Chapter Text
The sound of students packing up their stuff is what breaks Tim’s focus.
Pulling away from the Google Slides on his Macbook Pro his dad bought for him for the new school year, Tim rubs one eye with the edge of his navy blue wool sweater sleeve and checks the time with his other one — it’s a minute away from the bell.
“Alright class, remember, Macbeth presentations are tomorrow, so come prepared,” announces Mr. Paris, the English Lit teacher, over the noise and clatter of the class.
There are some groans over the last big assignment of the semester, but Tim feels too wound up to properly complain. On the classroom wall by the closet cabinets, Tim spots the laminated poster of William Shakespeare staring at him judgmentally. Like even he knows that Tim’s going to fail yet another English Lit assignment.
Tim tries not to feel offended as he gives his presentation-in-progress one more hopeless glance before reaching out and closing his laptop as the bell rings.
It brings an unfamiliar relief to Tim’s chest. For weeks now, he hasn’t been able to shake off the dread that comes with this class. He’s no avid fan of school, but for some reason even as a trained crime fighter, Tim doesn’t remember English Lit ever bothering him this much before.
At least he can look forward to a dinner cooked by Alfred before he has to look at his pitiful attempts to explain the symbolism of Shakespeare’s use of trochaic tetrameter again.
“Timothy, please stay a moment after class.”
Tim looks up from slinging on his backpack to catch Mr. Paris’s gaze. The English Lit teacher nods from where he sits at the front table, as if to appear disarming. As if Tim doesn’t know that he’s in a world of pain.
“I’m looking forward to your presentation, Timothy,” Mr. Paris begins as soon as the classroom is empty.
It’s not said unkindly, but Tim can hear the implication behind the words. Tim can also feel Laminated Poster William Shakespeare laughing at him. “I… yeah. Me too. Thanks.”
“As you already likely know, report cards are due soon, and this assignment is worth a hefty part of the final grade,” the English teacher says. “If you don’t have a passing final grade this semester, school policy demands an in-person conference between the teacher and the student’s parents. I wanted to remind you of that.”
Tim nods dutifully, and tries his best not to fiddle with the edges of his sweater sleeves too much.
“In part, because, as it is, your parents are not the easiest to reach, Timothy.”
The words are spoken with no judgment, but a second passes before Tim remembers to make eye contact with the teacher, and give the obligatory nod. Pretty much every teacher he’s ever had has said something like that.
“You have to earn a ninety or higher on the upcoming presentation to have a passing grade in this class for the semester.” Tim must visibly deflate, because Mr. Paris offers Tim a sympathetic smile. “I know this subject isn’t chemistry or stats or even gym, which you excel in, but… well, I believe in you. So do your best, alright Timothy?”
Tim nods, and he’s dismissed — but as he walks away, his stomach twists.
His best is so not going to cut it.
He hasn’t even gotten above a C minus on any of Mr. Paris’s assignments this year. Last year, in ninth grade, he didn’t have much problem with the subject, but he also had a different English teacher, who graded easier. Now Tim’s got reason to worry that he could fail into the negatives.
So, basically, he’s doomed.
Just outside the classroom door, Tim sees a familiar face, waiting for him.
“Wow,” comments Sebastian Ives — or just Ives, since the guy hates his first name — as they push into the bustle of the school hallway. “Did you become his favorite student or something when I wasn’t looking?”
“Try again,” Tim says. “He was letting me know how lousy I’m doing in his class.”
Ives shakes his head in sympathy, shortly getting distracted as they pass a group of cheerleaders before turning his attention back to Tim. “It just doesn’t track, man. How are you failing English?”
“I don’t know,” Tim groans. “How are you passing?”
“I just put words on the page and I get solid B’s. I dunno what you’re doing wrong.”
“Ugh,” Tim says, stopping as they reach Ives’s locker so his friend can grab his stuff. “I don’t either. And now I’m going to have to work on this presentation all night.”
Ives slips into his well-loved green coat with the scuffed elbow patches, looking contemplative. Tim can’t help but think of his mom, who always wrinkles her nose whenever Tim has something long enough for it to be even a little old.
“Well, hey,” Ives says, softly punching Tim in the shoulder. “It’s a lucky thing that tomorrow’s presentations are worth like, half of our grade, right?”
Tim corrects matter-of-factly, “It’s closer to a fourth.”
“Yeah, but still lucky, right? You can totally get your final grade up to passing, and your folks won’t chew you out.” Ives shuts his locker, his eyes lighting up with a new topic. “Hey, did you see that one TikTok with the dog?”
