Herbarium of Heroes

by Labcoat_Cutie

Summary:

Tim takes an alternative route home after school, ending up in a strange forest he does not recognize. This decision is not without its consequences and now Tim must figure out what's happening to his body and how to control his newfound abilities.

OR, Tim develops plant-based metahuman abilities and needs to figure out how to control them. Luckily enough for him, there are a few rogues and vigilantes who are both invested in his well-being and willing to lend a helping hand.

Chapter 1: Chapter One: Into the Underbrush

Plants have always been a constant in Timothy Drake's life—when his parents left Gotham on their archeological digs, when he was deemed too old for a nanny, when he skipped two grades and was separated from his friends. Throughout everything, the plants have always been the one thing that has stayed the same. They never judged him, never left. So, it was only really a matter of time before they became a part of his very being.

---

It was during one spring afternoon when the air was cold and the sky was full of dark clouds like it was going to rain soon. He had just missed the bus, and the next one wouldn’t come for another hour. An hour he didn’t have if he wanted to be able to take a nap before going out that night.

With all the determination in his little ten-year-old body, Tim pushed his school bag a little higher on his back and began his trek home. The streets of Gotham felt like they always did, emptying as the day wore on. The shadows of the towering building stretched overhead with each passing minute. Even though it was still daytime, the streets felt eerily deserted. He made the conscious decision to walk the sidewalk and main streets, with the knowledge that even if the sun was still out, Tim was still a kid wearing a Gotham prep uniform. An outfit that practically screamed ‘HELLO, I AM A UNATTENDED RICH KID. PLEASE KIDNAP ME!’ Just the thought made his stomach twist, a knot of unease creeping up his chest

Tim lets out a huff at the thought, beginning to regret his choice to walk home more and more by the second. Now more than ever, Tim clocks the sound of tires against the asphalt interrupting his train of thought.

Tim’s gaze flickered to the car behind him. He brushed it off at first, assuming the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach was the usual healthy dose of paranoia that was common for any Gothamite. It’s not like driving was a crime. And it was the middle of the day, everyone knows that rule number one of kidnapping is that you don’t kidnap a kid in the middle of the day in a public space.

Apparently, these kidnappers didn’t get the memo because the car began matching his pace, and not once did it pass him. It was consistently only a few meters behind, not once speeding up or slowing down

A pang of fear spiked in Tim's chest as he glanced around him, scanning his surroundings. The sidewalks that were normally busy with pedestrians were unnervingly empty. The thought of being alone on a street where everyone else had already gone inside made him feel so exposed, like a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest.

 

Tim had walked another few meters before the car began to close the distance between them. Damn it, he had hoped that they weren’t going to try and kidnap him. His parents had just left two weeks ago for their dig in Nepal, they would be furious with Tim if he interrupted them from their very important work by having these amateur kidnappers trying to ransom him back to them.

His eyes locked in on one of the bushes at the side of the road. In a split-second decision, he ducked behind it in an effort to try and lose the car. He didn’t even bother looking where he was going, a decision Tim soon came to regret as his foot slipped, sending him barreling off the side of the road and down a hill. His body was flipped and rolled as gravity took hold of him, his palms scraped against the earth as he frantically tried to grab onto anything within reach.

But he couldn’t stop himself.

As the world became a blur of green, dirt and panic, Tim briefly wondered if this was how he would die. He hoped it would not be an incredibly lame way to die. At least that's what he was thinking until he hit the bottom, HARD. The air was pushed out of his lungs, leaving him in a stunned heap on the ground.

Lying there for a few moments, Tim took the time to take in a few sharp breaths, his heart thundering in his ears as he processed the fact that it was over, and that, surprisingly enough, he was still alive.

Tim just lay there, staring up at the sky, for a few beats. Everything was silent, save for the quiet rustling of leaves overhead. Then all the feelings came rushing back into his battered body. His hands stung from the scrapes on his palms, but holy hill Batman, Tim was still alive.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, wincing at the soreness in his limbs. It was a moment before he noticed how quiet it had gotten. His breath, still ragged from the fall, felt loud in the otherwise still air. The trees surrounding him were massive, their trunks thick and gnarled, twisted in ways that felt… unnatural. He stared up at them, trying to make sense of the dense forest-like area he had stumbled into.

The trees were too tall, their leaves thick and nearly black, casting the entire area in a greenish gloom. Flowers grew haphazardly at their roots, bright, garish colours that seemed to pulse faintly as he walked past. Some of the vines stretched across the branches like dark skeletal fingers. Tim felt an uncomfortable shiver run up his spine as he gazed at them. The plants here… something was just inherently wrong about them.

He swallowed hard, pushing away the creeping thought that maybe this was another result of Gotham’s toxic atmosphere, a side effect of the chemicals released by the city’s rogues. The mutated flora and the strange animals that now roamed the streets, this forest seemed to be no exception to Gotham's effects. Tim’s stomach turned at the thought of how much worse things could get in this city.

He took a deep breath, telling himself it wasn’t the time to dwell on the unease bubbling in his gut. He had to find a way out of here. Maybe it was just a small patch of strange trees? If he keeps moving, he'll eventually find an exit, right?

With his mind set on that, Tim forced himself to take a few more steps forward. The further he ventured into the forest, the more disoriented he became. Every tree, every vine, seemed to look the same. There were no landmarks to guide him, no signs of civilization in sight. The shadows were growing longer now, and the cool breeze had turned into a biting wind that ruffled the leaves in sharp whispers.

Tim hesitated. He should turn back, retrace his steps or something. But the thought of walking back up that hill made him shudder. He wasn’t sure he could make it back up, not in this state. And besides, he couldn’t afford to waste any more time. He needed to get home. He had plans for tonight. Plans that involved getting the perfect shot of Gotham’s beloved vigilantes.

Dick was supposed to be visiting this weekend, which meant Nightwing would be out patrolling with Robin. And Tim refused to miss the opportunity to photograph them working together in the city’s shadows. He had to be there, He just couldn’t be late!

So he pushed on through the woods. But the further he went the more lost he felt. What was left of Tim’s sense of direction seemed to slip away, swallowed by the dense, twisting trees. It was getting dark now, the fading light filtering through the canopy in shifting patterns that made it harder to tell which way he came.

A sharp hunger began to claw at his stomach, and Tim’s thoughts drifted back to the flowers he had passed earlier. He had read some of Dr. Pamela Isley’s research papers before, and she had offhandedly mentioned that there were a few species of flowers that were edible, some even having medicinal properties. He wondered faintly if maybe he could try one of those. A quick snack to keep him going until he found his way out. What’s the worst that could happen? Logically, Tim knew he would get poisoned, but he deemed that a risk he was willing to take.

The flower that caught his attention was strange and delicate. White petals with a soft iridescent shimmer. Unlike the others, this one wasn’t loud or garish in nature, it was soft, almost ethereal. Tim hesitated for a moment. It felt wrong to take something so beautiful, but his stomach growled, reminding him he had no other option.

Before he could second-guess himself, Tim plucked the flower and popped it into his mouth, eager to satisfy the gnawing hunger in his belly.

The moment the bitter taste hit his tongue, he regretted his decision. His eyes watered, and he nearly gagged; the taste was vile in a way he couldn’t describe. It was too late now; he had already swallowed it, and the feeling of what he assumed to be poison was sinking into his body, spreading like fire.

Tim doubled over, coughing violently, spitting out what he could. His mouth was on fire, and his throat burned. Each cough felt like it might tear him apart. But slowly the intensity of the bitter taste started to subside, though the sensation of burning lingered like a heavy weight. His throat felt raw, and the burning grew more unbearable. Tim’s vision began to blur. His limbs grew heavy, and the dizziness that swept over him made his body feel like it was moving slower than usual.

