Chapter Text
Tim, in all his eleven years of life, could proudly say he was rarely wrong.
Sure, there were a few skirmishes when it came to his English homework―how was he supposed to know that the mockingbird from his book was supposed to be the symbol for innocence? He’d been too preoccupied making a mental list of all the ways Boo Radley and Batman were basically the same person.
It took every ounce of self-control not to send an email to the bat himself from his fake detective account.
To keep it professional, of course.
Then there were the instances when his parent’s promised to, well, actually be present . Tim guessed an appearance on his birthday, maybe a holiday even, where they’d show face. His timing was always off on that one, something he’d have to fine tune eventually. They did always show within a somewhat regular time frame for a charity event or social gala, so he’d add that to the algorithm.
Despite his select shortcomings, Tim Drake was rarely wrong, and right now, he knew for a fact that there was something off with Batman and Robin.
The dynamic duo always fought in cohesion, wordless conversations that allowed for them to move in tandem and strike before their enemies could even blink. That’s how it had always been—first with the old Robin, and now with the new one.
Tim would know, he’d been stalking them with his dad’s old camera since he was eight.
The old Robin’s departure and Nightwing’s arrival was a code that was child’s play to crack; Dick Grayson’s move to Blüdhaven and the sudden new vigilante taking residence there? Not a coincidence.
Bruce Wayne was Batman, that logic had been deduced from who he adopted and who he funded. Wayne Enterprises definitely made BatTech―Tim may or may not have hacked their files to get some more concrete answers last year when his parents upped his allowance as an apology for not being home for Thanksgiving.
That left Jason Todd as the current Robin, Tim’s Robin. He was Bruce Wayne’s newest son, recently adopted, sitting in the back of at least three of his classes at the academy.
Not that he ever had the guts to ever speak to him.
Jason’s Robin was street smart, impulsive―a tried and true Gothamite who knew how to take a punch and throw back one ten times harder. Always cracking jokes, always keeping Batman on his toes, he took over the mantle of being a light in Gotham’s darkness and made it all his own.
Lately, though, things seemed strained.
Robin seemed a little too careless when dealing with things that go bump in the night. Batman’s usual fond way of speaking to his charge had turned clipped, his words sharper, their patrols eerily silent. The tension between them was palpable, crackling like a live wire, their movements less in sync than before.
Tim had seen it coming—the gradual shift, the widening cracks in their partnership. Every fight was a test of restraint, every mission teetering on the edge of an unspoken argument.
Thankfully, Tim was a naturally quiet person, but even he felt the weight of the unease pressing down on the city tonight. One wrong move in the shadows, one mistimed breath, and he’d be caught.
Which was what he was doing now: barely breathing, tiny frame pressed for dear life against the rusted metal of a decaying fire escape, body clad in enough black to erase his existence from sight. The cool steel bit through his gloves, the scent of rust and city grime thick in the air.
Below, Batman and Robin moved through the alley like wraiths, their presence a stark contrast—one a symbol of control, the other a flicker of barely-contained defiance.
Tim’s heart pounded as he adjusted his grip on his camera, its lens peeking just over the ledge. The flash had been disabled a long time ago after a stupid mistake on his part, almost getting shot by the Penguin when he tried to get an action shot of the previous Robin somersaulting through the air.
He learned it was best to just record and analyze, unless he wanted his own nighttime activities to come to an early, permanent, close.
His parents were in some foreign country—had been, for the past month, and would be, for the next two—so Tim would utilize his unending amount of freedom until then to test his hypothesis.
There was something wrong with his two favorite heroes and he was going to fix it.
“That was reckless.”
Batman’s voice was so low as they emerged from the warehouse, Tim had to lean a bit closer than he dared just to hear his cadence. The flashing red and blue lights of GCPD reflected off the rain-slick pavement, the only source of light available to decode the presence of who he was spying on.
Officers were already securing the last of the criminals, metal cuffs snapping shut around bruised wrists, the murmur of Miranda rights filling the alley.
The pictures were going to look great when Tim developed them.
