Chapter Text
After slipping back into his window and carefully tucking away his camera and night gear, ten-year-old Timothy Drake closed his eyes.
Eight hours later, seventeen-year-old Tim Drake-Wayne woke up in his childhood bedroom, in his child self’s body, with only one goal in mind:
Stop Jason Todd from becoming Robin.
The reasoning behind why Jason Todd couldn’t be Robin was a play that was both simple and complicated.
A common misconception most outsiders had about Gotham was about Robin. Upon first glance, people would assume that Batman, a clearly dangerous adult, would drag children into his crusade against their will. Or, perhaps even worse, groom them into the soldiers they seemed to be by taking advantage of their natural childlike naivety.
(The latter assumption was one typically made by someone who didn’t live in Gotham. All Gothamites knew that ‘childlike naivety’ wasn’t the same in Gotham.)
But no, Robin wasn't a product of a grown man’s twisted morals, but rather, that of a child’s desire to help.
To be Robin was to disobey Batman on principle because the only reason Robin was on the street in the first place was because Batman couldn't keep them off of it.
Robin was there because Bruce couldn’t keep Dick Grayson from going after his parents’ killer. Robin was there because Bruce couldn’t keep Tim Drake from trying to help his hero through his grief. Robin was there because Stephanie Brown wasn’t going to give up on her city, no matter how much it took from her. Robin was there because Damian Wayne had something to prove, and he wouldn’t let anyone stop him.
And this contemplation led to a revelation. One that explained everything. All the pain, all the grief, all the ways Bruce had changed for worse after the death of his son, tied back to this:
Jason Todd didn’t become a vigilante on his own. Jason became Robin when Bruce gave it to him.
Sure, Jason most definitely had the desire to help, there was no doubt about that. But Jason’s time as Robin began not with a man chasing down a child who slipped from his grasp, but a man trying desperately to hold onto his child for as long as he could.
If Bruce never gave Jason Robin, Jason wouldn’t have died.
He wouldn’t have been trained enough to think he could go to Ethiopia on his own. He wouldn't have fought with Bruce to the point of them losing trust in each other. He wouldn’t have been part of Joker’s obsession.
Jason Todd could not be Robin.
But Batman needed a Robin. And Bruce Wayne needed his son.
Well, Tim could arrange for that.
The first step to achieving success was to have a plan. However, when one has a mind that overthought—that analyzed, internalized, and envisioned every possible outcome—that plan could very quickly devolve into multiple. Each as detailed and well thought out as the last. In some circumstances, those plans could be used together, multiple contingencies implemented as the situation progressed.
Unfortunately, this was not one of those situations. Becoming Robin was not an objective on which Tim could deploy multiple contingencies. Batman was not breaking apart. He was not isolated, pushing away friends, family, and allies as he pushed himself to the near brink of death. If Tim fucked up this meeting, he could be on a one-way ticket to Arkham, or Blackgate, or, hell, even a cell up on the Watchtower. He had one shot or nothing.
Plan A was to just walk on over to Wayne Manor and hand himself over, revealing his information like a criminal walking into the sheriff’s station. He could imagine it vividly, after all, it had already happened before.
Alfred would open the gates when he realized a lone child was asking for entrance, opening the door of the manor promptly and efficiently before Tim could even knock. At first, he’d politely ask for Tim to leave, stating that Mr. Wayne was busy and was “not to be disturbed”, before freezing slightly—just slightly, so much so that if Tim wasn’t trained and so used to reading the man that he would never notice—when Tim reveals what he knows and…
Well, they’d just throw Tim into a containment cell this time around, wouldn’t they? He’d only be a massive security risk, nothing more. These were not desperate times, where the manor and its inhabitants were swamped in grief and dripping with desperation. Tim wouldn’t have been a saving grace—no, not even that—wouldn’t have been a last-ditch effort to save Bruce this time. Because Bruce wasn’t falling apart like he was after Jason's death. The only difference in current-Bruce’s mood was due to empty nest syndrome, which was promptly dealt with once Jason joined the household.
So there would be no need to hear Tim out, to give him a chance. No, the Waynes would simply lock him up, maybe even wipe his memories as a contingency.