He could hear his own breathing now, ragged and uneven as he pushed himself to stand. The urgency of the situation hit him then, like a wave crashing over him. He had to get home fast.

Tim’s legs were shaky, his steps faltering as he stumbled through the underbrush, his mind hazy and unfocused. The woods around him blurred together, the darkness of night creeping in quicker than he could handle. The burning in his throat spread to his chest, and panic surged in his chest.

Home. He had to get home.

With all the energy he could muster, he broke into a sprint, his shoes slapping against the ground. Finally, meaning to reach the end of the forest where the trees seemed to bleed into the asphalt that made up the upper-class Bristol roadways. The pain in his boy, the confusion clouding his mind, faded into the background as he focused on the goal ahead. The gates to Drake Manor.

He nearly tripped over a loose stone but didn’t stop or even consider slowing down. No, not now.

Tim reached the front door, heart pounding and flung it open. He kicked off his shoes without a second thought, rushing up the stairs as fast as his weak little legs would carry him. The burning sensation in his skin felt like it was spreading, creeping under his skin, suffocating him.

Finally, he headed to his bedroom and stumbled into the attached bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Tim reached for the bathtub tap, twisting it to the cold side as far as it would go, letting the water gush out in a rush. He didn’t even pause to think, stripping off his uniform in a frenetic blur and sinking into the freezing water. The shock of the cold against his skin was immediate, but it was exactly what he needed.

The burn dulled as the coldness seeped into his body, and Tim let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes as the tension slowly melted away, exhausted from the panic, the pain, and the fear, as he sank deeper into the tub. It was soothing. It was the only thing that made him feel…normal again.

For now, for just a few moments, his plans and the outside world could wait.

Notes:

Hi everyone!
I hope you enjoyed chapter one. Let me know what you all think. I've got a lot of ideas and I'm excited to continue writing.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two: What Grows in Silence

Summary:

Tim starts to experience the consequences of eating strange plants

Notes:

Hey everyone!
Sorry for the long wait, I just finished my first year of university, and things were super hectic.
But Chapter Two is finally here! I spent hours researching European and Asian plants to make everything as accurate and realistic as I could, so I hope you enjoy it.
I love reading your comments, so let me know what you think!

Waking up in the bathtub was a jarring experience.

Tim hadn’t meant to fall asleep, he’d only closed his eyes for a few minutes. But here he was, several hours later, with his hair wet and his fingers and toes pruned like raisins.

It was while examining his wrinkled hands that he noticed something strange. The scrapes on his palms, reminders of last night’s escape, were gone. No scabbing, no redness, not even the faintest trace of a mark. Pushing himself up, Tim inspected the rest of his body, heart thudding. The bruises on his shins? Vanished. The shallow gash on his knee? No,w smooth, unbroken skin.

He frowned.

He wasn’t exactly sickly, but he’d always bruised easily. Cuts lingered, scars overstayed their welcome. This healing, if that’s what it was, was fast. Too fast.

Still stiff and sore, Tim dried off and pulled on clean clothes. The ache in his bones made him feel like he’d aged overnight. He remembered watching Batman limping after fights, of Robin holding his ribs with gritted teeth. Was this what they felt like after patrols? It made their nightly heroics seem even more impossible.

And just like that, guilt punched through him. He’d meant to stay up, to sneak out after his bath to go take pictures of the vigilantes. But falling asleep meant he’d missed everything.

He rushed to his computer. The clock read 6:15 a.m.

Too late.

Sunlight already filtered through Gotham’s ever-clouded sky. The vigilantes were probably already back at the Cave, patching wounds and updating logs.

With a sigh, Tim turned away from the screen. There was no point in going back to bed, and homework sounded unbearable. That left one option: outside.

 

---

 

The grass was cool beneath his bare feet as he stepped into the yard. Dew clung to his ankles, and the morning air was brisk but pleasant. He took his time walking, letting the calmness of early dawn wash over him.

The old oak tree stood like a guard, tall and still. Its branches stretched wide, casting long shadows across the yard. Tim felt a familiar tug in his chest as he approached. This tree had become a constant in his life, a safe place, a quiet friend.

He sat at its base, settling into the spot between two thick roots. With his back against the rough bark, he closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of earth and leaves.

His fingers drifted through the grass absentmindedly. That’s when he felt it.

Not a sting. Not pain.

A hum.

A low, steady vibration, like something pulsing beneath the ground. It travelled up through his hand, gentle but insistent, like it was syncing with his heartbeat, or the sway of the tree’s limbs overhead.

Tim froze.

He turned his hand over. His skin looked normal. But the feeling was still there, growing stronger the longer his fingers touched the soil.

Then came the breeze.

It rustled the leaves above, and for just a moment, Tim could have sworn he heard… something. Not words, exactly. A whisper layered in the wind, tinged with urgency and warning. Familiar, in the way dreams sometimes were.

His breath hitched. He yanked his hand away from the grass.

The buzzing stopped.

Instantly.

Heart hammering, Tim stared at his palm. Nothing. No marks, no burns, no discoloration. Just skin. But the echo of that hum lingered in his bones, like a phantom sensation.

He stood up fast, brushing dirt from his pants. His eyes flicked to the oak tree, and suddenly it didn’t feel like just a tree anymore. It felt aware .

Alive.

Watching.

 

---

 

Running back inside, Tim shut the door with trembling hands. His skin was clean, but he kept checking it anyway. 

But the hum… it was still there. Somewhere deep in his chest, like a distant storm rolling in.

He bolted upstairs, locking his bedroom door behind him. His computer screen blinked to life the moment he sat down in front of it, its pale glow spilling across the desk.

And all Tim could think was…

‘What just happened to me?’

 

---

 

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Tim tried to go about things normally; he finished his homework, cleaned his room, even remembered to eat, but that humming sensation never fully left him. It lingered like a song stuck in his head, just quiet enough that he couldn’t make out the words, but persistent enough that he couldn’t forget it.

By nightfall, it had faded into the back of his consciousness, and that, more than anything, made him feel like things were returning to normal.

Which meant one thing…

It was time to go bat-watching.

He dressed in all black: a hoodie, jeans, his old well-worn sneakers, and packed his gear into his camera bag. The setup was simple: a digital camera with a long lens, a pair of compact binoculars, and his old police scanner, which he’d jerry-rigged with an earpiece. Not the most sophisticated tech, but it got the job done.

By 10:30 p.m., he was on the rooftops of Old Gotham.

It was cold, but clear. The kind of night where the wind cut through your clothes, but the stars peeked out between clouds like tiny pinpricks of light. Gotham’s skyline glittered below him, full of towering shadows and the occasional flicker of headlights or flashing neon.

Tim crouched near the edge of a rooftop, peering down into an alley that had a decent sightline to the warehouses on the block. He knew this area well,it was where the Batclan often ran into criminal activity, Smugglers, gang activity, and low-tier villains trying to make a name for themselves. It was a hotspot for trouble.

And tonight? Trouble had arrived.

He heard them before he saw them, a scuffle down near a side entrance to the warehouse. Muffled voices. A grunt. Then a crash.

Tim swung his camera into position just as two figures dropped into the scene like shadows cutting through moonlight.

Robin and Nightwing.

Tim’s heart leapt in his chest.

Nightwing landed first, his escrima sticks already drawn. He moved like water, smooth, fluid, deadly. He caught one goon across the temple before the man even had time to raise his weapon, spinning with the momentum and planting a foot in the chest of another, sending him sprawling.