And the conversation moves on.
Because sometimes being an illegal vigilante means you move on with conversations with your friends instead of telling them what’s really on your mind.
Like how Tim’s hardly worried about being scolded via phone call. His parents, well-intentioned as they are, get total tunnel vision when they’re at a dig site — and right now, they’re in South America. And even if they do manage to check in with him, it’s pretty much a one-way conversation about whatever archaeological discovery they’re making for a total of three minutes before they get busy again and have to hang up. Tim admires their work ethic, but really, he’d be lucky to get in touch with even his mother’s secretary. It’s all good, though — Tim’s parents have left him on his own for longer periods of time. He’s not lonely in the Drake Manor. Not much, anyway.
Besides, the real reason Tim doesn’t want a failing grade in any class on his report card has nothing to do with his parents, and everything to do with Bruce Wayne.
Forget the hassle it would cause the school authorities to get ahold of his parents — a single failing grade would mean no more Robin. Bruce would ground him — literally — if he learned that Tim’s civilian life was being impacted by his vigilantism. He's grounded Dick and Babs for less.
And Batman needs a Robin.
Tim can’t let his own shortcomings get in the way of Gotham’s safety.
A conversation Tim definitely can’t tell Ives, or anyone else his age, about.
They’re still talking about TikToks and cute dogs when they step out the main entrance of Gotham City High School and start down the steps along with everyone else.
The late afternoon sun peeks through the overcast sky like shards of light. As the chilly November wind shoves its way across the school courtyard, Tim rubs his arms to ease the goosebumps under his sweater, his mind going back to Robin as he laughs at something Ives says.
He wouldn’t normally care so much about his grades — in his humble opinion, good grades don’t always mean smart, and bad grades don’t always mean stupid, and essays are a matter of subjectivity, anyway — but the idea of losing Robin makes Tim’s heart sink.
And Tim doesn’t like imagining the look of disapproval Bruce would give him if it came to that.
So it’s a good thing there’s no patrol tonight — it’s on Alfred’s orders, since Bruce’s injury from last weekend’s clash against Penguin and his goons is still healing up. Everything hinges on tomorrow’s presentation for Tim, so he just needs to bunker down like it’s a case that the GCPD have been stumped on for a while and crack it wide open until the danger is gone.
Weaving through the flow of upperclassmen heading for their cars in the parking lot, Tim and Ives walk towards the school buses lining the asphalt.
Ives has moved on, talking about his latest attempt at romance — “Callie Evans didn’t even hesitate to put me in the friendzone” — and they stop at the end of the bus stop line, right next to the outdoor bulletin plastered with posters for school clubs and the varsity football game schedule.
Tim’s eyes fall on a flyer pinned loudly in the center of it all, its bottom corners that aren’t pinned down blowing in the wind.
His blood chills.
It’s a picture of a slightly pudgy boy with ginger hair framing his face as he smiles at the camera, the text above reading, HAVE YOU SEEN ME? Underneath the picture reads, PHILMONT DENLINGER, GOTHAM CITY HIGH SCHOOL, SOPHOMORE STUDENT. LAST SEEN SEPTEMBER 30TH IN SCHOOL PARKING LOT.
Tim can’t stop the shiver that runs down his spine.
He’d known the guy, after all.
Granted, not super well. He’d only met him towards the end of last year, when Philmont Denlinger began sitting at the same lunch table as him and Ives. Tim helped Philmont with his stats homework once, and the next week at lunch Philmont brought him and Ives a tub of homemade cookies he’d helped his grandmother make.
And then —
And then Philmont went and killed himself at the start of the school year.
The case details were stacked up and organized in Tim’s mind even now, even though it wasn’t exactly a Batman-level case. Basically, security camera footage had caught Philmont leaving school one day in a mysterious dark SUV that didn’t look like it belonged to any student or faculty. No one knew whose car that was. The missing person case tragically ended in the discovery of Philmont’s red Nike shoes washing up on the side of Finger River a few days later. For a while it was all anyone at school was talking about before it faded into old news.
And despite the case being closed by the GCPD, flyers like this are still unrelentingly going up, courtesy of Philmont’s grandparents.
Tim hates to think it — Philmont was kind-of-almost their friend, after all — but nothing good has ever happened to a kid who’s gone missing in Gotham.
“It’s going to take me a minute to get over beautiful, beautiful Callie, but I mean, I guess I’ll have to — oh,” Ives breaks off, following Tim’s gaze to the bulletin and falling quiet when he sees Philmont’s picture.
