pretty sure didn’t stop and check both ways before crossing the street even once, let alone check both ways! He just went sailing through every single intersection between here and the skatepark like the world would stop for him.
Maybe Jason can take risks like that, but Tim’s not even a trained Robin like he is! And the kid barely even has any padding on him—not fat, nor muscle. Does he have any idea of the kind of broken bone city he’d have been living in if a car had hit him while he was pulling stunts like that? (And cripes, living would have been if he’d been lucky.) Jason especially does not want to have to call up Batman and tell him his kid’s whole rib cage got caved in on his watch by a stupid Dodge Charger or something.
Jason peeks down over the wall again, then grumbles and contorts himself into a low curl against the corner that leaves him mostly resting on his lower back—as awkward as the position is, it’s just right for keeping his eyes high enough to see over the wall without moving. The sun’s glaring down on him, and based on how it feels at this point in the late morning he’s already dreading how it’ll feel in the afternoon.
Tch, forget the excuse that Bruce wants Jason to have a relatively normal bedtime. This is just evidence that he’s afraid that being out during the day in the batsuit will give him heat stroke.
So far, Tim’s the only one around the ramps—or in the whole park, really. Jason isn’t sure whether he should be happy about this, or worried about the excessive exposure and isolation. The kid seems completely comfortable regardless, going up and down the two sides of the pill-shaped bowl of a halfpipe that’s inset into the ground. The back-and-forth is at relatively low speed, and there’s a leisurely slouch to his stance.
Jason uses this lull to plan out how he’s going to get to Tim quickly if anything does start happening down there. He readies his grapple, setting it out together with a domino that he can slap on, and taking stock of all the entry points in the high fencing that encircles the park. He estimates that if he forgoes taking off his street clothes, and gets clever with the grapple, he can be within range of very easy-to-hit birdarang throws—no matter what entrance to the park people come in from—in about fifteen seconds, max. Then he can be in range to engage in hand-to-hand within five more of that. With that kind of response time, the only scenario that might be worrisome is if any kidnappers roll up in a vehicle—so it’ll probably be best to aim to land near or even on such a vehicle in that scenario, rather than heading straight to Tim’s aide.
Satisfied with his planning, Jason settles in to keep a gimlet eye on anyone that looks like they might enter the park.
He doesn’t have to wait too long.
It’s only another fifteen minutes before a group of five or so maybe-older-teens-maybe-young-twenty-somethings start strolling in from the west entrance. They don’t look like the types a mob would employ for kidnapping or abduction sorts of dirty work, but they certainly don’t look like the business lunch crowd, either. There’s a lot of black leather involved in the outfits across the entirety of the group, along with a lot of chains and spikes being used as decorative embellishments. Some clothing looks held together with safety pins and patched with duct tape. (Man, Alfred would have a fit, good thing he’s not seeing this). Everyone has a piercing of some kind, and said adornments certainly aren’t restricted to the ears.
One member of the group is wearing wide-leg pants in a garish plaid, and another—who might be a young woman, going by the build—sports what is probably the tallest, skinniest mohawk Jason’s ever seen, dyed hot pink. The others walking with them hold skateboards. Jason eyes his grapple, but doesn’t grab it just yet.
The young woman raises both hands like she’s receiving the adulation of a crowd, grinning. Jason narrows his eyes at the giant black X mark on the back of the one hand he can properly see—and, oh. Now that he looks for it, he can see others in the group sporting the same mark in the same places. Crap, is this a gang? Does tiny Timmy here just hang out with a gang?
Jason hastily pulls out the small camera that’s part of his Robin gear and snaps several photos of each of them for later reference.
“Whatcha cookin’, Tim-o-clock?” the young woman yells, more than loud enough for the greeting to carry clearly to Jason’s perch.
“Hey, Chelsea!” That, from Tim, is also just loud enough for Jason to catch. Tim hops up to a stop at the top of the half pipe closer to the approaching group, kicking one end of his skateboard up into one hand, and waving the other back. Then he seems to do a double-take, his face scrunching up. “I’m not a clock!” he protests, though at this distance, his volume’s fallen low enough that Jason struggles to catch the words.
A couple of people in the group laugh as the three that had come with boards in hand spread out—one to a railing-like structure that Jason supposes is for grinding on, one to an irregularly shaped complex of inclines that protrude up from the ground rather than downwards into it, and one to Tim’s inset half-pipe. The one choosing the half-pipe offers Tim a fist bump before he goes down over the rim, and Tim returns it with an easy and casual air, most of his attention still on Chelsea and the guy with the plaid pants, who seems to be sticking by her side.
Wait.
Chelsea?
Is studded-leather-and-hot-pink-mohawk-girl that Chelsea? The “lots of ribbons” and “frilly skirts” and “pink stuff everywhere” Chelsea?
That is super not the same as what you told your nanny, Timmy, holy moly!
… But boy does the whole ‘threatening a drug dealer with a broken bottle’ part of that story suddenly make so much more sense. (Problem is, in a town like Gotham, it had been hard to be sure the outfit description really was a mismatch with the attitude. Girls can definitely mess you up without dressing to look like it in this city.)
Geeze … this changes so much about his estimations on the kid, though. What else might Tim have straight up lied about to hide it from the nanny’s concern in that conversation?
Jason blows out a breath and runs a hand through his curls.
Okay.
So.
Maaaaaybe Tim doesn’t need as much help on the information control front as he’d thought.
Funny thing is, that doesn’t lessen the number of things that are making him concerned about the kid.
By time the day is over and Tim is looking ready to head home, Jason is sweaty, his limbs have the consistency of jello, and he is very, very grumpy.
Tim had clearly been prepared to stick out the whole day, given the number of water bottles he’d pulled out of the backpack that he’d toted to the skatepark, but even he’s looking peaky at this point. Jason was not nearly as prepared, and in all honesty it’s an embarrassing level of oversight. It’s summer. He’d known he was going out during the day. Miscalculating on the necessary type of transportation was one thing—the need to have water on hand definitely should have been obvious. He’s definitely not admitting this flub-up to Batman unless the guy really interrogates him hard about it.
Luckily, the quick break for water had turned out fine … fine enough, anyway. Even when Jason had finally caved to the risk of taking his eyes off the kid for seven whole minutes to slip down to the nearest deli to buy several bottles of water and stave off collapsing from heat stroke, Tim had still been right where Jason had left him, doing the exact same thing.
Miracles still happen occasionally, even in Gotham.
… Of course, given the weirdness of the mob threat letter in the first place, maybe whoever is behind the threat is just really incompetent.
The only excuse Jason has for himself on the water thing is that Robin operations do not usually require him bringing along a constant supply of water, what with the mostly operating at night part. The bigger issue has always been cold, and B had managed to figure out—years before Dick quit as Robin, in fact—just how to put warming circuits in the gloves, boots, and light armor plating to stave off any serious hypothermia or frostbite issues. The only extra cold weather gear Jason has ever needed are coverings for his ears, nose, and mouth.
Cooling circuits for hot weather, though? They’ve got nothin’. Something about refrigerant being a lot more trouble to manage in a suit than a few heat generating resistor circuits, blah, blah, blah … the singular upside is that Jason can rule out becoming an HVAC professional when he grows up, given how he felt about the very technical info dump Bruce had monologued at him after an innocent question about all the inset wires visible in the first slash some goon had put in his glove.
He gathers that Bruce must be proud of the innovation (and really interested in getting a cooling functionality working), but dear God please. He didn’t need the full dissertation on the practical and environmental concerns associated with the use of various types of hydrofluorocarbons and other cooling materials in a suit. Especially not right that second.
Jason grimaces, shaking his head to wrench his mind back to Tim-watching duty, though he does allow himself to rest his head on the concrete of the parapet. The warmth stings a little on his flushed and possibly slightly sunburnt cheek, but it feels better than the effort it would take to hold his head up, and it helps mitigate the dull throb that’s been growing behind his temples. The temptation to close his eyes looms large, but he resists it stubbornly.
C’mon, Robin. Only one more hour, then Batman takes back over. Alfred said.
Despite Tim’s better preparation, spending the day baking between the blanket of summer heat and an ocean of sunbaked concrete while physically active hasn’t been totally kind to him, either. In contrast to his easy energy when he’d arrived, he’s gotten more and more sluggish, an unhappy frown taking over his resting expression. He’d spent most of the day trying to master some jump trick—a 360, maybe? Something about spinning during the hangtime after launching up from the ramp, Jason could tell that much—but it didn’t seem to be going well, and Tim had been looking more mulish every time he wiped out trying to do it. Over and over and over and … oof, kid.
While the three skateboarders from the group of young adults had done their thing, the guy in the plaid pants and Chelsea had pulled bottles of something from Chelsea’s rather large satchel bag and sat down to sip out of them. Jason was concerned that they were drinking beers or something until he briefly used the telescoping feature in his domino to catch the labels, and discovered they were just some kind of lemon-lime sodas.
Tim’s broken soda bottle story … true?
Well. Still didn’t mean Chelsea actually wanted to stop drug dealing in the park. For all Jason knows, that story had just been her enforcing her group’s sales turf.
More observation and research sorely needed.
For a while the guy in the plaid pants had brought out a small camcorder and filmed Tim’s trick attempts. At first Tim didn’t seem to mind the attention, but as his attempts continued failing, his glares towards the camera became increasingly acidic, and were being shot at the guy whenever he had a convenient angle for them.
Eventually Tim had paused to come over and say something, and unfortunately, even though his expression was annoyed, he had spoken too quietly for Jason to catch his words, at least audibly. By lip movements and context, though, it had been a safe bet that “can you not?” had been in there.
Whatever plaid pants had said back … well, double unfortunately, Jason’s angle on the guy’s lips had been even worse than for Tim’s, given the way he was sitting. But Tim had only looked more annoyed by whatever was being said, and to Jason’s rather experienced eye, the guy’s body language had screamed “condescending adult lecture solely justified by being an adult”, which had stirred up a little sympathetic annoyance in Jason for Tim’s complaint, on principle.
Tim had shot back something about “record over,” and “tapes,” before slouching petulantly off towards the irregularly shaped complex of inclines instead going back of the steeper ramps of the inset pill.
“Aw, don’t be like that, Timmy, c’mon,” the guy had called after him—finally loud enough for Jason to catch. (Jason had finally started to see the appeal of the audio bugs all over the downstairs of the Drake house, and found himself contemplating whether he should bug the skatepark in case Tim comes back here.)
(He hates himself for it.)
Plaid pants had shaken his head, taken a swig of soda, then started raising the camcorder again.
Chelsea had elbowed the guy, hard, and Jason had imagined—from the way he had folded over—that the resulting grunt of pain had sounded very satisfying. She’d then pushed the camcorder back down into his lap as he recovered, shaking her head before flicking sharply at his earlobe and saying something Jason couldn’t hear, but could certainly imagine.
The guy had flinched and cringed away, rubbing at his ear with one hand and raising the other placatingly. The camcorder had not come back up to film—at least, not Tim anyway. Plaid pants had meandered over to his rail-grinding friend and started filming him instead.
Following Tim back to his home is a much more sedate and uneventful affair, luckily for Jason’s bedraggled and sweaty state. It also takes up most of the rest of his guard-duty time. He’s barely been back under the camouflage blanket atop the townhouse row for five minutes when a faint scrape of boot on roofing warns him before a fully suited-up Batman is joining him under the blanket.
He can feel Bruce’s gaze sweep over him, and he can only hope Batman didn’t notice the odd shape lying on his other side under the blanket. His brain is too heat-fried to come up with a good explanation for how he’s plus one on inventory when it comes to child-sized scooters. … Or at least, he’s too fried to do a good sales pitch on why stealing a scooter from an innocent civilian had been necessary and rational.
Bruce gives his concerned grunt, so Jason eyes him questioningly, suppressing the surprised twitch when an ungloved hand cups first at his cheek, then at his forehead. “You look unwell. How are you feeling?” he asks quietly.
He’s unable to suppress the confusion before it has him wrinkling his brow. “M’not sick, B. It’s summer. There was sun. And it was hot today.”
Bruce hums, moving a thumb to brush at his cheek. “So does this hurt?”
Jason blows out a breath, trying not to roll his eyes, and succeeding in keeping it down to a tilt of his head. “Yes, it’s a sunburn. Thank you, Batman Obvious. I never coulda figured it out without you,” he deadpans.
Bruce, as usual, doesn’t seem to have any reaction to the sass. His hand withdrawing certainly seems to be due more to his investigation concluding than any irritation. Jason may never understand how the man works. “And did you bring any water with you today?”
“I got some,” Jason says, doing a good job, he thinks, of keeping any defensiveness out of his tone.
“Mm. I’ll have a package of bottles up here by the time you get back tomorrow. You should make sure to bring a backpack with you to carry a few in if you have to leave this vantage point.” Batman’s attention moves to the house across the street, examining it for a long moment. Tim had tromped upstairs as soon as he got home, and the curtains in his room are still closed, presumably against the evening sun. Whatever he’s doing now isn’t loud enough for the closest bugs downstairs to pick it up. Bruce looks at Jason. “And make sure to wear sunscreen. The burns would be a problem if you’d had your domino on all day.”
Jason winces. “Ah. … Right.” If he wasn’t so exhausted from the heat, he’d have added a ‘Good thinking, Batman!’ in such a chipper tone it would have left Batman wondering as to whether the appreciation had been intended sarcastically or not. But, ugh. Tired.
“Any trouble today? Anything it would be best for me to know before I would next have the chance to read your report?”
Jason thinks. Shrugs. “Kid spent most of the day skateboarding. There were some weirdos around the place, but no one that seemed interested in doing anything bad to him. Far as I could tell. Took some pics just in case.”
Batman nods, returning to watching the house, and with much more pinpoint concentration than his earlier scan.
Welp, a Robin knows a ‘that’s all my questions—for now’ from Batman when he sees one. He grabs the handlebar shaft of the scooter and squirms backward, getting to his feet once he’s out from under the blanket. “Right, well. See ya later, B. I think I’m gonna go home and take a nice cold shower.”
He doesn’t expect Bruce to speak again, so when he does Jason jerks the scooter behind himself before he can think better of it. Batman hasn’t turned to look at him, though. “Make sure you ask Penny One to get you some salve for that burn. And you’ll certainly want to hurry on home. He made pot roast tonight.”
“Oh. Really? Awesome.” Jason can somehow feel that future pot roast strengthening him in the present.
But that’s just how good it is.
Batman chuckles low behind him as he skitters down off the roofs in back of the townhouse row, and he rolls his eyes at Batman’s amusement at his enthusiasm. So sue a guy for liking food, Bruce, you emo. He’s trotted halfway to his hidden batcycle before he again realizes he’s still got the stupid stolen scooter to deal with. Groaning quietly to himself, he opens a private hail to the Batcave, knowing he’d best ask where his little tracker ended up so he can return this thing before he goes home for the night. Tomorrow he’s coming here on a regular old pedal bike. (See Timmy outride him versus that.)
‘Maaaaan,’ Robin thinks, glaring down at the scooter: the continuing bane of his existence, the singular cause of his delicious pot roast dinner rain check.
Crime really doesn’t pay.
Notes:
"Show Tim doing serious skateboarding in more fic" agenda achievement UNLOCKED.
And let me know if there are any glaring errors if you are a skateboarder? XD I am not particularly well-versed in late 80s-early 90s skateboarding culture/lingo, that's for sure. I tried to project what kind of tricks a kid Tim's age who's done a lot of skateboarding but also hasn't eaten and breathed skateboarding since he was 3 or something would be reasonably possible for him to be trying to master.
If only I knew anything at all about surfing I'd someday do more than daydream about a TimKon competitive surfing rivals-to-lovers story that's rattling around in my head, too. Sigh.
Next time: Tim has feelings about Robin watching him skateboarding.
Chapter 15: Everybody Loves a Plan B!
Summary:
Sometimes to solve a problem, you have to create more.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The first thing Tim does when he gets home is flop face first on his bed. When that doesn’t seem nearly enough of an expression of his despair, he fumbles around blindly for his pillow, dragging it over slowly, then pressing his face into it and screaming—though he cuts himself off at the one.
The whole time.
The whole time.
Robin had been watching him at the skatepark the whole time, and Tim hadn’t landed the new aerial he’d been trying to master once.
He couldn’t figure out when, exactly, Robin had shown up, but he’d caught a glimpse of a very familiar head of dark, curly hair sticking up from the corner of a somewhat distant four story building on one of the day’s many failed 360 attempts. He’d managed to confirm he wasn’t hallucinating the sight of the particular arrangement of curls that the latest Robin’s bangs usually fell into with several more rounds of looking-without-seeming-to-look from the top of the aerial (looking deliberately like that totally messed up any hope of landing right, but that had been fine, for the sake of Robin-spotting.)
His brain had definitely short circuited once he had been sure, leading to the next attempt ending so badly that he’d managed to scrape up the bottom of his chin. The sheer adrenaline wave that settled over him after that had left him shaky, and while he could cover that up by continuing to move, his odds of nailing the trick that day had definitely taken a nosedive.
Not that he knew how to give up while the giving up was good. (“Timothy is either more doggedly persistent than any other student at mastering new subject matter,” his third grade school teacher once had written on his report card, “Or he struggles to so much as appear to take an interest in the material, with very little in-between. He should be encouraged to put forth more even-handed levels of effort.”)
He’d come to the skatepark to work on his tricks, and after all the tumbles he’d taken before realizing Robin was there, he thought if he could just land it once then he could feel fine about literal current Robin Jason Todd seeing all those other failures.
But it hadn’t happened.
Then he’d gone and been even more embarrassing by getting upset about Geoff filming his attempts.
Geoff has filmed Tim’s new trick mastery attempts all the time, for as long as Chelsea’s bunch and Tim have been swapping trick ideas and practice tips. It’s pretty normal for skaters, and Tim very well knows that. You want to be able to see the moves you’re making and show off your sickest-looking successes to others, and catching the good stuff means filming a whole lot of failures, too.
But he’d been really tired and annoyed and embarrassed and even though he knew it was extremely ironic, he just couldn’t stand that camera watching him any more, not when Robin was, too. Threatening to overwrite Geoff’s oldest home videos with the worst episodes of the Inspector Gadget cartoon had been entirely impractical though.
Also it would be going a bit overboard. Probably.