Robin dropped in a heartbeat later, cloak billowing like a streak of green and gold. His entrance wasn’t as graceful, but it was brutal. He used his foot to sweep the legs out from one thug before kicking the man in his stomach. Another goon lunged at him from behind, but Robin twisted, using his smaller size to his advantage, ducking under the swing and slamming his elbow into the attacker’s ribs.

Tim watched, transfixed, as the two vigilantes worked in perfect tandem. Nightwing called out directions, short, clipped commands that varied between “behind you” or “to your left”, and Robin followed without hesitation. It was like watching choreography. Violent, beautiful choreography.

A goon tried to run.

Nightwing flicked one of his escrima sticks like a boomerang, catching the man in the back of the knees. He dropped with a shout, and Robin was on him instantly, zip-tying his hands behind his back.

Tim lifted the camera, snapping pictures after picture. His hands trembled with excitement, adrenaline pumping through him like wildfire.

They were amazing.

And he was here, witnessing it. Documenting it.

He leaned forward slightly, trying to get a better angle as Robin flipped over a crate and landed a perfect kick to the jaw of the last thug. Nightwing stepped back, surveying the downed bodies and nodding in satisfaction. Robin was already tapping into his commlink, probably reporting in.

Tim grinned.

He didn’t even notice his fingers digging into the ledge.

Didn’t notice the way the bricks beneath him started to crack.

Didn’t notice the thin green tendrils that began snaking up the wall beneath his feet.

Only when he leaned forward again, and the vines shifted to support him, did he freeze.

His eyes flicked down.

Climbing vines. Dozens of them, sprouting from the gaps in the stone like living threads, their pale green leaves catching the moonlight with a faint shimmer. Some bore delicate, star-shaped flowers nestled among the foliage, pale and subtle. 

Humming.

Alive.

Tim jerked back, stumbling onto his hands and knees. The vines didn’t follow, but they didn’t retreat either. They just… paused. Like they were waiting.

His breaths came fast.

He looked down at his hands, then back at the edge of the building.

The vines were real. He wasn’t imagining it. They had moved when he moved. Reacted to him.

Down below, Robin glanced up sharply, eyes narrowing. For a split second, Tim’s heart skipped a beat, he thought he’d been spotted. He flattened himself to the rooftop, holding his breath.

But Robin turned away a moment later, slipping into the shadows with Nightwing. Within seconds, the pair had vanished, leaving only the unconscious goons behind.

Tim lay still, heart hammering.

He didn’t move until the vines slowly, silently withdrew into the cracks of the building, curling back like time reversing, disappearing as if they had never been there.

Except… they had.

A few leaves and flowers remained behind—wide, soft leaves veined with a silvery shimmer, and clusters of tiny, blush-centered white flowers that fluttered gently on the breeze like falling petals. They looked almost deliberate in how they fell. Almost... offered.

Tim inched forward, heart still drumming in his chest, every nerve on edge. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and crushed greenery, sharp and earthy, but not unpleasant. Carefully, he crouched and reached out, his fingers trembling.

The first leaf he touched was unlike any plant he’d ever felt. The texture was soft, almost like velvet, but denser, with an underlying firmness, like leather that hadn’t fully cured. And it was cool. Not just from the night air, but with its own strange chill, as though it had been kept in a fridge. It pulsed faintly beneath his fingertips. Not quite a heartbeat. More like... breath. Gentle, alive, aware.

He blinked and drew in a shaky breath.

It didn’t wilt or recoil. It just rested in his palm, quiet and still.

Slowly, reverently, he gathered a few of the leaves, and the strange, starry flowers nestled among them, and tucked them into the padded side pocket of his camera bag, fingers brushing over the soft lining as he made sure it wouldn’t crumple. He gathered a few more, moving carefully, almost like he was collecting evidence at a crime scene. Because that’s what this felt like. Something important had happened here. Something beyond reason.

Evidence.
Proof.

If this was real, if this was actually happening to him, he needed to understand it. He needed to track it, study it. He might not have Bat-tech or Bruce’s training, but he had a camera. A notebook. A brain that couldn’t stop asking questions. And a stubborn streak that had never let him walk away from something strange without trying to solve it.

And now?

Now he had vines growing out of bricks to catch him.

He crouched there a moment longer, hugging his camera bag to his chest like a shield, and glanced down at the alley. The goons were long gone, probably hauled off by GCPD by now. Robin and Nightwing had vanished too, slipping back into the shadows like ghosts.

The rooftop was silent again. Gotham was silent.

But inside him, something buzzed.

He slipped away into the night, the leaves pressed tight to his side like a secret, warm against the cool air, almost like they were alive.

 

---

 

Back in his room, Tim moved with the quiet precision of someone in shock, but functioning, still thinking. He shut the door softly, not bothering to change out of his hoodie or shoes. He went straight to his desk and flipped on the lamp.

He pulled the soft leaves and the delicate clusters of pale flowers from his pocket, spreading them carefully under the light.

They weren’t glowing. Weren’t pulsing. Just leaves, soft and pale green, their surfaces faintly textured, catching the light with a muted shimmer. The flowers were even stranger in their simplicity, tiny, star-shaped, almost white with a hint of blush at the center. They smelled faintly sweet, like rain-soaked stone or something that had bloomed far away.

Natural. Real. But not familiar.

He laid everything out on a sheet of printer paper, spacing them out to get a better look. Nothing about them screamed danger. No toxic colours or jagged thorns. Just... stillness. Something gentle. Subtle.

But they weren’t from Gotham. He was sure of that.

He opened his laptop and methodically searched through public databases, park services, herbaria, and botanical indexes. Nothing. These plants weren’t native to New Jersey at all.

That tugged at him. Gotham’s urban ecosystem was chaotic but well-documented, especially thanks to Dr. Pamela Isley’s research from before she went rogue. Something this unusual wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.

Frowning, he turned in his chair and pulled a worn hardcover from his shelf,’ Flora and Folklore of the Northern Hemisphere’ , one of his dad’s books from a dig years ago. He flipped through brittle pages, eyes scanning sketches and old annotations.

There it was: Hydrangea anomala petiolaris , Climbing Hydrangea. Native to the misty forests of Japan and Korea. A slow, deliberate vine known to cling to weathered stone and temple gates. The leaves matched almost exactly. And so did the flowers, soft, pale, and understated.

A handwritten margin note caught his eye:

“Often planted at spiritual thresholds. Believed in some traditions to mark boundaries between the seen and unseen. Symbol of quiet protection.”

He blinked. Thresholds. Protection.

The vine hadn’t tried to trap him. It had moved like it belonged there, climbing effortlessly up brick and steel like it had always been part of the city. But it hadn’t been. Not until tonight.

Tim wrote all of it down in a notebook, what he’d seen, what he’d read, how it felt. He pressed one of the flowers gently onto the page, then one of the leaves. They crinkled softly under the clear tape.

Then he sat back, watching them for a long moment.

It wasn’t much. Just a leaf. A flower. A name. A note in a journal.

But it was a start.

Something had changed. Something strange. Something important.

And Tim Drake was going to figure out what.

Chapter 3: Chapter Three: The Hum Beneath His Ribs

Summary:

The mystery behind Tim’s strange new abilities deepens, for better or worse. On the bright side, he might be making a friend.

The manor was quiet, cloaked in the kind of hushed silence that only came after midnight.

Tim crept down the stairs without turning on the lights. The shadows felt heavier at night, longer somehow, older. They stretched across the wallpaper like veins, following him past the portrait gallery and into the side hall. He moved carefully, each step measured, trying not to let the floorboards betray him with their creaks.

