Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Green. It was all green. The green was eating him alive, yet giving him salvation.


It was his hands, molten, glowing green. All around him. His eyes burned, his mouth opened to scream yet nothing came out. Not even a breath. His clothes were sticking to his skin, he couldn’t move.


Then.


His mind opened.


Mirages of images attacked his mind. Black hair- No no, brown- green, surely- a smile, a smile placed on him- it was dimpled- yet, all he saw on their- her- his- their cheeks was scars. His hand- no, no hand. He didn't have hands. Yet, he did. And it reached out to the laughing- crying- laughing person.


It changed. Someone was holding him- them- him. Soft- calloused- rough- hands held him, rocking them back and forth, murmurs- too loud, it was burning his ear, and all they were repeating was ‘Tim. Tim.’ That was his name, correct?



Bat. Bats everywhere, attacking him, cradling him, killing him- No no they were owls. Owls? No no, surely Tim was mistaken. No-one was hurting him. Where was he? What was he? The green was still here. Was he the green?


Pain. Oh god, oh god, agony, hot and cold agony swirling through his body, like a siren, up and down in a mocking dance. Pinpricks, knives, ice, fire. Was he in hell? Had he sinned? His mouth- Where was his mouth? He had no mouth- opened to scream. He must scream. To alert someone of his presence- Was he present?


He needed someone. He needed his mother- who was his mother? The one with coloured hair who embraced him with sharp claws? Or the one who looked so achingly like him, that she herself stopped looking? Mother. Mother, where are you?


His father, perhaps? His mouth- he didn’t have one. Everyone had one, but Tim didn’t, he never deserved it, he never used it- opened to call- who? Who was his father? The man who had the night follow him, or the man who died in his arms?- Laughing, laughing, why won’t he stop, stop fucking laughing, stop laughing, you are not my father, you are a monster-


His eyes opened. Timothy Jackson Drake woke up.


His mouth- when had he gotten a mouth?- opened, and out came acid, coating the white marble floor in which he sat. His stomach lurched, and more bile rose in his throat, undignified gagging leaving his mouth as he emptied the contents of his stomach. More green liquid splattered on the floor, marring the pure marble with filth as Tim doubled over, his hands slithering up to interlock on his churning abdomen.


It hurt. His empty stomach desperately searching for something to eject while Tim sat on the cold marble. Cold. It was so cold. Tim shivered, his mouth dry, then wet with excess saliva, as he gagged and ejected more bile. Though, it was more spit than bile. There was nothing to puke up.


His eyes fluttered close as his gagging died down. His skull cradled a baby headache as Tim debated falling forward and collapsing on the cold marble beneath him. He almost did, but the repulsive sour stench of puke kept him from it. He doubted he smelt better, he could still smell the metallic scent of blood that hit him, and the sharp blade which rested near him.


What… He couldn’t even finish the sentence, all that was swirling around Tim’s mind was one singular word. What? His eyes burned with green and he gasped, his eyes flying back open. The Lazarus Pit. Tim gagged again, his hand shooting up to slap against his mouth. He had been dropped into the Lazarus Pit.


His blurry eyes darted around the- bathroom? Why was he in the bathroom? And his… his childhood bathroom, no doubt. Tim willed his shaky legs to support his weight as he stumbled upright, his tremor filled hands landing on the quartzite sink in front of him, his body falling towards where his hand lay. His waist roughly connected with the sink and he winced.


Tim met his own eyes in the mirror. He looked terrible. Tim looked back down. He ignored the knife on the floor. And the rope discarded on the side.


There must be a catch. No human ever comes out of the Lazarus Pit unscathed. Especially since he was in his Manor bathroom. He hasn’t visited the Manor in years, let alone lived in it. Something must be wrong. Time travel? Something sacrificial? He had to find out. Tim clenched his hands into trembling fists as he stared at the pure white underneath him. He had to find out.


He pushed himself up, swallowing down the taste of sour bile, and walked over the puddle of red and green puke on the floor… which was concerning, but he would deal with it later. He would clean it later. Tim exited the bathroom and into his room. It was messy, blankets strewn, pillows on the floor. Green on the bed sheets. He would clean that later as well. His eyes darted around. Skateboard, DnD board, camera- laptop. Perfect.


Tim collapsed on the desk chair, a shaky sigh leaving his mouth as his muscles contracted, the pain finally hitting him. It was no time to dwell however, so Tim opened his laptop. The background was different. It was not the picture he took with his family. It was the best he could capture, with Damian scowling in Dick’s arms. The best part was that Tim wasn’t in the photo.


Now it was black. Somehow, seeing the black made him feel worse.


The password was the same. His mother’s birthday.


He opened GothNet and started typing. First, the date. December 1st. It’s been a month. Tim released a shaky breath and continued. He searched up ‘Bruce Wayne’ and pressed enter. Bruce’s face showed up, smiling and waving away paparazzi as the description on the right wrote ‘Gothamite, Model, Businessman.’ Model? That was new.


Tim backspaced and searched up ‘Batman.’ The results made him blink. There were no blurry images of a black figure, rather… articles? ‘Batman; More Harm Than Good?’ , ‘The True Identity of Batman.’ , and ‘The Rise of The Bats.’ all greeted his eyes. That couldn’t be. Batman wasn’t… speculated mafia group?! No no no, they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. His mouse scrolled down. ‘Batman’s most infamous case.’ Hm. He clicked play, and-


Stephanie. Stephanie was the person who was covering this ‘cold case.’ Wasn’t she a part of the- and Tim’s stomach churned while thinking about it- Bats?


“Hey guys! How are you all doing? Today I am…”


Weird. Must be her civilian disguise. He opened another tab and searched ‘Members of Bats.’ There was no result, only threads of put together theories. He scrolled and scrolled, but no mention of anything besides Batman and a theorized Robin. They were right. Maybe they were operating differently?


Then, Tim made his mistake. He searched up ‘Oracle.’ To no-one's surprise, articles of Greek Mythology came up. No. That wasn’t what he wanted. He searched up ‘Spoiler.’ No results, only a guide on not spoiling movies and games. ‘Red Hood.’ Did you mean: Red Robin. His laptop glitched slightly. No. He didn’t. Lastly, he searched up ‘Nightwing.’ His laptop was glitching again, but he needed to know. ‘Robin.’ Another tab. ‘Batman.’ Another tab. ‘Barbara Gordon.’ Another. ‘Dick Grayson.’ Another, another another another another another-


Stephanie's voice stopped, stuttered on the syllable she was in. Again and again. Tim jerked back, the high pitch and excited voice drowning out in a scream, ringing against his ears. His computer shut down, his reflection in the inky black of his closed screen. Silence. The clock goes tick and tick and tick. Tim’s breath is shallow as he stares at the closed screen. His charger was still on. His laptop camera was beeping.


He felt bugs crawl on his back. His shaking hands grabbed the top part of the screen and slammed the laptop close. What the fuck? What the fuck? What did he get himself into? His vision blurred, the stickers on his laptop an unintelligible mess. What was he going to do? Why did the camera beep? What-


His phone rang. Tim flinched, his eyes darting to his phone. It had a clear phone case, a photo of a poppy on the cover. Janet’s favorite flower. No photo of Dick and him in the circus when they were little, in which Dick and him had both put on.


He picked up the phone. ‘Mother.’ No. Janet Drake was dead. And Ha- no. No, she was not his mother. He pressed accept and pressed it to his ear.


“Hello, Timothy?”


Silence. Tim pressed the phone closer, his mothers voice reverberated in his ear. Janet Drake. Her sharp yet gentle tone, the way she heightened every last syllable she said so that it sounded like a question. Tim blinked away the ache in his eyelids. It was really her. His chest ached horribly for a moment, before he regained his composure.


“Hello mother. How is your… trip?”


“Hm. It’s satisfactory. Have you been studying? Any tests I should know about? How’s the business?”


He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything, except for the family he was wretched away from, and the blurry memories of what was meant to be, but never happened.


“Yes. No tests for now, the business is good.” He hoped that would suffice. 


“Good.” Tim hated the way his heart palpitated louder when his mother praised him. “We’ll send a suit in a week or so for Master Wayne's ball you will go to..” The name sounded venomous in her tone.


Tim didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything over the way his throat felt like tar covered its every surface and his eyes started trembling. All that left his mouth was the sound of his breath hitching painfully in his throat.


A sigh. “Timothy, did you have that nightmare again? I told you to take the melatonin pills Mrs. Mac gave you.”


“Sorry… Sorry Mom.”


“Hm. We’ll call you later. Father says hello. Take your medication.”


A clicking noise. The call ended. He was alone, in his room, in his Manor. He looked around at the open bathroom door, then at the bed which had a glowing green substance on it.


He forgot how much he was scared of being alone. Or… was he really alone?


His laptop camera was still beeping.

Chapter Text

He could feel eyes on him.


He flipped the page of his forensics textbook, leaning his head against his palm as he read the words. Of course, his parents had chosen Forensic Science as a subject, when all Gotham had were dead bodies. Perhaps it was smart. Besides, there were more graves than homes in Gotham. Why wouldn’t Tim go into Forensics?


Or… were they? He didn’t know, in this version of Gotham. Where the streets were cleaner, but quieter. Creepier. Tim preferred when he saw someone’s shadows masquerading on rather than just seeing lamp shadows and the dew cascading around his vision.


Tim walked to the Academy today. There had been no catcallers, no smell of drugs or blood, no women crying on the sidewalk, no children begging for money. It didn’t feel like Gotham. He still saw druggies and suspicious men, this was Gotham after all, but they were more… hesitant. Why? Why?


He shifted the textbook to make it look like he was reading the next page.


Tim was pretty sure the laptop captured his face. His camera was beeping, after all. Did Barbara see him? Did she recognize him? Can she track him? Too many questions again, and all left unanswered.


He had put concealer on his face to hide the dark circles and his neck scar. He doesn’t need to seem more suspicious. Even his desk mate, Ariana, kept stealing glances and offering him a protein bar. He would throw it up immediately. He didn’t want to waste it. He hadn’t eaten in a while though. Ever since he came here.


Blue eyes. He knew Stephanie Brown was staring at him. He could guess why. He had been searching for her identity after all. Or… more accurately, tried to. Were their aliases not common knowledge? In Gotham, they had fan clubs, appreciation days, look-alike contests. In… this Gotham, people feared to even breathe the first syllable of Batman’s name.


Just how influential were the Bats that made them know when he searched them up? Was that why GothNet was made? To monitor searches? To identify criminals nefarious searching? Was Arkham Asylum still intact? Too many questions, and too many empty blanks for answers.

A sharp piercing noise. High pitch. Tim flinched and looked up. Oh. Academy was over. He glanced at his premade schedule in his diary. Criminology Club. Thankfully, he had no volleyball practice today. That was only for Wednesdays and Mondays. It was a Friday. The gala was in three days.