Because … well, home movies are important. Tim himself had made a bit of a habit of going through old home videos of Drake family events: birthdays, holidays, family outings, anything and everything from Tim blowing out all the candles on his seventh birthday cake, to Janet smacking the dirt a three year old Tim tried to eat at the park out of his hand, to Jack trying to show off revving up his new lawn mower only to have it give a little explosion before self-immolating.
The seventh birthday was the last time anything had been recorded, Tim had discovered, and even he found himself a little surprised it had been that long. But … it kinda did check out, since he thinks that’s a bit before the traveling started becoming more frequent and Tim started getting sent to nearby boarding schools, instead of the regular ones.
He’d originally started watching his way through the stack of tapes last year, at a period where he’d been missing his parents the worst. With those home movies he can remind himself what they looked like and sounded like and even how they used to be like, whenever he wants to. Watching them every now and again had definitely helped stave off the creeping feeling that if all their trips kept up, he won’t even know who they are anymore.
And just so it wasn’t all wasted time and he could easily find the best recordings later, he’d taken to methodically documenting their contents on the labels (in pencil, in case they noticed and disliked Tim’s scrawl and wanted to make the labels blank again, or write something else.)
Overall, he likes the ones of them all doing mundane, everyday activities the best. The exploding lawnmower one had definitely gotten a lot of rewatches.
In the present, however, Tim groans with another stab of embarrassment as he suddenly remembers yet again all of today’s failed attempts while Rooooobiiiiin watched meeeeee—and shoves his face harder into his pillow, half uncaring if he suffocates. That would certainly put him out of his various miseries. Like being seen failing all over the skatepark by Robin. Or wondering if Bruce Wayne will care. Or if … if the “parent” half of the adult Drakes will even say anything to Tim ever again, let alone care like he used to.
A beat later and he lets up on the shoving. Not being able to breathe … maybe isn’t isn’t the more pleasant option after all, even compared to how much he’s cringing internally right now. He turns his head to one side to stare glumly at his closed curtains instead with a heavy sigh.
Is Robin still lurking out there? And if he is, who else might be hanging around watching? Batman? Batgirl? Nightwing?
Terrible new thought: Nightwing having been the one watching Tim wipe out all day. Tim likes the current Robin, of course, but he likes the original Robin even more. If Nightwing had been watching he definitely would have fled the skatepark early.
He’s going to have to figure out how he can check for lurking bats and birds without it being obvious—if he can even spot wherever they’re camping out at all. The hiding spot around his house might be better than the one Robin had picked at the park, since he had the feeling he’d been followed to the skatepark, but he hadn’t spotted him until then.
It takes Tim all through Lindy showing up and to make dinner, plus the time it takes to eat half of said dinner, for his weariness from his long day at the park and his sense of embarrassment to subside enough for him to really start thinking again.
Primarily, he ponders why it is, when Batman’s gotten his DNA samples, that anyone’s still hanging around and watching him. He’s sure he’s not that interesting—he’s just some average, regular kid, living in one of the nicer and less crime-plagued neighborhoods in the city. Absolutely, he has to be boring.
Maybe the Bats are collecting observations to confirm Tim isn’t some kind of complete screw up or a criminal? Or maybe there’s some kind of quality or skill that Batman’s having him watched for, to see if he demonstrates it? Or …
Maybe Tim should think about this in a detective-ing sorta way.
Mr. Wayne got the letter, obviously. So one possibility: he figured out that Tim sent the letter, and therefore is watching Tim in an attempt to figure what he’s up to—though Tim still thinks, hopes, this isn’t likely with how careful he was when mailing it. Or two, Mr. Wayne hasn’t been able to find Malone and is trying to figure more out by working on verifying the DNA claim alongside investigating the letter contents. Tim thought for sure Batman could find someone as talked about as Matches Malone right away, but maybe he’s more slippery than Tim had figured. Or … maybe he’s … on summer vacation? Or something like that? Even mobsters and mobster-adjacent criminals must take a vacation every once and a while, right? That would make it hard for Batman to get a lead on the guy.
Then again, if Tim was Batman and he had gotten a letter threatening someone, but he couldn’t track down the supposed sender to stop them, then the top option left for dealing with the threat would be to … hm.
… Guard the target instead?
Oh.
Ooooh.
Right.
Because Batman wouldn’t know about the part where the whole thing is fake.
Welp. That’s a problem.
Tim could facepalm, but he’s not in the habit of displays like that. Especially not at the dinner table (the adult Drakes would not approve).
“Is everything okay?” Lindy’s voice cuts into his appalled reverie.
“Huh?” Tim replies eloquently, wrenching his attention back to his surroundings. He’s holding his fork half buried in his mashed potatoes.
… Why is he using a fork on this?
“You were looking at that dinner like it insulted your girlfriend,” Lindy says after a bite of meatloaf from her plate. “So what’s up?”
Tim switches out the fork for his spoon. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he corrects, shooting Lindy a weirded-out, disapproving look. He’s only almost eleven. It would be strange for him to have a girlfriend.
Lindy pauses before shaking her head. “I just meant you looked upset, hun. Did something happen today?”
Now Tim pauses. He certainly can’t say what he was really thinking about, and even saying that Robin watched him fail at a 360 all day would at best be met with skepticism, and at worst a questioning of his sanity.
Delusions of grandeur, and all that. Plus, Tim doesn’t particularly want to rehash his embarrassment, either.
So he shrugs, doing his best to imitate nonchalance as he gathers a spoonful of mashed potatoes. What’s something else that would be a good excuse for noticeable distraction … ? “I dunno, just … remembering a movie I watched the other day. Uhm. Night of the Living Clowns, or something like that. It was kinda freaky.”
Lindy makes a face. “Living clowns? As opposed to what?”
‘I dunno, I just made it up,’ Tim doesn’t say, because that would be a terrible answer. “Dead clowns?” he suggests instead, scraping the bottom recesses of his brain for what this movie would be about.
“Ha, if only,” Lindy says. “That’s a movie we’d all pay to see,” she mutters to herself as a follow-up, and Tim, like any other upstanding Gothamite, understands exactly which specific clown she really means she’d fork over the full five dollars on an evening showing ticket just to see get murked, despite sounding like she’s wishing for clown death much more generally.
“There were, um—a bunch of them crawling up outta their graves in one scene,” Tim remarks, hoping she’ll be creeped-out enough to not go looking to watch a movie he’s completely made up. Though if he has to, he can claim it was some late night thing. It’s not unusual for the things that show at that time to disappear into the ether when you try to find them again.
Lindy gives a short sigh. “Maybe you should lay off on the horror movies, huh? I don’t know if your parents would even approve.”
Tim shrugs, returning his attention to his meatloaf, which he judges as in need of more ketchup. “If it’s not rated R?” he tries.
Lindy hums very, very doubtfully.
Well, no matter what movie producers try, they’ll probably never hold a candle to Gotham’s home grown nightmares. Tim’s not even impressed by his own movie concept, in all honesty. But it seems to have repelled Lindy’s curiosity well enough, because she stops asking questions.
Back in his room and comfortably full of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans, Tim returns his attention to the unnecessary vigilante overwatch problem. He’ll have to check whether someone’s still watching him in the middle of the night. Two am, say? Since Lindy either goes to bed or falls asleep on top of her college textbooks at the desk in the study by one-thirty am, in Tim’s experience with sneaking out. The deepest, darkest part of the night is his best chance to peek out a window and go unnoticed by anyone—inside or outside the house.
While it won’t rule out their presence if he can’t spot anyone, if he does spot someone, then … then he’ll take that as confirmation they really are watching him all hours of the day, and that’s no good at all.
If it’s only Batman and Robin watching him—and here he feels compelled to pull out a piece of paper just to double check the math—that means each of them have to follow Tim around twelve hours a day, if they divide the effort evenly. And even if they have one other person helping, that’s still eight hours they’re all having to spend watching Tim do nothing special.
And Batman’s not exactly known for calling in help besides Robin unless times are desperate, so odds aren’t even great on that.
That’s so much patrol and case-solving time being eaten into.
He can’t let them just … go on like that, if that’s what’s happening. If something terrible happens in the city because Batman and Robin are both distracted by Tim … he’ll never be able to forgive himself. So he sets his usual alert radio alarm for nighttime activities at a volume low enough that it won’t be heard unless someone is right outside his door, and lets himself fall into a light doze, curled up on top of his comforter.
Tim blinks blearily awake to the smooth crooning, underlaid by a steady R&B beat, of Al B. Sure!’s “Nite and Day”. By the time the DJ is trying to drum up excitement for the next song after the commercial break, Tim’s sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. He reaches over to switch it off in the middle of an ad for Batburger’s new breakfast menu item called “Harley Bites” … Which are mallet-shaped french toast sticks? Apparently?
‘Ugh, Tim, focus, that is not important right now!’ he chides himself, shaking his head and sliding off the bed.
Tim draws on his own long experience as a resident of Drake home—especially as the only one who, in the last few years, has lived in it more than six months out of the year—to glide his socked feet around every creaky floorboard on his way downstairs to crouch beneath the front sitting room’s window in the large gap between it and the couch. Then he screws up his courage and pokes his head up—cautiously—until he can see through the gap between the mostly-lowered Venetian blinds and the windowsill.
It takes some adjusting to really scan the area, having to raise and lower his head to get the full range in the vertical direction. It takes even longer to examine it for any anomalies that might be indicative of a lurking vigilante. All his past practice at it pays off, though, because at long last he realizes there’s a dark silhouette crouched—or maybe sitting—on the roof of the townhouse across the street.
He ducks back down after a thorough examination of the figure, which is just barely discernible against the lighter shadow of a night sky filled with low cloud cover dimly reflecting the glow of the city back down. They’re too big to be Robin. That means it must be Batman, except—except something feels off about the shape.
It’s the area around the neck and head that’s the most off, he finally realizes, after another peek out. Like there’s something coming up from around where the neck meets the shoulder-lines, encircling it to the level of the ears. A high collar? Yeah, cause—that whole area below the eye line would normally be slimmer, even when it’s the neck of a guy with the kind of muscle and armor that Batman has.
And besides that, the lower part of the figure’s torso seems to be narrowing as it gets towards the waistline. The drape of Batman’s cape should make everything below his shoulders look just as wide across as they are—unless he’d let it stay all carelessly twisted. But that’s not Batman’s style, so—
Not Batgirl. Not Batwoman. They both have capes. And besides, the collar itself is highly unusual. He’d think it to be a detective’s trench coat collar turned up, but it’s not like Detective Gordon would conduct a stakeout from the roof of a private home, right? Police watch from their cars and other “normal” hiding places in this sort of situation.
Could Batman be trying out a new suit … ?
Tim creeps back up once more to eye the figure again. No, that doesn’t seem right—but—
Now that his eyes are way more used to the dark, he can kinda tell the suit has a pattern of lighter sections that’s nothing like any batsuit has ever had. A high collar … and that particular light-dark color pattern …
Tim drops down and presses his back against the wall beneath the window, sucking in a breath. A thrill travels up his back and down his arms, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and he mouths the name silently as every other thought besides the realization turns into metaphorical exclamation points.
That’s Nightwing.
But the giddy thrill of knowing The First Robin Dick Grayson is right outside his window—when he’d have considered himself lucky to see Nightwing in Gotham at all—quickly gives way to a sinking feeling as he realizes what this means.
Not only is Gotham crime not getting fought properly, but the Titans up in NYC are down their leader. That means crime on all kinds of levels, from NYC local problems to literal interplanetary threats might be impacted.
Oh gods, and it wouldn’t just be the Titans, would it? What if the Justice League needs Batman, and Batman doesn’t go—all because of Tim’s letter?
This was never the plan. Tim grips hard at his sleep shirt, trying to breathe and not panic. Mr Wayne was just supposed to get that letter and … well … not do all of this, dragging Robin and even Nightwing into it all. Not while still giving Tim no clue what he’s thinking about the whole parentage part of it, at least.
The easiest fix for Nightwing being here would be to go out there and explain all this right now, so he can know it’s perfectly safe for Tim to go unwatched. Except … if Nightwing immediately goes and tells Batman why he’s leaving—what Tim just explained to him—then it’ll ruin all Tim’s work at getting unbiased answers about what Mr. Wayne is thinking!
Tim lets his shoulders slump. And should he even count on Nightwing going back anywhere, regardless? After the surprise of Batman not quite behaving as Tim expected? … Tim sighs to himself, letting the back of his head thunk lightly on the wall behind him. Yeeeeah. Maybe he shouldn’t assume his fake threat letter is definitely, one-hundred-percent, the only reason Nightwing’s in Gotham. Or the only reason he’s joined in whatever this whole “Tim Overwatch” business is.
At least, he can’t assume it without getting more information than this one single sighting.
The only thing he can really know right now is that if Nightwing is sitting here babysitting him, he’s not fighting crime anywhere. Tim can’t imagine it’s the ideal situation, especially with Batman and Robin probably pouring so much time into surveillance, too. The least Nightwing could be doing while he’s in town is also helping out with Gotham’s constant supply of no-goodniks, right? Not just … sitting around watching Tim sleep.
But then … it’s not like Tim is an immovable object.
He perks up at the thought. If Nightwing’s main mission is guarding him, it doesn’t really matter whether Tim’s in his bed, or whether he’s walking innocently along North 34th and Baker at 3 am, completely vulnerable to getting jumped.
And in the latter case, Nightwing’ll probably have to stop a crime or two to achieve his goal of guarding Tim. You know, just, incidentally. Conveniently, even.
Maybe Tim will even have a chance to get pictures of Nightwing in action, when he’s busy beating up muggers and bangers in Gotham alleys!
‘I’m a genius. I have so many good ideas,’ Tim thinks with a grin, hurrying back upstairs to snag his Hexar and change into something more suitable for a nighttime walk than his pajamas.
He can fix this.
It’s a win for Nightwing; it’s a win for Gotham; it’s a win for Tim.
Notes:
Didn't want the next chapter to take almost a month to write but as soon as I posted the last one I just felt Very Tired™️. Not writer's blocked. Just exhausted at the thought of going on at the same pace. So I let myself take a little more pause then usual even though I didn't exactly want to, bleh. x.x
I looked up movie ticket prices in the late 80s and that $5 ticket price? Is in fact a little on the expensive side for a non-matinee showing.
Nightwing will no doubt profusely thank Timmy for leading him to Crimes. Like, clearly Timmy+Crimes is the meat-filled pumpkin in this scenario, and tiger Nightwing will be so happy to have all that ~*enrichment*~ rolling around his Gotham City cage. :)
Chapter 16: Nightwing
Summary:
Nightwing has a Tim-watch. Nightwing has thoughts. Nightwing is taking this opportunity to eat chips and beat up people who accuse him of stealing his sense of style from Elvis Presley (this look is disco! Disco, you ingrates!)
Notes:
Sorry I got the feeling you were all excited to immediately hear about escapades from Tim's perspective, but Dick wanted to brood about Bruce a little more than would permit that. He also tried to get his romantic life troubles in there (vague timeframe I've settled on for this in terms of the New Teen Titans run is sometime shortly after Kori has to go have a political marriage to help her planet, and even though she's open to having Dick stay around as her sidepiece he's just super not into that idea), but I made him put a lid on that. We'll be back to Tim next chapter … and heck, maybe continue with him into a bit of the one after that, too. The torment I had planned for Tim to give Batman … as of now still remains a distant future. Sigh.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dick gets it. He does.
Bruce doesn’t want Jason spending long night hours on a stakeout, if it can be avoided. And he wants to have most of his own hours of guarding and observation be the ones where Timothy’s—no, Tim, Jason had said in his file updates, that was what the kid seemed to go by—awake, now that he’s gotten his DNA sample. Obvious reasons for that are obvious, and in all honesty it would be worrying if the man didn’t at all seem interested in what the kid’s like when awake.
So it was pretty much inevitable that Dick would be left holding the graveyard shift bag, and would find himself sitting on the edge of a rooftop in a no-action neighborhood doing nothing at two am. Didn’t mean he couldn’t grouse about it a bit, in the privacy of his own head. Because with the way these watches are settling in, he expects he’s going to have to keep settling for hearsay about the kid until this all gets sorted out.
It’s gonna be a long, long series of stakeouts.
It helps that Bruce at least got some kind of timeline in place today, though. Anything more than a week or two will be pushing it for everyone’s endurance and tempers, especially if anything serious comes up with any of the rest of their various hero-ing responsibilities.
But three days, if Bruce can get to the point of arranging a better set up by then? Yes, he’s gonna be bored, but it’s doable.
Swinging his feet idly, Dick munches on the salt and vinegar flavored chip pinched between his fingers, then goes rummaging in the bag for the next.
It’s especially doable with snacks, of course, though it’s probably for the best that Alfred limited him on the unhealthy ones. He might actually be in danger of eating his way through the entire gallon of ice cream he’d been seriously contemplating smuggling out here before that intervention. Especially since the graveyard shift gives him way too much time to think, about things and people and women, alien women who—
‘Nope, nope, not doing this, Grayson, you’ve got a job to do here.’
—Dick crunches down determinedly on another chip, then scans the quiet street for anything out of place so slowly and critically that Batman would probably accuse him of excessive paranoia. Ha. As if he never uses overdoing anything as a substitute for actually sitting and coping with things, right? If only Batman were here, Dick could distract himself by nettling him. But Batman isn’t here to tease for any of that theoretical hypocrisy of the pot calling the kettle, which leaves Dick with nothing to do besides munching chips and going back to glaring piercingly at every shadow that dares to show itself up and down the street.
And boy are there a lot of them at night, as it turns out.
His distraction with brooding and glaring at distant shadows is why, when something new starts to happen, at first he only hears it, rather than sees it. The noise is something scraping, and squeaking. It’s slow and comes in fits and starts, as if whoever’s causing the noise might be trying to keep it quiet, and keeps freezing up when it’s not.
He’s confused because it seems weirdly loud in the ear that’s angled more towards the roof behind him … where there is absolutely nothing that should be capable of making that sound. When he puts a hand to that side of his head, brows furrowed, he feels the comm and realizes he’s actually hearing the little earpiece he’d somehow forgotten about sticking in and tuning to channel for the bugs in the house.
Oh.
So—whatever’s making that noise, it’s the comm making it louder. Whatever it is, it’s coming just as much from inside the house as outside of it.
Oh.