“Um, so about Callie,” Tim hastens to revive their conversation before either of them spiral into glumness. “If it cheers you up, you never had a chance with her.”
Ives looks straight at him. “Drake, my guy. Just how is that supposed to cheer me up?”
“Well,” Tim says, giving Ives a cheeky smile. “She’s been dating Ari for the past two weeks, dude.”
Ives’s jaw drops. “What? No. Callie and Ariana? No!” He pauses, pulling his hands away from his face to stare blankly ahead. “So when they had their tongues down each other’s throats after their basketball game, that was… like…”
“You’re almost there,” Tim encourages.
“Shut up. I thought girls just did that sometimes!”
“Yeah, I can see how you would think that it was platonic,” Tim says, then listens to his Robin instincts telling him to run as Ives chases him down the path, their spot in the bus line forgotten.
~~~
Alfred’s food is one of the reasons Tim likes hanging out in the Wayne Manor.
A few months ago the butler was appalled to find out that Tim was just not having food because of Robin stuff, and now texts Tim a personal dinner invitation every evening, even when they don’t have patrol. It’s great, but it’s also embarrassing how easy Tim finds it to overstay his welcome, talking to Bruce about cases or helping Alfred in the kitchen or playing tug-of-war with Ace, the ferocious-looking German Shepherd who is really just an oversized puppy when you get to know him.
Luckily, no one’s objected yet. In fact, sometimes it seems that the more Tim spreads himself around in the childless Wayne Manor, the more jokes Alfred seems to make in that dry, lighthearted way of his and the harder Ace’s tail seems to wag — though Tim has a feeling the dog just likes having another person around for belly rubs. Even Bruce, dark and brooding as ever, feels worlds softer than the unapproachable sorrow and rage Tim first met him as.
Tim draws imaginary circles on the mahogany wood of the Wayne dining table, running his fingers under the light of the pretty crystal chandelier above. Bruce sits at the head of the table, newspaper in hand like the internet doesn’t exist. Underneath his loose t-shirt, Tim can see the outline of his bandages. Bruce is sporting something close to twenty stitches on his abdomen.
“Does it hurt a lot still?”
Bruce looks up from the paper in surprise, before gingerly touching his side. “Not a lot. Don’t worry.”
“I’ve never gotten that many stitches before,” Tim notes, which makes Bruce raise his eyebrows.
“You better not need any stitches at all,” he scolds mildly, which makes Tim snort-giggle before he can help it. He clams up as quickly as he can — his parents are always pretty strict about dinner etiquette — but Bruce doesn’t chide him.
Soon dinner is served and the dishes before Tim are full of meaty, cheesy lasagna, steamed veggie salad, and creamy potato stew. They thank Alfred — even Ace woofs politely from the spot between Bruce and Tim’s feet — and dig in, and for the next few minutes, they’re engulfed in comfortable silence once again.
For a moment, Tim’s relaxed, looking at the portraits of Thomas and Martha Wayne on the dark walls, imagining what they must have been like — and the next, his mind is going back to school and presentations tomorrow, and Robin will be taken away, and just like that, the gnawing nervous ache in his stomach replaces any semblance of comfort he’s having.
It’s just acing one English presentation, he reminds himself. But his self-encouragement stops there and doubt takes over. Whatever he’s done wrong in his English Lit assignments this year is one case that he hasn’t been able to solve.
“Tim,” Bruce says, breaking into Tim’s thoughts. The older man’s gaze lingers on him, concern creasing his brow. “Is there something on your mind?”
Tim sits up straighter and shakes his head in fervent denial.
“N-no, nope, I’m good,” he says, then shoves a spoonful of stew into his mouth to show how much he doesn’t look like he’s failing a class. His tastebuds melt. Wow. Alfred’s stew is good. At Bruce’s perplexed stare, Tim blurts out the first thing he thinks of. “Well, actually, recently, I read the GCPD notes on the Gotham City Bank embezzlement case earlier this week.”
“Hm.”
“They have the guy who did it, right?” Tim pauses in between inhaling Alfred’s potato stew, thinking about the latest case they’d worked to bust. “One of the bank’s managers or whatever — they have records of him taking out funds that aren’t his for years. It should be a closed case, right? But Commissioner Gordon couldn’t nab him. It’s weird.”
“Good question.” Tim feels the smallest surge of pride out of nowhere. “Despite a solid paper trail, Gotham’s elite has strings that will keep them safe from courthouses. To that point, Commissioner Gordon’s saying that bank manager’s legal team can still push the innocent angle.”