He wasn’t supposed to be awake. After trailing the Bats on patrol, he’d told himself that he would go straight to bed. But sleep had refused to come. Not with the hum still coiled beneath his ribs: faint, restless, like something waiting to be acknowledged.

It had been days since the vines appeared. Days since flowers bloomed from cracks in the stone and cupped themselves into his hands like an offering. He’d pressed them into his notebook, catalogued their shapes, searched for names in every botany archive he could find. But knowledge hadn’t dulled the feeling.

If anything, it had made it stronger.

Now, with the manor asleep and the stars barely visible through Gotham’s ever-present haze, Tim slipped outside again, drawn by something he still couldn’t name. The backyard was damp and cold, grass clinging wetly to his socks. Above, clouds drifted past the moon, trailing ribbons of silver shadow in their wake.

And there it was, waiting for him.

The Oak Tree.

It stood at the edge of the yard, older than the manor itself. Its trunk was thick and gnarled, its limbs rising like cathedral arches, vast and still.

Tim paused a few feet away. He could feel it already: the subtle shift in the air, the hush beneath the leaves. There was something here. Not malevolent. Just vast. Quiet. A presence that didn’t need to speak for Tim to know it was watching.

He stepped closer, breath catching. His fingers brushed the bark. It was cold, but not lifeless, more like stone that had once known warmth. Beneath its surface, something pulsed.

Not threatening.
Just… aware.

Slowly, Tim sank to the base of the trunk, pressing his back against it. The soil beneath him was soft and cool, grounding him in a way nothing else could in that moment. The hum returned, gentler now, not in his ears, but in his chest, like a second heartbeat.

He closed his eyes. Let the stillness seep into his bones.

His breathing slowed. The world outside the tree’s reach faded. In the quiet, something began to shift, deep beneath the surface. A language older than words, tangled into the roots and soil. The leaves whispered without sound, but conveying feelings nonetheless: warmth, protection, watchfulness.

Tim didn’t know how or why, but the plants around him seemed to recognize him. Vines curled near his feet. Tendrils brushed his sleeve. Not to trap, but to connect . They offered a fragile trust. An invitation to listen.

His fingers twitched against the bark. The hum inside him bloomed, still unfamiliar, still unshaped, but full of promise. Something ancient. Nurturing.

He wanted to ask, Why me? What do you want? How can I hear you? But no words came. Instead, the silence itself seemed to answer. An understanding too deep for language settled over him:

We want to help. To protect. To be understood.

A breeze stirred the leaves, a breath drawn from the earth itself.

And then, the world shifted.

The tree rose higher, impossibly high, limbs unfurling like arms stretching into the night. Its bark shimmered faintly, pulsing with a light that wasn’t from any moon or star, something internal, alive, in sync with Tim’s heartbeat.

Beneath him, roots stretched wide, weaving through soil and rocks, twining into a vast network, touching vines, flowers, blades of grass. All connected. All part of something greater.

Tim felt it all. The cool dampness of the earth. The tang of leaves in the air. The slow, steady rhythm of life around him.

But the understanding slipped through his fingers like water, just out of reach. Like a language he almost knew, almost grasped, but couldn’t yet speak.

The presence remained, patiently waiting for him, not unkindly but in a sort of quiet knowing.

Then, he woke up.

The night air was sharp against his skin. He sat on the damp grass, eyes wide, heart still racing with the memory of connection, of belonging to something far bigger than himself.

When he looked down, his fingers were smudged with dirt. Tiny flecks of soil clung to his nails.

Proof that it hadn’t just been a dream.

 

---

 

The next morning, Tim arrived at Gotham Prep earlier than usual. The halls were mostly empty, save for the occasional janitor or teacher unlocking classroom doors. His footsteps echoed faintly off the polished floors, the quiet broken only by the soft squeak of his shoes.

AP English was his first class. Jason was in it too, same year, same course, but they’d never actually spoken beyond a few glances in the hallway. Tim didn’t mind. Just being in the same room as Robin felt like enough. Besides, he wasn’t sure what he’d even say if they did talk. Knowing himself, he’d probably blurt something dumb and accidentally offend Jason. Or worse, call him Robin by mistake. God, he didn’t even want to imagine how that would go over.

He slipped into his usual seat by the back window and dropped his bag beside him with a quiet thud. The classroom was dim, lit only by the pale morning light leaking through the blinds. Tim slouched into his chair, resting one elbow on the windowsill as he stared out at Gotham’s cloudy skyline. From this angle, he could just make out the main gate and the gargoyles perched above it.

The silence wrapped around him, and his thoughts wandered.

Last night kept playing in his mind: the rooftop, the fight, the vines.

Tim was sure that the vines had moved . They had responded to him . He hadn't possibly imagined it. The way they curled toward his fingers, the subtle warmth humming beneath his skin, it was real. 

The thing that Tim was struggling to rationalize was his dream from last night, at what point had Tim fallen asleep, and why did it feel so real? Better yet, what was with that Oak tree? he felt it reach out to him two times now. What did it want? What did it know?

Drumming his fingers against the desk, Tim pulled out his English notebook and flipped to a blank page. He hesitated for a moment, then started sketching out a rough image, not the rooftop this time, or the fight, but the oak tree. The one in the backyard. Towering, unmoving, ancient… yet alive in a way that went deeper than roots and bark. He remembered the rough press of it under his palms, the damp earth holding him like he had always seen parents hold their children in movies.

A dream, maybe. But his socks had still been wet when he climbed back into bed. And the dirt under his nails had taken forever to scrub off.

His pencil moved almost on its own now, tracing spiralling lines and reaching limbs. The tree’s branches didn’t just spread, they stretched, like arms. Not monstrous. Just… aware. Watching. Waiting.

He’d never had dreams like that before. Not ones that meant something.

This wasn’t some late-night fantasy or stress-induced hallucination. It had felt like falling into something old . Something true.

In the dream, the tree had changed. It shimmered, lit from within by something ancient, something alive. Light wove through bark and bone, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He could feel everything: the cool soil, the whisper of leaves, the steady presence of the plants around him. They didn’t just exist, they knew him. Welcomed him.

They had offered trust.

And when the roots stretched out, threading through the city like veins, he had understood . Not in words. Not even in thoughts. But in the way you know your own name.

And then, it was gone.

Tim stared down at the page, his hand stilling. A strange pressure bloomed in his chest, like something inside him wanted to speak but didn’t know how. Or maybe… it was waiting for him to ask the right question.

The bell rang.

Tim jumped. His pencil jerked across the page. The noise yanked him back into reality like a hook behind his collar.

Chairs scraped. Voices rose. Footsteps shuffled in. Students began to settle into their routines.

The overhead lights flicked on, casting a sterile glow that made the room feel colder somehow.

Mrs. Thorpe stood at the front, already writing on the board in looping, confident strokes:

Pride and Prejudice,  Character Analysis Project

Tim’s stomach twisted.

She turned to face the class, her expression alert but unreadable. “Morning, everyone. I hope you’ve all been keeping up with the reading.”

Someone near the front groaned.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said dryly, holding up a folder. “We’ll be starting the final project for this unit: a deep-dive character analysis of one figure from Pride and Prejudice . You’ll be working in pairs.”

Tim sat up straighter before he could stop himself, hand twitching toward the edge of his desk.

“Your choice of character is up to you,” she continued. “So is the format, essay, presentation, creative reinterpretation, whatever works. But your analysis has to go beyond the surface. No ‘Darcy was mean but then he was nice’ summaries.”

A few students laughed.