Nightwing narrows his eyes at the house, setting aside his chips and moving into a crouch, ready and balancing on his toes, considering how soon he should circle around to check the back.
It proves not to be necessary, however, because on the left side of the house, around the area of what must be a window to the front room on that corner, a small shape pokes out. Dick squints at it as another shape joins it, and then both of them lengthen, dangling towards the ground. Small legs, small torso—the form slides on its stomach out the window, until the whole body drops the remaining foot or so to the ground outside.
Then a kid—no, wait, that’s the kid—is stepping away from the bushes planted by the side of the house, straightening his shirt back down over the strip of skin it had ridden up to show after his slithering. The kid brushes at his hair, either to neaten it or brush any debris out of it—it’s hard to be sure with the low lighting. Nightwing’s thoughts go a bit clotheslined at seeing the kid outside, but his instincts have him flattening out against the roof regardless of how startled he is so as not to risk being spotted.
Now his entire concentration settles on staring down at Tim, his brain running in loops through a sudden flood of questions. Tim, for his part, checks his surroundings slowly, before turning and jumping to grab an item that seems to have been left on the sill of the window.
Nightwing’s still chewing on the ‘How is the kid awake? It’s going on three am?’ and ‘Wait, why is the kid awake?’ and ‘Isn’t why he’s snuck outside at three am instead of sleeping in his bed the more important question here?’ when ‘Is that a camera?’ interjects and displaces them all. He blinks several times, shaking his brain loose again.
The thing Tim had just jumped and grabbed out of the window is, indeed, a camera. Small. Film. The shape of the body reminds Nightwing a lot of the Hexars released half a decade back. Bruce had loved that camera so much he’d bought ten and then reverse engineered several of them to discover the secrets of its silent shutter and quiet film advance features. Whatever Tim’s got, however, it doesn’t seem to have a brand logo on it.
Why a camera? What is happening here?
Tim stoops to pick up a dark shape from the grass, and Dick can tell despite the shadows making it difficult that it’s a skateboard.
Well, at least that’s not unexpected. Like any responsible guardian bat-stalker he’d read Robin’s write-up of his own experience on watch before Nightwing had headed out to relieve Batman.
Tim is stepping out of his house’s tiny front yard and onto the sidewalk now, still looking about slowly and carefully, like he thinks maybe someone will be trying to watch him or follow him. Robin hadn’t thought he’d been spotted during his own watch during the day, but could he have been wrong? Or have they somehow missed some other person being out here tailing the kid?
Even wilder thought: could the kid somehow already know criminals are out to get him? … Though, if he knows, he should be staying hidden inside his house. Like a sensible person would.
Not that B himself is known for having a normal concept of caution, so why not his kid too, right? Nightwing is highly tempted to drag a palm down his face in aggravation. How dare anyone help that man reproduce, honestly—even the fostering and adopting has been playing with fire. Making a kid with the guy is the kind of thing you should only do if you want to watch the world burn. Joke really is on Dick for breathing a sigh of relief when no tiny little people seemed to come of B’s relationship with Talia Al Ghul, he supposes. Maybe he should have figured the man would launch his metaphorical attack on his own non-reproductive ways from a completely unexpected direction instead.
Though to be fair: even Bruce, from the way he’s been acting, is really surprised about this—or Dick misses his guess.
Dick’s idea for dealing with whatever is going on here is to flip down to land the road right in front of the kid and demand to know where he thinks he’s going at this time of night. His second instinct is to wait and see what direction he heads, then try to follow.
He groans quietly to himself, knowing before he’s even thought it through that he’s going to follow plan number two. Because the surest way to avoid getting lied to by someone about where they’re trying to sneak off to—especially a kid whose tells he doesn’t know very well—is following them yourself.
(Hey, he was a slippery, incorrigible kid once, too. And that hasn’t been long enough ago for Nightwing to manage to become overly optimistic about what kind of trouble any kid this age would or would not get up to.)
B had always been disadvantaged on this point, much as he’d never admit it. It was all in the implications, after all. He’d had the occasional story about things he did with his parents, when he was younger. And he’d certainly had a few anecdotes to offer about his mid-teens and later, when Dick had started to suffer from his own teenage years. But stories from in between the two?
That silence spoke for itself.
Which is all to say—B’s got a particularly lost stretch of childhood looming in his own history. Dick had come to understand it as a reason to be surprised the man had managed to keep as much of a leash on Dick as he did. Bruce was still young himself, but his own childhood had made very poor preparatory material to reflect on. Taking charge of Dick had been a journey into a brave new world, his attempt to give Dick something he hadn’t had. Bruce’s success thus far had never been because he was already super in tune with how kids worked, or because he was fully ready to grapple with the level of troublemaking he could get out of a fit and active young boy who’d been raised in what was, in large part, a roaming community of misfits and incorrigibles.
No, his being stubborn and meticulous with no real sense of when to quit—those qualities had been his saving graces.
Well—those, and Alfred.
Dick had always wondered how much of that period of his life Bruce actually remembered, but felt it too cold to ask about it directly. Besides, as an adult Dick’s a touch wary of showing too much vulnerability to a man that already tends to be harsh on himself and anyone older than, like, thirteen. Because Dick … he actually knows what the kind of memory blanks he’d be asking about are like. And Bruce would certainly be able to surmise why he’d even think to ask a question like that.
The moment of his parent’s fall seemed to have been stored in Dick’s memory in flashes and snippets, with what was there seared in awful, unmerciful clarity—as if to make up for their shortness. But that’s not the only memory from that period of his life that’s like that. A lot of the months after that last performance in Gotham are all sharp-edged and jumbled in some way, too, more scraps of memory than anything else. The only real difference is that their level of detail is more faded in comparison to those of the fall.
The one upside to having been put in juvie because Gotham’s foster placements were overwhelmed, is that Dick actually has a hard time remembering the vast majority of the time he’d spent there. He’d practically gotten jumpscared once, looking at his own file in the Batcomputer systems and seeing how long he’d been in there and realizing—all that time was mostly a blank. The missing time was bad enough that B’s record seemed wrong. He remembers more about how he felt about being there—not so much any specific experiences.
Fortunately it’s weird and disconcerting only when he thinks about it, which isn’t often. But that’s another reason it’s just safer not bringing it up with Bruce at all. He doesn’t need Batman prying half an inadvertent confession out of him and taking that as a reason to run away with any idea there’s something else fundamentally wrong with Dick, either.
It is what it is.
To Nightwing’s relief, Tim seems to have concluded looking for … whatever it is he was looking for, though it’s not apparent from his expression whether he found it or not. He turns and starts walking in the direction of a more densely developed area of Gotham. Wherever he’s going, it’s not the skatepark. Dick hurries to follow—at a discrete distance, of course.
Fortunately, that means it’s only six blocks before Nightwing gets some taller buildings to work with as he tails Tim, on high alert for any other tails or dangers. He doesn’t exactly like the direction they’re going—towards a more business-heavy area that despite not being a criminal hotbed is active enough at night that something could be happening there at this hour.
At least the kid doesn’t also hop on his skateboard, which makes keeping up very easy.
‘He is still worried about being followed,’ Nightwing decides, noting the way Tim’s turning his head to alternate between watching darker parts of the street, and behind himself, at regular intervals. Nightwing’s careful to keep his shape far enough back from the edge of the rooftops that Tim won’t have an angle on him, except for the brief moments Dick leans over far enough to peek down on the sidewalk, or he has to leap over an alleyway between highrises.
They’ve gone on about fourteen more blocks when a series of pops echo from somewhere up ahead. He double checks on Tim, who’s gone still. Nightwing sucks in a breath, already tense nerves practically singing. ‘Turn around, kid, turn around, turn around—’
It’s more slowly than before, but Tim starts to creep forward again, glancing about even more rapidly.
“Dammit, those were gunshots,” Nightwing hisses to himself, darting forward, “You need to go the other way.” He’s so, so tempted to swoop down on his grapple and snatch the kid off the street right this second.
Except—he has this stray, reluctant hope that he still might be able to clean the problem up before the kid can even creep his way there, if it’s not too many people. Because if the kid’s willing to keep going towards the sound of gunshots to get wherever it is he’s trying to go, it ultimately makes Dick more concerned about what that destination is. It might be more important to find out than he was already thinking.
Whatever’s going on has to have been at least a block or two ahead, so there should be just enough time to double back and pluck the kid right off the street if it looks like too big a problem for Nightwing to handle solo. Even still, he eschews stealth and hugs the edge of the rooflines at a quick lope, taking glances down and back to confirm the kid’s ongoing movements, and that he remains unharassed by anyone else—though at this hour, and in this area, the streets have been deserted except for the occasional distant figures traveling on streets perpendicular to their own. He still hopes that somehow the kid is one of the more sensible sorts of Gothamites, who knows what he should do when seeing a shadow on roofs darting towards the sound of a ruckus.
The odds aren’t looking as good on that as Nightwing would like.
As projected, Nightwing finds the cause of all the noise in an alley on the second block ahead, though he’d started to hear the angry voices well before getting there. It’s three young men, one of them clutching at his shoulder as he sways to half-collapse against the brick of the building on the opposite side of the alley. A dark stain is growing beneath his hand, which Nightwing’s not too happy to see, but at least it’s not growing at an obviously catastrophic rate. And there does only seem to be the one bullet wound on him, despite there having been four shots.
Thank god, he supposes with a grimace, that more than enough of the people who are too free about popping off with the damn things also happen to overlap significantly with the people who can’t be bothered to learn how to aim right.
So, one minor possible (but likely disabled) threat in the form of bullet-wounded guy. As for the other two—one of them is sprawled out on his back, getting absolutely whaled on by the third man. The sprawled man’s attempts to stop the blows are mostly unsuccessful. The guy doing the whaling is the main source of the yelling, which is all curses and insults about everything from the whale-ee’s dubious parentage to his questionable sexual ethics towards mothers, liberally interspersed by increasingly creative threats of future harm. A handgun lies discarded on the pavement nearby, but it’s closer to the entrance of the alley than the party of three, and thus comfortably out of reach of all of them.
Bullet-wound guy shoves himself up straighter in his lean against the wall. The whites of his eyes glint in the glow of a light sitting over a doorway further down the alley as he glances nervously around. “Luis, man—” he goes to lift the hand not pressing at his wound before wincing and dropping it again, “—I’m good, okay? I’m good. Barely even hurts. Let’s just take his gun and go.”
Nightwing gives a quick glance back—the kid’s still back on the previous block, and remains unassailed by the big fat nobody that’s back there with him.
Good, great, okay. They’re still just fine.
“Luis,” bullet-wound guy hisses more urgently, “Do you want to get caught by the Bat or some other freak? C’mon, let’s go!”
But there’s no response from the so-called Luis, except for him muttering something before going quiet and starting to choke out the guy under him in lieu of additional face tenderization. The other man starts scrabbling at Luis’s hands, mouth opening in a gurgle.
Nightwing groans inwardly. ‘Oookay, yeah. I think it’s time for these three to be done here.’
And with that, he parkours his way down to a light thud of a landing, one leg folded, the other splaying out to neatly knock the abandoned handgun to somewhere deep within the pitch black shadows beneath the nearest dumpster.
Bullet-wound guy gives a startled curse, stumbling to the side and slipping off the wall to plunk down on his butt. Luis doesn’t let off the choking—going by the fact the choke-ee is still scrabbling at his hands—but he does half-turn, eyes going wide, then his brows pushing inward in a suspicious frown as he watches Nightwing straighten.
“You know,” Nightwing says conversationally, drawing closer in slow, sauntering steps, pointing and flexing each foot as he does so like a gymnast in a floor routine. “I actually can see why you’d resent anyone who lays a finger on this guy, Luis. Seems like he might be the only one who regularly holds the brain cell, between the two of ya. Now, Mr. Hands-on Darth Vader, I’mma give you ‘til the count of three to—”
“How about you I give you ’til the count of one to shut the hell up, Elvis Presley!” Luis snarls, leaving one hand at the third guy’s throat, but lifting the other to point at Nightwing, “You can go a-huh-huh-huh your stupid blue suede ass back to Las Vegas before you piss me the hell off, too!”
Nightwing pauses in his lighthearted gymnast prance to give the guy a flat, silent, very still stare, one that he knows is a bit more Batman-esque, suggestive of a cold fury ready to snap to a hot one at the slightest provocation. In reality, he’s only mildly insulted, but guys like this don’t exactly deserve to get away with these kinds of antics. “So that’s how you wanna play it, huh?” he says softly. And perhaps it’s only because it’s in combination with the stare, but it clearly manages to be intimidating enough to evoke visible reactions from everyone in front of him.
Dick can’t say it isn’t as satisfying as always.
“Do you have a death wish? The hell is wrong with you, man!?” Bullet-wound guy yells at Luis, scrabbling back a little farther. Apprehension briefly flickers across Luis’s face, before it hardens back to a glower, but this time the anger looks more like a put-on.
Nightwing smirks. “Aww, I’m just playing, Lou-ey, why the worried look? Since you asked, though—” he says, knowing exactly no-one had asked, “—I think I might just have a spare hunk ‘a burning love, just for you.” He draws himself up into a ready position for the lunge, smirk going still wider and sharper. “So get ready for the full Viva Las Vegas.”
Notes:
I found myself looking up Elvis Presley songs and facts just to be sure I was getting the puns/jokes right. What is my life. (In my defense: my dad thought he was overrated and never played his music much. We were a 20s big band, 40s doo-wop, and Beatles family. Then also 90s electronica/dance, for some reason. He didn't like 80s music, either. Idk, ask him.)
Chapter 17: Dances in the Dark (With Fake Not-Elvis)
Summary:
It’s Tim’s paparazzi moment of a lifetime, and it’s not over yet!
Chapter Text
It’s a little nerve-wracking, at the beginning. Tim’s a lot more used to keeping to as many shadows as possible on these nighttime jaunts, and only being on the ground long enough to get to one of his preselected rooftops for the night, one that has a good hiding spot and the high chance of proximity to previously observed patterns in Batman and Robin’s patrol routes. The rest of his deep dark nights out are spent staying mostly on that rooftop and in one place, hoping to either catch one or both of Gotham’s fabled vigilante duo traversing the rooftops, or get really lucky and catch the pair busting a crime close enough that he doesn’t even need to move rooftops to get some shots of it.
Oh, Tim has considered trying to tear after them on his skateboard before—more than once, in fact. He especially thinks about it whenever he’s had to watch them vanishing into the distance when he knows he got them on film in only one of his ten frantic attempts at a shot, and even that one was at a combined ISO and shutter speed that he knows it’s gonna come out blurry and grainy before he even develops it.
Besides, the board’s noisy rolling and clacking over pavement would seem three times as loud on empty, night-shadowed streets as it does in the daytime. He’s pretty sure if he tried it he’d attract unwanted, possibly criminal attention—or even worse, Bat attention—and neither of those had ever seemed like a good idea if he wants to keep being able to go out untroubled and unhindered.
Because for all the insanity of Gotham’s Rogues, and for as much as the Rogue regulars tend to devise their schemes with Bat-confrontation in mind, most of them still don’t pick to lie in wait or seek out a fight on rooftops under the open sky all that often. The “normie” criminals—the local mobsters, gangsters, petty thieves, and the like, are even more adverse to hanging out high up, generally not opting for it unless there’s already a “proper” roof access and roof-level deck space designed into the building. If you ask Tim—though of course no one ever has—it shows a real lack of creativity on their part, and a level of ambition weaker than those kinds of crooks usually claim they have. Like, are you really that ambitious if you’re apparently discarding your more creative options out of hand just because you think you’re above acting a bit abnormal?
Eh. Whatever. Tim’s certainly not gonna offer them tips. Not when it leaves him with nice and safe locations for photoshoots. There’s been more than one time that a vigilante (or vigilantes) had touched down on Tim’s chosen roof for the night, too, and never seemed to notice him in his hiding spot before they moved away again. Some of his best pictures have come from those moments.
And it’s no wonder that Batman and Robin choose to fly over the roofs so often, since it’s surprisingly safe—as long as you don’t pick a surprise explosion building to hang out on. Fortunately, they're very rare, and Tim’s only ever been close enough to feel the shock wave from it.
Tonight, though, he’s walking very openly down the sidewalk, making no attempt at stealth. It’s undoubtedly why he’s feeling unsettled. He doesn’t even intend to hit up a rooftop unless it looks like his most plausible option for escape from street-level trouble. He’s also still not entirely sure Nightwing is actually tailing him because he’s just sort of taking it on faith that Nightwing would notice him and follow in the first place, and if he is following Tim right now, it isn’t apparent.
Maybe he was wrong and it was a nearby house that the vigilante’s watching. Maybe the DNA collection incident was an unrelated matter of convenience, and Robin’s tail today, personal curiosity. Which would mean Tim’s taken both of those things to mean something about Nightwing’s presence that they don’t.
He shouldn’t feel faint disappointment at the thought. The whole letter scheme has been about putting feelers out on Mr. Wayne. Dick Grayson ultimately has nothing to do with that—the guy doesn’t even live in Gotham anymore, and Tim supposes there’s plenty of reasons for that that he should respect. More importantly, not getting in the way of the work of the vigilantes in Gotham has been something Tim promised to stick to ever since he realized exactly who Batman and Robin were and he started going out for vigilante-spotting; he has no business hoping for continuing attention from any of them. As things stand he’s already caused enough distraction that he’s gotta help solve.
He’s not a four year old with no concept of decorum or manners, after all.
For all they’d been around less and less in the last few years, the two older Drakes had certainly drilled into him the importance of those. And Mr. Wayne is old money, besides. He keeps a British butler, the same one since his parents were around, if the gossip magazine exposé Tim read that one time was right. These are all reasons to believe he might just care about formality and tradition more than what Tim’s already used to. He needs to get a feel for what the man himself really thinks about that sort of thing before he goes assuming anything too much about him.
Loud popping noises somewhere ahead interrupt his musings and make him freeze, feeling vaguely like some kind of prey animal trying to seem like an inanimate object—for all the good it does him to do that out in the open in the middle of a deserted sidewalk.
That sounded like gunshots.
It’s funny but he used to think noises like these were fireworks, at least until an incident had happened right in the middle of a daytime news report his mother had been watching. She’d turned it off immediately and avoided watching much live news reporting for a while after that, but the damage had been done, and Tim had found his brain recategorizing what all those “fireworks” in Gotham he’d ever heard most likely really were, too.