Tim couldn’t allow that to happen, wouldn’t allow that to happen. Not only would he lose his family again, but the Waynes would also lose theirs.
Tim had to become Robin. He could not fail in his efforts to gain Batman’s attention.
Pacing the length of his room, Tim continued to toss ideas back and forth in his mind, building up plans only to tear them down again after running them through various scenarios. His little feet padded silently on the carpeted floor of his bedroom, his shadow falling upon the Flying Grayson poster above his bed.
The question remains: How can Tim be dangerous enough to be put under Batman’s supervision but not so dangerous as to end up in Blackgate—or worse, them telling his parents about what he gets up to?
The answer came to him as he was practicing katas.
At first, becoming a Rogue might seem like the obvious option, pull a Jason and try to get Batman’s attention through crime. He’d go for a less duffle bag of heads approach, obviously, maybe some more shenanigans and hijinks. Kiteman-level nonsense, minus the bombs and heists. Just a minor Rogue, with emphasis on minor considering he’s a child . But that would have the police on his tail, and possibly even CPS if they’d realize he’s a kid. Which would become apparent near instantly. Curse his tiny form.
On the topic of Rogues, however, Tim is reminded of Stephanie. Beautiful, courageous, brilliant Stephanie. Who went out in her homemade purple suit to fuck with her asshole of a father and fell into a world that she was too good for. Who constantly went above and beyond for this city no matter how much it destroyed her.
And that gave Tim an idea.
Instead of pulling a Jason—the villain route—he’d pull a Steph. Hit the streets as his own vigilante. Hell, she had the right idea all along, becoming a Wayne family friend was really the best route for him. Being a vigilante independent of Batman was the best plan he could possibly ask for.
And with his future knowledge, he’d be able to get on the Bats’ radar quite quickly. Swooping in and solving a case from right under Batman’s nose would be the perfect way to get his attention, and would be entertaining as hell to boot. Add a cape to that, and he was guaranteed to be pulled into the fold. Albeit with less open arms than if Bruce had put him in the domino, but hey, you win some, you lose some. It’s not like Tim knew anything about how Batman’s open arms felt anyway.
However, the most consistent problem across any and all of his plans is his age. He’d most likely be underestimated and told to go home. Tim could picture it already: Jumping across the rooftops and stopping for a quick second on one—maybe for a breather or to take a moment to revisualize his route—only to be scared shitless by a deep, gravely unfortunately recognizable voice. “Go home,” Batman would growl. “This isn’t your fight,” he’d intone from the shadows. Not even bothering to come in front of Tim, not even gracing him with his physical presence. Like he wasn’t worth the time.
No, Tim needed to pose a threat. Not a large one, mind you. But enough to pique Batman’s interest and, most importantly, keep his attention.
Training, Tim acknowledged, was a must. While he may have extensive knowledge of his past training, it doesn’t transfer over into his physical prowess. He just simply doesn’t have the muscle memory or muscle mass to perform the way he used to.
His years of karate, judo, and gymnastics classes was a decent foundation. Not too of a bad start for a beginner vigilante.
What he really needs is a guru, a personal teacher to oversee his reintegration into his fighting style. Ideally, they’d even be able to help mold him into something new, something even better.
His ideal choice would be Lady Shiva, but honestly, Shiva would probably laugh his current self out of there, if not outright killing him for daring to waste her time. That’s even if he somehow managed to cross paths with her. It wasn’t like he’s even a blip on his past teacher’s radar or anyone’s for that matter. No hero or villain outside of Gotham would give him the time of day. Which knocked off a good chunk of teachers from his metaphorical list. No Shiva, no Deathstroke, no Black Canary, no single high-profile vigilante would be on the table.
It’s when he’s walking home from his karate classes, muscles slightly sore from strain, that another piece of his plan falls into place.
A figure flitted across the rooftops, sleek against the dusky purples and blacks of the falling night sky. Another followed, this one larger in stature, heavier in tread, yet no less silent for it. In a blink, they were gone, Catwoman and Batman disappearing into the concrete jungle that is Gotham city. But that brief glimpse had reminded Tim that there was a large pool of teachers right at his disposal.
The Gotham Rogues.