“Mister Drake. Can you stay after class for me? Just for a moment.”


Tim’s eyes dragged to the tutor, who was staring at him with pursed lips and barely concealed pity. Ew. He hated pity. As most of the students rushed to pack and go, Tim slowly closed his textbook and pouch, placing it in his bag meticulously like how it was before and zipping it up.


He grabbed his sleek black bag, hauling it on his tense shoulders before shuffling toward the tutors desk. Tick, tick, tick, the clock went. The more the clock ticked in his ear, the more his shoulders hiked up to his ear. Why were the clocks so loud in here?


“Mister Drake… Is there anything going on at home?”


Tim blinked and stared at his tutor, who had her hands clasped to the desk, her eyes narrowed, and her mouth downturned. He almost laughed. Or cried, he couldn’t really differentiate what the blooming feeling in his chest was. Or the way his eye twitched.


“No.”


“Are you sure? You’re… You haven’t been acting like yourself these past few days.”


Well, he supposed suicidal tendencies mixed with dimension travelling did that to someone. It was weird. Sometimes his thoughts would be muddled by an overwhelming feeling to scratch his arms or to grab the knife beside him. He would need to see what that was as well.


“Just a bit sick.”


“Do you need a nurse’s note?”


“No. I’ll be fine.”


Silence. It was too quiet, yet too loud. A reluctant sigh, and the teacher waved her hand. A dismissal if he ever saw one. A familiar dismissal. Tim nodded and sharply turned, hauling his bag closer as he saw himself away. Away to the second floor, to the right of the courtyard. To the Criminology Club.


His shoes skidded against the marble as he stepped up the stairs, the polished black on his shoes dulling the more he shuffled forward. He would have to polish them again once he got home. Was it really home? Of course it was. He just had to convince himself of it.


He was the vice president of the club. The sash on his uniform told him so. It was a rich blue, and the text was in silver, embroidered. Timothy Jackson deserved it. Tim didn’t. All he was was a stupid high school dropout. Not anymore , his mind supplied.


The door was probably acacia. Painted white. Only the expensive buildings of Gotham use acacia. Why wouldn’t Gotham Academy? Though, who knew? Maybe with the fucked up Wayne's, they replaced the wood type as well. He put his hand to the door and pushed it open, the creaking making his head ache. Why did everything seem so loud in this universe? It was as if his senses were heightened.


Eyes. Eyes on him again. Tim stared back, and one of the seniors smiled, drawing closer to Tim. Ah, he would be the president. He seemed familiar. Freckles, hazel eyes. Had he retained some memories from this universe after all? Though, his body was not the same. He still had the scars. (He had new ones as well.)


“Ah! Tim, we were just waiting for you! Come on, sit down.”


Hm. He must have a good reputation here, then. He followed the seniors' gestures and placed his bag on the floor near one of the front seats. The seats next to him were empty. Perhaps some were late. Or new. He stared at the table for a moment, tracing the texture of the wood with his eyes for a moment.


Why would Tim in this universe kill himself? The bathroom he cleaned held an empty box of melatonin pills, a bloodied knife, and a discarded rope. All entailed one thing. Was he in danger? He would have to find out. Perhaps he should call Janet and Jack. They would probably know, wouldn’t they?


His ears caught on the sound of his name.


“-is Timothy! He’s our vice-president and he’s kinda closed off, but he’s really sweet! You both can sit next to him, and he’ll navigate you through your first club meeting.”


Screeching chairs. New members then. Tim glanced to the new membe-


Blue and green eyes stared back. Oh. Oh no. Oh god no .


“You must be Tim! I’m Stephanie, and this is Damian.”


He stared at the outstretched hand in a mix of horror and pretended disgust. Stephanie’s presence (read: excuse) made sense, she was a true crime podcaster, after all. Damian? Why was he here? Perhaps, she needed backup. Or the universe wanted to mock him, with one of the two brothers that hated him. This was great.


He took the outstretched hand and shook it, but immediately pulled back.


“Soooo… What are we gonna do?”


Okay, Tim. Now is a great time to act like a normal human being. He swallowed and smiled. It was like molding too hard clay. He always felt too much for his own good. Dick and Jason could always shut off when needed, all Tim did was complain. He could shut down. It was just… hard to. Not natural.


“Since it’s the end of the year, we mostly talk in groups and discuss what crime cases we should discuss for the next term and make schedules.”


He hoped he guessed right. Tim didn’t quite know. He didn’t check any of the contacts or groups he was in. It felt like invading someone's privacy.


“Tt. Wouldn’t spontaneous planning account better to draw engagement?”


Tim’s fist clenched under the table at the achingly familiar sound of Damian’s voice. Stephanie stopped staring at him (Finally) and drew her gaze at Damian, smiling.


“Come on! Let’s not talk statistics. Besides, didn’t we have something interesting to talk about with little Timmy over here?”


Oh. Tim’s eyes hardened, trying his best to blank his expression in a mask of neutrality. They had found out. Of course they had, his laptop in this universe wasn’t encrypted after all. He should have checked. He should have encrypted it before doing anything.


“Affirmative. Drake, you have been exhibiting inconspicuous yet suspicious behavior.”


“Exactly! Couldn’t have said it better! Now, Tim-Tam, care to tell us what you were searching for which caused a whole alarm? I swear, it was just sooo annoying, my phone screaming at me at midnight. Y’know how controlling GothNet could be of security! Has to blare it out to everyone in the vicinity.” A lie.


“I don’t see how that’s any of your business. Both of you.”


Silence. Stephanie slowly turns her head, and her eyes size him up, like she was looking at a bug who she didn’t think could annoy her but it did. Stephanie never looked at him like that. Her eyes were too much like- no, no .


“It’s just a friendly question. Not many people can cause a warning. We just want to help you.” Her tone suggested the opposite..


Tim’s eyes hardened further, like topping ice with more ice, and he scowled.


“Like I said, it’s none of your business.”


Stephanie’s eyes shut down, and he could see her hand twitch from where it was clenched. Damian narrowed his eyes and scowled further. Ah, so Barbara had shown them the entire search history. Hm, he supposed even typing mistakes couldn’t excuse the things he wrote. Apparently, they were confidential. Time to deflect.


“ Why do you want to know anyways?”


“Drake, we do not demand much. Why did you search for that information?”


“I do not know what you are talking about.”


“Timothy.”


Tim flinched at the cutting tone in which Stephanie had used his name. His full name. Stephanie would never use his full name. But as he stared at the girl next to him, the one with short cut blonde hair, cold eyes, scars on her hands and one on her eyebrow, and a cruel smile, he realized something. This was not his Stephanie.


And… he will never see his Stephanie again. Nor will he see his Damian, or his Jason, or his Dick, or anyone he knew. These were new people, people who blackmailed and captured. Not as vigilantes, but as anonymous organizations.


Perhaps he should adapt. If this Gotham is roughened in the edges, he would need to handle his problem in a more assertive way. But he couldn’t blackmail his family, no matter how different they were. They were still the Wayne’s after all.


“ Fuck you.”


Tim spat out, and shot up from his seat. The other members jolted, and the senior surveyed Tim’s pale complexion and shaky hands, misinterpreting it. His eyes softened. And… he did look sick, didn’t he? He felt sick. Tim didn’t know how to not feel sick. It feels as if the pounding ache in his heart and head and the dizzying delirium is constant. Will remain constant until he gets himself the fuck together.


“Oh shoot. You’re sick, right? I must have known, you’ve been acting weird all day.”


“Sorry. I need to go home.”


“Of course. Message me, okay?”


“Mhm.” Not a confirmation. He could push that for later.


Tim grabbed his bag roughly, hauling it to his back and stormed out of the room, pointedly ignoring the eyes burning at the back of his skull. Of course. They sent Stephanie and Damian to investigate him. It couldn’t be anyone else. His hand shook violently and he felt his stomach churn.


He needed to call his parents. He needed information. He knew nothing, and he would need to know more .


Though… Now he knew something. He was in danger.

Chapter Text

Tim understood now why this universe’s Tim wanted to die.


Drake Manor was stifling, empty, and frankly, creepy. The steps creaked slightly whenever Tim stepped on them, and he swore he heard the doors slamming once every few hours. Except for the house, there was nothing to do except homework and business work.


And Tim had forgotten just how annoying school was. He had to silence the notifications of a few of his classmates already because they kept spam calling him. Also the stupid clients that kept contacting Tim instead of his parents. If they were alive, why talk to him instead?


He went through his phone, laptop, and diary instead of focusing on the work he had to do. Anything to ground himself to this universe, where the streets were too empty and the night held no noise other than the swift wind. He had a lot of contacts. Classmates, seniors, teachers.


It almost seemed like Tim was a normal citizen.


Until he read the diary entries.


A handful of entries in the notes app. About five or six, but all of them held frantic typing and were set to private. It had scrambled rambling about danger, and how he needed to end ‘it’, and how he saw things he wasn’t supposed to see.


Scattered pieces of information which Tim now understood. It was a list of things. Bats and birds being the first thing he saw. Robins and Cardinals to be exact. His time as a vigilante in all universes. Well. Most universes.


Then, the words ‘laughter, green, gun.’ were written. Joker Junior. Of course. The list stopped there. It seems as though past him didn’t see as much as he saw in the Lazarus pit.


The last diary entry was a suicide note.


Tim deleted all of the diary entries. He went to the photos app. There were only a handful again. All of them imported photography from his camera. No blackmail of the Wayne’s, and no photos of Alfred The Cat that Damian had sent him-


Oh. Wait.


There was a video. He played it. It was… him. This one seemed younger, however, with dark circles, pale skin, and a shaky camera. It seems as though he was in the closet, the faint glow of light from the flash being the only source of light.


“There’s something wrong with me. I… I see these visions, dreams of me dying and- And these people.”


Tim held the phone tighter to himself as he saw his younger self put a hand to himself, choking on a sob. He… He remembers recording this. The way the suits in his closet kept chafing his hands, the feeling of hopelessness, the sounds of Mrs. Mac working downstairs.


Why does he remember, if he wasn’t in this body? Had he retained some of this universe's memories?


“I plan on killing myself. I-If I don’t… Well, I’ll get killed either way. I saw it.”


Visions. How did he see himself dying before he even died? It made no sense.


“They’re hunting me. Because I know too much. They don’t know me, but they do. And I’ll die if they catch up to me. The Assas-”


His battery ended. The phone shut down.


The League. The League of Assassins were hunting him down, but they didn’t know who he was. But he knows who they are.


He blindly groped around his drawer for his charger. His hands landed on a cord and he grabbed hold of it, shifting it so that the end rested in between his index finger and thumb. He brought his phone to the charger and connected it, shoving it to the side.