A similar recategorization would happen with an evening news report two years later, which had been about a lumberyard’s wide-angle security camera managing to capture Batman and Robin taking down a Rogue and his goons. The clip the reporters had been commenting on had had Batman in the foreground, doling out fist-shaped justice to faces left and right, but what had struck Tim had been Robin swinging to rebound off a really tall lumber rack, right into a quadruple somersault. Robin’s uncurling from the maneuver had ended with his feet hammering a crook that had been chasing him right in the solar plexus
The guys coming up behind the one crook had balked, stumbling to a halt, because at that moment everything in Tim’s universe had shifted a little to the left and clicked into place. While the fight had been short work for Robin and his huge grin after that, and the news had long switched to a different story, Tim had sat there overlaying the move in the security footage over of a memory of a young acrobat showing off his promised special trick under a big top, and realizing how well they matched, how few people in the world were said to be able to do a move like that—
The next few days had seen him come to a series of realizations: not just who Robin really was, but also who Batman must be, where they operated from, and even the probable reasons why they did what they did, all falling like dominoes.
He still hasn’t spotted Nightwing following him. How close is he going to have to get before he can be sure the vigilante’s shown up … or hasn’t shown up … to fight whatever crime is happening ahead?
But then Tim sees a lone figure darting ahead on the edge of the rooftops, and his sinking feeling turns to relief mixed with the previous giddy elation. He grins, picking up his pace. The figure pauses somewhere down the next block beyond the one Tim’s still walking on, before dropping to whatever he’s seen below, presumably in the alley.
… Had Nightwing thrown a glance back over his shoulder before he did that? It was hard to tell with the dark and that high collar obscuring the lower half of his head.
Blinking in a bid to keep himself from getting distracted, Tim glances up at the block ahead, then down at his camera several times. As he hurries on, he makes sure to take the lens cap off and double check the count of pictures left on the roll (and for all the past pictures lost to the darkness of the dreaded unremoved lens cap: a moment of silence between here and whatever scene lies ahead).
He can hear the sound of an ongoing fight by the time he’s approaching the mouth of the alley, though it goes strangely quiet as soon as he arrives. He notes the long row of newspaper dispensers lined up on the outer edge of the sidewalk nearby—their bulk will make for a good place to dart to the other side of, if he needs to hide quickly because someone decides to try to run out of the alley. They’re the only thing on hand sufficiently bulky enough to shield him from being immediately spotted in that situation. Giant question mark if something tries to come at him from outside of the alley, of course, but if all else fails there’s always running in Nightwing’s direction. As loath as he is to insert himself into the middle of any incidents where he doesn’t belong, he has no interest in being killed or brutalized by some creep or goon like some kind of afterthought, just because he’s gawking from an obvious location.
It would be such a stupid way to go. Also, Nightwing would probably be upset by something like that happening on his watch, if he noticed.
He’s all heroic like that.
At least Tim knows he doesn’t have to worry much about Nightwing being too thrown if Tim has to throw himself at him as a last resort. Both Batman and the current Robin deftly handle chaotic scenarios like that all the time without harming the hapless civilians mixed up in them, and there’s no way Dick’s worse at it, even if Tim never did get to see him in action to the same extent he’s seen Jason.
With a cautious slowness, keeping all of his body but what he absolutely needs to stick out in order to snap pictures hidden around the corner of the large dumpster near the entrance of the alley, Tim takes stock of the fight through his viewfinder. Or the tail end of the fight, anyway.
He’s lucky that the lighting is appropriate—near what’s happening are two different overhead lights over doorways, while the mouth of the alley is about equidistant between the nearest streetlights. This places his little bit of cover in a location that’s rather dark, at least comparatively. And as he had discovered in learning how to expose and develop his photography, the eye’s not quite like a manually adjusted camera. With the latter, one sets the shutter speed or aperture or even the ISO of the film in the camera depending on what kinds of lighting conditions you want to see more of the details in.
But with the eyes … their aperture, that is, the iris, automatically adjusts based on the totality of light reaching the eye at any given moment. If there’s too much light close to you, it automatically adjusts to greatly restrict how much light can get in, meaning you end up having a hard time picking out anything in the distant dark places. And you can’t do anything to change how much light your eyes are letting in, besides change how much light is shining. Comparing what his camera could pick up when pointed at shadows—when the camera was adjusted for them, anyway—compared to what his own eyes could see in any given lighting situation had made him realize that part of how Batman hides is not just through leveraging his own position in the shadows, but also considering how much more ill-adjusted everyone else’s eyes will be to seeing him because they’re sticking too close to the light. So, similarly to Batman, Tim knows he benefits from that effect by only ever peering down on areas that are either better-lighted or equally-lighted as dark rooftops.
In some ways it’s kind of weird, like the sensation of wiggling a loose tooth, seeing the scene from this angle instead of a roof.
There’s one guy cowering against the wall with an injury, one guy lying on the flat on the ground, completely still, and one guy that Nightwing’s already halfway through securing. Tim’s at a terrible angle to see whether the guy flat on the ground is even awake. Tim snaps a picture as Nightwing forces the arms of the guy he’s securing back with rough, brisk movements. The guy groans, slumping forward, head swaying like he’s trying to shake off a severe case of dizziness.
“Aw, look at it this way, pal, this experience just saved you a whole trip to Nevada,” Nightwing says with a condescending and false cheer as he cuffs the guy, “Which would have been very hard to pull off if you were doing a lot more time in Blackgate because I hadn’t stopped you. Plus, now that you’ve seen me, there’s no need to go to see The King all the way over there. That means you won’t need to find someone who’d be willing to go with you to his Chapel of Love, either. Of course, I’m sure that would have been the harder part for you. For multiple unfortunate reasons.”
The guy curses Nightwing out with a very rude and dirty word. Tim’s mother would have gasped. Tim snaps a few more pictures from several different distances to the ground, which are the only alternate angles really available to him. The one where he was basically resting the camera on the ground is going to be the most fun to see developed, he decides. The one guy lying flat is gonna look like little else besides the soles of his pair of shoes from that angle.
Withdrawing fully behind his cover, Tim scrunches his eyebrows as he plays back Nightwing’s words in his head. “The King” sounds like the name of some kind of mob leader—though what a mob leader from Nevada is trying to do in Gotham is a really big question.
Ah, well. That’s not Tim’s concern. And whatever “The King’s” intentions and connections with this incident were, the “Chapel of Love” is an objectively terrible name for what’s probably his mob headquarters. Yikes. It’s a good thing Nightwing was here to bust whatever these chumps were up to because they don’t need any weirdo mob leaders with bad headquarter names setting up in this city. What the themed Rogues native to Gotham come up with is already bad enough.
But it sure hasn’t taken very long for Nightwing to sort this one out. The fight had been over shockingly fast, before Tim could even hurry up and dash the rest of the way there, really. In Tim’s not inconsiderable observational experience, unless the ratio of goon to vigilante is more than six to one, or there are Rogues involved, the speed of this fight is pretty typical. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that the only thing that’s taking Nightwing longer on this one is giving first aid to the scared guy with the injury, and then questioning everyone still conscious. From the questions Nightwing’s asking, it sounds like the one guy was more victim than participant, though he was also apparently the friend of the guy that had cursed out Nightwing, so how innocent is he really? Hm.
Nightwing advises the guy to get better friends, but he doesn’t tie him up, only offers to help him to the curb to wait for police and paramedics.
“Don’t help your friend slip away before the police get here,” Nightwing warns as he watches the guy get to his feet after the offer of help is shrugged off. “I’ll know, so don’t even try it.”
It’s probably not even Nightwing’s sternest tone—Tim had heard Dick as Robin go harsher once—but the guy flinches anyway before grimacing and seeming to steel himself. “He was just mad that the dick shot me at all,” the injured guy protests weakly.
The mocking quotation marks are evident around Nightwing’s next four words. “‘I was big mad’ still isn’t an excuse for going way beyond neutralizing the threat. Even I couldn’t really get away with that, you know.” His frown is flat and unimpressed. He stays half turned away as the injured guy sags against the nearest wall and awkwardly shuffles as far away from the vigilante as he can get before he would have to start climbing over trash bags just to keep next to the wall supporting him.
“Well, sor-ry if I don’t feel particularly upset about a guy that shot me getting choked out half to death,” the injured guy mutters. “Was I supposed to invite him out for coffee and another six rounds?” There’s a heavy silence, before the guy adds petulantly: “And so what about what you couldn’t get away with? I don’t even know who the hell you are.”
The tilt of Nightwing’s head suggests he’s a bit annoyed by the comments, but the way he relaxes back almost immediately also suggests he’s decided to dismiss them. “The name’s Nightwing. F.Y.I. Not Elvis.”
Tim frowns at the lack of recognition. Someone clearly pays no attention to the news about the coolest group of heroes operating in NYC.
Sad.
Nightwing’s attention moves away from the injured guy as he raises a hand to one ear. “Hey, Penny One? Put in a call to emergency services for me, would you? Three injured. One with a GSW, one with an attempted strangulation injury. And the usual varied levels of blunt force trauma for all. Send ‘em to the alley on 23rd between Lennox and Bourdain.” A long pause. “What? No, none of those are, why—” Another pause, and his mouth pops open with a stiff dismay he rushes to say: “No! A, no, listen that’s not—this is—he’s not involved in it, I promise you. Everything’s fine. I’ve got eyes.”
Despite the fact that Tim’s in the darker place, and despite the fact that Nightwing’s head doesn’t shift one iota from its half-turned-away angle, Tim feels distinctly stared at, all the sudden. He sucks in a breath through his mouth (not his nose, he learned better than to do that when out and about in Gotham a long time ago) and ducks fully back behind the large garbage bin.
Uh oh. You know, he … probably should move away from here sooner rather than later. Just far enough that Nightwing can easily track him down again, but also somewhere far away enough, and low-profile enough, that no one but Nightwing would be likely to take note of him.
Since crossing the mouth of the alley seems like a recipe for getting spotted by the two perpetrators of the incident that are still conscious, and not just by Nightwing, Tim starts cautiously doubling back to the last cross street he’d passed, crossing his fingers that he can find some place suitable to linger down there. At least for just long enough that he can be sure Nightwing’s wrapped up the scene and has probably tracked Tim down again—if he really is out here following Tim, anyway.
Tim gets lucky and finds one of those big blue post office boxes around the corner of the same block. It’s even in good condition, being still properly attached to the sidewalk on all four legs, and suffering only one dent large enough to be noticeable in the dark of night. Most of the USPS logo is still visible on its sides, too, instead of being scratched up or scraped away or graffitied over. He squats down, tucked up against the side of the box facing the building, and settles one end of the lip of his skateboard down on the sidewalk in front of him. Alternating his glances up and down both directions of the street, he stays tense and ready to move again if anyone except one of the members of his favorite vigilante family seems to be approaching his position.
As he waits, he considers what to do next. He likes to imagine that secretly, Nightwing is really appreciating this chance to do something other than perch on a roof watching Tim’s boring neighborhood all night.
Except … that crime was pretty low stakes. And he’s confused why he didn’t see a gun anywhere when he was taking pictures, since he’d heard shots. Maybe since Nightwing was already tying people up by time Tim arrived, he’d already secured the thing somewhere out of sight.
Which is fine, really. Guns are more scary than cool. Even if he’s vaguely aware that his … that there’s one in his par- … in the master bedroom. Somewhere. He saw it once. Didn’t seem real, somehow. Seems like a distant dream, this far removed from it, even though there’s every reason to think it’s still around his house somewhere.
Anyway—that doesn't matter. What matters is that Tim didn’t get any action shots of Nightwing’s fight. He shouldn’t be so surprised and disappointed by it—of course Nightwing can take out a few regular chumps in like ten seconds flat. Batman and Robin have always sorted out these kinds of minor crimes before Tim can get there, too, unless it was happening right next to his hiding spot for the night. Tim did still get some amazingly angled closeups of the aftermath of this one that he never would have gotten under normal circumstances. He shouldn’t complain.
But clearly, if he wants action shots any time tonight, he needs a little bit of luck—and to try for more than modest little street crimes. He has to find Nightwing a bigger challenge.
Fortunately, his experience with these nighttime photoshoots means he’s peripherally aware—as a matter of his own safety and survival—of where some of the closest sketchy warehouses are, and conveniently enough, they’re only six blocks west of here. That means there’s time enough to check them out for suspicious activity before Tim should probably start heading back home.
Tim grins to himself as he looks at the little “14” displayed on his camera, the count of how many shots are left on his current roll of film.
It’s time for another great idea.
Chapter 18: You Never Know When a Quality Pair of Wire Cutters Will Come In Handy
Summary:
Nightwing monitors. Tim adventures. (No arrows to the knee, though.)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Dick is panting just slightly by time he’s trailed the kid another six or so blocks, this time to a transitional sort of borderland between a shopping-and-office-space themed business district, and a heavily industrial one.
On the way here he’d stopped three more minor crimes before the kid could get near them, though this had required sustaining a level of speed more typical of a Rogue chase than a casual patrol or simple civilian tail work.
Hence the panting.
It’s only very light panting, of course, as he’s in too good a condition, physically, to get completely winded. Getting up into some real “need to catch my breath” would take something more like a ten-minute-plus hard fight for his very life. But following Tim while busting any crime before the kid gets near them definitely pushes him beyond a natural patrol pace. Batman had always planned the pacing of his own and Robin’s routes so as to conserve their full stamina. Mr. Eternal Preparation had wanted to make sure they would be at full force for the actual criminal encounters.
During this time, Dick has also managed to beat back a budding panic attack after he’d foiled a convenience store robbery and hadn’t been able to find the kid again for far, far too many minutes afterwards. Fortunately, for some reason, the kid had doubled back to the mouth of an alley he’d turned down to do what seemed like a check for anyone following him. Nightwing had been about to start working an old classic: an ever widening spiral search pattern.
Maybe the kid had been looking for something he thought he dropped? He’d been looking more at the ground than the rooftops, but he hadn’t picked anything up before moving on, so Dick ultimately has no idea what that had been about, either.
What turned out to be just as difficult to handle as the pace was how fast Dick had had to talk to keep Alfred from waking Bruce up. For some reason the old man had divined within five seconds of Dick asking him to call in a police pickup that Tim was out of his bed, instead of merely thinking Dick had wandered off to bust a random crime. He supposes he should feel gratified that Alfred hadn’t immediately assumed he’d been totally irresponsible and gone flitting off in the middle of his watch.
Because Dick would have put good money on what Bruce would have assumed first, frankly, and it wouldn’t have been flattering to Nightwing, no doubt. Either way, Dick’s pretty sure that waking Bruce up now would only end with an alarmed Batman careening across the city to this location like a … well. Like a bat out of hell. So to speak. Heheh.
… The Gotham air must be getting to him if his inner monologue is throwing out quips that are this classically Robin.
Anyway.
The point is, Nightwing does not fancy a Batman at his most frowny coming out to steamroll him in the middle of him doing his dang job just fine, thank you very much. Because he is doing his job just fine. A guy can only take so much backhanded insult about his competency—and only stand so much overbearing, unnecessary, batty hovering. The current situation may be worrisome, but he still has it under control.
The kid has definitely slowed down his walking pace, now—it’s the reason Nightwing’s relatively sure this area was his intended destination. He doesn’t really like anything the location says about the intent of this continuing outing, though. This area is absolutely brimming with businesses specializing in small scale manufacturing, logistic services, and warehouse storage. While there aren’t many cases of total building abandonment—which would present the unpleasant possibility of some kind of Rogue having taken up residence unnoticed—this area’s still been getting more and more run down since at least as far back as the last year or two Dick was in the ol’ scaly panties. That makes it the kind of place that the bog-standard mobsters like to handle their more clandestine operations out of, as the legitimate businesses around them offer a sort of camouflage.
The crime happening around here being on the down low doesn’t mean they’re going to welcome uninvited visits with tea and biscuits, however. While it’s not necessarily more dangerous being here than being on any other street in Gotham that’s outside the seedy parts of town, it still could be dangerous to poke about.
Especially if that poking happens in the middle of the night.
… And then, of course, there’s the proverbial Zitka-looking animal in the room, which Nightwing doesn’t really like thinking about, but which his Batman-trained mind invariably wants to rotate with a manic sort of edge.
What if it turns out that Tim isn’t, per se, uninvited?
Using kids for minor tasks might be more a gang thing, but that doesn’t mean the mob never does it. And it might explain how the mob knew to write a blackmail letter in the first place.
If they are—
Well. If they are, Batman will raze their organization to the ground if that’s what it takes to extract the kid, most likely. But that will still leave integrating the kid into the family five times more fraught. Just thinking about the contorting dance of excuses and explanations they’ll have to come up with to keep the whole Batman secret from Tim whenever he stays at the Manor … for however long it takes until they’re sure any mob sympathies, influences, or connections are truly dead and gone … Urgh.
If such a thing is the case, anyway. It might not be. Should be unlikely, even.
But Nightwing is still becoming increasingly worried about what else he’s going to find out tonight.
This whole thing is going really well, Tim thinks. He hopes Nightwing is having a good time stretching his legs a bit, instead of sitting on a single rooftop all night. Sure, Tim thinks might have lost Nightwing’s tail at one point, but pretending to double back to look for something he dropped had fixed that problem quickly, if it ever was one. He’s still not entirely sure if Nightwing had just been staying hidden better again for a brief period, or if Tim actually had misjudged the time needed to resolve the convenience store robbery.
But now he’s here at his destination, and he’s pretty sure Nightwing’s still following him, so he just needs to get a little lucky and pick a warehouse with something suspicious happening inside it tonight. It’s not going to be much longer before he needs to think of heading back home, because sure maybe he’s never seen Lindy get up before six am, but a Batman photo op deserves a Batman-sized level of care in planning, from beginning to end. It would be embarrassing to get caught by her if he didn’t intend it.
Hopefully, if he does find a warehouse with something going on inside, it’ll also be one with good lighting close to the floor, with the rafters left in darkness. Because that’s all Tim needs to snag the most amazing and crystal-clear vigilante action shots of Dick Grayson in his entire life. He can practically taste that crisp focus.
Tim pauses in front of the small five story office building that serves as one of his camp-out spots for his nighttime birdwatching. The AC units and ducts on that rooftop form a sort of hug around the three sides of the little room built over the staircase leading up to the roof. Which means gap between them and one of the walls makes for good cover, so long as no one tries to peer over them.