“Even though he’s guilty?”
“Even though he’s guilty,” Bruce confirms.
“But everyone knows.”
“Plenty of people can know it, Tim. But having more zeroes in your bank account can keep mouths shut, even if innocents get the bad end of the deal. It’s not right. But… that’s why Batman exists.”
Tim thinks about it and opens his mouth, but then shuts it out of habit. His dad hates stupid questions.
But Bruce is clearly nothing like Jack Drake, because he pauses in bringing his fork to his mouth. “I’m familiar with that look,” he says to Tim, almost teasing. “You look like you’re about to split a case open.”
Tim eases up. “I guess I’m just thinking. There are so many families that don’t have access to their own savings. And — and people have immediate needs, right? I’m sure it’s scary. And I guess I don’t understand why Gotham’s elite can’t see that, you know? But I guess there isn’t exactly an answer to that. It’s just… I’m just speculating about greed. Which is pointless. We’re vigilantes.”
Tim shrugs, and goes in for another slurp of stew. When he looks up in the silence that follows, he finds Bruce’s gaze on him, gentle and… proud?
“What?” Tim asks with his mouth full, forgetting manners entirely.
Bruce smiles. “Nothing. Just… admiring your very large heart.”
Tim feels his face start to warm from the compliment, so he puts a hand over his chest and jokes, “Hey, I like where all my organs are. But about the case…”
“Yes,” Bruce says darkly. “We’ll see if Batman can... persuade the people who accepted his bribes otherwise.”
The glow of the dining room from the chandelier feels chillingly ominous now, in the way Batman’s presence always shifts the tides of crime.
“I hope you’re not discussing patrolling tonight,” Alfred scolds, instantly breaking the dramatic tension in the dining room. He sets down a second bowl of lasagna for Ace, who digs in noisily, before joining them at the table. “Not with that injury. Nightwing and Batgirl should handle it.”
Bruce actually looks grumpy. “Fine.”
Tim can’t help but grin. He’s not sure how to describe it — but the warmth of Wayne Manor is his favorite type of cozy. Bruce, Alfred, and Ace all make him feel safe.
“How is the meal, Master Tim?” Alfred asks.
“So good.”
“He inhaled the stew,” Bruce comments.
“I like stew,” Tim says. Under the table, Ace’s wagging tail softly beats against Tim’s leg. Tim smiles and blurts the next thing that pops up in his head. “Did you know that the world’s oldest known evidence of stew was found in Japan? It’s from the Jōmon period. Which was like, fourteen thousand BCE.”
“Oh?” A soft look appears on Bruce’s face. Alfred chuckles.
“It’s neat, because they dug up a lot of vessels, and the smaller bowls were dated to be older than the bigger pots and vessels, which theoretically could mean that they were living a nomadic lifestyle that developed into a more settled one,” Tim babbles, leaning into his untapped knowledge reservoir of archeology facts. “Um, at least, I think it’s neat. Sorry.”
“No, I agree,” Bruce says. “I’m no expert, but ancient lifestyles are an interesting subject. Not to mention a valid hypothesis. Most hunter-gatherer civilizations have evidence to have followed that path.”
They move from one topic to another as smoothly as the butter on Alfred’s lasagna. At one point Tim’s saying something and Bruce is actually laughing, looking happier than he has in months ever since they found out that the notorious Red Hood of Crime Alley is actually Jason Todd, revived in the flesh, with little regard to Batman’s no-killing code. Tim doesn’t know the details from Batman and Red Hood’s standoff those months ago — just that Jason wasn’t interested in coming home to the Wayne Manor and Bruce’s eyes were filled with so much anguish in the following weeks it was like Tim was eleven again witnessing his hero fall apart. But Tim’s careful not to bring up the topic here. He’s curious, but even he knows what subjects are better left avoided when it comes to the adults in his life.
Dinner feels over too quickly. Tim fiddles with his leftover steamed vegetables on his plate for just a few extra minutes, his stomach and heart full and heavy with comfort. Ace pads over and rests his head on Tim’s knees, looking up with a question of play in his eyes, tail softly sweeping the floor. Tim’s heart throbs. He doesn’t want to leave, but if he stays longer to play with Ace, he has a feeling no one will stop him, and he doesn’t really belong here. He’s no Dick Grayson or Jason Todd. He has a home to get to, as cold as it is.
“Tim, if you would prefer to stay the night while your parents are away, we have a room you could use,” Bruce offers, carefully emotionless as he dabs his mouth with a napkin. “Ace can even sleep up there with you.”