Robin scoffed in response, rolling his shoulder as he flexed his right arm. The movement was subtle, but Tim caught it—a sign that he’d taken a harder hit than he was letting on.
Tim’s stomach twisted. He knew that tone. That specific brand of Jason Todd arrogance, the kind he used when he knew he wasn’t technically wrong—but was absolutely not in the mood to be corrected.
Tim never dared to use that tone with an adult, let alone Batman of all people.
Said vigilante exhaled, slow and controlled, like he was forcibly reigning himself in. “You didn’t clear the west exit. If there had been a second shooter—”
“Then I’d have taken him out, too.” He crossed his arms, tilting his chin up in defiance. His lip was split, but he hadn’t bothered to wipe the blood away. “You need to stop acting like I’m useless without you holding my hand, B.”
Batman’s cowl barely moved, but Tim swore he could feel the weight of his stare from here.
“You know that’s not what this is about.”
Robin let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Sure it isn’t.” He turned on his heel, boots crunching against broken glass. “Come on, let’s go. Unless you wanna keep standing here lecturing me all night.”
Tim tensed, watching the shift in Batman’s posture—the rigid set of his shoulders, the slow flex of his gloved hands, like he was holding back something heavier than words. For a second, Tim thought he might finally snap, that the argument brewing between them would boil over into something neither of them could take back.
But then, Batman just let out another sigh, measured and slow, a deliberate cooling of whatever anger or frustration he wasn’t allowing himself to show. “Let’s move.”
Robin stalked forward, and Batman followed with a billow of his cape, the lack of communication worse than Tim could’ve hoped.
He lowered his camera, lips pressed into a thin line as he found himself beginning the long trek after them in the rain.
It wasn’t just physical distance anymore. It was something deeper, something fraying at the edges of their partnership, unraveling thread by thread. And if Tim didn’t step in soon, if he didn’t figure out how to fix this—
He wasn’t sure there’d be anything left to mend.
“Could anyone tell me the significance of Atticus Finch shooting the rabid dog in last night’s passage?” Ms. McPherson inquired, a single brow arched as she surveyed the room. Her voice carried through the classroom with ease, cutting through the fuzziness clouding Tim’s head.
He hadn’t gotten much sleep after last night—not that he ever did to begin with. He’d stumbled home somewhere between two and three in the morning, boots still damp from the rain that had soaked through Gotham’s cracked sidewalks.
Tim was just thankful their patrol had kept them closer to Bristol than usual; he often lost track of time and forgot when the last bus lines shut down for the night, leaving him to journey home on foot.
Following around Gotham’s masked heroes and getting a good night’s rest? Not plausible.
By the time he’d peeled off his rain-soaked clothes and stood under the scalding spray of his shower long enough to stop shivering, it had been pushing four. School didn’t start until seven forty-five, and the car his parents arranged to pick him up—since they couldn’t be bothered to be around to do it themselves—arrived at precisely seven twenty-five.
So, yeah, he was running on maybe two hours of sleep at best . And judging by the bone-deep chill rattling through him, he was also in deep denial about the very real possibility that he had a cold.
He’d thrown an extra layer under his Gotham Academy blazer that morning, hoping it would be enough to fight off the iciness settling in his spine, but it wasn’t helping much.
Tim absently made a mental note to modify his outfit to be waterproof. He was sure Batman and Robin’s costumes already were—probably even temperature-regulated with all that fancy, funded tech. Maybe he’d send Batman an encrypted email with a few suggested upgrades—
It was only then that Tim realized the silence had stretched too long.
A jolt of awareness shot through him, his groggy eyes lifting sluggishly to meet the unimpressed gaze of Ms. McPherson.
“Well, Timothy?” She pressed again, arms crossed now, disappointment clear in her tone.
Tim’s mouth opened reflexively, his nerves sparking with unease at the idea of an adult being displeased with him. His mother’s voice echoed in his head—sharp, biting, cold as she corrected him, drilled him in posture and articulation, never embarrassing the family name. He imagined that same voice in Ms. McPherson’s clipped tone, and suddenly, the room felt suffocating.
No words came out.