Tim didn’t.

Pairs .

Of course, it was pairs.

And of course, no one had looked his way. He was the kid people ignored until group work forced them to acknowledge him, and to an extent, Tim could understand. He was younger than the others, which made it hard for him to find any sort of common ground with them, but that didn’t make him feel much better. 

Maybe Mrs. Thorpe would let him work solo. He’d done it before.

His hand had just started to rise when a voice spoke beside him.

“Anyone sitting here?”

Tim turned and stared.

Jason Todd.

His uniform was the classic private school mandated one: crisp blazer, slightly crooked tie, shoes too shiny to have been polished by him. But the fit was off. The jacket sat stiffly on his shoulders, like it wasn’t made for someone who moved the way he did. The collar looked too tight, or maybe Jason just wasn’t used to collars at all.

There was a scrape across his cheekbone, faint, healing, but still raw. And even in Gotham Prep’s finest, Jason didn’t look like he belonged. He held himself like a street kid: shoulders tight, gaze always moving, one foot angled like he might bolt.

But his voice? It wasn’t unkind.

Tim shook his head. “No. It’s free.”

Jason dropped into the seat without hesitation. “Cool. You got a character in mind?”

Tim blinked. “You… want to work with me?”

Jason arched an eyebrow. “Half the class already paired up. And you’ve got tabs in your book, so yeah, I figured you wouldn’t make me carry the whole thing.”

Tim glanced down at his copy of the novel. The cover was worn, corners bent, and filled with notes.

“I was thinking… Elizabeth,” he said cautiously.

Jason grinned, just a small, crooked smile, but it was real. “Bold. She’s sharp as hell. I like her.”

The knot in Tim’s chest loosened, just a little.

Mrs. Thorpe began passing out assignment sheets. “You’ll have a week to prepare. Presentations start Monday. Start planning.”

Tim glanced sideways at Jason again.

He still had no idea how this would go.

But for the first time that morning, he didn’t feel so alone.

 

---

 

The last bell had rung half an hour ago, but Tim was still lingering near the front steps of the building, trying to organize his thoughts.

They had a decent plan for the project now. Jason had even said “see you tomorrow” like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was a big deal, someone like Jason Todd choosing to work with him . Tim itched to run his fingers over the sketch of the oak tree that he had in his notebook to try and soothe his racing thoughts. That pressure in his chest hadn’t gone away.

The same quiet hum pulsed in the back of his mind, not loud, not demanding, just... there , like it had taken root.

A sudden shout broke through his thoughts. Tim turned, squinting toward the stone gate at the edge of the courtyard. A group of boys stood in a half-circle, laughing too loudly. One of them shoved someone hard against the wall.

Tim froze.

Jason.

Of course it was Jason.

His blazer was wrinkled, one cuff half-rolled, and the scrape on his cheek looked worse than before, angry and raw. He wasn’t fighting back, at least, not physically. But he wasn’t backing down either. Just standing there, staring at the biggest boy, jaw locked.

“You forget where you are, Todd?” one of them sneered. “This isn’t some shelter. You don’t belong here.”

Jason didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Another shove.

Tim’s chest tightened. The familiar curl of anxiety twisted itself around his ribs. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, caught between clenching or reaching out or disappearing altogether. He wasn’t brave, not like Jason. He wasn’t strong or loud or the kind of kid people listened to.

His mouth opened, then closed. No words came.

He hated that.

Jason stumbled slightly as the biggest boy shoved him again. Tim’s breath caught, and the hum inside him surged.

The air shifted.

Subtly at first. Then sharply.

A sudden breeze swept across the courtyard, too cold for spring. Goosebumps prickled Tim’s arms. He turned instinctively, eyes drawn to the oldest tree on campus. It stood near the school gates, a towering oak with roots curling through cracks in the pavement and branches stretching well beyond the iron fence meant to contain it.

Most students ignored it. They sat under it during lunch or tossed pebbles into the storm drains nearby. No one really looked at it.

But now, it moved.

Not swaying.

Not bending in the wind.

Leaning.

Just enough to be wrong.

A low-hanging branch dipped downward, slow and deliberate, as if curious, arching across the sidewalk where the boys stood.

The biggest one turned back toward Jason, raising a hand like he was about to shove him again.

The branch caught the back of his blazer.

There was a sharp rip .

Then his foot caught on a thick root curling above the pavement.

He pitched forward, too fast to catch himself, and hit the pavement with a dull, sickening crack .

The courtyard froze.

He crumpled to the ground in a tangle of limbs, unconscious as his body hit the stone.

Someone gasped.

“Holy sh-, ” one of the boys started, cutting off as he dropped to his knees beside him. “Dude? Are you- ? Hey! Get a teacher!”

Two of them broke into a run toward the front doors. The others crowded around their fallen friend, panicked.

Tim…Tim hadn't meant for this to happen, he had just wanted them to stop harassing Jason. 

No one noticed the tree slowly returning to its original shape, branch lifting slightly, just enough to look normal again. At least, Tim hoped no one noticed.

He didn’t wait another moment before going to Jason.

He crossed the courtyard quickly, weaving through the chaos until he reached Jason, who was sitting on the pavement, watching the scene with narrowed eyes like he wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or impressed.

“You okay?” Tim asked quietly.

Jason blinked, like he was coming back to himself. “Yeah. I… yeah.”

Tim offered a hand. Jason hesitated a moment, then took it, letting Tim pull him to his feet.

Leaves clung to his blazer, caught along the seams and collar. Tim brushed them off gently, his fingers pausing only briefly before he slipped a few into his pocket. They were warm against his skin.

For his journal. For later, to be used as proof.

Jason didn’t say anything. Just gave Tim a look, not confused, but unreadable.

Behind them, the crowd had grown louder, drawing all the attention away. No one was watching them anymore.

“Thanks,” Jason muttered, his voice low, still dazed from the sudden turn of events, but there was a note of contemplation.

Tim didn’t answer. He just nodded once.

His heart was still hammering in his chest. The hum still vibrated softly beneath his ribs, it quite frankly scared him. Whatever was happening to him was progressing faster than he expected and he needed to get it under control before he hurt anyone else.  

Notes:

Hi everyone! I'm back with a new chapter!
Things are starting to pick up, and we finally get to see little Timmy interact with Jason! (Cue the excitement!)
Also, can you tell I spent way too long obsessing over the dialogue? I wanted to do Jason justice, especially balancing who he is as both Robin and a former street kid.

If everything goes according to plan, the next chapter should be from Jason’s perspective! 👀

As always, let me know what you think. I love hearing from you in the comments. Your thoughts, reactions, and predictions genuinely make my day!

Chapter 4: Chapter Four: The Leaf and the Look

Summary:

Something’s off about Jason’s new friend, and it’s got him both concerned and intrigued.

Tim Drake was… not what Jason expected.

Jason had heard his name before, some younger kid who skipped grades, kept his head down, never made trouble. He’d figured Tim was just some brainy rich kid who thought he was better than everyone else.

But sitting next to him in class was an entirely different experience. Jason was honestly surprised by how much he had enjoyed himself. 

The kid was small, not fragile exactly, but close. His blazer hung off him like it belonged to someone else, sleeves swallowing his hands, which were already smeared with graphite from frantic notebook sketches. His legs dangled above the floor, swinging idly as Ms. Thorpe introduced the assignment. But the moment she mentioned it had to be done in groups, he seemed to fold inward. He looked like he belonged in middle school, not AP Lit

Jason didn’t get why, though, if the kid was even half as smart as the school yard gossip said he was, he should have no trouble with the assignment or finding a partner for it. And Timbo was smart. He could tell just from seeing the kid’s copy of Pride and Prejudice. It was full of margin notes and colour-coded tabs, more effort than the majority of students even bothered with. 

