Chapter Text
Tim’s sneakers pounded into the pavement as his breaths came out in short, quick gasps, not from exertion, but from fear. The cause of that fear was beating her wings furiously, trying gouge her talons into Tim’s shoulder once again.
“Timothy Jackson Drake!” Ms. Mac shouted in fury. Tim had taken every precaution Mr. Doe had shown him. He never wore his camp necklace in Gotham, he ate the flowers exactly when needed, he didn’t even react whenever he saw a cyclops or hellhound on the train. But none of those precautions meant anything against Ms. Mac. She already knew.
She knew Tim was half-god. She knew a combination of red blood and ichor sang through his veins. She was the first to find out. But she didn’t know about Gotham’s sole satyr. She didn’t know about Mr. Doe. Which is why Tim wasn’t running towards Mr. Doe’s apartment where a plethora of celestial bronze weapons were stored. Tim was running towards Wayne Manor.
Tim scaled the wrought iron gate, allowing himself to use his demigod strength to quickly get over it much more quickly than any regular mortal has a right to. Tim knew Bruce was off on a Justice League mission off-world and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks. Dick was in Bludhaven as usual. Hopefully Alfred was getting groceries.
Mr. Doe’s strained words of caution rang through Tim’s head. I won’t stop you from being close with the Bats, but be careful. All it takes is you killing one monster in their presence and they’ll ship you off to Arkham.
Tim had frowned, not quite believing Mr. Doe’s words. But they know me. I’ll explain myself. Batman has dealt with magic; even if they can’t see through the Mist, they’ll put it together that something is very wrong about the entire situation.
Mr. Doe looked at Tim with very old eyes and said no, they won’t. Don’t make the same mistake I did.
Tim later found records of a Jean Dupont in Arkham from around when Bruce first started out as Batman. Dupont was charged with two counts of kidnapping and two counts of first-degree murder. The victims were a pair of blonde thirteen-year-old twins, children of a famous singer that often toured around the world. Dupont escaped Arkham five years after he was committed. He hasn’t been seen since. Tim never asked Mr. Doe why he stayed in Arkham for so long.
Tim barreled through the front door, not bothering to close it behind him and wasting futile seconds keeping Ms. Mac out. Tim raced through the main kitchen, speeding past Alfred like a whirlwind. Tim could hear Ms. Mac crashing through the manor, no doubt creating a massive mess. BANG! Tim nearly tripped in surprise at the sound of Alfred’s shotgun.
Tim didn’t know why he was so surprised. Logically, it made sense. Tim is Robin, now, and Alfred protects Robin. That didn’t stop Tim’s utter bafflement at the prospect of a mortal trying to fight an ancient Greek monster with a fucking shotgun.
Tim went up the stairs two at a time as another shotgun blast reverberated through the manor walls. He skidded to a stop in front of Jason’s room where he hid a celestial bronze dagger. Well, dagger was generous. It was more of a scalpel. Tim went straight to Jason’s bookshelf, immediately pulling out Jason’s second favorite book, Frankenstein. Tim didn’t feel too bad about gutting the book when he originally made the hidey hole; Alfred and Bruce would never dare to read books from Jason’s personal shelf and it wasn’t like Jason would ever read the book again. Tim ignored how the better hiding spot was in Pride and Prejudice where Tim would be able to fit a more appropriately sized weapon. But Pride and Prejudice was Jason’s favorite book.
Tim shoved the book back into its proper place on Jason’s shelf, and closed the door behind him as he sprinted back towards the first floor. Ms. Mac was suddenly at the top of the stairs.
“You insolent welp! Soon every monster in this gods forsaken city will know a half-blood is here!” she screeched in ancient Greek. Despite the situation, her words caused Tim to relax. No one else knew. She was the only monster that was gunning for him. Tim had time after he sent her back to Tartarus. Tim turned around and began sprinting down the hallway; he could here Alfred’s polished Oxfords pounding up the staircase and the cock of the shotgun.
As soon as Tim was safely around the corner of the hallway, a shotgun blast sent Ms. Mac crashing into the wall. She wasn’t bleeding of course, but that was Tim’s job. While she was still dazed, Tim leapt onto her back, pinning her wings and her talons with his knees and he plunged the scalpel into the side of her neck. She didn’t immediately collapse into dust, so Tim stabbed her in the neck again, and again, and again, until she did.
Tim stood over the smile pile of dust and harpy feathers, panting heavily. He could feel his hands shaking. The sound of footsteps prompted Tim to turn around.
“Please don’t tell Bruce,” he pleaded with Alfred as a tear rolled down his cheek. “I-I’m so sorry about the mess. I’ll clean it up. Please don’t tell Bruce.” Another tear joined the first. Tim rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure why this fight was affecting him so much. He defeated Ms. Mac by himself the first time, before he even knew what being a demigod meant. He survived a hellhound nearly biting him in half while he was in France and trying to figure out a way to use technology without informing every monster in a five-mile radius he was a demigod. He was Robin for gods’ sake! This should be easy! Yet here he was in Wayne Manor crying like a baby, wanting nothing more than to find Mr. Doe and ask him what he was supposed to do now that someone saw.
“My dear boy, are you injured?” asked Alfred gently as he placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. In theory, Tim knew what he looked like to Alfred; he manipulated the Mist ever since he returned from Camp to make it look like he mostly took after his dad in terms of looks. Gods forbid it ever gets out the Alvin Draper that attends a camp for kids with learning difficulties is Tim Drake. His parents would probably disown him for bringing that amount of shame upon the family name. Yet, despite Tim knowing Alfred can’t see through the Mist, there was a persistent fear Alfred could see him for what he truly was. Something that only qualifies as half human. Tim wanted to leave.
“No, I’m not injured. I’m sorry, but my parents will wonder where I am. I should go.” Tim tried to go past Alfred, but his grip tightened on Tim’s shoulder. Tim stopped in abject terror.
“Shake your head yes or no. Are you injured?” Tim shook his head. “Are there more coming?” Tim shook his head again. “Is this related to the night job?” Tim shook his head frantically. Some of the tension in Alfred’s shoulders loosened. Tim took that as his queue to leave, but Alfred’s grip tightened once again. “Take deep breaths with me,” Alfred instructed.
Tim was breathing just fine, but Alfred’s grip was on the same shoulder that Ms. Mac had first sent her claws into almost a year ago. Tim frantically shook his head.
“I really should get back home, Mr. Pennyworth,” Tim wheezed. Alfred’s frown deepened at Tim’s words.
“I don’t understand you. Just focus on breathing, chum.” Oh gods, I’ve been speaking ancient Greek this entire time. He knows he knows he knows he knows he Tim was only half aware of Alfred’s gentle urges to breathe and him guiding Tim into a sitting position against the wall. Then Tim knew no more.