Instead, a sudden, violent sneeze erupted from him. His whole body jolted forward with the force of it, the sound obnoxiously loud in the dead silence of the room.
The class erupted into laughter. A few snickers, some outright chuckles, and the telltale mutter of someone whispering about how it sounded like he’d exorcised a demon from his sinuses.
Truthfully, it kind of felt like he had.
Tim’s ears burned, the heat crawling up the back of his neck, prickling uncomfortably beneath his uniform collar.
“Bless you.” Ms. McPherson drawled, unamused, her expression flat with the kind of exhaustion that came from dealing with rich, private-school teenagers for too many years.
Tim wished, with everything in him, for Killer Croc to crash through the window, snatch him up, and death roll him straight into next week. Maybe next month.
Instead, the moment dragged on, and Ms. McPherson simply sighed before shifting her attention elsewhere.
“What about you, Jason? Any idea on the importance of that scene in chapter ten?”
Tim chanced a glance in Jason Todd’s direction, half-expecting to see him grinning like the rest of their classmates. Instead, Jason just looked bored, disinterested.
Like he had a thousand better things to do than be here, sitting under Gotham Academy’s stupid fluorescent lights, answering questions about books he was assigned to read.
Well, duh. Tim thought, eyes critically taking in his hero with rapt detail. He’s probably thinking about some unsolved case right now or something.
Jason stretched lazily in his seat, tilting his head as if debating whether or not he even wanted to answer. His gaze flicked toward Tim for half a second—quick, unreadable—before he turned back to their teacher with a shrug.
“I dunno, maybe it’s about how people underestimate quiet guys until they pull out a gun and shoot something,” Jason said, deadpan.
The class laughed again, this time more at Jason’s audacity than at Tim.
Ms. McPherson, to her credit, didn’t react beyond pinching the bridge of her nose. “While the eloquence wasn’t exactly there, the point you made is still slightly correct. This scene symbolizes Atticus Finch as a character with a specific role: someone who must take on difficult responsibilities in the face of danger.”
Jason hummed, lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but close enough. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, head tilting in consideration, as if he might actually be thinking about what she said.
Tim, however, was still a few paces behind. Sleep-deprived, anxious, and running purely on the fumes of last night’s adrenaline, his thoughts lagged, then suddenly clicked into place with a sharp, almost electric realization.
He understood now.
His fingers twitched against the desk as his mind latched onto the thought, bright and unshakable. The responsibility of fixing Batman and Robin's relationship—of making sure they didn’t tear themselves apart before they even had the chance to be a team—was obviously his.
Tim’s eyes flickered, sharpening as his renewed sense of purpose settled deep in his bones.
He would be the quiet Atticus Finch accepting his difficult responsibility, shooting the rabid dog in the face of danger.
Not that he actually knew who Atticus Finch was.
And—not that he had a gun.
Or would ever kill anything with it.
His head hit the desk with a dull thunk —he just needed his overtired brain to be quiet for a few seconds.
Tim had somehow made it through the entirety of his day in a haze—his thoughts muddled and heavy, like he was walking through a fog. The only clear memory was lunch, where he'd scarfed down his cafeteria turkey sandwich faster than humanly possible, his stomach barely registering the food before he was back to his thoughts, which were a distant hum in his mind.
He didn’t even fully notice when the final bell rang, its echo too faint, as though it were coming from underwater. Lost in thought, Tim felt the nagging weight of his cold threatening to take full hold, his immune system having staged what could only be described as an attempted mutiny. Still, the cold seeped into his bones, but it didn’t stop him from zoning out, barely acknowledging the fact that school was over and he was one step closer to the quiet of the manor.
Sitting alone on the bench outside the front doors of Gotham Academy, Tim bounced his legs restlessly, the rapid movement a distraction from the frigid air that nipped at his exposed skin. He checked his watch for the fifth time since sitting there, his eyes flicking between the time and the empty street. Fall was winding down, the crispness of autumn now fully bowing to the arrival of winter. The breeze was sharp and bitter, stinging his face as he waited for the familiar car to arrive.