His laptop. Tim opened the laptop again, and immediately set a hand over the camera. He looked around his cluttered desk until his eyes landed on a piece of paper. Bingo. He grabbed it and folded it in half, making a sort of arch and placing it on his camera so that it would be covered.


Tim presses the on button, waiting until his keyboard lights up. His camera beeps again, red light reflecting against the white piece of paper. Hello Barbara. He signed in and scrolled down to where his files were. He opened all his folders and set them out. Empty. Blank. No algorithms or starting encryptions.


This will take a while.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Of course, if Tim had done normal encryption with cipher text or any different type of language, it would be easy to decode. That’s why he made sure to incorporate different symbols from different languages, numbers, symbols, and rarely letters.


Tim had finally got some information without actively putting himself in danger. He almost wished he didn’t. No one knew who Batman worked with, and whoever speculated would be tracked and would disappear. One post sent a picture of bright red and yellow. They never posted after that.


For the first time in years, Tim felt like he didn’t know what to do. These Wayne’s were dangerous. They could have Tim killed, or worse, in a flick of a finger. Especially Tim in this universe who was nothing but a rich kid's child.


The feeling of his heart palpitating in his ears and the numbness in his arms and legs was unfamiliar.


Arkham Asylum was a concentration camp. Basically. Low level criminals to even the Joker were kept in different levels and would be given extreme bouts of therapy, even amounting to exposure therapy in form of torture. Not that some of them didn’t deserve it. It just wasn’t normal behavior.


He would have to investigate Arkham Asylum later.


He also researched the League of Assassins, and almost took his past self’s advice to hack into their database. He abstained. The main task at hand was to divert them from his whereabouts. He would need to send a message.


And he would send a message, alright.


To keep himself organized, he had taped a large piece of black chart paper on his wall, and pasted a white piece of paper which held the key to his encryption. In Korean and morse-code, for more security. Now, the encryption would hold Barbara off for a while, but he would need to invest in more stable algorithms and perhaps a VPN just in case-


A bell at the door.


Tim grabbed his sweater so that people outside wouldn’t see the scars marring his body (Some were from him. Fights with Lady Shiva, Ra’s Al Ghul. You name it. Some were new. Marks on his arms.) and went downstairs.


The house was clean. Mrs. Mac wasn’t home. Tim jumped from the last flight of stairs, and trotted over to where the door was. He looked through the peephole. No-one was there.


Weird.


He opened the door, and peeked his head out. He looked left to right, but found nothing other than empty terrain and the old lady next door working on her garden with her four year old daughter. The small child saw him and waved. Tim smiled and waved back.


The girl seemed familiar.


He was about to close the door when he saw the letter at the door. It was tucked neatly in the houseplant at the front of the house, the brown paper peeking out. Tim crouched down and snatched the letter from where it lay.


The front of the letter was empty, no postcards or address. Someone must have hand-delivered it then. Tim carefully unwrapped the parchment and set it aside. Inside was a card.


An invitation card. To the Wayne’s gala.


Tim’s eyes narrowed as he read the contents. It was a morning gala, donations for children without enough money to get education, and was held in the penthouse about twenty minutes away from his house.


The same gala his parents were talking about, no doubt. But then why would he get a personal invitation? He flipped the card over, analyzing the graphic design before his hands froze. There was a message at the back.


‘To Timothy Jackson Drake,
  A dedicated invitation
Someone we hope to see soon.’


The flattery was not the problem. It was the writing, which was written in a dark red-ish brown-ish ink(?). Tim brought the card closer to his nose and sniffed it. Rust. Of course.


It seems like Tim would need to be more careful.

Chapter Text

The cold wind on his face felt familiar yet unrecognizable.


His camera was in his hand, pointed up and the screen against his eye. He could see the terrain beyond him clearly through the lens, and he pressed recording. He kept his breath shallow and his hands stable… or as stable as he could keep it. He felt like a small child again, trembling with excitement at the prospect of seeing Batman and Robin in action.


Now his trembling was for another reason.


There was a man. He could tell that he was a druggie. The shaking hands, the scratches on his arms, the dilated pupils, the glazed eyes. Tell-tale signs.


Jason had shown him once, while cleaning up an overdose scene on Park Row.


The man was vandalizing, kicking down dumpsters, spray painting walls, and the works. Tim knew the Bat’s would come soon.


There was a reason the street was so empty after all.


Tim intended to record it, transcribe it, and analyze it. Technology was not safe for him as physical copies, he would have to do his research manually. He needed evidence.


After the second day, midnight of Sunday, he found it. And now he would wait, leaned up against an alleyway which smelled of cannabis and sewer. Another crass gesture drew on, and Tim was losing hope.


Until he heard the laughter.


It started with a giggle. Childish giggles. Ones you shouldn’t hear at the dead of night, especially in Gotham. The man stopped and sharply turned, surveying the land around him. Tim slowly turned his camera and, in addition, his head to the origin of the noise. It was Damian, as Robin.


The suit was different. Tim knew why. Instead of padded knees and platform boots for agility and damage repair, it was designed to lure, with normal looking tights and a uniform type design on the top. A poor child in a bright costume. In Gotham. A person would either take advantage or help.


In Gotham, both pacifism and violation were treated the same way.


Damian never laughs. The most he would show was an amused huff or shaking shoulders. Never laughter. Especially open mouth, stomach laughs. It made Tim shiver and the man come closer to Robin.


Of course. Standard Joker procedure. If infected by the laughing curse, try to disengage or sedate the victim before they stop breathing entirely. It’s ingrained in every Gotham citizen, so much so that even Tim almost started moving. He didn’t. Joker induced laughs sounded more choked and desperate.


It was a trick.


The man came closer to Robin. Tim leaned a bit closer, the mist that constricted his camera finally lessening and allowing them to see the figures more clearly.


The laughing stopped. Shuffling. The smaller figure tackled the taller, pinning him to the floor. Oh. Of course. Tim leaned more closer, his head now peeking out of the alley. Scuffling. The man was fighting back. Obviously.


Two shots. Loud and piercing. Tim flinched, and when he looked back, the man screamed. O-Oh my god, there was blood. Robin shuffled back up, brushing off imaginary dust and tutting at the blood on his bright green boots.


“Done. Let us go back, Hood. This one will tire himself out. Oracle, send the Public Officers.”


Hood. Jason. Jason shot those bullets, no doubt. He ended the recording, watching Robin shoot his hand up, a grapple gun in his hand. The rope shot out of the gun, and all that Tim saw after was a blur of red and yellow.


Tim approached the man who was now bleeding out, small whimpers and grunts leaving the man's mouth. The metallic taste of iron hit his nose and mouth, but he kept moving.


Tim almost threw up. The man was young .


‘Tire himself out’ implied death. Of course it did. Tim fell to his knees on the side of the man, the metal taste growing stronger as he felt his knees wetten. The man- boy’s breath was growing sharper, there were tear tracks, and shuddering gasps left the man’s mouth.


Death would be more merciful than this.


But pacifism was no use, in Gotham. So Tim did what anyone else would do. He ripped the bottom cuffs of his pants, wrapped the bullet hole up to avoid more blood, and placed a hand on the boy’s eyes. Please just go unconscious , Tim pleaded in his mind as he felt the sharp and shuddering gasps and sobs die down to hitched breaths. Tim hummed a small tune.


The boy stopped sobbing. His breaths were shallow, but they were even.


So, even if Tim came home with blood on his jeans, a camera in his violently shaking hands, and fervent mumbles leaving his lips, no one was there to witness it.


Except maybe the beeping camera which had now moved to his TV screen.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Damian almost couldn’t get the blood under his fingernails off.


It was grueling, spending so much of his valuable time scraping underneath his fingernails to get the crusty red bits of dried blood off. Of course, he had to do it in the morning because Dick had dragged him along for ice-cream with Todd right after the patrol. Annoying, but the ice-cream was good.


So here he was, making sure his cowlick would stay in place with hair gel and ensuring that his hands were clean off of the taint which he had made a day prior. It was one of his first few gala’s after all, he had to look and be deemed respectful.


The door creaked open, and his older brother strode in. Dick had always been an attraction at the gala’s they went to, the first son of Wayne and his looks playing a huge part in the fact. How much Damian would like to let someone else tour him. He just trusted Dick more than anyone else.


Dick met his eyes and a coo left his mouth, making Damian roll his eyes. He heard footsteps approaching closer and Dick’s shadow fell on him. Damian looked up at Dick and tutted when he saw the melty look in his eyes.


“What are you looking at?”


“It’s nothing. You just look very charming, Dami.”


Dick held out his hand. Damian shook his head. Dick hummed and placed a hand on his shoulder instead, leading them both out of the dressing room and out into the penthouse. Damian took a deep breath and let Dick guide him.


They were bombarded with the first woman just moments later.


Damian grew bored quickly, realizing the woman wasn’t going to leave soon and with how Dick kept deflecting, it would take long for the woman to get a hint. He looked around the room instead, analyzing the environment.


It was early into the party, so there were less intoxicated people than Damian expected. It seems as though the parents that wanted nothing to do with their child left them with some of the older children. He could see each teen or young adult caring for at least one child. Pitiful.


He sought out recognizable faces next. There was a low chance Todd would be present, he usually left during the early hours in favor of staying home and irritating Pennyworth. Cain would be with Father as always, side by side with him as he ‘protected’ her. Like she needed protection.


Or perhaps she would be the yin to Father’s yang. His outer mask which he put on. Thomas could be one of the unfortunate people to get trapped by those devilish gaggle of children. Hm.


His eyes met Brown’s. She grinned, like a bow being pulled taut, and pushed her glass to the side in a gesture. Damian looked to where she gestured. Ah. He nodded in understanding.


Drake was in the corner, a small girl perched on his side and clinging to his trouser leg as he patted her head and nodded to where she was rambling.


Damian met Brown’s eyes again. She tilted her head in question. Damian nodded, and then jerked his head towards Dick. A question. Brown’s grin, if it was even possible, grew wider and she nodded.


Weird. Doesn’t good cop, bad cop work with one bad cop instead of two? Hm. Damian supposes he will have to listen to Stephanie. She is who Barbara placed in charge of this investigation after all.


Damian shifted his hands so he was holding onto Dick’s sleeve and tugged. Dick, now trying to politely decline the woman’s request at him trying the wine in her glass, turned his head and looked down at Damian.


“Brown wishes for us to regroup.”


“Ah. Of course.”


Dick glanced at the woman in front of them, but Damian started moving already, tugging Dick’s sleeves behind him. They had no time to waste, and Brown was waiting for them.


Brown, taking the hint, also started moving towards them. Her dress swished along her ankles as she tittered over, the rich maroon complimenting her spiky blonde hair. They met halfway, and he saw Dick check Brown for any discomfort or injuries.


“What’s up, Steph? Why’d you call us over?”