Since he’s not usually looking at the area from the ground, however, it all looks a little off, and he needs the extra time to transpose his mental map of which warehouse had had a suspicious shipment being moved into it when he was perched on the roof here two weeks ago. One of the guys helping with unloading had been shaved bald, had some kind of tattoo on the back of his neck, and had sported a big crooked nose. Tim had recognized him from one of Robin II’s biggest mob busts, a year or so back (well—biggest at the time it had happened, anyway, Tim doubts it’s still the biggest on record for him now ….)
Odds aren’t exactly great on a short prison stint having reformed Robin II’s previous arrestee, and besides, everything about the furtive way all the guys had been unloading that truck—communicating with hushed voices and working in the dark, except for an occasionally switched on flashlight—it had all screamed suspicious.
So he’d try that warehouse first, but if it turned out to be a bust, he’d be stuck guessing at random until he needed to head home.
He goes over that past night in his mind. It had been one roof over diagonally, but the alley between the buildings made a gap so wide that he’d had to climb down and back up to get to where the quiet voices and occasional flashes of light were coming from, so from here it … must be the left side, then two more down after that, and that would make the corner of the warehouse … that one.
He winds through the requisite alleys and backlanes and eyes the building across the street from the block he’d just passed through. It looks about as dead as one would expect at this time of night. Since there aren’t windows on the sides of the warehouse, however, there’s no telling what’s actually happening inside. He’s not sure if there’s a skylight, but trying for some kind of roof access first definitely feels like the safer (and admittedly more Robin-y) option.
As usual, it’s getting the first leg up onto the roof that’s the problem. While Tim’s designated Bat-watching rooftops are ultimately chosen for having a good hiding place, the first factor is whether he’s been able to find a way onto those rooftops at all. He thinks he’s pretty clever and resourceful, but at the end of the day he isn’t a vigilante with an insane amount of acrobatics experience or WayneTech-backed equipment. He’s just a kid who only has his own short legs and arms to help him get there.
The warehouse itself takes up the whole block it’s on, so there’s only the two side alleys offering possible access points to its roof. The alley on the right is going to be too wide to jump across, so access to the neighboring building roof is irrelevant. The one fire escape for the warehouse turns out to be on this side, too. In the fashion more typical of a residential or office building, it goes up one story at a time, taking three whole platforms to reach the roof.
On the one hand, it’s surprising to find the warehouse has a fire escape at all, as there’s no real reason for anyone but maintenance staff to need roof egress. On the other hand, since there aren’t even any windows, why isn’t this thing just a straight up ladder? It seems weird to put all these platforms in when every one of them ends up sitting next to a plain brick wall.
Whatever. The extra effort it must have taken isn’t Tim’s problem.
What is Tim’s problem is that the unfolding ladder of the fire escape’s lowest platform is maintained and secured properly, leaving the whole thing taunting him one story up off the ground and well out of reach. And just as this alley is too wide for Tim to make a jump from the next door building’s rooftop, it’s too wide for any sort of parkour to work to reach the fire escape’s lowest platform, either. Plus, there aren’t any loose trash cans or piled bags sitting in the alley, so trying to build a little trash mountain to reach it is out.
Tim gives a disgusted sigh. Where are the affronts to building security, fire safety and sanitary practices when you need them? Not for the first time, he wishes he had one of Robin’s grapples, but he’s a little intimidated just trying to imagine what kind of “arms day” hellcamp you had to take part in just to be able to stay holding on during the retract on one of those things.
It must be fun, though …
Then again, if Mr. Wayne never acknowledges him as anything to him, there’s no chance Tim’ll ever be trusted enough to use one, anyway, so he shouldn’t get too excited. Shoving the thought aside, he starts checking on possible roof access to adjacent buildings on the other side, verifying that all alleys and differences in roof heights between here and the roof he ultimately wants to get to won’t be too wide for him to jump.
At the building that’s two over, the next building beyond it towers several stories higher, but thankfully, it’s at the one before that where he spots his way up. Part of the lot the low-rise office building sits on has not been built on, meaning the building forms a sort of ninety-degree chevron that hugs an empty area. The empty area itself, on the two sides where no building borders it, is fenced in with a wooden privacy fence topped with barbed wire—or, what used to be a privacy fence topped with barbed wire, as there are a lot of broken boards and even whole sections missing that are wide enough for an adult to slip through. The largest missing sections have been draped in some kind of canvas to make them less obvious, though whoever the draper thought they’d be fooling in Gotham, Tim doesn’t know. Even the menace of the barbed wire is muted with the way the coils are misshapen and smashed down to the point it’s hard to tell it was ever a coil at all.
Tim slips through a gap in the fence warily, though his wariness is not because of the sketchy, run-down condition it’s in. Barbed wire or splintered wood can only hurt him if he’s stupid or clumsy—but the same can’t be said about all the kinds of people you can find rattling around inside of a place they’re not supposed to be.
It takes a bit for his eyes to adjust enough to be sure of the contents of the deepest shadows, but ultimately he determines there are no rounded shapes out of place, either against the ground or the clean lines of the building’s brick walls and regularly spaced windows. The ground itself isn’t paved, but it is level overall and sports a cover layer of small rocks and gravel. Said rock and gravel is hanging on in a similarly questionable level of upkeep as the fence. There’s a lot of spots where it’s thinned so much that the ground has reverted to exposed dirt, dotted with weedy patches of prickly grass.
Emboldened by the apparent solitude, Tim makes a beeline to where the fence meets the building close to the fire escape, leaving his skateboard propped against the wall so he can retrieve it later. If he can just climb to the top of the fence, he only has to do a little reach and pull up to get onto the bottom platform of the fire escape—and from there, it should be smooth sailing over to the roof of that warehouse.
Tim would feel a bit bad about the next part—where he hooks one arm over a barbed-wire-free spot in the top of the fence like a barrel of monkeys monkey while his free limb finagles his wire cutters to snip the barbed wire so he can push it away from the spot he needs to get up to—except that with all the human-sized gaps that were in the fence boards, it’s not like the barbed wire means anything.
Also, he’s doing the cutting from the inside, so it’s not really the same thing as, like, breaking and entering. He entered, yes—but without breaking anything. And then completely separately, he broke something. So while, yes, there was entering, and, yes, there was breaking. There still was no breaking and entering, and what there was, hadn’t even happened in that order. Which makes what Tim is doing more just some … minor trespassing … with light vandalism.
Anyway. Tim’s vandalism is for a good cause, not just so he can paint graffiti and smoke questionable substances! Like how Batman and Robin and Nightwing beat people up without getting arrested for assault, because it’s for a good cause. Anyway, in his case, someone needs to verify the fire escape’s integrity, right? With the way the rest of the place is being kept up, Tim thinks this is a very valid question to ask about an important fire safety measure.
With a satisfactory amount of space at the top of the fence de-barbed, Tim stuffs the wire cutters back in one large cargo pants pocket and hauls himself up. He takes a brief moment to catch his breath, then reaches for the fire escape platform and pulls himself up and over the railing. Since standing on the fence put him high enough up that his shoulders were level with the platform, getting up onto it is easier than hauling himself to the top of the fence had been.
From there, Tim successfully jumps the two alleys to get back to the warehouse, wincing slightly at the light thud he touches down with on the edge of the roof. He’s really been trying to get better at soundless landings, but he still hasn’t figured out how to pull them off.
He scurries with much more quiet steps across the roof towards the fire escape that he’d seen on the other side of the warehouse, noting the location of the roof’s hatch down into the inside, and the lack of a skylight, as he goes.
Dang. That’s inconvenient. Out of all the warehouses in Gotham, how is it he went and picked the one that cares about all the safety codes and having good sec ops? His kingdom for an out of date 1920s build, with so many windows and skylights you’d think they were using glass to save on brick and metal. Sigh.
Tim doesn’t spare the time to check whether the hatch is even unlatched, unsure if his landing would have been loud enough to be heard by anyone who might be inside the building. Instead, he steps a little ways down the top flight of stairs on the fire escape, counting on the fact that if anyone comes to the roof to investigate that thud, they’re probably going to be checking his landing spot opposite side of the building first, and possibly won’t look at whether anyone’s on the escape at all. At the very least, they won’t catch him hanging out on the escape before he knows they’re looking around for him.
Tim had gotten yelled at by an old couple that had heard his landing on their roof, once, so he thinks it’s fair to be a bit paranoid. Somewhere between the concept of “old man yells at cloud” and “old man yells ‘Get off my lawn, you little brats!’” was that particular couple, craning their necks to shout, shake their fists, and make shooing motions, as if the (very much panicking) Tim were a particularly large and obnoxious bird they didn’t want leaving poo on their roof. He still cringes thinking about that moment, but at least no one else knows. And whenever he does feel the cringe about it, he soothes it by remembering how he one-hundred-percent is taking that incident to his grave. Nothing to be embarrassed about if no one who knows him ever knows it happened, right?
Fifteen minutes to be sure no one’s coming to check, Tim decides. Then he can see if he can get in through the hatch—he still doesn’t know if anyone is inside the place.
Look, if the kid really had come here because he’s helping some criminals inside … why is he going to all this trouble trying to stay undetected, right? Why not just walk in the front door? It’s gotta be something else.
Right?
Nightwing keeps giving himself a pep talk as he watches Tim wait in the only possible hiding spot the warehouse roof has to offer—the fire escape. It’s not a particularly great hiding spot, to be sure, but it is the only place on the roof one can get out of the line of sight of anyone who might emerge from the access hatch going down into the building, so … clearly, the kid’s trying to avoid being seen by anyone coming up from inside the place.
Nightwing sighs to himself. If he wants to keep with his MO, he should take this pause to scout out the interior before the kid decides it’s time to try the roof hatch for himself. He can’t count on the thing being locked and ending whatever this whole … warehouse incursion attempt is right there. If he’s lucky, he can find it and make sure it’s locked before the kid even tries to open it.
All Dick really needs to do, he decides, is pick the lock on one of the regular entrances and get inside. On the off chance people are in there, he’ll at least get the chance to size up what he’s dealing with before Tim tries the roof hatch—either that, or he’ll be a great distraction no matter how much those hatch hinges squeak.
Notes:
Ahh sorry about the delay. It may be the new norm, but I don't know. I'm still trying to keep one chapter ahead of the one I'm posting. And the next chapter after this one has been fighting me (See, Batman decided he wasn't going to stay in bed and leave Tim and Nightwing alone after all, lol. Don't know why I ever expected the man to stick to MY plan. smh.)
Chapter 19: The Warehouse
Summary:
The Dark Knight rejoins the field!
At least he's already practiced at getting no sleep?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“What is it? What’s happened?” Bruce growls as he stalks from the bottom of the Cave stairs towards the Batcomputer where Alfred sits with a headset on. The Batman-like dramatics of it are rather muted by the fact that rather than being in cape and cowl, he’s come from bed and is wearing a dressing gown—and he’d apparently tied the belt well, because the garment doesn’t billow out an inch.
Alfred rotates the chair to face Bruce’s approach, one brow quirked. “As of yet, sir, nothing immediately urgent.”
Eyes narrowing and sweeping the patrol ops display, which is showing a comm connection and general location ping point for Nightwing, Bruce stiffens. “Alfred,” he says very flatly, “Why is Nightwing on Burnside and 20th?”
“Why indeed,” Alfred replies archly, turning back to the computer screens. “He is assigned to watch over Master Timothy, after all.”
Bruce blanches. It’s happened. The mob came, perhaps even in overwhelming numbers or with someone devastatingly skilled on their side, and now Nightwing’s scrambling, doing everything he can just to keep up with wherever they’ve taken the boy. He turns to go for his suit.
“And just where are you dashing off to?” Alfred’s voice interrupts Bruce’s train of thought, which is already rushing ahead to thoughts of possible enemy numbers and weapons.
Bruce pauses, all coiled energy, to glare. “Should I stay here and leave Nightwing to handle the mob alone?”
Alfred turns back around, eyebrow still arched. “Heavens, who said anything about the mob? Have you switched places with Robin, that you are suddenly so inclined to go rushing in without gathering all the details?”
I don’t know why I ever let him convince me a gentleman never plays with his food, Bruce grumbles to himself as it dawns on him that Alfred had far more to say. He’s highly tempted to drag a hand down his face as he returns to the Batcomputer, but he puts said hand on the back of the chair instead, to give himself something solid to grip. “Explain.”
Alfred, as usual, seems to know exactly how far he can go before he takes it so far as to completely annoy. “As far as Nightwing has been able to tell, Master Timothy has gone on a little nighttime excursion entirely of his own accord,” Alfred says. “Since then, Master Dick has been making extensive efforts to curtail any risks he can find lurking ahead of … wherever the boy seems to be traveling to.”
Bruce frowns down at Alfred briefly, but the other man is keeping his eyes trained on the monitors. The comm headset, Bruce notes, has a muted mic. Had it been muted this whole time, or had Alfred muted it between Bruce’s appearance downstairs and now? The fact that it even took this long to catalog that detail …
Maybe Alfred, in delaying him, had been making more than one point.
Sloppy.
Bruce’s attention returns to what Alfred had just said, shoving aside the burst of self-recrimination, but the lingering frustration colors his tone. “I know I said our mission is supposed to be only monitoring and protection, but didn’t Nightwing think to stop him and tell him to go back to bed? Where could a boy his age be trying to go at this time of night?”
Nowhere safe, surely.
He doesn’t let himself twitch as Alfred mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like: ah indeed, stay home, stay in bed, why did no one think of that? One quivers to imagine how effective such admonishments would be.
Couldn’t someone at least give it one try? How is Bruce the most optimistic one in this situation? That doesn’t seem right.
But without further prompting, Alfred continues far more audibly, and primly: “I did question him on the point, sir. He argued that if we wanted to be sure we knew the boy’s intended destination, tailing him instead of attempting to confront him, at least at first, would be the more reliable way to gather that information.”
Bruce grunts begrudgingly. Yes, he supposes Dick would think so, considering all the antics that had led to Robin coming about in the first place. Perhaps he’s not wrong on that point. But Bruce suspects it will only get them so far, if only for the fact that tailing him tonight doesn’t tell them whether this outing is a special occasion or a regular occurrence, and the concern Bruce has for it looks quite different, depending. He wants to ask what the hell that overnight nanny is doing that it’s possible for a boy that age to get away with roaming a dangerous city at night, especially if it’s repeatedly—but, well, again. Dick. How Robin started. It’s not as if Bruce is a shining beacon of kids-who-stay-in-bed.
Not that he’s anywhere close to openly admitting that.
But Dick absolutely will call him out on his own failures if he so much as tries to castigate the nanny for letting Timothy sneak out at night, so he’ll have to make sure if he does get a chance to confront her about the severity of this lapse, it’s not in front if his former ward, or Bruce may field snarky, sniping comments about it for days. Weeks, even. Maybe even get into an outright argument.
He can already see how that conversation would play out. He’ll say This should never have been allowed and then Dick will chime in, Ha, but clearly being a slippery little bugger runs in the family, so the nanny never stood a chance! How’s it just to judge her for that?
Then Bruce would argue that actually, Dick had come with experience at things like bodily contortion and sleight of hand tricks, even at nine, which made him good at being slippery in ways no average city boy usually is. That Bruce himself has extensive training in advanced methods of evasion, deception, and camouflage is thanks to the League, not his first decade of life. Therefore, it should be reasonable to assume Timothy has had neither of those experiences, and therefore has no such skills. Hell, the boy has only rarely bumped into either Bruce or Dick at a gala or two, Bruce is relatively certain after reviewing gala guest lists and other records half a decade back—that’s certainly not enough to influence his personal education on such skills.
And being a slippery little bugger isn’t possibly genetic or something that “runs in the family” in any way, because that’s—just not how that works. At all.
He doesn’t think.
Then Dick will arch an eyebrow, one that can so perfectly imitate one of Alfred’s at his most sardonic that it rarely fails to make Bruce twitch internally, as he says: well you say that, Batman, but just look at the evidence.
Then Bruce would start getting annoyed at having his own methods and investigative standards flung so casually and illogically in his face and they’d both end up devolving into launching increasingly grasping points and counterpoints at each other because neither of them really have a damn idea what is going on here.
In short, an argument in its most pointless form.
No, better not to start that conversation at all.
“Just how long is he—” Bruce begins, but falls silent at Alfred’s sharp little ‘wait’ motion.
Alfred unmutes the mic. “Yes, I am still here, sir.”
In the pause, knowing Alfred is too professional to try to interfere with Bruce again when there’s communications to handle, Bruce turns to where his suit waits. Not for the first time, and almost certainly not for the last time, he wonders morbidly if it wouldn’t be better for everyone if he simply takes up sleeping in the thing the nights he either comes home early, or stays home altogether. No doubt the sort of needling look Alfred is now shooting Bruce from his position in front of the Batcomputer would increase in frequency thirty-fold, though, so it isn’t worth it.
At least, not for now.
“He brought wire cutters with him?” Alfred says in a distinctly raised and strident tone that means this is entirely meant for Bruce to hear.
Bruce frowns to himself as he tosses his barely-worn dressing gown aside and starts to pull on a clean undersuit. He suppresses the temptation to mouth the word wire cutters, letting out a huff of breath instead.
“On the bright side, one might also conclude it’s not as well planned as it could have been. Else the wires would have already been cut,” Alfred continues, recovering his more usual sardonic tone.
Of course, Bruce thinks. Wonderful.
Bruce pulls the rest of his suit on, except for the cowl, as Alfred’s exchange with Nightwing continues. “All this simply to reach the roof of a warehouse? Curious indeed. Let me see if Batman has left us any notes on this so-called 1135 North 21st.” Alfred mutes the mic, though rather than open up any information stored on the computer, his head turns to stare at Bruce expectantly.
Bruce glances at the section of map displayed, and Nightwing’s blinking tracker dot positioned on the other side of the street from the warehouse in question. He scrubs hand over his mouth as he gathers his thoughts. “Penguin’s been moving inventory in and out of that warehouse regularly for at least the last six months. But last I did a sweep, it was only being used for the above-board portions of his operation.” His grimace deepens as, finished with pulling on the bulk of the suit, he moves to rejoin Alfred at the Batcomputer. He clicks his utility belt on and continues to settle and secure the suit more properly as he goes, ultimately leaving himself ready except for pulling the cowl on. “In both crates and on-site inventories I only found supplies for mixed drinks, disposable napkins with the Iceberg Lounge’s logo printed on them, sandwich spears topped by ice cube-shaped decorations, and mass produced, lounge-branded vodka in penguin-shaped bottles. Those sorts of things.”