The driver, Mr. Rinaldi, was always punctual—never late. Tim frowned at the thought. He’d grown used to the steady routine, a quiet, dependable rhythm of his life that included Mr. Rinaldi showed up at exactly the right moment to take him back home.
Except today. Today, the driver was late, and Tim could feel the dull ache of unease creeping into his chest. He glanced at his watch once more, wondering if there had been a traffic jam or—worse—if something had happened to the older, graying man.
It was unlikely. Mr. Rinaldi was always careful, always on time. But the nagging thought wouldn’t leave him.
Even in the quiet stillness of the moment, his mind began to wander, constructing all sorts of worst-case scenarios, none of which were anywhere near as important as what he had to do next. He had time—time to think, to plan, and to move forward.
Ms. Mac would be visiting on Wednesday evening, and he’d have the entire evening to himself. More time to review the footage from his latest stakeout, to log his observations, and—most importantly—to send another message to Batman.
He for sure needed to ask about the source of their BatFabric.
For now, there was just the silence of the street, the loneliness of waiting, and the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.
“Hey, Timothy, right? From Ms. McPherson’s class?”
The sudden use of his full name had Tim’s posture immediately straightening, his gaze snapping up with a speed he didn’t know he was capable of.
Before him stood Jason Todd— Robin .
Tim’s heart skipped a beat, his mind racing to catch up with what was happening. Jason. Jason Todd —the vigilante he had spent countless nights observing from a distance, the boy who had been a hero in his eyes for as long as Tim could remember. And now he was standing right in front of him, talking to him .
Say something stupid. He cried internally, frozen like a deer in headlights under the confused stare of his literal idol.
“Oh, uh, it’s just Tim.” Tim managed to stammer, his voice sounding way too high-pitched even to his own ears.
I didn’t mean literally.
Tim was going to personally call Killer Croc himself and request that death roll.
“Sure, Timbit,” Jason continued without missing a beat, completely disregarding the correction as though it was an afterthought. Tim opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out was a squawk, an involuntary noise of frustration. He blinked, as if trying to process the fact that Jason wasn’t listening at all—and that, somehow, Jason calling him Timbit felt even worse than the first time.
He casually jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the sleek, black car rolling into the parking lot. “Your ride almost here? Alfred won’t mind dropping you off if you—” His voice trailed off, a half-smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as he glanced at Tim, waiting for an answer
“That’s ok!” Tim blurted, an immediate reaction that he regretted the moment the words left his mouth. His voice felt too loud, too eager, as if he were trying to erase the awkwardness of the conversation by talking over it. “Mr. Rinaldi should be here soon, I think? I mean, he’s never late, so I hope he’s ok? But he didn’t call to say that he wasn’t coming, so—”
Before he could dig himself deeper, his phone chimed loudly, cutting off the word vomit from his mouth and providing him with the answer to his nervous rambling.
Incoming Message: Mom
Timothy, I forgot to update you that Mr. Rinaldi will not be able to transport you to and from school for the next week.
If you could make the proper accommodations, that would be appreciated.
Best Wishes, Janet
3:31 PM
Tim’s stomach dropped as the message sank in. With a defeated breath, he slowly looked back up at Jason, his face now flushed with embarrassment and resignation. Jason’s expression was just slightly startled, as though he hadn’t expected the sudden shift in tone, his eyes darting between Tim and the message with an unreadable glint.
Tim cleared his throat and tried to speak, but his voice came out quieter, smaller than he meant. “Actually,” he said, his gaze dropping to the pavement for a moment before flicking back up to meet Jason’s, “I could use a ride home, please.”
Jason didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, everything seemed to slow, the world hanging in the air between them. Tim could feel Jason’s eyes on him—really seeing him—taking in the exhaustion in his posture, the dark bruises under his eyes that never seemed to fade no matter how much sleep he managed to get.
Without another word, Jason shifted his bag over his shoulder, his movements smooth and effortless. Tim barely registered what was happening before Jason had grabbed his backpack, not giving him a chance to object.
“No problem, Timmers,” Jason said, his voice light, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. A grin spread across his face, but there was something behind it—something thoughtful that Tim couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Let’s get you home. It’s cold as shit out here.”