And when he said he wanted to analyze Elizabeth Bennet, man, Jason’s interest piqued. That wasn’t a kid playing at being mature. Jason recognized that look, sharp and watchful, the same one he’d learned on the streets. 

Still, Jason didn’t understand what the hell he was doing here. He was younger than everyone by at least two years, maybe more. He looked like he belonged in middle school, not AP lit.

Jason kept sneaking glances at him during class, more curious than anything. The kid barely made a sound, but he was listening to Ms.Thorpe intently and scribbling down the instructions. 

Jason didn’t really know what to make of the contrast between how he looked and behaved.

Not to say that he thought Tim to be helpless, exactly. But he looked so out of place . It’s just that his pale complexion, short stature and round cheeks made him look like a little prince.  Quite frankly, he was adorable, not that Jason would ever admit that out loud. 

But that fact only served to make him look even more out of place among kids so much older than him. It made something deep within Jason’s chest ache. The kid shouldn't be here; he should be having fun, not learning advanced media literacy skills. He could imagine what Tim was feeling right now, being so small and so alone with the weight of the world on your shoulders. 

And honestly, Jason probably understood that feeling better than anyone. When his mom was sick, it was Jason’s responsibility to keep things together. 

Maybe that’s why he chose the seat next to him. Maybe that’s why he decided Tim was going to be his partner for the project without even asking the kid first. Something about him just made Jason want to protect him, because the world wasn’t a kind place, and it certainly wasn’t built for someone like Tim Drake.

And Jason knew what that felt like.

---

Jason had learned early that trouble didn’t just happen. It was built, layer by layer.

The air felt wrong.

The courtyard was too quiet in that teeth-clenching way right before a fight. He heard the laughter first, sharp and pitchy.

When he rounded the corner, the usual three had him boxed in.

Same jerks. Same routine.

He didn’t bother talking back. Just stared them down, letting them crowd into his space. Bruce’s voice in his head: don’t pick fights, be the bigger person. But his mind was already marking exits; he could be over the gate and gone in ten seconds if it got bad.

“You forget where you are, Todd?” Thomas sneered. “This isn’t some shelter. You don’t belong here.”

Jason didn’t move. His fists curled in his blazer pockets. Another shove slammed him into the wall. He kept his mouth shut. He could take it. He’d taken worse.

Then he felt the air shift. It was subtle, but something in his gut just screamed danger .

Instinctively, he began to look around, trying to figure out where the feeling was coming from. He almost missed it, but after a few seconds, Jason’s eyes locked on Tim, who was half-hidden near the steps. His shoulders were drawn tight, and one of his hands was half-raised, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach for something.

A branch bent down, subtle, deliberate, and snagged the back of Thomas’s blazer. He stumbled, feet tangling in a tree root, and went down hard. The fall was fast and ugly, his skull cracking against the pavement.

Everything stopped. Then, gasps, swearing, kids running for a teacher.

Jason barely heard them.

His attention was on Tim.

The kid hadn’t moved, but his eyes were locked on Jason. Not the boy on the ground. Not the crowd. Just Jason.

His skin prickled with the feeling of being studied.

He stepped forward. Tim didn’t flinch, though Jason caught the flicker of tension in his jaw.

“You okay?” Tim asked softly.

Jason blinked. “Yeah. I… yeah.”

Tim offered a hand. Jason took it. Up close, Tim looked smaller than he’d imagined, but steadier, like whatever had just happened hadn’t rattled him at all.

Leaves clung to his jacket, and Tim took a second to brush them off with deliberate care, slipping a few into his pocket when he thought Jason wasn’t looking.

Jason noticed and caught a leaf before it hit the ground, mimicking Tim’s motion of tucking it away for later.

The twitch of his fingers. The timing. The way the branch had moved exactly then. The unshaken stare afterward.

Tim wasn’t afraid. He was… something else.

Jason glanced back at the oak that had knocked the boy over. He knew deliberate motion when he saw it. He’d felt it twice now, once from the tree, and once from the boy standing in front of him.

Something was going on.

And Jason was going to find out what.

---

Hours had passed since Alfred had come to pick Jason up from school, he was now sitting at his desk, elbow propped against an open notebook, pen idle in his hand.

The lamp beside him buzzed faintly, casting soft yellow light over his notes. Somewhere behind him, the grandfather clock ticked on, slow and steady. Everything else in the manor was silent.

He stared down at the page.

He’d been trying to work on his project for the last twenty minutes. Something about character archetypes and Elizabeth Bennet and… whatever. He’d lost the thread ten times already.

Every time he tried to concentrate, his mind slid sideways, back to the courtyard.

Back to the tree.

Back to Tim .

Jason sighed through his nose and leaned back in the chair, pen tapping against his leg now.

He wasn’t supposed to notice; half the point of school was pretending to be normal. But that moment hadn’t been normal.

That wasn’t just some guy tripping over a root. It wasn’t the wind knocking a branch out of place.

The movement had been too clean and far too direct, like the tree knew exactly what it was doing.

And Tim…

Tim had just stood there . Half in the shadows, shoulders tight and hands twitching like a signal he didn’t mean to send. Jason could still picture his face, blank, still, but eyes locked on him . Not Thomas on the ground, not the chaos.

Just Jason .

It hadn’t felt like a coincidence.

Jason shifted in the chair and glanced toward the far end of the desk, where the leaf he had stuffed in his pocket for later now sat. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept it, just that Tim doing so struck him as odd. So he allowed his Robin instincts to kick in and do what he thought was best. Thinking that maybe the leaf would give him some sort of clue. 

It hadn’t.

It just sat there. Green and unchanging.

Jason turned back to his notebook and tapped the pen against the paper a few more times.

He wasn’t afraid of Tim, not even close. But something about him itched at the back of Jason’s brain. That same tug he got when a case wasn’t sitting right. When there were pieces missing and no one else had seen it yet.

Bruce would tell him to be patient. To gather more data.

But Bruce wasn’t here.

And Jason trusted his gut.

Tim Drake was up to something.

Jason didn’t know what it was yet, but he was concerned that the kid was in over his head. 

Which left him with only one thing to do: find out what that was and try to stop him before it blew up in his face.

---

The first light of dawn crept softly through the curtains, casting a quiet glow across Jason’s room. He sat on the edge of his bed, fingers fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket, the hum of the manor settling around him.

“Breakfast is ready downstairs, Master Jason,” Alfred’s familiar voice called from the hallway.

Jason nodded to himself and grabbed his backpack, the weight of it somehow heavier today. He moved quietly down the stairs, the smell of eggs and fresh bread greeting him like an old friend.

In the kitchen, Alfred was already setting out plates with practiced care. He glanced up and offered a small smile. “You seem a bit preoccupied this morning. Anything troubling you?”

Jason shrugged, taking a seat. “Just thinking.”

Before Alfred could say more, Bruce appeared in the doorway, still loose from last night’s patrol. The lines around his eyes softened in the morning light, less the stern guardian and more fatherly.

“Good morning,” Bruce said softly, pulling up a chair beside him.

Jason looked up, surprised by the quiet warmth in the man’s tone.

“Morning,” he replied.

Bruce poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the kitchen counter. He watched Jason pick at his toast like it was a particularly boring puzzle.

“You seem quieter than usual this morning,” Bruce said, raising an eyebrow.

Jason shrugged. “Maybe.”