Alfred chimes in, “Oh, we wouldn’t be able to separate him from you.”
The offer makes Tim’s chest tight with the same warm emotions he gets whenever Dick gives him a surprise hug or when Babs ruffles his hair and calls him a genius, or when Alfred bakes his favorite cookies for his birthday. The feeling probably means something, but Tim tucks that away to think about later.
“Thanks, B,” Tim says, “But I can’t. I have a presentation tomorrow in English, and I have to work on it. I —”
He cuts himself off before he can let it slip that he needs help.
Even if Bruce would probably help. But admitting that is too risky if Tim wants to keep Robin. To keep coming back to Wayne Manor and feeling… warm like this. He has to be a good Robin, and in order to do that, he has to be a good Timothy Drake.
“I think it’s better if I go home tonight,” Tim finishes lamely. Bruce is looking at him weirdly, and too late Tim realizes that his smile must have fallen off somewhere in the middle of his thoughts. Tim tries to act cool, but only manages to continue awkwardly poking at his vegetables, mashing them on the plate. Ace whines softly.
“Master Tim, the peas have not wronged you.”
And because Tim wants dessert, he sheepishly apologizes to Alfred.
~~~
The Drake Manor is empty. Fresh air from the night outside gently drifts in through Tim’s bedroom window, cooling the back of his neck. He’s taken a shower and is in his linen sea-green t-shirt and pajama pants as he sits at his desk, laptop before him.
It should make for a perfect studying environment.
Instead, Tim’s slowly losing it.
He stares at the Google Slides, the blinking cursor at the end of his conclusion slide mocking him, like, That’s all you got? Because even after following the rubric point for point, Tim has a gut feeling that Mr. Paris is going to give him a smile and an F, with the words, “Sorry, Timothy. It’s just too derivative,” which is something he’s been saying all semester long to Tim, on every assignment, even though it doesn’t make any sense.
Drawing his knees up to his chest in his chair, Tim reaches for his steaming mug of coffee and sips. It’s no good for his bouncing nerves, but he needs to stay awake a little longer. If it were just the grade, he’d have called it a couple hours ago, but everything rests on this presentation, which Mr. Paris is going to hate, and it’s — Tim needs some help — but he can’t ask Bruce —
Then a voice from his open window shatters the quiet.
“All alone, baby bird?”
Tim spins in his chair, coffee slipping from his grip and shattering. Black liquid pools on the antique hardwood floor of his bedroom.
Tall, brown leather jacket — and that tell-tale helmet, red as blood.
“Hood,” Tim squeaks out, and rises from his seat, but then he looks down at the mess of coffee and ceramic shards at his feet and his priorities shift completely. Dang. Good coffee wasted. “Sorry, hang on —”
The Red Hood, who is Jason Todd, Tim reminds himself as he grabs the paper towels under his desk, is seemingly frozen as Tim mops up the now lukewarm coffee off the floor.
A gun cocks. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”
Tim stops moving, but even on caffeine jitters, his body doesn’t flinch in terror like it’s supposed to. Like it used to.
After all, the Red Hood is a killer. He crosses the line that Batman doesn’t, and Tim knows, logically, he should be afraid. In the past half year that Hood’s made an appearance in Gotham City, he’s given Tim a concussion, a broken wrist, and thrown him into a dumpster from a rooftop, all while mocking him ruthlessly.
But this is the first time he’s facing Hood with the knowledge that it’s Jason Todd under the mask, and the life-saving Robin instinct to flee isn’t quite firing like it normally does. Instead of the usual thought process Tim has during their terrifying encounters — a constant mental screech of, what is this guy’s BEEF with me? — there’s only something sugary and nostalgic.
Because the Red Hood is scary, yeah. But Jason Todd? Jason Todd…
Tim tries to think. When he was three and scared of the circus, Dick Grayson unwittingly gave him his first bear-crushing hug that melted his bones with happiness. When he was five and his mother forgot him at the library, Barbara Gordon held his hand and cheerfully (and illegally) taught him how to bypass the city government’s firewall, the both of them giggling the entire time.
And when he was ten and got caught following Robin around, Jason Todd took him to O'Shaughnessy's and bought him Superman ice cream.
So no, right now, Tim’s Robin instincts aren’t firing. He’s not as scared as he should be. Tim swallows down his irritation with himself — he has such a bad habit of imprinting — and rises to his feet with his hands up, looking down the barrel of Hood’s gun.
Get ready to fight, he orders himself.