“You see that dude over there? I wanna hit on him.”


“... But you and Cass-”


“-Are not dating!”


Brown exclaimed, though her cheeks matched the color of her dress, and her face held a ferocious scowl. Dick held his hands up in surrender and nodded. Damian was confused, to say the least. Why not tell Dick the truth?


“Sooo… Just go hit on him then?”


“Well, I need company so I don’t come off that strong, duh.”


“Fine. We will accompany you, Brown. Lead the way.”


Dick blinked at Damian for a moment, but all Stephanie did was smirk and pinch Damian’s cheek, to which he slapped her hand away. Stephanie beckoned them behind her as she approached Drake.


Drake was still doting on the small girl, nodding along to her rambles and letting her cling to his leg. Upon hearing the footsteps, his head slowly turned up and he froze. Despite himself, Damian felt something like bugs crawl up his spine at the way Drake immediately pushed the girl behind him. A protective stance.


Drake leaned closer to the girl and whispered something to her ear. The girl giggled and nodded, turning to the other side and running away from him. Drake’s eyes glanced back up.


Stephanie, without any further warning, huddled Drake to the wall behind him, placed a hand beside his head to the wall, and leaned forwards. Dick gasped and his hand twitched from where Damian had clutched it.


“Oh! Isn’t that a bit too strong?”


“I’ll handle it.”


Damian unhanded himself from Dick’s side and stepped forward to where Stephanie had Drake pinned to the wall. Stephanie glanced to where Damian had attached himself to the wall next to her, and then glanced back at Drake.


Drake, Damian noted with a bad feeling in his stomach, held his clammy hands out to Stephanie’s shoulders, trying to place a distance between them as he pressed himself to the wall.


“Now, Timothy , move one inch and I won’t hesitate to call backup. And he won’t be so merciful. How much do you know? ”


Silence for a moment, only broken by the chatter of adults near them, the clicking of Dick’s phone, and the shallow breaths that left Drake’s mouth. Stephanie narrowed her eyes, and leaned forward more.


“Fine. Slowly, hm? Do you know who Batman’s apprentice is?”


“Brown-”


“Shut up for a moment.”


Damian’s mouth clamped shut with a scowl. Drake was clearly distressed, the hands which were once held out in defense now against the wall, pressed for, what Damian assumed was, some solid ground.


Finally, Drake spoke in a hushed whisper.


“Robin.”


“Good. What about other members? Do you know their names?”


A nod. “... I do.”


Damian blinked in shock. That was extremely confidential. No one knew that except the people themselves. Stephanie slammed her other hand on the other side. Drake flinched. Damian’s eyes strayed to Dick who was recording the interaction with an amused look.


Of course. Dick did not know. Damian shook his head and feigned a disgusted expression, which made Dick laugh and zoom in on his face, to which Damian stuck out his tongue subtly, before glancing back at the two again.


“How… Are you lying?”


The sentence was said in a hushed murmur, and Stephanie tilted her head, her eyes glinting dangerously. Damian glanced at Drake again, whose eyes were darting around, like a cornered animal, his hands back up to hold Stephanie’s shoulders. To the outside, it would seem to pull her closer, except it was for the opposite.


“Steph-” Drake started to say, pushing her back, but it dissolved into a hiss when Stephanie’s hands grabbed his and pushed it back against the wall roughly. Her eyes were aflame, her hands tight around his wrist as she pursed her lips.


“ Don’t . Now, how much do you know about their identities, hm? How did you find out?”


“Get off me, Stephanie.”, Drake’s voice was shaking. That wasn’t a good sign.


“Not until you answer my question.”


“I don’t have to answer anything. ”


Stephanie growled and dug her nails into Drake’s wrist.


“Brown, he is in distress. And Dick will be suspicious.”


Stephanie jolted from the sound of Damian’s voice, and her eyes were set back to the warm blue that Damian was thankful to see. Her eyes darted to him, and then back to Drake, to which she hissed and withdrew her hands, stepping back.


Drake was glowering at her, thin tracks of wetness in his cheeks as he pressed his wrists closer to his chest, cradling them while staring at Stephanie with horror and tampered down anger. Stephanie’s eyes widened, the tell-tale flicker of guilt in her eyes as her hands darted up to-


Drake flinched back against the wall.


“ Don’t touch me . ”


Stephanie just stared at the other. Drake’s eyes darted to Damian, and he shivered. Drake’s eyes were sharp, but he could see Drake’s pupils were dilated. They had never been the purpose for that type of stare.


“That- I wasn’t- I didn’t-”


“Brown. I think we need to leave.”


“But, Tim-”


“You will only make it worse.”


Damian stared at Stephanie with his jaw set, and after a few moments of silence, Stephanie sighed reluctantly. Their eyes filtered back to Drake who was clutching his shirt tightly, fabric bunched in his hands as he stared dead set at Stephanie, his eyes narrowed and a scowl on his face.


Damian’s eyes met Stephanie’s again, and one thing was clear. They messed up.


Damian turned to explain to Dick who had-


Who was not there. Oh.


Damian breathed a sigh of relief, and before he could really process, Stephanie had grabbed his wrist and they had started to move, almost making Damian crash into multiple waiters.


“Ah- Brown! What are you?-”


“We need to find help. We didn’t win this time, but we’ll win next time.”


“Brown, what is wrong with you?! You put our identity and position in danger, and here you are, plotting more?!”


“You don’t get it Damian!”


They were in the dressing room now, and Damian barely saw Dick and Jason sitting on the floor, playing cards, though both of their heads snapped up to where Damian and Stephanie had barged in.


“What do I not get? You were clearly coming on too hard, how will you recover after this feat?”


“Oh, quit it! Like you could do any better.”


“Guess what, Brown? I could. Anyone could, you just let your emotions get the best of you and ruin everything !”


Silence. Damian stared at Brown who was flexing her fingers into fists and then relaxing them back, clearly holding back her anger. Pathetic.


Damian sharply turned on the heel of his foot and walked to the exit of the dressing room, out of the gala. He would tell Pennyworth to come pick him up.


The last thing he heard was Brown rambling about Damian ‘ruining her shot’ and how she may have ‘pushed too hard’ before he slammed the door shut.

Chapter Text

He needed to calm down. Tim knew that. So why wouldn’t the breaths that entered his mouth be enough for his lungs?


He looked at the window again. He saw nothing. The feeling of eyes were still on his back, and the goosebumps on his arms persisted, even as he saw no other presence in the Manor. Maybe it was haunted.


Maybe someone was watching him.


That would be unlikely. Tim curled into himself tighter, his arms slithering closer to his shins and pulling it closer, almost crushing his knees into his chest as he leaned his head against the desk. He wouldn’t be able to calm down here, he knew that.


His eyes strayed to the camera on his nightstand. Then he looked at the time. It was three in the morning. Maybe a bit of night time photography would do good for his mind. It would allow him to think more clearly.


Tim slowly uncurled away from his desk, placing his palms flat to the cold marble floor beside him and hoisting himself up, almost stumbling over by the vertigo and the stars in his eyes. How long had it been since he had eaten?


The chocolate bar he ate in the morning. He could survive a few more hours.


He shuffled over to his nightstand, grabbing the camera and opening the lens, checking the quality of the camera and gauging if he needed to clean it. Hm. No, it was clean enough.


Tim cleaned it anyway. Anything to distract himself of his beeping laptop camera which wouldn’t shut up-

“Just stop already!”


Tim demanded- no, implored in the empty house. He might just be going insane, with his random bouts of delirium, his constant clammy and shaky hands, and his never ending thoughts which constricted his throat.


He hadn’t got a proper sleep in days.


The camera beeping stopped.


Tim slowly turned to his laptop. The light was gone.


(He almost missed the beeping already. At least he knew Barbara was looking for him.)


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Another flash from his camera. The forget-me-nots blue hue shining brightly when the light hit them. Tim pressed the buttons on the side of the camera to go into his gallery, cataloguing the photos he took.


Hm. The first one was too blurry. The second didn’t hold the flowers in the middle. The third was nice. The fourth one was shaky, but it held a nice effect. He could edit the fourth one with some filters, and the shake would look purposeful.


Tim pressed back, and into the camera app again. Gotham didn’t have many flowers, so it was always a treat for Tim to photograph them.


Tim liked flowers. He had a memory of someone braiding them into his hair from when he tried a long hairstyle.


He didn’t remember who. He didn’t know if that brought him terror or clarity.


Tim pushed himself back up from where he was crouched down next to the flowers. He looked up at the sky. Gotham never had many visible stars in the sky, since all that Gotham produced all year was rain. If Tim squinted, he could almost see the starting of Little Dipper.


His camera wouldn’t catch it. He looked back down.


Hm. He looked around the alley in which he was tucked into, and his eyes landed on a piece of cracked cement, leaves and vines spewing out of the creaks and infecting the area around it. Tim hummed and brought his camera up, the lens digging into his lashes as he positioned his camera to focus on the vines and-


A giggle. The voice was familiar.


Tim didn’t flinch, nor did he look to the side. He snapped the photo, four flashes digging into his irises, burning his eyes. Tim brought his camera back down, and pressed down his thumb at the buttons, opening the gallery.


Shuffling. Something was coming closer.


The first photo was nice, if not slightly unproportionate. The second was too blurry. The third looked a bit too perfect, and Tim’s style just wasn’t that. The fourth one was slightly blurry, though it would have to do. He could enhance the quality in his editing app.


The shuffling stopped right beside him. Tim pressed his thumb again, backing up the photos and opening the camera app again. He felt an urge to laugh. He tamped it down.


“Nice weather, hm?”


The figure tensed. Tim looked at the vines on the walls, before slowly inching his glance to the figure. He knew it was Damian.


“Who’s your shooter today?”


Sound of a breath hitching. Tim smiled and turned his head to Damian. Hm. His suit wasn’t really that different as he previously thought. The colors were the same, the belt. One of Tim’s arms, the one holding his camera, extended up into Damian’s peripheral vision.


“Want a picture?”


Silence. The wind whooshed and hit Tim’s hair, ruffling it and mussing it up. His eyes fluttered, but the gentle smile on his face persevered. Damian glanced to the side, then back at him, then at the building atop Tim. Ah, so that’s where the shooter was.


Tim brought his camera up, slowly. Not to be confused with hesitancy. He knew what he was doing. The lens bit into his lashes again, as he stared into Damian’s eyes from behind the camera. Damian stared right ahead at the camera, his chin held up in a mockery of intimidation, though his posture was rigid. Confused.


The camera flashed, once, twice, thrice, four times. Tim brought his hands down, the camera in his hands held tightly as he pressed his thumb into the button. The gallery app opened. The photos were nice.


“Do you want one too?”


Tim called out into the empty alleyway, his voice echoing and reverberating against the walls. He knew he hit his mark, as Damian tensed further, and his eyes twisted back to see a solid black figure on the building behind him.