“That a ‘maybe something’s up’ maybe, or a ‘maybe I’m just hungry’ maybe?”

Jason looked up, blinking. “Definitely not hungry.”

Bruce gave a small, dry smile. “Okay, good to know. So... what’s going on, chum?”

Jason chewed on his lip, then shook his head. “Nothing. Just stuff.”

Bruce folded his arms. “Ah, Stuff. Good category. Vague, but all-encompassing.”

Jason smirked a little. “Yeah.”

“Want to talk about it? Or am I going to have to pretend to be interested in the stock market for the next twenty minutes?”

Jason laughed, then sighed. “I dunno. It’s complicated.”

Bruce tilted his head, intrigued but careful. “Complicated’s my middle name.”

Jason snorted. “No, it’s probably ‘Dark and Brooding’ or something.”

“Touché,” Bruce said, raising his mug in mock salute.

Jason broke the silence first.

 “There’s this kid at school. Tim Drake.”

Bruce looked up, curious. “Tim Drake?”

“Yeah,” Jason said, shrugging. “I don’t know much about him. Just what I see in class.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “He lives next door. His parents aren’t around much, something about work overseas.”

“Wait, really?” Jason considered that for a moment. “ He's much younger than the other kids, a lot smarter too. Plus, he seems to shy away from group work, or really interacting with the other students in general.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like he might be feeling out of place.”

Jason nodded. “Yeah. We’re working together on an English project. Has some really good ideas on what we should talk about; he doesn’t just make me do all the work or ignore me.”

Bruce leaned forward a bit. “Sounds like a good kid. You like him?”

Jason looked up, meeting Bruce’s eyes. Hesitating for only a moment before saying, “Yeah, I like being around him; he’s pretty fun to talk to.” Jason doesn’t add the fact that Tim was one of the only people at that hellhole who treated him like a human being, and not just like Bruce Wayne’s latest charity case.  

Bruce smiled gently. “Good. Sometimes it helps to have someone like that around. If you both need more time to work on your project outside of class, he’s welcome to come over at any time.”

Jason smiled back, looking a little surprised. “Really? I thought you’d be more against it with your whole need for secrecy thing.”

Bruce’s smile didn’t falter. “Well, you’ve been talking about him so highly, and I doubt our secret identities would be put at risk. Is there anything I should be concerned about?”

Jason hesitated, then said quietly,
“There’s just… something a little off about him. I can’t really explain it.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed a little, voice lowering.
“Off? In what Way? Is this a vigilante matter?”

Jason shrugged, not quite sure how to put it.

No, no, it’s more like the way he acts, it’s a little off. Like in class, he seems uncomfortable talking or interacting with the other students, and he usually stays late after school just doing homework, I think, usually in the library or on the front steps after the students have cleared out when the weather is nice.” He wants to tell Bruce about what happened with Thomas and the tree, too, but he genuinely liked Tim, and he didn’t want him to go full Batman on the kid. 

Bruce folded his arms, studying Jason.
“That’s definitely odd behaviour, but I wouldn’t say it’s abnormal. Although if your instincts are telling you to keep an eye on him, I won’t tell you otherwise. Just keep your head clear. If anything feels wrong, you tell me.”

Jason met his gaze, feeling the weight behind those words.
“Thanks, but I don’t think it’ll be anything that deep.”

Bruce’s expression softened just a bit as he teased him lightly, even with that slight edge of vigilance in his voice.
“Alright. But do invite him over, I’d like to meet you’re new friend.”

Jason can feel his cheeks start to redden, but he nods nonetheless.
“I will.”

Bruce gave a small but genuine smile.
“Good.”

Notes:

Hi everyone!
I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I really had to wrestle with writing from Jason’s perspective, but I’m pretty happy with how it turned out in the end. I also spent way too long figuring out what kind of dad Bruce would be in this story, and decided I just wanted him to be good, like, genuinely caring-about-his-kids good.

As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Your comments, reactions, and predictions seriously make my day. I might not be able to respond to every single one, but I promise I read them all and appreciate them more than I can say.

You can also find me on Tumblr at @labcoat-cutie. Feel free to drop by! I might even put up some polls to help decide what happens next.

Chapter 5: Chapter Five: Green With Fear

Summary:

Guilt weighs heavily on Tim, leaving him afraid and uncertain of himself. But a chance encounter with a stranger gives him hope. Hope that drives him toward Robinson Park and straight into the path of Pamela Isley.

Tim took a heavy seat by the window of the rattling bus on his way home from school, the dull cityscape sliding past in slow, blurry streaks. The steady hum of the engine did little to quell the storm brewing in his chest. His finger was fidgeting nervously with the strap of his school bag, trying furiously to keep still, but the tremors in his hand wouldn’t stop. 

 

All he could think about was the boy, the one who had hit the ground. That sharp cracking noise that his head made as it hit the pavement echoed in Tim’s mind even louder than the bus. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He only wanted the boy to stop harassing Jason, but the branch had moved because of him.

The crack of the boy’s head on the pavement haunted him, proof of what he was capable of.

Looking up through the window, he could see the bus approaching the next stop where a crowd of people were waiting at the bus stop. None of them knew what had happened in the courtyard, none of them knew what Tim had just done, that he had knocked a boy unconscious. 

 

He wasn’t supposed to be dangerous. Yet he was.

 

The bus lurched forward as it came to a stop. Tim moved slightly with the motion. His fingers drummed an uneven rhythm against his bag, giving him away. 

 

The bus hissed as the doors opened, hinges squealing like it was too tired to keep moving. Tim didn’t look up. He kept staring out the window. 

 

The air shifted beside him, the seat creaking as someone sat down beside him. He edged slightly closer to the window out of habit, inching away from the stranger. People didn’t usually sit next to him. Not when the bus was still half empty. 

 

The first thing he registered about the woman was what she smelled like, old books like a library, dry, warm and safe. She didn’t say anything for a while, just getting settled in with a quiet sigh, like she was glad to be off her feet. 

 

Risking a sideways glance. Tim saw that she had short grayish hair and a big brown coat that looked well-loved. Her face had many lines, but not the angry kind. Like she had been smiling a lot. His hands were folded over his bag, fingers wrinkled, but they didn’t shake or twitch. They were surprisingly steady. 

 

“You okay, sweetheart?” 

Damn…he’d been caught staring. 

 

Tim shrugged quickly, not making eye contact and looking back towards the window. 

 

She hadn’t pressed. 

 

Her voice was gentle. He wanted her to stop talking; he wanted her to ask him more questions. He didn’t know which one was better at the moment. Everything felt like static, too loud and too big and too messy to untangle. 

 

Looking back at her sheepishly, he replied, “I’m alright, just a little tired.”

 

“You’re on your way home from school, right? Must have had a long day.” Her voice was quieter now. 

 

His confusion must have shown on his face because not even a minute later, the lady let out a soft laugh, saying, “Your uniform, dear.”

 

Realization dawned on Tim as his face took on a reddish hue. He wasn’t sure why, but she was incredulously disarmed, and before he realized what he was saying, the words had already left his lips: “Um, yeah, there was a fight that broke out.” Not quite the full truth, but close enough that Tim didn’t think he would be called out for his lie. 

 

“Oh no, I hope no one was seriously hurt.”

 

Tim shook his head slowly, “No, actually, one of the older boys fell and hit his head. I didn’t see much before students and a teacher surrounded him, but there was a lot of blood, and I heard someone say that he was unconscious.”

Her brows furrowed slightly. “That’s awful… poor kid.” She paused, her eyes scanning his face for a moment before adding, “It must’ve been frightening to see something like that.”