“I see,” Alfred says, in that particular manner he uses for politely disguising his disdain from any but those who know him as well as Bruce does. He clicks the comm’s mute off. “There appears to be a record of one Oswald Cobblepot using this warehouse for inventory storage. But as far as Batman is aware, it stores only the unfortunately legal kind of inventory. For that gauche lounge of his.” A pause as he listens to the response, then he says, “Mm. Very good, then, I shall await your further communication.”
Alfred flips the mic back to mute and shoots Bruce a frown. “I did not realize the suit had become required attire during a Batcave visit.”
“You called me down here after only a few hours of sleep,” Bruce returns, “If it’s not such an immediate emergency that I need to go out, then … what else did you have to tell me?” he says, giving an expectant look.
Alfred begins moving about the map on the Batcomputer, plotting a line among already-existing incident markers, and saying as he does so: “There is nothing that is immediately indicative of anything. All the crimes the lad has so far stumbled into could very well have been inadvertent encounters, and were handedly brought under control, without a chance of him being caught up in them. Yet at the same time, there are other things about this whole series of actions that leave me … I suppose, one could put it, ‘distinctly uneasy.’ I merely advise restraint for the moment since you yourself have observed to me how touchy Master Dick has been about even a whiff of undue interference or questioning of his work from you.”
“From only me,” Bruce mutters.
Alfred hums dismissively, then lets a pointed silence hang before continuing: “Perhaps if you announced you were changing your name to Hoverman, he’d become more amenable to such incursions as a matter of due course.”
Bruce huffs. “If Nightwing finds anything going on inside, I won’t leave him to juggle trying to guard Timothy and dealing with criminal activity at the same time.”
“And I never suggested doing anything else,” Alfred returns. “Hence why I woke you. Out of my considered foresight and general sense of prudence.” Alfred pauses, then continues in a more explanatory tone, “I have observed something interesting about the route of tonight’s travels. “Alfred taps one gloved finger at the previously plotted line. “Most of your standard patrol routes and monitored areas ignore Master Timothy’s neighborhood. This is for several reasons, chief among them the low building rises and lower crime rate.”
Bruce considers the area, and the patrol routes he can think of offhand that come near it. It’s true that it’s one of the safest neighborhoods within Gotham’s city limits. In some ways, it had made Timothy ending up on mob radar extra puzzling. “Mm. What crime does happen there tends to be petty or domestic. The worst I can think of off the top of my head was one of Catwoman’s strings of robberies hitting up some of the richest residents, a few years back.”
Alfred nods slightly, though it’s more absently than anything else, as he’s begun plotting a second line. “What struck me is that this is the patrol route that comes closest to the lad’s house. GZ-2.”
Bruce keeps his expression flat with some effort as the previous plot of Timothy’s route makes a veritable beeline for the patrol route, and then turns to approximately follow the patrol route as soon as the two intersect.
“Now … ” Alfred continues, a cautious note in his tone, “It could be mere coincidence, sir.”
But Alfred is, as he himself said, competent in judging that the right call would be waking him immediately.
Bruce hums lowly, then turns for the array of nearby vehicles.
“And what happened to waiting until Nightwing finds real trouble?” Alfred tuts, though it sounds rather resigned.
Opening the door to the Batmobile, but pauses to stand at it and look back to Alfred. The other man’s face twitches briefly with barely disguised consternation as he squints down at Bruce from the higher platform the Batcomputer sits on. Bruce offers with a shrug: “Despite what you seem to think, I am taking your suggestion not to interrupt unless necessary. That doesn’t mean I have to ‘not interrupt’ from this far away.”
“Of course,” Alfred sighs, but turns back to the monitor.
Bruce stuffs his weariness back down and pulls the cowl over his head. “Don’t sound so concerned, Al. I’m sure Nightwing will be far too busy to notice me unless I do need to intervene.” He pauses to put a point on his last statement before he swings into the seat of the Batmobile and pulls the door shut, smirking as he does so: “After all, I know exactly how distracting a ten year old out on a nighttime mission can be.”
Get in, evaluate, Nightwing chants to himself as he uses a small portion of his concentration to work on the lock on the front door of the warehouse. Anything suspicious? Find the roof hatch, secure it.
The rest of him is concentrated on resisting the urge to look up, where he suspects he’d see a small pair of eyes watching him. His plan is starting to take on more shape. If there is something going inside and he can just be fast enough, Tim won’t ever get in the building at all. The margins on that are going to be tight, but the chance is there. It’s almost starting to feel like some real nightwork now.
The knob turns in his hand as the last latch releases.
Ten seconds.
If Batman were here, he’d get a look that says I think you need to spend a few hours in the Cave drilling lockpicking, but fortunately for Dick, Batman is not here right now.
The door swings open silently.
Hm. Well oiled.
It might not mean anything, but something about outside does seem a bit too well-kept for a normal Gotham business on the up and up—people thinking more about being a target rather than doing the targeting tend to prefer a door with hinges that squeak, and not keeping things too neat and well-kept, especially in a district like this one.
But—no assumptions. He simply makes a mental note, pending further evidence.
He slips inside, finding himself in a space lit only by the red glow of the emergency exit light. The room is large, but with a normal drop ceiling and carpeting—not the high ceiling and bare cement floors of a true warehouse area. There is a door on the left wall and what seems like a reception desk in the opposite far corner. A hallway starts to the left of the desk, and from what he can see of the mostly-dark length of it, it seems to go far enough that it likely stretches to the other end of the building. There’s a door at the far end of the hallway. A wall plate set next to the hallway opening indicates stairs can be found in that direction.
Bingo.
… But one last thing before he hits those up.
He’s determined to make his look quick as he tries the nearby door on the left wall first. The knob turns smoothly, and he pauses in caution as echoing voices filter through the crack he’s opened in the doorway. Through it, he takes in the sight of a deeply shadowed high ceiling with bare girders supporting it, shelving two stories high, and stacks of palletized products. The shelves and stacks block the ultimate source of a distant light and the echoing voices, even as he opens the door wider to peer at the room more fully.
“Raise!” one voice shouts, and gets cursing mixed with laughter and jeers in response.
Eyes narrowing, Nightwing retreats, closing the door softly.
It’s not necessarily suspicious yet, but there being a bunch of guys in here playing a late-night (early morning) gambling game doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in everything being on the up-and-up. Besides, better the kid doesn’t get anywhere near a bunch of strangers that likely work for Penguin. Even if it is on the supposedly legal side.
On high alert for a roaming patrol of some sort, Nightwing quickly prowls towards and up the stairs. When he reaches the second story landing, he finds that there’s another flight of stairs continuing upward, and a door. The door opens to a hallway, lit only by a single security light that stays on when all the others are off, and lined with a few doors on one side. One of the doors has light emanating from the crack at the bottom. A single door at the far end of the hall has a plaque on it. It’s a bit dark to make out the text, but he’d be willing to bet on that door leading into some kind of manager’s office. Worth coming back to that if he has a chance, to rifle through paperwork for any hints of Penguin changing up where he stores materials for his illegal operations.
The closest doorway to the stairwell sits opened to a darkened room. Nightwing creeps forward, ensuring the stairwell door closes without a noise behind him, and peers inside. The far wall is filled with a long row of large, single-pane windows, through which he can again see the barely-illuminated shapes of the warehouse shelving. He scans the ceiling of the room, but nothing looks like the signs of an opening that would drop down to give access to a roof hatch. From his own brief glimpse of the roof, he knows that if the hatch isn’t here, it’s likely over the stairwell instead. Furnishings in the room are sparse, but on the right side of the door there is a desk nook with a computer monitor that faces the windows. Besides the monitor and a mouse, the desk is barren, lacking any personal touches like photos or a nameplate, except for a pile of small booklets. They look suspiciously like passports—small and thin, with plain covers of various mid- and dark-toned colors.
They are passports, he discovers, as he moves closer to the desk and briefly thumbs through the four in the pile. All women—or, well, women, and girls, he amends mentally with a deep frown as he notes birthdates that make two of the four passports for a fifteen and sixteen year old. Various countries. They appear current and valid—and nothing about them seems particularly fake, but either way, their being piled here in a Penguin-owned warehouse is fishy as hell.
Either Penguin shouldn’t have these, or there’s a heckuva lot more that he definitely shouldn’t be keeping hold of somewhere.
If Nightwing wasn’t supposed to be on baby-bird-watch … he shakes his head, grimacing. Despite the fact he feels hurried to take care of the roof hatch, he really can’t just walk away from whatever this newly-discovered bull is, so he hurriedly takes the passports into the light in the hall and uses his mini evidence camera to snap photos of the identification pages before returning them to their place. Only then does he slip back out—regretfully having to ignore whatever might be going on in the room with light coming from under the door—to head up the stairs going up from the second floor landing. Rather than being a full flight up to a third story, the stairs end at the half-point landing, where a metal ladder at the far end offers a way to reach the underside of the roof hatch in the ceiling. Nightwing frowns up at it, wondering whether Tim could even push the hatch back open from inside. Hauling it open from outside is likely possible for someone child-sized, but this interior setup looks like it would be difficult for anyone that isn’t working with an adult-sized body.
Though at this point he doesn’t doubt the kid might just manage to find some kind of way … even if it’s only through sheer audacity.
Nightwing wants to scrub a hand down his face and groan.
But he doesn’t have time for that, as at that very moment he spots the slow movement of the hatch’s interior handle turning, no doubt mirroring how the handle on the exterior is being manipulated. Heart leaping up his throat all over again, he quickly hauls himself to the top of the ladder and flicks two previously unsecured bolts into place. He leaves one hand hovering near the hatch, in trepidation that somehow the locks won’t hold.
The handle stops turning.
But—the latches hold. The handle wiggles back and forth a few more times, pausing for what must be upward jolts to an exceptionally snugly secured hatch, before returning to the closed position and staying there.
Nightwing lets out a slow breath, slumping slightly in his dangle from the ladder.
“Operation: Baby-Bird-Proof Penguin’s Suspicious Warehouse, O.K.,” he mutters to himself. “ … For now,” adds after a pause, looking back up at the hatch and grimacing.
There’s still the front door. He never did re-lock it on his way in here.
Notes:
Like another author in my fic watchlist, with how stressed everything is I just wanna throw out the update even though next chapter isn't 100% finished per my usual policy. I need the extra distraction even if no one else does. x_x
Chapter 20: An Education in Stealth
Summary:
Tim would never admit the exact catalyst to his education, not even to himself, but learning how to do things like secretly embezzle enough cash from the Batarang budget to build an entire Batmobile was an ability he started to hone early.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Once, when Tim was still too young for school, his mother had found him in the pantry with a half eaten package of chocolate chip cookies.
Half eaten because Tim had just eaten every last one in that missing half.
The foibles of youth, and all that. They were down where Tim could reach without climbing at all, for some reason. They usually weren’t.
He’d locked eyes with her as they both froze, Tim with little cookie crumbs still clinging to his fingers and one hand half lowered into the package, fingers brushing against a cookie.
“Timothy Jackson Drake,” his mother had said forbiddingly, drawing in a breath as if she was about to yell a lot more, but then she just held it a beat before releasing it. “We do not eat this many cookies all at once. We do not eat cookies without mommy’s permission,” she continued in a stern but level voice.
(Hey, in Tim’s defense: it had seemed like a really good idea at the time. And had continued to seem so until the moment he’d been found at it.)
Tim had scrunched his head down in response to the scolding, on the off chance he could pull it in a shell and hide like a turtle. His stomach had churned and his eyes had pricked with tears. “I’m sorry, mommy.”
She’d sighed again, then bent to pick up the package, tucking it away on the highest shelf of a nearby upper cupboard where even she’d have to tip-toe to reach. Even if Tim stood on the counter he wouldn’t be able to get to them now, not unless he could figure out how to climb up the upper cupboard shelves, or he grew by a number of inches.
His mom had huffed as he’d sidled the rest of the way out of the pantry, still shame-faced. “We’ll see just what your father says when he gets home tonight,” she had said with a fist on one hip, “But I would expect you won’t be getting any dessert tonight.”
She was not very sympathetic to his bout of crying at his stomach still burbling unhappily while he thought of missing out on the ice cream bar that he and—well, his father at the time had had a little tradition of splitting at the end of dinner. The man had said something about Tim being his little “diet and fitness helper” when they’d first started it, while his mom had rolled her eyes, then smiled fondly at Tim. But since it meant regularly scheduled ice cream, Tim couldn’t have cared less about the adults’ reasons. He’d just been ecstatic to help out.
Though, as it had further turned out that particular evening, Tim had lost his appetite for ice cream, regardless of his mom’s prohibition. His valiant struggle to eat his dinner like normal under the lingering air of disapproval of both adults—who unfortunately but unsurprisingly had seemed to still be holding a bit of a grudge about him eating all those cookies—had only resulted in his churning stomach going into a full-on rebellion, and he’d thrown up halfway through the meal.
“For gods’ sake, Jack,” his mom had said in exasperation after Tim had finished adding his puddle of half-digested cookies and dinner to the floor off to one side of his booster seat, and both Drakes had sat staring for a long moment in complete silence.
Tim’s stomach had grumbled unhappily, but this time he could swallow back the threat of a round two.
“I’ve got it, Jan, I’ve got it. Throw some towels on that mess, would you?” the man’s sighed response had finally come, his fork clattering as he tossed it to his plate. He’d pulled a sniffly and still slightly nauseated Tim from the booster seat. “You’re not going to lose it again all over me, are you?” he’d asked, waiting only for the shake of Tim’s head before carting him off upstairs.
Jack had been efficient about the whole affair otherwise, holding his silence as he got Tim changed, and then chivvied him through the process of getting his mouth rinsed and brushed clean. Since Tim only gradually started to feel less queasy, he kind of appreciated the matter-of-fact and silently stern approach. He might have still been fighting to ignore his lingering sore stomach, but at least he hadn’t been mired down by a long scolding on top of all that.
He’d only vocalized protest as Jack had pulled back the covers of his bed, then lifted him to sit on top of it, before making as if to leave.
It was still light outside!
“Daddy, no,” Tim had whined, sliding from the bed and trotting to catch up before the man had quite gotten to the door of Tim’s room. “I’m not tired!”
“Timothy,” Jack had said sternly, grabbing Tim’s forearm and arresting his trot before he could crash into one of Jack’s legs and glom onto it. “What just happened at the dinner table?”
Tim had pouted upward at the stern look Jack sent down at him. But he’d definitely just been full-first-named, by which he knew the man was already quite irritated. He couldn’t quite stop himself from averting his eyes as he had admitted “I threw up” as innocently as possible.
It apparently had done little to charm Jack, however, because Tim had found himself lifted up by his armpits, and the look the man had given as he plunked Tim down on the bed a second time had been deeply unimpressed.
“Children who throw up during dinner are obviously sick,” the elder Drake had said, reaching and pulling back the bed covers. “And where should someone be when they are sick?”
Tim had given the open spot in the covers a sideways glance. “Uhm.”
“Where, Timothy?”
Tim’s shoulders had hiked up to his ears. “Getting better?”
“And how does one get better?” The cool tone hadn’t changed, but some kind of tension in his voice had ratcheted up all the same.
Tim had felt a flare of annoyance at being corralled, but he hadn’t dared push back at this point. “Resting,” he had murmured.
“Exactly,” Jack had said, some of the tension bleeding out as he did so. One of his hands had come up and pressed at Tim’s back, and Tim had half-reluctantly crawled over to the open spot and flopped face-first into the pillow, not making any effort to get his legs under the blankets.
Jack had only tisk’d and yanked the blankets further down before letting them flop back down over Tim in turn, sending a puff of cool air up.
A long silence. “Are you trying to suffocate yourself down there?”
Tim had grumbled and shuffled to rearrange, rolling onto his side and gathering the edge of the blankets, pulling them up until only a small bit of his hair and one gimlet eye had been left to peek up at Jack.
Jack had nodded, attitude going back to coolly stern. “Goodnight, son. Stay in your bed until morning.”
Tim had mumbled and wiggled to settle in, bunching the blankets around his head more tightly and curling up into a fetal position as Jack turned back towards the door.
Jack had turned the overhead light out as he’d left, and Tim’s nightlight, one where the cover over the bulb looked like an old-style outdoor gas lamp, had flicked on in response—the curtains on the windows had been blocking out enough of the late evening sun to make the room dark enough for the sensor to trigger.
Tim had laid huddled under the blankets in the semi-dark for a while, pouty and moody. He’d even cried a few brief tears and given a few sniffles of self pity as he contemplated the long exile night of ahead of him.
But with nothing to do and nothing egging him to keep up his most piqued level of outrage, he had slowly relaxed, uncurling and clutching the blankets around him a little less tightly and completely. Rather than still feeling sick, he’d started to feel a little hungry again. That slight discomfort, plus the early hour, meant he hadn’t started feeling sleepy in the slightest. But the only thing he could do had been to lie there wide awake and feel vaguely unhappy about it.
At some indeterminate point later, when it had definitely gotten fully dark outside, and the hunger had started to intensify, and Tim had begun to feel really sorry for all the choices that had, to his own surprise, led him to this point—it had been then that his door had cracked open again.
Seeing mommy’s figure slipping into the room had been something of a relief, because even if daddy was still mad at him, maybe she wasn’t?
He had wriggled up into a lean against the pillows and headboard, watching her approach both warily and curiously. She had a small tea plate in one hand and a green sippy cup in the other. When both had been settled on the bedside table, she had turned on the small lamp that also sat on it, and taken a seat on the edge of the bed.
Her eyes had examined him a moment. “Does your stomach still hurt at all?” she had asked, leaning in a bit to put one hand to his forehead briefly.
“Nuh-uh,” Tim had said, shrugging.
She had hummed, then had picked up the sippy cup and held it out to him expectantly, so Tim had taken it, squinting down at the mostly opaque lid. “Have a few sips and see how you feel,” she’d then instructed.
It was only water, Tim had discovered, but that had been alright. The plate had five saltine crackers on it. He had nibbled at two of these under her further urging, and she had watched him afterward with a sharp and considering gaze.