A hint of purple. Spoiler.


Interesting. Tim kept his eyes on the figure, and she stared back. Tim then glanced back at Damian. He smiled, though now it was a bit forced.


“Where do you want the photos to be sent?”


Tim waved his camera around. Damian didn’t respond. Tim sighed. He closed his camera and pulled it to his chest, connecting his fingers to the loop around it and placing it on his neck.


“Well. It’s been nice meeting you, but I fear-”


“You’re not leaving.”


Tim willed himself not to jerk away. The mechanized voice spoke near his ear, and he kept his posture straight. His eyes twisted to meet Spoiler’s again, though this time the purple overshadowed the black.


“Really, I would love to stay, though-”


A blur of motion. Black and thin. Her three part staff. His hand shot up, arms near his face, as the staff connected with the side of his wrist. A dull ache formed on his wrist as his eyes were focused on Spoiler, his smile growing wider.


Her knees bent slightly, bracing for another attack, but Tim already knew it was coming and instead jerked his head back, his head hitting her nose, square. He heard her hiss and took the chance, taking a glance at Damian for a moment before leaping to the right. Towards the vines.


While he heard shuffling, he jumped up, fingers connecting with the sharp vines and his feet against the rough concrete of the alley wall. His hands ached, pinpricks going through his palms as he readjusted his hold on the vines, his shoes scuffing against the pavement.


He felt something against his foot, and he tensed. Tim’s eyes strayed down to where Damian was… in front of him? Damian’s eyes met his and he saw his head jerk up. The message was clear.


Tim turned his head back to the wall, his hand connecting to another loop of vines, wincing but steeling himself as he dragged himself up.


Another vine, and he felt warm liquid on his fingers.


Just a few more. Tim heard voices below him, one sharp and the other loud.


Another vine. His hands were numb now, the only feeling in them was the slippery and sticky pull of blood. He looked up. The ledge of the balcony was only a few inches away, he could just-


One of his hands darted up to connect with the ledge, almost slipping off and wincing at the sound of a splatter. With a grunt, he pushed himself up and onto the balcony, his waist roughly scraping against the pavement as he tipped forward, landing face first on the floor.


Ugh. He just wanted to take pictures . And now, he was nursing two bloody hands and a ringing in his ears which wouldn’t go away.


He pushed himself up, his breaths shallow as he kneeled on the building balcony, examining his hands. Beyond the splattered blood, he could see where the vines had stuck into his fingers and palms.


He needed to leave, now.


His eyes darted around the rooftop, trying to catch any escape route or any jump he could make. Shuffling behind him, his heart thrummed in his ears and his eyes centralized on an emergency ladder.


Tim heaved himself up, a ragged gasp leaving his mouth at the sensation of rocks pressing against his fingers. Oh, he would need to disinfect that later.


Before he could think twice, he leaped to the ladder. Okay, he could handle more pain, it was fine, he just needed-


He pitched forward too much. A heavy sense of vertigo and dread slammed into his eyes and stomach as the wind rippled around him and.


He hit something weird and squishy. He took a breath in and immediately gagged, his hand coming up to his nose. Now the metallic smell overshadowed the smell of sewer around him. He had fallen into a dumpster.


Footsteps. He dug himself into the trash more and held his breath.


…


…


…


“Copied. Reporting back.”


More footsteps, but this time they were growing more distant. Tim felt an overwhelming sense of elatedness and relief hit him, rendering him motionless and his eyes burning up for a moment.


He was safe. And now he had a picture of Robin.


Golly.

Chapter Text

Barbara Gordon knew Timothy Drake, even before he started acting weird.


Granted, her definition of ‘weird’ in this sense was him knowing their identities when basically no-one should. But she never really had a defining adjective for something like that. Partially because that should not happen, and partly because what the fuck?


Her father and Bruce had always dragged her along the galas back when she was a little girl, sans the crippled legs and permanent scowl. Gothamites knew one thing about the galas they hosted, and it was that there really was no constant.


Well, no constant for them. Barbara found one constant in the face of Timothy Drake.


Back when Janet Drake and Bruce Wayne had been especially close knit, the mother would lob the small three year old at her direction, waving and rambling along about some sort of ‘playing’ and ‘fun.’


Tim never did play. He just watched and asked.


Every time Barbara attended those balls, her ears would be bit off with constant questions. Each time Barbara would amuse him, the more disturbing his questions grew. It went from ‘Do you stay with your dad when he solves cases?’ to ‘Does your dad keep the remains of the very high level thugs with him for punishment?’


Barbara laughed at both questions. One with amusement, and the other with horror.


Granted, the way he clung to her sleeve hesitantly and preened every time she said ‘good question’ was endearing… Concerning, yes, but endearing.


Sure, maybe the way Tim’s eyes would blank out for a moment and his face would turn slack would be a bit concerning. And sure, maybe the bot knew way too much than a three year old should know about. (She means, seriously? Who lets a three year old watch Law and Order?) But he was someone constant.


Now, all she saw was someone so achingly familiar yet so starkly different.


She knew the laptop camera was beeping. It was her standard procedure of trying to break whoever she was investigating. It was a fun little game, you could say. As Batgirl, she had always kept her footsteps inaudible, but she would tap her fingers along surfaces, just to alert her victims.


She only saw the milky white color of white on Tim’s camera. It made it less fun, but she would persevere.


Or… At least, now she wouldn’t. He had asked her to stop after all. Barbara was ruthless, yes, but not heartless. She would just hack into Drake Manors cameras instead.


Barbara hummed and groped around for a glass of water, her palm hitting cold glass. She gripped it and brought it to her lips, tipping it forward.


She might even pay Tim a little visit, in the name of reconnecting with an old protege. Of course. It would be fun, he was smart after all. She could even recruit him-


The door to her room burst open, and she jerked away from the booming noise, the comms in her earpiece slipping away and connecting to her gold hoop earring. She set her glass down.


“-ontrol yourself, you rabid dog!”


“How dare you call me rabid, you fucking brat! I hope you get bitten by a rabid dog and go through a bout of traumatizing hysteria!”


“Is that the best you’ve got, Brown? My grandmother insults better than you.”


“Oh, which one? The one who died because of your grandfather, or the one who cheated because she hated your casanova-esque family?!”


“Resorting to family insults, are we Brown? Should I bring up your family? How do you want me to state them, chronologically or alphabetically?”


“You little bitch !! How dare you!”


“Die mad about it.”


Ugh. Barbara’s head pounded in her skull as she examined the two vigilantes that stalked into her room. Spoiler was viciously digging her index finger into Robin’s shoulder, and Robin had his arms crossed defensively.


“Excuse me? Why are you both in my room?”


Both heads, one small and the other blonde, turned to her.


“Babs, you tell this little shit over here that he can’t help who we are looking for!”


“I was not helping Drake. I was merely… gaining his trust-”


“Bullshit! I call it absolute bullshit!”


“Oh, Brown, quit your soliloquy. The only ‘bullshit’ here is your inability to accept your mistakes.”


“You wanna say that again, punk?”


“I would pay to, Brown.”


Barbara sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. God, why did she even entertain these children? Especially when all of them were as emotionally stunted as Bruce but as loud as Jason. (As much as Barbara loved Jason, he was sometimes really… passionate sometimes.)


“Okay, okay. Deep breaths. Damian, what happened?”


“We were patrolling, when Brown saw Drake and forged a plan with me in order to trap him. We had him cornered when Brown started assaulting him-”


“I did not ! You helped him go up the vines and escape.”


“If you had functioning eyes and a mind, Brown, you would see I clearly did not help him.”


“You wanna say that again after I gauge your eyes out?”


“I would love to see you attempt that feat.”


Barbara rolled her eyes. Did Bruce just not train his children at all anymore? At least Jason and Dick had some decorum about salvaging mistakes during patrol and reporting. Sure, Barbara could just see the footage of the camera she installed in the Robin costume, but it was time consuming.


They were still arguing, and Stephanie’s voice was just digging into Barbara’s skull oh my god-


“Okay. Okay! Listen. Stephanie, you shouldn’t have immediately jumped to attacking Tim, and Damian, you shouldn’t have let him escape. Couldn’t you sedate him, or something?”


Silence. Stephanie squirmed and Damian glowered. Barbara sighed again and turned her chair, beckoning them closer. Stephanie obliged, stepping closer. Damian followed, more hesitant.


“How about I assign you some help? Dick? Jason? Duke?”


“Bruh, can you please tell Jason to help us? That dude is a tank . And he could easily just tackle Timmy to the ground or something.”


Damian didn’t answer. Barbara shifted her gaze to the smaller boy. He was standing tense beside Stephanie, his hands wrung together and his posture rigid. Tch. Why was every member of this family so traumatized? Barbara’s private search history is quite literally filled with psychology articles because of these people.


And everyone said that Dick was the most mature. Has anyone even seen that guy’s nervous breakdowns? Because, oh boy, had she seen them.


“Hey, Damian. It wasn’t your fault, okay? It was just a misunderstanding.”


Stephanie furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, but as her eyes followed where Barbara’s was, her mouth parted in understanding, nodding absent-mindedly.


“Yeah, dude. We’re chill… Well, not chill but like, chill.”


Wow. Supreme advice. Barbara barely suppressed a groan.


“... I do believe we require assistance.”


Barbara nodded along to what Damian said, thinning her lips. Dick was currently in Bludhaven, so that would be a long wait. Duke was currently recovering a broken leg, and Leslie was going to kill them if he went out with an injury.


Jason it is.


“I’ll contact Jason as soon as I can for both of you, okay?”


“Hm. Adequate.”


“Thanks, Babs. You’re the best.”


Barbara smiled. Stephanie rested her hands on Barbara’s shoulders. Damian crossed his arms and looked away.


She wouldn’t admit this out loud, but it was nice.


But Barbara needed to work.


“Okay, now get out. Go annoy Cassandra or Duke, check how he's doing.”


“ Ugh- ”


“Tt.”


Barbara laughed.

Chapter Text

Death was, in Tim’s humble opinion, quite the nightmare. And he would take almost any step to avoid it.


It was bound to rain soon. Tim looked up at the sky, and his eyes lazily traced the pattern of clouds in the sky. He sighed and let his eyes fall back down to his steps, making his way to Arkham Asylum. The building was larger than Tim anticipated, with flickering lights through the windows and…


Yeah, Tim had heard it correctly, screams bouncing off the building. How nice. Tim tightened his hands around his messenger bag and did not deter in his strides. He could not afford to lose his motions in his plan.


He would succeed, no matter what it took.


The door created a dinging sound as Tim stepped into the Asylum. The main receptionist, a woman with a tight ponytail which screamed all nighters and coffee as her only sustenance, and dark circles which had dark circles themselves. Yikes. Even Tim didn’t look that bad.