She didn’t say it like an accusation, more like she was giving him permission to feel shaken.

Tim nodded quickly, eyes flicking back to the window. “Yeah… it was.”

 

His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the bus’s engine.

 

He didn’t dare look at her again, afraid she’d see too much.

 

For a while, the only sound was the rattling of the bus and the squeak of its brakes at the next light. Tim thought she’d let the conversation end there, but then her voice drifted in again, soft and certain.

 

“You know,” she said after a pause, “the way your hands keep moving tells me whatever happened is weighing on you.”

 

Tim froze, realizing too late that His hand worried at the strap of his bag, trembling no matter how hard he tried to still it, but she only gave a small smile, like she wasn’t judging.

 

“When I was your age,” she continued, “I was quite melodramatic. I used to think that everything I did was either life or death. That if I slipped up even once, it proved something ugly about me. But that’s not how people work.”

 

Tim glanced sideways at her, uncertain. Her gaze was steady, warm.

 

“Whatever you did or didn't do doesn’t define you,” she said. “What matters is what you do next.” 

 

Tim let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His throat felt tight.

 

“That’s… easier said than done,” he muttered, so low he wasn’t sure if she even heard it. He kept his eyes on the window, watching the city smear by in gray and gold. The words scraped against the knot in his chest, but they also wedged themselves inside, refusing to leave.

 

He wanted to believe her. God, he wanted to. But the memory of the boy hitting the pavement was too loud, too sharp.

 

He dug his nails into his palms again, forcing himself to focus on the sting. If she was right, if one choice didn’t define him, then maybe there was still a way to make sure it didn’t happen again. Maybe he could do something before it was too late.

 

“Don't lose hope, sweetheart. I know things seem hard right now, but they get better,” she took his hand in hers to stop him from digging his nails in any further and gave it a light squeeze. 

 

The action caught Tim off guard. All he could think to say was, “Are you like a therapist or something?” As soon as it left his mouth, all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball. Why did he say that? 

 

The woman, however, let out a hearty laugh at his question; it was louder than he expected, and it definitely drew the attention of a few other people around them. “No, I’m a doctor, though, and I know for a fact that dwelling on things that have already happened isn't good for you.”  

 

He nodded along, taking in what she said, but all he could really focus on was that his hand was still in hers and that she was so warm. It was nice to be comforted like this; he didn't think he could remember the last time someone held his hand. 

 

They stayed like that for the rest of the bus ride, hand in hand, quietly enjoying each other's company. 

 

The bus slowed, jerking a little as it pulled into the next stop. The woman shifted slightly, gathering her coat around her as the hiss of the doors opening filled the air.

 

“This is me,” she said softly, giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go.

 

Tim blinked, sitting up a little straighter. He wasn’t ready for her to leave just yet.

 

She stood, steady despite the rocking of the bus, and adjusted the strap of her bag. Before stepping into the aisle, she leaned down just a fraction, her eyes warm. “My name’s Leslie, and I do hope to see you again,” she added with a small smile. “Until then, try not to be so hard on yourself, sweetheart.”

 

And then she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd outside the bus.

 

Tim stared after her, the warmth of her hand still lingering against his skin. He whispered her name to himself, quietly, like he didn’t want to forget it.

---

There was only one bus stop near Drake Manor, tucked away on the far edge of Bristol. To be fair, there was only one bus stop in all of Bristol, and it sat well off the usual city routes. By the time the bus finally came to a halt, Tim was the last passenger left on board. 

 

A combination of dirt and rocks crunched beneath his shoes as he stepped down onto the roadside. The bus rumbled away in a cloud of exhaust, leaving Tim blinking in the late-afternoon light, painting the trees in long slants of gold and shadow.

 

The walk to the Manor stretched ahead of him, quiet, too quiet for the hour. In the distance, he could just make out the faint echo of a lawn mower, the distant bark of a dog, but here at the edge of Bristol, it was still.

 

Normally, he liked the stillness. Today, it left too much room for his thoughts. 

 

As he walked, he turned Ms. Tomkins' words over and over in the back of his mind, trying to figure out what to do next. He knew what she said had some merit to it. He needed to figure out what to do, and as of right now, there was only one thing to do. Figure out how to get his issue under control. 

 

Tim knew three things for sure.

 

1. That whatever supernatural phenomenon he was experiencing was definitely plant-based. 

 

2. That the plant's behaviour was influenced in some way by his own emotions. 

 

3. That the plants weren't malicious, they'd gone out of their way to keep Tim safe. 

 

He wasn't sure what kind of research there was left for him to do. He'd already gone through what little books his parents kept on flora, and he'd go through a number of plant-based studies and articles that were available online. The information that he had found the closest to his own circumstances was a collection of papers published by Pamela Isley. All of them referred to the sentient nature of plants, something that was referenced more and more frequently in newer papers, although Tim wasn’t sure he could really call them that, since they’d all been published before she went rogue. 

 

It was frustrating how little information he could find relevant to his situation. Even more so, the only relevant information came from a dangerous criminal, one who had broken out of Arkham just a couple of months ago…

 

Which meant that there was no one to stop Tim if he wanted to go looking for her. 

 

It was this thought that made him pause in his walk. 

 

The only useful research he’d found was Pamela Isley’s,  a criminal, yes, but a genius. She was hiding in Robinson Park, buried in her plants. Dangerous or not, she was the only person alive who might understand what was happening to him.

 

He had no clue whatsoever what he would say to her or even if she was actually at Robinson Park, but he wanted answers, and when a Drake wanted something, they stopped at nothing to get it. 

---

By the time he reached Robinson Park, the sun was noticeably lower in the sky, casting a warm glow that peaked between the leaves overhead. Roots bulged against the pavement in thick cords, and vines climbed the rusting lamp posts, curling up toward the dimming sky. It looked quite delicate; it reminded him of puzzle pieces clicking together.  

 

Tim continued to push forward. 

 

The sounds of the city began to dull behind him the further he walked, swallowed by a hush that settled over the trees like a warning. 

 

Every step forward pulled tighter at his chest. He knew exactly whose territory this was: Pamela Isley’s. Criminal. Genius. Dangerous,  and the only one who might know why the plants seemed alive around him 

 

He kept walking; he had already come so far to stop now. Distantly, he noted that humming had started up again, and the twitching in his hands hadn’t stopped. 

The silence pressed in. Tim shifted his weight, pulse hammering, but he refused to move.

A soft rustle came from his left. Not the restless stirring of branches or vines, footsteps. Light. Certain.

Tim’s head snapped toward the sound just as she emerged from behind a tangle of trees. No sudden reveal, no dramatic flourish. She was simply there , as if she always had been, the green parting to make way for her.

Pamela Isley’s gaze swept over him once, sharp and assessing, before settling into something unreadable. She didn’t speak right away. The plants around them did it for her, leaning toward her, brushing against her arms like pets eager for attention.

When she finally broke the silence, her voice was calm, almost conversational.
“You shouldn’t be here.”

Notes:

Hi everyone!
I’m back with another chapter, and Tim is really starting to make some big moves. Whether those choices are good or bad… well, I’ll leave that up to you to decide. Either way, things are definitely heating up. What do you think will happen when Tim finally comes face-to-face with Poison Ivy? I’d love to hear your thoughts and predictions for what’s to come!

Also, thank you so much for all the kudos, comments, and bookmarks. I know I’ve said it before, but it truly means the world to me and keeps me motivated to keep writing. I read all the comments, and I’ve been trying my best to reply to all of them.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! And if you’d like to chat more, you can also find me over on Tumblr at @labcoat-cutie. Feel free to drop by.