“I feel fine. Not sick,” Tim had half-protested, half-whined, as her scrutiny had lingered.
“I see that. I hope we’ve learned our lesson about eating too much dessert all at once.” His mommy had hummed leadingly, her brows raised as she had crossed her arms.
“Sorry, Mommy,” Tim had said contritely—while wincing internally.
“Even if you hadn’t gotten sick, exactly what were you going to do when I noticed how many of my cookies disappeared since the last time I ate one?”
Tim had paused, then, because—
Oh. He hadn’t thought about that.
But it had sounded like enough of a genuinely curious question, despite still being mixed with her heavy disapproval, that Tim had dared to venture the first idea that came to him, delivering it with the same hopeful, innocent aplomb that Jack Drake hadn’t been impressed by: “Um. I’d tell you daddy ate them?”
Mommy’s brows had lifted even higher. “And when daddy said he didn’t, and I believed him?”
In the brief pause that followed, Tim had thought about this hard, and concluded there to be only one other possibility. He had nodded solemnly, so she would know he really had taken the question under serious consideration. “The rats.”
“Rats?” Her tone had gone up an octave.
Tim had nodded again. “Rats,” he had confirmed, then added to clarify: “Gotham rats. Mikey told me he saw one once, and it was big as a dog. Bigger even than New York rats!”
Mommy had blinked at him, speechless. She had seemed so shocked that Tim supposed maybe she’d never heard about what Gotham rats can be like. Tim had promised himself then that if he and Mommy ever came across a big Gotham rat, he’d try to be brave enough to fight it off for her, because it seemed like she might be really scared of them. “Mikey?” she asked, voice still pitched high. “From the park playgroup? That Mikey? He saw a giant rat?”
“Yeah! By the dumpster by his home! We tried to find one in the park that time, because all the other boys wanted to see it, too, but there weren’t any. So I haven’t seen one. But that’s what Mikey said. You could believe a rat that big ate that many of your cookies, right, Mommy?”
As Tim had explained, the only change in her expression had been a hand going up to cover her mouth. She didn’t quite seem to think the possibility of a dog-sized rat was exciting in the same way that all the other boys in the huddle with Mikey had thought it was. One of them had proposed they use the bug net he’d brought to try to catch one to examine, and they’d all gone tromping through the park for a while on a rat safari, looking behind every bush and under every park trashcan in hopes of scaring one out to chase—at least until a couple of parents had followed their increasingly distant wanderings out, rounding them up and scolding them all for going too far away. A few of the boys had tried to explain that they were on an important safari, but none of the parents had been impressed, and told them in no uncertain terms that no safaris were allowed to wander out of sight from where the adults were sitting on the benches near the swings.
Tonight, she’d had a further order. “You are not to go looking for any rats, Timothy.”
“Aw,” Tim had pouted. “But—”
“No,” she’d replied, much more harshly, “I mean it. No rats.”
“Okay, I won’t,” he’d acquiesced with a sigh. It really wasn’t worth the battle when she was already upset with him, and it hadn’t been like he’d had plans to go looking again. He’d just been playing along with the other boys at the time because doing so was fun.
“Good,” she’d said, then paused while staring off somewhere past a different corner of the room before muttering: “Maybe a dog that looked like a rat. Surely.”
Tim had shifted in apprehension of taking the chance of asking, then decided now might be the best time to ask, because at least she’d get distracted from the rat thing, which all her worrying about really was unnecessary. “Mommy, can I go back and finish my dinner? I don’t feel sick now.”
She had looked at him with pursed lips before sighing. “No, sweetie,” she’d replied. Tim had started to whine but she’d started neatening his hair, which had been a nice enough feeling distraction that the whine had only come out as muttering. She’d shifted the plate to his blanket-covered lap with her other hand. “You can eat these three crackers and drink the water I brought you, and if you’re still feeling better in the morning, I’ll make you a really good breakfast, okay?”
Tim had perked up a little at this. “Bacon and french toast and eggs?”
“If you want,” she’d said, lips quirking.
Tim had then chewed through two of the three crackers while she continued neatening his hair before more incredible breakfast ideas had occurred to him. In excitement he had immediately blurted out: “And cut up fruits and muffins?”
Mommy had huffed a laugh, though it had been a sound bordering on an exasperated sigh. “Maybe we can have those, too, but you have to promise no overeating again, okay? Especially sweets like mommy’s cookies. There’s a reason I only give you a few at a time. Too much all at once is why you have to go to bed early right now.”
“I’m sorry, I promise,” Tim had repeated dutifully, halfway through the last cracker. She’d seemed less moved by the apology than the first time he’d said it, just flatly satisfied, so—nope. He really wouldn’t get dinner, it looked like. But at least he’d gotten the crackers, so he didn’t feel as upset about the prospect as he had before, even if he still wasn’t happy about it … he’d liked that spaghetti ….
So he’d mellowed into resignation and in no time at all had finished the last cracker. With nothing else to do, he’d gone back to drinking the water, and he’d wriggled so he was lying down again, because he’d actually started to feel the kind of thoroughly tired that came after a long afternoon playing in the park.
Mommy had rearranged the blankets to cover him smoothly, then, and had followed that with tucking them in around him. “Goodnight, Tim,” she’d said, planting a light kiss on his forehead.
“Mn’nigh,” Tim had mumbled back around the spout of the sippy cup.
In the end, he’d learned some important lessons from that whole experience. One was that it wasn’t actually very fun to eat all the cookies, even if he had the chance. But the second and more important thing he’d learned was that if you wanted to get away with doing something you knew mommy and daddy wouldn’t like, you really had to be a more crafty about it.
In later years he would have much more success sneaking cookies unnoticed by only taking one at a time, usually right after his mommy had eaten one. Or—she certainly hadn’t ever seemed to notice only the one vanishing, anyway. It became a technique he exploited to great success: she hadn’t noticed missing cookies, so she was happy, and Tim got an extra cookie, so Tim was happy! Because like daddy crowed whenever a Drake Industries deal turned out well: Bing-bang-boom, everybody wins, that’s just good business!
Trying to take one when she was distracted arguing with daddy turned out to be another good technique with multiple benefits. He could take one, then scamper up to his room and close the door, where concentrating on enjoying the cookie helped him ignore the shouting for a little while.
So a lot of the time, it was worth the risk, and anyway, it’s not like she’d told him never to take a cookie. Just to not eat a whole lot all at once.
Even when they started traveling more, and he probably didn’t have to be sneaky about it, he still was. Why risk the nanny noticing and telling him not to take one whenever he pleased? Ignorance is bliss worked well for his parents on these sorts of things, so why not the nanny, too?
As it turned out, when he finally got the idea to sneak out and try to take pictures of bats and birds, everything sneaky he’d learned over the years had turned out pretty handy for doing that, too.
Tim feels a little giddy as he grasps the lever handle on the roof hatch with both hands. This is it, he thinks, something breathless about the words even though they’re all in his head. His camera and backpack set aside a slight distance away for safekeeping—and so they’re not a distraction as he tries to get the hatch open. He’s really about to get Nightwing infiltration mission close-ups and maybe oh please oh please—those Nightwing action sequence close-ups that have been eluding him all night!
He turns the handle, which moves smoothly and silently, a bit of resistance only kicking in after the first little sliver of turn. When it reaches the maximum rotation, Tim takes a deep breath and puts his whole body into hauling the hatch upward.
It doesn’t budge.
Tim regathers himself and his energy, somewhat surprised at just how heavy the hatch actually is. He centers his stance directly over it, spreading his feet wide so he’s sure to get the maximum amount of leverage, and tries again.
Twenty seconds later, he wobbles away from his position over the hatch and plops down next to his camera and backpack, panting lightly.
It’s a little bit more than just heavy, he starts to realize, with a terrible sinking disappointment.
Flexing his hands to dispel the bruised feeling in his palms that had come with long moments of pulling as hard as he possibly could, Tim stares at the hatch, examining it for any possible other weaknesses to exploit. But it doesn’t take him long to understand that even if he’d had other possible options, like lock picking tools, he’d still be stuck on the roof, because there’s no keyhole on the outside. It would take super strength, or a small explosive, or maybe a welding torch to get through the thing. However it’s secured, it seems clear that the locking mechanism can only be manipulated from the inside.
He did all this for nothing.
Tim contemplates the merits and demerits of trying to enter through the front door where Nightwing had gone in.
Firstly: it’s Nightwing. He never got a whole lot of pictures of Batman and Robin during Dick Grayson’s time, and the ones he does have were from when he barely had any skill at it. This is the first time that Tim’s even seen or heard of Dick operating in Gotham as Nightwing. If whatever reasons he doesn’t normally operate in Batman’s city don’t change, this might be the best chance Tim will ever get to take pictures of Nightwing in his whole life. Or at least … for like a really, really long time.
Depending on what Mr. Wayne ultimately does with the test results.
On the other hand, it had already felt risky enough, earlier, being on ground level where the fight was happening. There, he’d the whole street to make an escape down, if things went wrong. Going into a building through the front door doesn’t seem nearly as low risk, with how much easier it would be to get spotted or cornered. He doesn’t have vigilante training, and he’s just a lone kid with a camera and mace spray. Wandering the streets in a kinda-okay-ish part of Gotham is one thing. Actually going inside a possible mob-owned building seems like another.
He just really … really, really wants those pictures, after he came all this way and got so close. If he never gets another chance, he’s sure he’ll be mad about it the rest of his life.
What if Nightwing doesn’t even stay Nightwing? What if something happens to him?
(Because who knows, anymore, right? He’d thought Robin would always be Robin—until he wasn’t. And even after Robin had changed, he’d never have guessed his dad wasn’t his dad, too—until all of the sudden he wasn’t. Does Batman ever feel this paranoid about anything?)
Some kind of—sound?—interrupts his thoughts. It seems like it’s coming from inside the building, but it’s so muffled that Tim doesn’t know what to make of it. Knocking, maybe? It goes for maybe five or ten seconds, then cuts out.
Tim pokes at the thin crack between the hatch and its frame, staring forlornly down at the handle with his lips pressed into a frown, his lower lip jutting out slightly. This isn’t fair, there’s totally something happening inside, and he’s missing it. The setup was so perfect, so right, and he did so much to get here!
Tim heaves out a sigh, still torn on what to do.
A much louder thud than all the previous ones sounds, and this time, the rooftop rumbles faintly under his feet at the same time. Tim sucks in a breath. Okay—maybe he should just get down to ground level, and crack the front door to have a look and a listen? Because maybe if he takes a look inside, he’ll spot a good hiding place right away, or something. If he can get into a hiding place right away, that could make it okay to take the risk of walking right in the front door?
Tim has just started to pop to his feet and make for the fire escape double-time when a dark shadow flutters in his peripheral vision, and he jerks to a stop in a half-crouch instead. At first its shape is mostly merged with the rest of the dark of the night and the shadows of a taller building next to the one Tim’s on, but it rapidly grows in size until it settles to loom over him from the other side of the hatch, not even making a faint scraping sound on the roof as it touches down, let alone a thud. Before Tim can shake off his freeze, a grim and deep voice growls out forbiddingly from the looming shadow: “Timothy Drake.”
Of course, the shape is not all a shadow, but Tim is less surprised by this than the sheer size of the shape up this close. Near the top of it is that tell-tale small section of lower face that reveals a pale, smooth-shaved jawline—and well above that, the two upward-pointing “ears” of the cowl that are vaguely discernible against Gotham’s heavy clouds, which are a more a yellow-orange grey thanks to the city lights than the sort of deep black a clear night sky would have had.
Somehow, he feels the same drop in his stomach and curdling burn on his rear that he'd gotten that one time his mom had discovered him in the pantry with a half-eaten package of cookies. Batman is—why is he here? And—not that Batman usually looks in any way happy, but he distinctly doesn’t look totally calm right now, either.
Tim’s done just enough Bat-watching to be able to tell.
“You will stay here,” Batman growls forbiddingly down at Tim, “And Nightwing will come to you. Shortly.”
Notes:
If only there had been someone positioned to be going "You just wait until your father gets to this rooftop, young man!" in a scolding voice, but alas. Batman arrives, on a mission to get whatever the HECK is going on out here back under control, with no additional fanfare.
Anyway. Sorry for the long wait, has been my work busy season, plus I was a bit stuck on how to move to the next parts of all this ... but I've been very sad about not updating so I kind of pushed through tonight, just to get this out here. Originally the flashback to truly baby!Tim was gonna come later but as I was writing it, I thought it might feet better a little earlier. Upside is, I've kinda got my chapter buffer back. What exactly Nightwing was up to and what all the noises were next chapter for sure, lol.
(I didn't do a super thorough job proofreading, either, though, so I may come back in and edit.)
I hope the flashback wasn't too ... weird? For lack of a better word to describe how I feel a bit uncertain about it? Really, besides making a joke about how far back Tim's expertise in embezzling
cookiesBatarang budget money right under Batman's nose starts (a thing he actually does as Robin in the comics, btw, in case you didn't know), I also wanted to give more of a feel for the Drakes actually being pretty typical and not the world's worst parents, ever, since the beginning of time.Because I think it only makes it more sad that Jack's giving Tim the cold shoulder over all this, and Janet's gone AWOL with him, when things were never like that before. Yanno?
Chapter 21: Talk Is Cheap (Which Really Says Something About Villain Monologues If You Think About It)
Summary:
Conversations! Confusion! Explosions of multiple kinds! Who could ask for anything more???
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Nightwing’s relief at successfully keeping Tim outside is short-lived. The thought trickles in that the kid might not even try the front door at all. He might simply wander off somewhere else.
One disaffected and disappointed child is sitting alone on a roof with nothing to do, and now Dick does not have any eyes on him whatsoever. He needs to get back outside, otherwise he might have to start guessing where the kid’s gotten off to this time. And he doesn’t like his chances on guessing right, either. Not with the baffling way this whole night has gone.
‘… Crap. Should he maybe unlock the hatch and open it, make sure the kid isn’t running off somewhere else?’
‘Is that a crazy idea?’
‘… That’s gotta be a crazy idea, right? Cause then he’d be in here with me, but also a lot closer to a bunch of suspicious Penguin employees.’
‘… Y’know, I kinda feel like I lost control of this situation somewhere, but I don’t know where—or how to get it—’
“Shit!” a yelp interrupts Nightwing’s creeping sense of alarm, hiking it up into something blaring. His eyes snap down and lock onto those of another man’s, who is staring up in a startled half-crouch on the section of the second story landing that’s visible from Nightwing’s angle at the top of the ladder. “Goddamned vigilantes!” the man says in a strangled tone.
Oops.
He’d tell the wide-eyed man it’s more like a vigilante, singular—but far be it from Nightwing to correct him, if he really thinks there’s more than Nightwing in here.
The next detail he catalogs is the pistol in the hand of the man’s arm levering up to point in his direction.
By the time shots ring out, however, he is no longer where the man had been aiming.
Instead he’s nearly in the man’s face, darting out a hand to grab and contort the wrist of the hand holding the weapon. He digs a thumb into the center of the joint until the hand spasms to a looser grip, then yanks the man forward and off-balance, driving a knee into the man’s diaphragm—once—twice.
The gun clatters to the floor. Nightwing layers that satisfying sound with a solid cold clock to the man’s face. The hurk from the kneeing turns into a trailing whine that follows the man to unconsciousness.
Call Dick biased, but encountering someone who readily opens fire on a vigilante on sight isn’t doing a whole lot to lower this warehouse’s suspiciousness levels.
… Unless, of course, Batman’s messed up something in his relationship with the police or the public again. But he hadn’t gotten any warnings about that from Alfred, or seen any news headlines, so …
He clicks open the comm line. He has to be sure. “Hey, Penny One, vigilantes aren’t on the outs in Gotham right now, right? It would be weird for a normal security guard to start firing on one without question or warning?”
“It would indeed,” Alfred returns, then pauses. “You’ve been shot at again? What of the lad, is he alright?”
Dick opens his mouth, but hesitates, since—well, every sign points to Tim still being perfectly fine, but—
“Sir?”
At the alarm returning to Alfred’s tone, Nightwing shakes himself. “He’s not in here with me, and shouldn’t have been in the line of fire,” he says, “I’m 98 percent sure I managed to lock him out on the roof from the inside.”
There’s a pause. “ … But that would also mean you can’t be certain what the lad might decide to do next. Or if he will stay up there,” Alfred concludes, slowly and tersely.
“Right, well, now you’re getting that catch-22,” Nightwing returns with equal tension and a nervous laugh, glancing at the stairs to the first floor, “Which is one reason I don’t have time to putter around inside trying to figure out why the kid wanted in.” He can hear multiple shouting voices filtering up from the bottom of the stairwell—someone calling a name, then an expectant silence, then the voices starting up louder than before as the thuds and clunks of many sets of feet climbing begin to echo upward. “Found something for Batman to look into later, though. I’d suggest he make it a sooner rather than a later,” he says as he begins to back towards the second floor door.
“And what, pray tell, might that be?” Alfred asks, suddenly sounding weary.
The footsteps are getting really loud now. There’s a shout and another gunshot as Nightwing ducks back into the hallway. He feels a sting across his bicep, but a glance tells him it’s only a shallow graze.
A problem for a later time.
“Gimme a sec, P-One, got a little sitch’ here,” Dick huffs out before muting the comm both ways, giving a slight wince at Alfred’s abruptly cut-off, “was that more gunfire?”
Good chance of getting the exasperated look later for that one.
But the bigger rule not to break is the whole “come back alive to receive the look” rule. Yep. Definitely much more important. And to do that …
There’s only the one stairwell, which means he’s gone and gotten himself a bit cornered upstairs, like an idiot, but a plan is forming in his mind. Shouts of “vigilante!” and “the bat’s here?” emanate faintly through the stairway door.
Nightwing gives a wan grin at their confusion as he ducks back into the first room with the open door, guiding it to a silent close.
There’s no lock. At least, not one that doesn’t require a key to use.
Peachy.
Nightwing crouches and braces his back against the bottom section of the door, digging in a side pouch for one of the half-dollar-sized explosive pucks and a sticking patches he carries on him.
The door jolts against him. He has to tense to counteract it. Muffled, quick-paced verbal exchanges overlap with each other from outside the room, but he can’t quite make out the words.