…


Okay, maybe he did.


He stepped up to the counter and began rummaging his bag for a small, wrapped package. He held it out in front of the woman and smiled a bland smile which almost every Gotham minimum wage worker did.


“Package for Lina Umi?”


Lina blinked, her mouth twisting up.


“I don’t… I don’t remember-”


“Ah, actually, it was a gift from someone named Daniel Perry!”


Lina’s eyes softened. Bingo. Seems like Tim had gotten the information right after all. Lina leaned forward and plucked the package out of his gloved hands, twisting it around in her shaking hands, before finally opening it.


A bundle of flowers in a box.


Lina smiled brightly, and brought her face closer to the package in her hands to smell the flowers, maybe hoping for a nice rosy scent-


Tim brought his hand up in a quick, sharp motion, interlocking his grip above her head and slamming it down to the table below. All that left her mouth was a gasp before a loud thunk reverberated around the room. Silence, and then her figure crumpled.


Pathetic. Tim saw Lina collapse to the ground in a heap of limbs, and he slowly crouched down, tilting her head up to grasp at the lanyard around her neck and pull it away. Now the identification wouldn’t be much of a problem.


He pulled the lanyard around his neck, and then pushed Lina until she leaned against the register, curled up in a ball. If he was lucky, she could be convinced that she took a nap.


Tim clutched his messenger bag with a white-knuckled grip as he hauled himself back up, looking around the empty room before starting to move to the elevator.


The Asylum smelled of antibiotics and cleaning acid. It rested unpleasantly under Tim’s nose and burned his sinuses slightly. It was annoying. How did Lina even work here?


His hand pressed against the red, glowing button on the side of the elevator. There was a whirring noise, and the elevator door surged open. Tim hummed and stepped in, his steel boots thudding heavily against the marble floor.


Now, which floor to go to?


He could go to level three, the low level thugs. People who did a few crimes and pleaded insanity, just like all of Gotham does. Information could easily be given, but not much. Less security as well, since there was less of a chance of them escaping.


Or… he could go to level thirteen, where people like The Joker and Scarecrow were trapped. More cameras as well, and potential security guards lining the surface. Less easily manipulated, and there was a very minute chance that he could actually get the information he needed.


But they knew Batman personally. And that was what Tim needed .


His hand stretched up, his index finger extending out, hidden under the black leather of his gloves, to press the button labelled ‘13’ in black letters.


A rectangular space near the bottom of the list glowed. The lanyard. Tim fumbled around, his hands turning to his neck and securing the lanyard in his grip, pressing it against the box.


…


“Access granted! Welcome in: Lina Umi.”


A mechanized voice rang out against the elevator walls, a female voice which was obviously generated. He let the lanyard in his grip loosen and fall to his chest again. Tim held onto the railing as his legs grew heavy, and his ears popped from vertigo.


His eyes drifted to the side, where heavy glass rested. A view of Gotham City and Bludhaven greeted his eyes, vast dark buildings with yellow lights. If Tim pretended, he could even think the lights were stars.


When Tim was little, he and his friends would sneak outside of the galas their parents would force them to go to, and they would stare at the flickering lights of Gotham city, pretending they were constellations and stars. Tim even made constellations up, his hand tracing around certain rooms to create a pattern.


Hm. Even Gotham’s stars were artificial. Tim rolled his eyes and his eyes strayed back to the elevator door.


His legs shivered as the heaviness subsided, swaying slightly as the elevator stopped. The elevator door glided open, and Tim watched with keen eyes as the dimly lit hallway was revealed to him. No security guards? How… innovative.


Tim whistles lowly before stepping out of the elevator, his head immediately jerking around left to right to identify any threat. His eyes then trailed upwards. Cameras.  Of course. Tim stepped back slightly, back to the now closed elevator door. The only blind spot.


Tim shrugged open his messenger bag, his hand rifling through the contents until he scored one of the black domino masks he brought, and a sleek black mask. Tim unpeeled the white paper, the fabric glue on the mask shining as he brought it to his eyes.


Fingers adjusting the mask around his cheekbones, as he hummed a song. It was… probably a Beatles song, Tim couldn’t really remember. Something about a girl named Jude? Whatever. Tim let his hands fall back to his bag and clasp his fingers around the face mask.


He pulled it up, bringing his face down and opening the mask, slipping his fingers around the ear holes and pressing it against his face, flipping it over his ear and securing the mask on.


There we go.


Tim heaved himself back up again, messenger bag now pulled down to dangle between his fingers as he walked forwards, his head jerked to the left as he read the names of the occupants inside.


‘Harvey Dent’ Two-Face was a good contender. Reclusive, but not as crazy as the others. ‘Ivy’ she would understand his situation, wouldn’t she?... Yeah no. ‘The Joker’ no. No way in hell was Tim going to-


He knew the most about the Waynes in his universe. Why not in this one?


Tim stood in front of the steel door, staring and narrowing his eyes and the nametag. The Joker wouldn’t do anything. Especially not when he was subdued in the Asylum.


This would be interesting. Tim pressed the lanyard to the card swiper near the door, his fingers catching along the bulk of the machine as he swiped it with shaky hands. The door made a ringing noise, and then showed a question.


‘Weekly checkup or Emergency?’


Tim hesitated for a moment. Emergency would probably alert the others outside the building, quite possibly the Waynes. He couldn’t risk meeting the Waynes again.


His fingers darted to press the green button. ‘Weekly Checkup.’ There was a clicking noise. The door was unlocked. Tim steeled himself, taking a shaky breath in and grasping his messenger bag tighter.


It’s now or never.


Tim’s hands extended to the doorknob. He sharply turned his wrist, and the doorknob followed. Another shaky breath, and he slowly cracked open the door.


Brown eyes caught his.


Tim pushed open the remaining distance of the door, pushing himself in and shutting the door behind him. The cell was slightly cramped, with a glass barrier between where Tim had entered and where the Joker sat, curled up on the floor.


That wouldn’t do. His eyes darted around, trying to find any opening to the glass barrier. Hm, the only thing there was a small incision made on the floor, probably used for transporting meals.


Interesting. He could use that as an advantage.


Tim found himself gliding closer, his steps inaudible as eyes tracked every movement he made. Tim crouched down in front of the small gap, his bruised knees pressing roughly against the padded floors underneath him.


He shrugged his messenger bag open, grabbing his camera. He twisted and unclasped the lens protector, throwing it back in his bag, before placing it right near him, tilted at an angle so the camera saw more Joker than Tim, the only features showing of him being the tip of his nose and his hands.


He pressed the record button. The camera started beeping.


Now the fun began.


“The date is 5th December, 20XX. The time is 2:34. My name is Timothy Jackson Drake, and I will be instigating an investigation. Our informant joined with us today is Jeremiah Valeska-”


Joker’s head snapped up at the sound of his name, and Tim’s mouth twitched up in morbid amusement. He continued speaking in a level tone.


“- most commonly recognized by his moniker, The Joker, The Clown Prince of Crime, The Harlequin Hater, and The Ace of Knaves. This session is held at Arkham Asylum.”


Tim stopped regarding the camera, and turned to his bag instead, where he opened the lapel again and opened up the small, side zipper. His hand dug in and out emerged a small notepad and an ink pen.


“I would advise you to come closer, Mr. Valeska.”


The Joker didn’t move. Tim sighed. Of course, he would have to lure him in. He flipped open the cap, the sound of metal falling to the ground muffled because of the soft floor. Tim opened his notepad, a blank new page, and wrote down ‘J: Not easily ordered around.’


“Mr. Valeska. Do you recall when you were captured and habilitated in Arkham Asylum?”


No response. The camera was beeping. The sound dug into Tim’s ears.


“Mr. Valeska. Do you recall when you were captured and habilitated in Arkham Asylum?”


Joker’s eyes flickered. His posture was rigid. He was either uncomfortable or angry.


“Mr. Valeska. Do you recall when you were captured and habilitated in Arkham Asylum?”


Joker’s jaw tightened. Tim’s eyes narrowed in cruel amusement. It’s okay if they were going slow, Tim had time.


“Mr. Valeska. Do you recall when you-”


“Stop.”


Tim’s mouth quirked up again, as Joker’s voice finally rang out. Hm, the voice wasn’t loud. Well, this was a different Joker. This one may just be co-operative.


“Mr. Valeska. Do you recall when-”


A thump against the glass, and Tim stood still, even as his face twitched away. Joker had banged the glass in front of his face.


Oh, but he had moved closer to the glass. Next to the incision .


Tim leapt to action, his hand darting out to interlock against the pale, cold wrist of the Joker. Immediately, he felt tugging, hard enough to jostle his grip, but not enough to let go.


The diet of Arkham Asylum was to keep prisoners from breaking out after all. Add malnourishment to the millions of other violations they did.


“Mr. Valeska. Do you recall-”


Another jostle in his grip, and Tim rolled his eyes. Ugh. Fine, if Joker wanted to annoy him, then he needed the consequences. He pushed himself up slightly, his knees remaining bent but his hips straightening so he could get access to his back pocket.


To his pocket knife, of course.


Tim slowly brought it out and brandished it in front of The Joker, keeping the hilt loose in his hands as he regarded the camera again.


“Informant refusing to give answers. Brute force shall be applied to extract information.”


Tim pushed the blade closer to the pale skin of Joker, just enough for the cold metal to be uncomfortable.


“Mr. Valeska. Do you recall when you were captured and habilitated in Arkham Asylum?”


The Joker laughed, and Tim’s heart stuttered in his chest. It was distinct, the voice high pitch and breathy. The voice that haunted his nightmares, and the reason he almost died by Jason.


“Oh, do you really think a pocket knife is going to do damage against me ?”


Tim’s mouth started curling upwards, and he felt his stomach churning in nausea. No, he couldn’t be smiling right now. If he smiled, he- he would-


No. It’s no time to think right now. Tim brought the tip of his blade down against the front of Joker’s hand and started pushing down, red marring the silver of his knife.


A delicate ‘J’ carved into pale skin, the red metallic liquid underneath being the ink.


Tim looked up to meet Joker’s eyes, who had his jaw clenched, but his eyes were amused.


“Mr. Valeska. Do you recall when you were captured and habilitated in Arkham Asylum?”


Joker laughed again. Tim looked back down, tucked the hilt in his palm again, and pressed the tip of his blade again, this time twisting his wrist.


An ‘E’, slightly crooked, sat next to the previously carved letter. The laughter quieted down. Good.


Tim was sick of hearing that laugh.


“Mr. Valeska. Do you recall when you were captured and habilitated in Arkham Asylum?”


A jostle against his grip. Ugh.


“Mr. Valeska. If you answer the questions, then this feat would not be required to take.”


…


Tim sighed again. He molded it into being condescending. Mocking.