But Jason would never hurt me, every other stupid cell in his body protests.
“I thought I’d drop by,” Hood continues casually, his voice loud and foreign in Tim’s bedroom. “See how much better the second model is for myself. Break it in a little for the Bat.” With a laugh, he takes a menacing step forward. “Imagine my surprise to find the window open, and the baby bird undefended.”
Tim warily backs away from his predecessor, trying to push down the woefully inappropriate admiration blooming in his chest. It’s just that Jason was so quiet when he broke into his house. That’s kind of cool, in a terrifying sort of way.
“But that wasn’t even your first mistake,” Hood says. “Want to know what your first mistake was, baby bird?”
Hood’s leg snaps out. A boot connects with Tim’s stomach, and it’s pretty much the worst thing he’s felt all week. A gale of nausea rushes through him as he falls backwards.
Okay. So maybe Jason would hurt him.
The wind leaves Tim’s lungs as he hits the floor on his side. Something slams against his shoulder and head and it takes him a dizzying second to realize that it’s the wall.
Shaking, he tries to push himself up on his elbows, but something slams his chest down. Tim’s mouth hangs open on an empty cry, tears pricking his eyes at the sudden crushing force of Hood’s boot on his ribs.
“Putting on the Robin colors.”
Hood’s words are cold, but something about them sting Tim in a way he’s not used to. The anger feels so directed at him, so personal.
Tim’s fingernails scrape against the leather of Hood’s unbudging boot, his chest burning as he gasps for air. It’s probably a good thing that he’s currently voiceless — otherwise he might have said something like, huh what?
It’s no secret that the Red Hood hates Robin. Tim still has the remnants of a faded dumpster bruise to prove it. And besides, the last time Hood was in the Robin colors, he… well, died. Bruce doesn’t talk about it, like ever, but after Hood confronted Batman and revealed the whole ‘dead son’ thing, his terrifying vitriol against the new Robin has made a lot more sense. It’s understandable, even.
But now, lying on his back and getting familiar with Hood’s preferred choice of footwear, something dawns on Tim, snapping in place like a missing puzzle piece.
Tim lifts his head as much as he can to meet the white glare of Hood’s eyes.
“You’re being… serious?” he chokes out, confused.
Hood’s gloved hand wraps around one of Tim’s wrists, easily yanking it away from his boot. Tim tries to tug it back, but Hood is stronger, and there’s no warning when he pulls — his boot still pinning Tim’s down. Something pops and then it’s all fire and Tim shrieks.
His arm is dropped like a dead thing, not looking quite right in how it’s connected to his shoulder and Tim chokes on a sudden surge of bile when he’s unable to move it. What the heck?
Hood’s voice is mirthful. “Did that feel like a joke, Replacement?”
Replacement. As in, Jason’s replacement. Hood doesn’t have a problem with Robin. He has a problem with Tim being Robin.
Something in Tim’s chest drops in the horror of understanding what Hood has meant all along. That this was never just a general animosity. This is — and has been — something serious all along.
“I can’t believe you don’t like me,” Tim whispers, dejected.
Hood’s laugh is mean.
Lying there on his bedroom floor, Tim does what he does best and compartmentalizes.
Things He’d Like To Handle Later, If Not Ever: Hood beating him up, especially in the aftermath of finding out that his childhood idol thinks Tim took his place.
Things He’d Like to Handle Now: Honestly? His English presentation sounds like a dream. At least it wasn’t trying to kill him. That much.
Gloved fingers close over Tim’s throat and slowly begin to squeeze. Tim closes his eyes to keep the tears at bay. This must be what a mouse feels like when a cat’s caught it but hasn’t sunk its teeth in yet. Just being played with.
“Learned your lesson yet, baby bird?”
The only lesson Tim’s interested in is one on analyzing classic works of literature so that he can get a passing grade in English Lit.
Wait.
Wasn’t… wasn’t English Lit, like… Jason Todd’s best subject in school?
Tim’s eyes snap open. Hood’s currently cutting off the oxygen to his brain, which isn’t exactly helping him remember, but it was something Dick once said… or was it Babs…? Wait, isn’t there an old video Alfred took years ago, where Jason Todd has a huge grin on his chocolate-sundae covered face, talking about some book for class he’s reading, and how interesting it is, and —
“Jason!” he gasps, choking. “Have you ever read Macbeth?”
The Red Hood stares at him like Tim just slapped him with a fish.