The door tries to shove him again as he gets the sticking patch applied. It’s gone utterly quiet outside the room, and apprehension prickles the back of his neck. At a gut feeling, he holds off activating the puck, and instead scrunches down even lower in his brace against the door.
There’s a cacophony of gunfire as little explosions of drywall dust and smatterings of wood splinters burst into the air. He throws an arm up to protect his face from it. The hail of bullets pepper the wall between the room and the hallway with holes and even puts dents and cracks in the wall and windows on the other side of the room.
Light from the hallway is even managing to filter in with how big some of the punch-throughs are, making the dust now swirling in the air even more obvious.
“Are you crazy, man?” A voice on the other side of the wall yelps, made clearly audible by the fact the wall is well on its way to being a trypophobe’s nightmare. “Cobblepot’s gonna take the repair costs outta our damn wallets if it turns out the vigilante wasn’t in there!”
“Can the bellyaching, no way he ain’t still in there,” comes the snarled reply. “But you and Harcross better get the door open before he figures out how to slither off again, cause I seen Robin once, few years back. That thing’s half goddamn eel, I swear. And I don’t even need to tell you about the damn Bat. Whoever this punk is, he’ll pull something. Any vigilante in this town is a freak.”
Oh of course there’s a goon who has half an idea of what he’s doing around here. Even if they still won’t be able to stop Nightwing, they’re so much more annoying when they’re one of those leveled up kinds.
Clicking twice to set the medium-short timer on the puck, Nightwing flings it at the farthest window, mouthing a countdown to match the puck’s green flashes.
One of the other men barks a nervous laugh. “Hell—but if it ain’t true—”
The explosive’s flashes switch from green to red and start to speed up. Nightwing ducks his head into the protective curl of both arms, one hand covering the ear most exposed to the detonation.
Any further noise being made by Penguin’s men is momentarily nullified by the sharp bam of the explosive going off. Air bursts over Nightwing, tousling his hair as the floor trembles faintly beneath his boots, but only a spatter of debris hits what little skin remains exposed to their impacts. All of them are far too small to injure him through his suit.
He lifts his head. There’s now a nicely sized hole in the glass, with extensive cracks extending out from it in all directions. The changes in direction of the breaks are all hard angles, making for a halo of cracks resembling drunken sunbeams.
Good enough.
“Now what?” cries one of the men in the hall.
“Now the bastard’s rippin’ the goddamn place apart!”
“To shreds, you say?” Nightwing murmurs to himself, grinning.
The comm in his ear gives a beep—a request to connect on a local channel. Resigned, Nightwing accepts with a huff, in time to hear Batman say: “You will stay here, Timothy. And Nightwing will come to you. Shortly.”
Well, then.
He’s certainly worked with Batman long enough to understand several different things just from that transmission. He wants to puff up in offense, but he stomps it back down with effort, since now isn’t really the time. Instead, he just rolls his eyes. For whatever reason the Bat’s back out here (et tu, Alfrede? Where’s my forewarning?) and throwing about the most offensive kinds of orders, too—where Batman states what someone else is going to do like it’s a preordained reality.
Damn.
Admittedly, he’s not too against abandoning this absolute disaster of an exploratory entry mission into Batman’s possessive little claws. Not if it means he instead gets to focus on securing the kid somewhere very far away from here and starting to ask some pointed questions.
He definitely won’t be admitting, though, that Alfred’s or Bruce’s actions might have turned out to be convenient for him. No sense in letting the pair think he’s fine with the inch they’re taking. Everyone knows what happens to the mile when you do.
At least with such a short window of opportunity, Batman will probably have a hard time freaking the kid out enough to tank his future potential interactions. And he benefits from Tim’s age, besides—he needs how forgiving and flexible and accepting the younger-but-not-toddler-age kids usually are, to make up for how he is. It does remain to be seen, after all, how he might blow up his relationship with Jason when Jason really starts getting to the age Dick was at when things started going sour.
With a huff at his own pessimistic train of thought—he doesn’t want that for Jason, even if Bruce had taken Jason in and gone all the way to adopting him without seeming to need to clear the air about where Dick stands with him now, or so much as probing whether Dick might want the security of the gesture he’s offered his new charge right away—Nightwing bolts for the newly blown hole, doing a forward tumble, snapping the momentum from a roll into a feet-first forward thrust so his boots impact and break the opening even wider ahead of the rest of him. He makes a neat arc over the half wall below the window like it’s the bar of a high vault.
His suit protects most of him from the jagged remains of the pane, and if they nick any skin that lacks protection, it doesn’t even register past the thrill of the threat of gunfire chasing him, and his little acrobatic maneuver.
Now he just has to figure out how he’s going to break his fall to the warehouse floor.
It’s a bit awkward—and only semi-effective as a result—but he manages to quickly and briefly land a grapple line to aid in redirecting some of his momentum to a more oblique landing angle before he hits the ground. It’s enough that he doesn’t think he fractured anything, though he’s going to have serious bruises in choice spots. He feels a little bit like a certain video game hedgehog with how much he has to roll before his speed gets enough under control for him to pop to his feet.
But it’s better than feeling like a certain cartoon coyote.
“On my way out, B. Recommend a quick intercept because this exit will probably be hot,” he says over the comm. “There’s things shady enough going on in here to warrant you checking this place out more thoroughly tonight, by the way.”
There’s no reply, but he does get an acknowledgement beep in return.
He’s tempted to make for the exit on the opposite side of the building from his entry point since he can hear echoes of shouting upstairs through the broken window. It won’t take long for all those goons, guns in hand, to come thundering back downstairs, and going out the way he came in means he might come into plain view of that great migration.
But Tim’s more likely to be closer to the edge of the roof that’s on that end of the building, given where the roof hatch was, so it really isn’t much of a debate. He makes a dash for it.
He gets the barest impression of something—no, someone—in the windows of the room next to the one he’d blown his escape hole through, the one that’d had light coming from under the door. There’s a figure standing at the glass, palms of their hands pressed to the pane. With the backlighting, it’s hard to tell whether they’re looking at him, exactly, but they’re not bulky like a full grown man. They’re slender. A youth, or just a particularly small woman? Dick doesn’t have the time to look.
Dick’s glad he can pass this part of the investigation off to Batman. He’s got a lot of burning questions to ask that kid. And most of them start with a ‘what the hell—?’, even if it’s only silently.
Tim stares up at Batman.
Batman stares back.
… Or maybe glowers back would be more accurate. Oh geeze.
Tim swallows, feeling a light sweat breaking out. The summer night had almost felt pleasant before, but as his sweat meets with Gotham’s unfortunately elevated level of humidity, the air all the sudden becomes acutely oppressive. He’s all at once hyper-aware of the camera resting at his feet. It would look mega suspicious, wouldn’t it, taking a quick glance down at it?
He just wants to reassure himself it’s still there and doesn’t already have a batarang piercing it or something. Because even if Tim hasn’t done anything illegal, he can’t imagine Batman would be too happy about the camera having pictures of his protégés on it, so if he somehow already knew, it’s possible he’s already taken action to get rid of it all.
Most likely he doesn’t already know, though, so he hasn’t destroyed it on sight, and it’s sitting there just fine. But looking at it now would be Tim’s worst option.
Working from that assumption, maybe if Tim just kind of pretends like it was there with the rest of the roof when he got here, Batman will assume it’s entirely unrelated to Tim’s presence. Or him, or his protégés, or anything else going on out in Gotham tonight. And then, convinced it’s unimportant, he’ll totally ignore that it’s there.
‘ … Oh, ha, ha, Tim, very funny,’ a voice in the back of his mind pipes up scathingly, sounding like an amalgamation of every adult that’s ever angrily lectured Tim about anything ever, ‘Yes, Batman will just not suspect the only object on this roof of being anything important at all! That sounds so much like him!’
“Why are you out here?” Batman demands, his frown growing deeper. The way his voice batters away the previous silence makes Tim flinch, and he poorly suppresses it as it happens.
There’s a long silence as Tim’s brain stumbles over an attempt to answer. His mouth opens and hangs that way for a moment before closing again. The honest answer, he understands in a hazy and distant sort of way, is something an adult wouldn’t like hearing about him doing, especially without even asking permission first. More alarmingly, admitting any semblance of the truth would imprecate Tim’s still very defenseless camera as involved.
Batman draws closer—or just gets bigger, somehow, Tim’s not exactly sure. He only really knows he has to crane his neck slightly more to keep his gaze on Batman’s cowl as the vigilante continues in much the same forbidding tone, “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe to wander around places like this at night.”
Huh?
Is Batman concerned about Tim being out here, or something?
But if he is, then, does he care after all? If he does, why hasn’t he bothered to bring up their actual relationship? Or is the reason he’s had Bats watching him somehow unrelated to the letter Tim had sent? How often do letters get lost in the mail, anyway?
‘No, it has to have gotten there,’ Tim decides, ‘Otherwise, his coming to steal my hairs makes literally no sense.’
Maybe it’s just Batman’s usual M.O. to be bothered that some regular old kid is hanging out near some potential criminal undertakings. Or being threatened by the mob.
Because it’s also possible that the DNA results don’t matter to him at the same time at that, right? Maybe Bruce Wayne has always known about Tim, actually, and that’s why he hasn’t said anything to Tim yet. Because all the recent information has done nothing to change his feelings on Tim in the slightest, anyway. In that case, Tim hasn’t ever been very interesting to him at all, only an inconvenience he’d felt compelled to double-check on, on hero principles.
But if Mr. Wayne doesn’t want anything to do with Tim personally, then … Tim kinda wishes he’d stop playing what’s starting to feel like rich society games about it and just say it. Out loud. To Tim’s face.
There’s another long pause.
In between feeling bursts of resentment about the continued lack of clear response he’s getting to the information he worked super hard and paid a lot of money to provide to Mr. Wayne, Tim is still trying to figure out how he can answer Batman’s question without it being a terrible explanation that will only make Batman more angry. His normal level of creativity with this sort of thing seems to have abandoned him at the worst possible moment, though. Every suggestion his brain is throwing up gets just as quickly shot down for sounding ridiculous or too obviously untrue.
This would be a lot easier with his own parents or a nanny. Batman’s on another level, and the massaging of Tim’s response has to be much more careful, he knows this. It’s probably why he’s struggling so hard not to simply throw out the first responses that came into his head instead of thinking of one that’s actually good.
Tim doesn’t know what Batman takes his current continuing silence for, but he seems to take it for something, because his eyes narrow—uncanny that the cowl can do that, especially when seeing it happen this close—and he says: “As soon as Nightwing gets here, I expect you to go with him straight home and back to bed. No secondary locations. No detours. Is that understood?”
Tim’s sense of resentment flares again. Hey, what gives Batman the right to order him around right now, anyway? To tell him he can’t stay out and take cool Nightwing action shots? Why should the mighty Batman have anything to say about a kid he’s not acting like he even wants? Tim can feel himself tensing, the nervous energy flipping into righteous offense. And despite his earlier cautious resolve—before he even quite knows what’s coming out of his mouth, in fact—he snaps back: “You’re not my dad, and you can’t tell me what to do!”
When what he yelled finally registers, however, it seems like his vision greys out for a second before coming back. But he wishes that it had kept on progressing blithely all the way into blacking out, if only so that he could escape the dread and horror of being aware of the gauntlet he’d just thrown right in Batman’s face.
But no, just to be the cherry on top of the massive U-turn Tim’s luck for the night has done, he remains miserably conscious to experience the entire eternity that is Batman somehow becoming more still than ever before, looking less like he’s intentionally holding himself that way and more like he’s outright solidified one of the stone gargoyles that adorn the more styled buildings of Gotham.
All the tiny hairs on Tim prickle up in anticipation.
The odd noise of a faint thwump coming from the front of the warehouse at ground level offers the only distraction from the stillness of the moment—at least until it’s completely shattered by pops of gunfire from the same location.
Then, between one jerking shift of Tim’s attention between Batman and the new noises, Nightwing is jumping up onto the rooftop, on the edge that’s behind Tim. His grapple is hooked and then not hooked in a motion so quick and smooth that Tim doesn’t catch it. It’s almost like he floated up to the roof, and then decided on when gravity would start to apply again, so he could alight, completely silent and impact-free, on the exact level of the roof’s surface.
“Mm-hmm. Told’ja it’d be hot, B,” Nightwing chirps with that something really resembling that classic ‘deliberately ignoring Batman’s gloom and bullcrap’ Robin snark, setting his arms akimbo with his hands clenched in loose fists.
Tim can’t help how much he instantly relaxes as he looks back at the grin on the face of the other vigilante, even though he’s hardly out of danger from Batman continuing his recriminations, and their whole miserable interaction, in general.
But Batman just kind of … continues to loom silently. The white-out lenses of the cowl make it impossible to tell if his attention has split, or is still fully locked onto Tim. He might be a fraction melted out of being a statue, though.
Maybe?
Eh. Maybe Tim’s better off not being optimistic.
Whatever fracas Nightwing had left behind on the ground level, however, is still playing out without him, perhaps not unlike the way a hive of agitated bees might buzz about well after the object of their agitation has vanished. There’s more thwump sounds and slaps of feet on pavement from that same somewhere at ground level, though these trail off, giving way to multiple voices.
“Where the hell did he go?”
“Goddammit! I told you idiots not to shoot the place up, but no, you were so sure you’d do better than the hundreds of other idiots that’ve never managed to touch a vigilante in this town. The only garnish in my future should be on my hot dogs, not my paychecks, but after this mess there’s no way Penguin ain’t gonna—”
“Oh, shaddup. If you still have time to be pissing in your diaper, go check the roof, huh? Benson—you’re with me! We gotta make sure there aren’t any other bastards hanging around down here.”
Nightwing’s grin fades a little as Batman continues to stand there. “B?” he hisses, then pauses briefly. Frowning, he continues: “So are you investigating the passports missing their owners in that building, checking the room upstairs with the lights on, and stopping those guys from getting up here? Or did I extract for no damn reason?”
Batman doesn’t shake himself back to attention or anything, he just starts talking again like there wasn’t just the longest and painfully odd silence there: “You heard what I said about going home?”
Nightwing’s grin turns sour. “I got it. We’ll be fine.” He makes a shooing motion with the fingers of one hand, gaze narrowing to something sharp, voice now oddly muffled, like it’s coming through grit teeth, belying his continuing grin. Tim starts to wonder if he’ll end up being an awkward witness to the kind of row he’d overheard only once, on one of the very last times he’d caught Robin I and Batman working together: carefully hushed voices, and words seeded by verbal barbs laid like landmines, emotionally targeted to compensate for their having not to shout. He’s not sure he’s thrilled at the idea of having a front row seat for that. “There might have been a teen in that upstairs room, B,” Nightwing growls. “With everything the association with a Penguin op can imply. And, suggestion: maybe you could get on that before the welcoming party tries to join us up here with the kid?”
With that, Batman makes some kind of low rumble of an affirmative-sounding noise. The noise is vaguely tinged with irritation, but he darts past both Tim and Nightwing without further comment, his cape fluttering with the motion.
Tim stumbles back and away from his passing, but he also whips around to stare as the man disappears over the edge of the roof. ‘Geeze,’ Tim thinks, struggling to suppress a shiver—half intimidated, half relieved. ‘No wonder he freaks the bad guys out.’ Not even taking Batman’s pictures from a middle distance has ever felt the same as being subjected to the full weight of Batman’s direct attention as he was just now.
Tim had maybe slightly underestimated what he’d been signing up for.
“Shit! It’s the Bat!” shrieks a voice from below, the sheer volume actually managing to make Tim jolt, though he welcomes the accompanying adrenaline burst that shakes him further out of the funk of his horrifying interaction with Batman. Occasional bursts of gunfire start up, but they are brief every time they do. From this close, the sounds of men being pummeled in between the gunfire is very audible. Tim has to suppress another shiver.
Nightwing grins at him. “Bat-wrangling ain’t much, but it’s honest work,” the vigilante quips, seemingly unperturbed by the prickliness of the Dark Knight. It helps Tim relax just a little more, reminded that the Robins both go to show you can get comfortable with close proximity to Batman’s imposing figure and manner. Maybe it just takes time. Hopefully it doesn’t take being in life or death battles with him against bad guys, or something—Tim knows he doesn’t have the skills to handle those like Dick and Jason do.
Nightwing leans away for a moment, arching his back and craning his neck to peer over his shoulder at whatever exactly is going on down there. Tim’s … really not sure how Nightwing keeps his balance like that, despite his own experiences with parkour and skateboarding. Seemingly oblivious to Tim’s admiration, Nightwing keeps peering, locked in that impossible-looking but perfectly balanced backwards arch as the noises from below gradually peter out. It gives Tim enough time for the last of his trepidation to bleed away, and to remember his camera. He decides that if nothing else, now is the time to risk it—so he snatches it up, lifts it up to chest height at an angle he’s fairly sure will get all of Nightwing in frame, and snaps a photo. He worries whether he lined up the shot properly—whether it even went off. With how quiet the camera is, he has to have it close to his face to pick the noise of it up at all.
He doesn’t have time to wind the film again before Nightwing turns back around, returning to standing like someone to whom gravity applies. Tim whips the camera behind his back, trying to keep his face blank. He’s pretty sure he didn’t succeed in keeping Nightwing from catching sight of it, though, by the way one of his eyebrows quirks up.
But—so long as Nightwing or Batman don’t try to confiscate his whole camera or film roll, he just got his most close-up picture of Nightwing, ever. Just taking the shot feels worth the risk that something happens to the camera, or to all the other shots of the night.
Tim’s not sure how he’s going to smooth-talk either vigilante into letting him keep tonight’s pictures if they do want to take them, but he has to try.
Go big or go home, his—well. The sentiment’s right enough.
Doesn’t really matter who Tim always used to hear saying it.
Notes:
If I was 3x funnier and prewriting this whole story, I think I would have had the mob that Tim went to to get that DNA test having sent their own threat letter to Bruce separately, unbeknownst to Tim. Have Bruce freaking out that there seem to be multiple groups after Tim, and at least one of them knows how to make a letter look really professional (which one looks more professional? Idk but the actual mob's letter somehow being the more sloppy one really tickles me to think about).
Maybe some day after this is finished I can figure out a minor rewrite that would fit that in, but because it would probably add another chapter or two and would mess with something else I already had planned, I'm not planning on including that. But it's amusing me to think about.
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