“This hurts me more than it hurts you.”


A blatant lie. Tim twisted the hilt in his grasp again and leaned down, seizing the squirming wrist tightly and pointing upwards, starting to carve.


He was just about to swoop the ‘R’ on his hands when the Joker spoke.


“I do not remember.”


Tim’s face broke out into a gentle smile. His head tilted, and he willed his eyes to soften.


“There we go. Now, any timestamps you remember? A month, a year?”


“Longer than a month. Shorter than a year.”


“Great. Good job, Mr. Valeska.”


He applied just the right amount of mockery in his tone, and narrowed his eyes further. His head ducked down to place the knife next to his thigh, instead grasping the ink pen near his notepad and jotting down notes.


He reveled in the tugs in his grip.


“Who was the one who placed you into this Asylum?”


Silence. Tim hummed. The first strike.


“Mr. Valeska. Who was the one who placed you into this Asylum?”


A breathless laugh. An amused look. Tim tutted. The second strike.


“Who was the one who placed you into this Asylum?”


Amused, twinkling brown eyes meeting his. Slightly yellow teeth in a grin. Tim sighed. His grip tightened. The third strike.


His grip abandoned the ink pen in his hand, instead grabbing the still warm hilt of the knife, twirling it in his hand for a moment, before pointing it upright and twisting his grip.


Now for the real kicker.


Instead of another three strokes carved on, connecting into one letter. He made a large swoop, connecting the ends together. A beautiful ‘O’ carved with maroon blood.


He could hear Joker’s laughs stop entirely. The sound was almost as satisfying as the feel of skin breaking underneath his fingertips.


“Who was the one who placed you in this Asylum?”


“Batman.”


Tim smiled and nodded, akin to a parent beaming when a child got an answer correct. He placed the knife back down, ignoring the weak jerk back from his grip, and grabbed the ink pen again, writing down his notes.


A moment passed. Two. Tim licked his chapped and cracked lips, his eyes returning to Joker’s, who looked at him back. Not with amusement, or mockery.


Good.


“Now, Batman. Bruce Wayne. Correct?”


Silence. Tim hummed. First strike.


“Batman. Bruce Wayne. Correct?”


A tug in his grip. Tim tutted. Second strike.


“Batman. Bruce Wayne. Correct?”


A jerk of the head, up and down. A nod.


“Verbal answers, if you can, Mr. Valeska.”


“Yes.”


Tim patted the bleeding hand in his grasp in a mocking show of gentleness. He wrote down in his notebook.


“How does Batman deal with his enemies?”


Silence. Tim hummed. First strike.


This is fun.


“How does Batman deal with his enemies?”


Silence. Tim tutted. Second strike.


“Not many letters left. How does Batman deal with his enemies?”


He could hear Joker’s breath speeding up. Tim almost laughed. Instead, he sighed. Third strike.


Tim dropped the pen again, reaching for the dripping knife again. The tugging of the wrist in his grasp grew more frantic, more stronger. He picked up the hilt, twisting it in his fingers and jutting the pointed part up, twisting his wrist.


His knife met skin again. A straight cut, then a cut slightly tilted, then a cut tilted but to the other side, and then a straight cut as well.


A crooked, jagged ‘M’ stood next to the ‘O’. The wrist in his grip was shoving against him hard, and despite himself, Tim let out a quiet chuckle. It reverberated against the room.


“Bruce doesn’t usually come outside. He deals with hunters, like his stupid little boy blunders.”


Tim nodded along. Great. He just had one more question.


“Does the public know about the deals? Are they even aware of Batman?”


Silence. Tim hummed. First stri-


“No. Only high-level Gothamites know. He rarely shows himself.”


Ah. That was a pleasant surprise. Tim smiled, shifted to his bag, and rummaged through it, before pulling out a small lollipop. Strawberry flavoured.


He twisted his hold on the wrist, making the hand under his grasp twist until he saw his palm. He placed the lollipop in Joker’s palm.



Tim let go of the wrist. It pulled itself back immediately, Joker pulling back from the incision.


“Good. Now, be a dear, and finish my job on your hand, will you?”


Tim mocked, and then threw his head back to laugh.


High pitch and breathy.


Now, he had the information he needed.


He let his head fall back down and glanced back at his wrist-watch.


‘4:30’


Hm. School will start soon. He needed to get home.


It was a long day today, school, then volleyball practice, then Criminology-


Tim’s grin fell from his face.


Criminology Club.

Chapter Text

Stephanie hated not knowing.


It started when she was little. Having a super villain as a father and an absent mother, she prided herself in knowing almost everything about… well, everyone. It had started small, when she would go over to her aunt's house for tea.


Perhaps she had seen potential, though perhaps she needed a new pet project. Anyhow, she started to dote on Stephanie. Not like a normal parent would, with hair ruffles and beaming praises, but with training.


There was always a hand on her back, for posture. A tap of the finger against the juncture of her neck if she spoke too harsh or too soon. And lastly, the piles of makeup and clothes sat in her wardrobe at any occasion, along with a golden lettered invitation to galas.


Naturally, she got used to it.


Every time she would go to her aunt's house, they would discuss the latest scandal. Whether it be a couple of businessmen embezzling funds, or a woman wearing a knockoff Chanel bag, her aunt would know. The habit passed on to Stephanie.


Now, every time her mouth would part, it rarely held a question. It almost always held an answer.


Maybe that's why she sort of, maybe, kinda freaked out when the anomaly of Timothy Drake started. Because not only did he make her question, but he didn’t give an answer.


It drove her mad.


And of course, Cassandra noticed, which is why she was now holding multiple bags across her wrists, the familiar burn grounding her, while she sipped her tea from a paper cup. She looked around the plaza again, humming.


“Where should we go next?”


Stephanie dragged her gaze to Cass, who met her eyes. They stared at each other for a moment, before Cass’s face bloomed in a gentle smile and her hand pointed to a small bakery next to the vinyl shop they just went to.


Hm. She wasn’t so hungry.


“Sure, then. Lead the way.”


He felt the warm grip of Cass’s fingers pull against the space between her lower and upper arm, and she followed the direction she was being dragged in. Her eyes darted to Cass’s hands, which let go of hers in favour of signing out ‘My legs need rest, you make me walk too much.’


Stephanie snorted.


“Uhm, excuse me miss Cain, most of these bags are yours which I bought for you, so don’t get prissy with me.”


Cass rolled her eyes. Stephanie giggled, and she felt a pleasant buzzing in her stomach. It was a nice contrast between the nervous and taut energy she held earlier, in which she was one inconvenience away from pulling her hair out, strand by strand.


She spotted a dumpster nearby, and her hands darted up to crush the now empty paper cup, splattering it and then leaning herself to the side to deposit the paper in the recycling section. Gotham didn’t have many recycling centres, so it was always a joy to encounter one.


The door jingled as they walked in, the air conditioning hitting them in the face, making Stephanie’s eyes flutter and breathe in the smell of cold air from her nose (sue her if she liked the smell of good air, Gotham implements that habit into everyone).


“Woah. Look at the pink walls, Cass. They have posters and graphics all over, this place is sick!”


Cass nodded to what she said, and they both stepped up to the counter. There was a girl there, with crazed, electric eyes and her raccoon hair fell to her face as she leaned forward with a pierced smile.


“Hi! Welcome in, what can I get you?”


“Heya! Uhm, I would like a red velvet cupcake, and she would like a…”


Stephanie glanced at Cass, who pointed to the display of a slice of mango cheesecake.


“A slice of mango cheesecake please!”


“Of course! We’ll get your order out shortly, dine in or take out?”


“Take-”


A pinch to her arm, and Stephanie glanced at Cass, who shook her head. Huh. Guess that settles it then.


“Actually, dine in is fine.”


“Perfect! Take a seat wherever and we will have your order out shortly.”


“Yeah totally, thanks.”


As the girl typed in the order, Stephanie mock glared at Cass, who just blinked at her. Ugh. She hauled her purse up to her shoulders again and readjusted the straps of the shopping bags at her wrist, before starting to move to find a good booth.


Hm. The one near the door was a no. And the ones near the windows always creeped her out, soo… Aha! Stephanie tittered forward, before sliding into a booth on the left side, the bags in her hands following suit and occupying the seat near her.


She heard an amused huff, before Cass took the seat opposite to her, in a slightly more dignified manner, of course.


Steph, for once in her life, kept her mouth shut and her eyes directed toward the small crowd in the coffee shop. There was a nice atmosphere that was made due to the quiet chatter of the few people in the booths near them.


It was nice, Stephanie decided. A nice little break that she deserved from constantly pulling her hair out of her scalp due to the mystery neighbour who knew their identities, who could potentially blackmail them, manipulate them, or even worse. Who really knew what Timothy would do?-


"Steph."


She was jolted away from her thoughts by a gentle voice and callouses against her hand. Stephanie looked down to where Cass had feathered her touch over Stephanie's knuckles, and the swooping sensation in her stomach. Weird.


A jingle near the door, and it caught both Stephanie's and Cass's attention. It was ingrained in them, hell, forced upon them. Stephanie's eyes darted to the origin of the sound-


And because Gotham was a small, secluded city, blue stared at blue. The atmosphere in the room almost immediately soured. There, in front of Cass and Stephanie, stood the devil himself.


Timothy Drake.


Steph tensed in her seat, her hand dragging away from the middle of the table and towards the edge, for stability and for a future boost if she decided to tackle. Which she would most definitely do.


Tim tensed as well, his eyes narrowing and set on Stephanie. Cass prodded her finger against Stephanie's knuckles, a question. Steph looked back at Cass, thinned her lips, crinkled her eyes, and then jerked her head towards Tim. Cass's frown finally subsided, instead, her eyes glinted in understanding.


Now that they were on the same page-


A shuffle of shoes, a deep breath. Tim was fleeing. Stephanie immediately shot up, the bags ruffling from the force in which she heaved herself up, and raised a palm to cease Cass's movements.


She would deal with this herself.


And the last thing Steph saw before she pushed her headband higher and started hauling ass was the confused look of the waiter and Cass's disappointed frown.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Jason prided himself in handling Crime Alley with an iron fist.


He had grown up there, after all. The permanently blood-stained streets, overflowing dumpsters, and cigarette burned pavements were his childhood, after all.


Which is why Red Hood had demanded Crime Alley and, in extension, the edge of The Bowery be left to him. However much he tolerated the other occupants of Wayne Manor, he would never trust them with the delicate population of Crime Alley.


If Jason were to explain it to someone, he would simply tell them that Crime Alley was a work of art. It was meant to comfort the disturbed, and disturb the comforted.


So… Back to why he was currently striding around, full Red Hood gear, around Park Row. Well, some of his goons were… well, they were a piece of work. And they had quite literally spilled their guts in telling all of Jason's confidential plans.