“Mac—Macbeth.” Tim breaks out into a fit of coughs. The pressure on his neck and chest lessens just a fraction, and he takes in just enough of a breath to add, “William Shakespeare!”
“Did you damage your brain?” asks Hood slowly, tightly. “I know who wrote Macbeth.”
Renewed hope, meet Tim.
Tim lets out a happy noise, his good arm moving up so he can tug at Hood’s jacket sleeve, which in hindsight is ridiculous, because clearly he already has Hood’s undivided — albeit murderous — attention. Hood pulls away like lightning, his hands releasing Tim’s neck to slap him away like he’s a housefly.
“Would you listen to my presentation?” Tim wheezes through dry coughs. “Please? It’s tomorrow, and it’s worth half my grade” — well, a fourth, but Hood doesn’t need to know that — “and it’s my last chance before report cards and I could use some help on it, if you’re available?”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, “The fuck is wrong with you.”
“Please, Jason? You’re good at this stuff, and my teacher’s — well, he’s kinda weird, and — look, just beat me up tomorrow. I won’t even fight back, promise —”
Hood pulls off the helmet, and a Lazarus-green glare locks on Tim.
Jason’s got a shock of white hair above his forehead, and his jaw is longer than what Tim remembers from the Superman ice cream night all those years ago, but the intense eyes behind the domino mask are so familiar that Tim’s surprised into silence.
Whoa. It doesn’t even matter that the color is different. This is Jason Todd.
A hand roughly grabs him by the chin, turning his head from the right to the left for inspection. Then wordlessly, Jason takes off one of his gloves to feel Tim’s forehead.
“I’m not sick,” Tim informs him, a little starstruck at the guy he’d secretly wanted as a big brother ever since he was nine.
“Your pupils look fine,” Jason mutters.
“I don’t have a concussion, either!”
“Do you know I’m literally beating you up right now?”
“It’s crystal clear. Crystal. But I have homework.”
Jason stares at him a beat longer, then he scans the room, seeming to take it in for the first time. Tim’s glad now that he left such a mess of schoolwork while working on the presentation. All his past assignments are spread out over half the bed, and his desk is a fright of index cards around his open laptop. With the boot still nailing him into the floor, Tim takes in a ragged breath. He hears Jason exhale, and then —
And then Jason walks away.
Tim noisily sucks in sweet oxygen, but even with the boot gone the rejection weighs him down. No homework help, then. Somewhere in the back of Tim’s mind he knows he should just be grateful he’s not dead, but it isn’t cheering him up by much. He winces as he sits up, his right arm completely unhelpful hanging at his side.
But then a rustle of papers has Tim snapping his head up, and finding Jason… on his bed. Leafing through all his previous assignments, Tim was using them to help him figure out what not to do. Jason gives the bold red grades scrawled at the top of each assignment a passing glance, his face impassive.
“You’re flunking English,” Jason concludes finally, looking up at Tim. There’s a sneer in the older boy’s face, but his eyes are duller. Almost blue, in the right light.
“Kind of,” Tim breathes out, halfway hopeful. “Yeah.”
With a reluctant tight-jawed expression, Jason asks, “So what’s this presentation on again?”
Tim perks up, feeling bright enough to put the bat signal to shame.
~
Thirty minutes later, Tim’s concluding his Macbeth presentation in front of his bed, where Jason is perched, assembling a gun together on the silk pillows. Even so, Jason’s helped him tweak nearly half his slides, stoically pointing out symbols and meanings that Tim didn’t pick up on even his seventh read-through of the play. Now Tim almost doesn’t feel sick to his stomach about tomorrow. It’s a miracle.
“Looks good,” Jason grunts finally, and Tim blinks.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Your thesis statement and examples check out.”
Tim thinks of Mr. Paris’s usual comments in red ink. “It’s not… like… derivative?”
“What does that even mean?”
Tim lifts his shoulders — regretting it immediately when pain licks across his chest from the dislocated one — and shakes his head. “Mr. Paris’s always saying that. You’ve seen what he’s written on my essays.”
“Yeah,” Jason sneers. “I’ve never seen so much accumulated failure, by the way. I thought you were supposed to be the smart Robin.”
“Really?” Tim’s brain trips on that, cheeks warming. “You think I’m smart?”
Jason regards him with a flat stare. “You left your window wide open and I got in. I think you’re an idiot.”
Tim’s almost tempted to argue that Jason’s the one here who has nothing better to do on a Thursday night than fight a fifteen-year-old like a total weirdo. But Tim rubs at his eyes and yawns instead. He doesn’t even feel like complaining about the fact that his right arm, slung into one of his Celine hoodies like a makeshift sling, is throbbing pretty horribly. He’ll just grab some ice before he goes to bed.
With a click, Jason puts the last part of his gun together, then gets up to walk towards the window.
Tim opens his mouth to say something like thank you, good night, I’m sorry you hate me, I’ve admired you since I was nine, but is stopped short by the way Jason is staring at the red helmet in his hands instead of putting it on.
He looks… lost.
The silence in the bedroom stretches on for a few seconds longer before Tim blurts out, “Bruce misses you.”
It comes out of nowhere so suddenly that Tim’s surprised to hear himself saying it. But once it’s out, he tacks on, “So does Alfred. And Ace. Dick… and Babs, too. They all miss you so much, Jason. And I know that if you come home, Bruce would — he would love it. Everyone would.”
The words hang in the air for a second. They just hang there, and with each moment that passes, they feel a little bit less shiny and inspiring than they had in Tim’s head.
Something shifts in the air almost imperceptibly.
Tim’s not sure why, or what, but goosebumps crawl up his arm as Jason turns around. And unlike before, when Jason had been expressionless, now he wears a small smile.
“Really.”
Tim nods. He knows the Waynes, even if he isn’t part of the family. But then Jason starts to walk slowly towards him.
“And what if I came home,” Jason says, a shadow falling over his face with each step, “And found an intruder in the nest?”
Tim takes a step back, getting the distinct feeling that this conversation has veered off-track, but he’s not sure how. He wasn’t trying to make Jason mad.
“I just wanted to —,” Tim breaks off as Jason’s eyes sharpen to an eerie green, nearly neon. He wonders if they’re supposed to glow like that.
Tim opens his mouth to ask, then closes it, because the tension in the air has suddenly multiplied, and Tim really doesn’t need another kick to the ribs.
“I should have known the old man set you up to this,” Jason sneers. “To catch me with my guard down, so he could lure me back. Why else would he let you stay in this abandoned museum of a house?”
“Wh-what? No, that’s not —” Tim starts, only to be confused when Jason’s fingers reach out to card through his hair, cupping the side of his head. “That’s not what happened.”
“I don’t care how it happened, Replacement. But take a message back for the Bat, will you?”
The hand in Tim’s hair digs in and his head is jerked forward before he’s thrown to the floor. Tim barely has time to catch himself on his good arm, but then there’s a heavy force slamming his head down. Stars burst behind his eyes, and Tim’s gasp ends in a wail as something pierces the side of his face.
The broken mug shards.
He can feel individual jagged edges piercing into his skin, sinking deeper into his cheek. Tim’s heart races as Jason’s boot only shoves him into the floor harder, closing out any chance of escape. Tim lets out a garbled scream, unable to even thrash properly for the pain licking up his bad arm, and his good one pinned under him. The pressure against his skull grows with each second.
“Stop,” Tim gasps. His voice sounds so small to his own ears. “Stop.”
But Jason doesn’t stop. Jason’s going to crush his head. But Jason wouldn’t — but Jason is — this isn’t Jason —
“Finally scared, baby bird?”
He’s going to die.
“Jason — Jason, please — ”
“Try again.”
“Hood,” Tim chokes out.
The boot moves off, finally, but Tim doesn’t dare move. He lies there, feeling blood pooling under his face, too on edge. If he moves, and Hood hurts him again —
Out of the corner of his eye, Tim can see Hood put on his red helmet. The Red Hood looms over him, and there’s not a trace of the earlier patience. Cold wind gusts into the room. A shrill siren wails in the distance.
Tim doesn’t breathe as the Red Hood’s boots walk across the hardwood floor, stepping over the coffee mug, and then — then the lights of his room go out, and Tim hears Hood leave out the window.
Tim’s left in the square of moonlight that spills into his room from behind the storm clouds, breathing shallowly as the pain licks through his body.
He’s dimly aware that rain is blowing inside through the open window, the droplets getting onto the floor and his bed, but he can’t make himself move at first. Slowly, after minutes that feel like hours, Tim rolls himself off the broken pieces of his favorite coffee mug, unable to stop shuddering.
He lies there on his bedroom floor, everything throbbing or burning in pain. He blinks at the window blearily, trying to work up the nerve to get to his feet and pull it shut.
Hood’s gone, Tim tries to reassure himself. He’s not waiting to pounce if you get up to close the window. Just get up and close it. Mom will be mad if the floors get water damage.
It doesn’t work.
The night passes by slowly.
Tim doesn’t get up.