Which, ouch? Didn't Jason pay them enough? He gave them medial insurance, for God's sake!


And now he had to find the goons, and maybe probably kill them if they weren't dead already. Yippee. What a fun day, Jason knew.


Well… At least he could stop at the library on the way back to his apartment. He knew Roy would probably freak out if he rented out another book when he already had a whole bookshelf, but he was halfway through his re-read of Sense & Sensibility, and this was a noble cause to rent-


A thud and weight against his chest, and Jason stumbled in his step. Ouch. Well, no, not ouch, because it didn't hurt, it was more annoying. Soo… Ugh. Jason's eyes drifted down to the perpretrator of said annoyance, and found himself staring at a teenager.


Damn, did all teenagers now-a-days look like they climbed out of a hell-hole?


The kid scrambled back with his feet and palms, drawing himself back into the dark alley behind him. Well, that wasn't ideal. There could be a druggie there. Jason kneeled down slightly and held his hands out in a placating gesture.


"Woah, hey! Kid, calm down."


"Stay away from me!"


"Hey- Hey! Breathe. Dude, you're not breathing."


The kid didn't listen, because of course he didn't. Jason sighed and crouched down fully, now face-to-face with the panicked child. Jason hesitated, before keeping his hands up, in front of the boy.


"Can you hear me? Kid! Can you hear me?"


A shaky nod, and Jason breathed a sigh of relief. Okay, so he was coherent. That was good.


"Hide me."


Jason blinked. Huh? The boy kept his eyes on his mask, his jaw set and yet, he could see a flicker of uncertainty. They stared at each other for a moment, before Jason slowly nodded.


The boy immediately crowded himself against the alley wall and pushed his head to his knees, his arms slithering to his shins to appear smaller. Jason's hand clenched in sympathy. It reminded him of his own days as a street kid, where he had hid from people who he had stolen food from.


Jason would help this kid.


With his resolve set, he pushed himself back up onto his feet, and positioned himself in a way that his figure would completely block the view of the curled up boy.


"Hey! Red!"


Jason's head snapped towards the familiar voice, and he cocked his head as Stephanie jogged towards him, her face slightly red. Weird. Had she ran here?


"There's this kid, like, he's my height. Black hair. Blue eyes. Pale, skinny. Have you seen him?"


…


What the fuck?


His stomach churned as he observed the way Stephanie bounced on her heels, her gaze shifting rapidly around. Why was Stephanie chasing a boy, and why was the boy hiding from her in what seemed like sheer panic.


He was glad for the mask and voice modulator.


"No? Why are you looking for him?"


"I can't tell you here!"


"There's literally no one here, Steph."


"Shut up! It's literally like, the concept of security, y'know?"


Jason just stared, deadpan. Stephanie must have caught on, because she scoffed and rolled her eyes.


"Ugh, fine! Be a little shit then, I'm going back to Cass."


"'Kay. Go on."


Stephanie blew a raspberry in his direction, before skipping away. Wow. That was such a productive conversation. Jason rolled his eyes one more time, before shifting his direction, and facing the start of the alley again.


The kid was still curled up. Jason frowned.


"Hey, she's gone."


The kid startled visibly, his head shooting up to connect with Jason's, and surprise swirled in his eyes.


"You… You actually hid me?"


"Well, duh."


Silence, again. Jason sighed, before leaning down again. Who did this kid think he was? Some sort of hypocrite?


"Do you need help on your way home?"


The boy still stared at him in silence, and Jason was starting to get concerned. Was the kid in shock? Was he still having the panic attack he was having? It didn't look like it-


A flash of movement, and arms circled around his waist, a head smashing in to his collarbone. Jason tensed for a moment, bracing himself, before… Oh. Oh, this was a hug. Jason hesitantly brought his hand up to pat the kid's back. That's… usually what people did. Right?


Before Jason knew it, the boy had flown back to where he was previously standing, now with pink in his cheeks and a suspicious wetness in his eyes. Oh, shit. Why was the kid crying? Should he call Dick? What the-


"Thank you."


"Uh… No problem?"


They just stared at each other for a moment, before the kid ran off. Jason blinked, and his head slowly turned to the retreating form.


Huh.


Back to business, though.

Chapter Text

Jason was a safe space. Jason was a safe space.


Tim almost laughed at the irony. Or almost burst into tears. He couldn't really decipher the blooming in his chest and the tightness of his throat. He gripped the papers in his hold tighter.


Damian was… maybe also safe. He didn't quite know.


He sensed a weird pattern. It seemed as though every Wayne who had gone to the League were the least… invasive. Tim brought his eyes down to the map he got from the cartographer. He brought his finger up to trace a slow path to Nanda Parbat. He couldn't be sure if the Lazarus Pit was real.


There were two people who knew though.


Was he willing to call them?


If he dipped himself in the Lazarus Pit, there would be an unpredictability. He could either die, come back to his universe, or go to a new universe entirely. The odds were not good, so he would take the Lazarus Pit as a last resort.


Well… There were not many plans to make the only plan he knew a last resort, because technically-


Okayy. He needed to shut up. Tim sighed and banged his head on the table underneath him, the pain and the dull ache in his forehead grounding him. Lazarus Pit will be a last resort. He does not want to see that green again.


… Wait.


… Wait.


If Tim from this universe had killed himself… then where did his soul go? Souls were intertwined after all, and he had… developed some unfamiliar habits which he didn't have before. Could he get Tim from this universe back?


Tim's hand came up to his mouth, and he chewed his knuckles as he stared down at his journal entries, and the map of Nanda Parbat. There had to be a correlation. Someone was hunting Tim from this universe, but they had stopped.


Why had they stopped?


He hissed when he tasted metal, and he jerked his hand away from his mouth. Ouch. Tim settled his slightly bloody hand on the desk, and continued staring at the map.


It would be dangerous to go to Nanda Parbat. Especially because he was still being stalked, and his parents could come home at literally any time.


So, he needed confirmation.


His eyes drifted to his phone.


Should he…?


No. No. He couldn't. It would jeopardize his whole plan of keeping the Wayne's at arms length. It was already failing, but sue him! He didn't want to contact Damian or Jason! Besides Jason- Jason could still be dangerous. He could still break in like he did last time, because its his family we're talking about and he would do everything for them, who knows?! Maybe they might even slight his throat again-


A slam, and Tim jolted. He felt his eyes burning, not the familiar burn of tears, but a more… unpleasant and warm feeling. He looked down, and winced. Oh. The wall next to his desk had indents.


He had punched the wall.


He- He didn't remember punching the wall.


…


Okay, so maybe calling Jason was mandatory in this situation.


Tim brought his sore hand to clasp his phone and turn it over, swiping and turning in his password, scrolling through his contacts when-


'Jason Todd (From School.)'


Huh. He… had his number saved? Weird. Tim hesitated, before gingerly pressing on the contact and… hm. Maybe he should see their messages?


He pressed on the messages button instead.


Instead of a blank screen, mirages of messages greeted him.


'Coming to the book club?' That was Jason.


'Can't. Mom made me bail.' Tim replied.


And… that was the most recent conversation. Three years ago. Should he even…? His knuckles stung, almost to taunt him, and Tim sighed, relenting. He had to.


His hand swiped and glided over to the small call button, halting for a moment before tapping.


Ring…


Ring…


Ring…


"Hello?"


"Um… Hello? This is Tim speaking, from-"


"Book club, right? How are you?"


…


"Good. Uh, Jason, I… had a few questions."


"Did you join the club again? I thought the presidents are usually there to help-"


"No. It's something else."


…


…


"Uhm…. Okay? Go on, then."


Ripping the band aid then. Tim would have thought that Jason should have recognized his voice by now, with how he quite literally met him last night, but oh well.


"The Lazarus Pit."


…


"The what?"


Oh, so playing dumb was he? He didn't expect that, usually Jason would jump straight on the offensive.


"The Lazarus Pit. From Nanda Parbat."


"Uhh, dude… You must have gotten the wrong guy-"


"Don't play coy with me, Jason. I know what happened in Ethiopia."


"I- What?-"


"How did you come back to life?"


"How… How do you know that?-"


"Green. Was there green?"


"No, there wasn't? Hey, Tim, how do you know-"


Tim shoved his finger to the red button on the screen of his phone and his hand jerked back, letting go of his phone and frowning when it landed on his bed instead of the floor.


Damn it.


Damn it.


That wouldn't work then. The Lazarus Pit was out of the question. How could he bring his soul back, and travel back to where he came from? Something like the Pit perhaps, something rejuvenating, something weird, something-


Something paranormal.


Something out of this world.

Chapter Text

Jason was sort of freaking out.


Just an hour ago, he had gotten a call from someone that he had left behind in the past. Just a mere memory. Someone who you would call a 'supporting character' in his story. And boy, did it leave him confused.


Firstly: How did Tim know about Ethiopia?


This one could be excused. Or… well, if Jason reached out enough… No, he couldn't. The Ethiopia incident had happened a while ago. Why bring it up now? And how did he know? Was Tim a hacker, a stalker?


Secondly: Green?


Did he see any green? Well, he did, in the form of radioactive strands of hair and a muddled suit. But Jason had a lingering suspicion that it wasn't just that. It was something else. Something important?


Thirdly: What the fuck.


Yeah, that isn't a question. That was just the phrase that Jason's mind had on a loop, like a broken record player. Where had he gotten himself stuck in? What was Tim planning? What else did Tim know-


He wanted— no, needed an explanation. Anything to satiate the ice in his veins and the static in his ears. Jason pressed open his phone, his fingers almost slipping over the messages app, before scrolling to the call app instead.

'Timothy.' Bingo.


Jason pressed down on the call button, and pressed his phone to his ear, the cold smooth surface of the screen digging into his ear.


Ring…


Ring…


Ring…


"The number you have dialed-"


Close. His hand hovered over the recall button. Should he…? Oh, who was he kidding? He pressed the recall button and shoved the phone back to his ear.


Ring…


Ring…


Ring…


"The number you have-"


Okay. This was getting ridiculous. A frustrated sound left his mouth as he closed the call again, his finger already pressed on the recall button. He bounced on his feet for a moment before smushing the phone to his ear.


Ring…


Ring…


"Hello?"


"How."


…


"I- Pardon?"


"You- How do you know about Ethiopia?"


Silence again. It pushed into Jason's eardrums, travelled to the ice in his veins, and provided torment to his already erratic heart palpitations.


"Excuse me?"


"You know about Ethiopia. How?"


"… A miscommunication on my part."


"No it wasn't."


…


"You don't want to know."


"I- What do you mean?! You just— You know too much! How- How did you even get this information?"


"I just got it."


"What the fuck does that mean?!"


…


"Jason. Please."


"No! You— You can't just blackmail me into silence! How do you know this? Do-"


Oh. Oh god.


"Do you… work for him?"


"Of course I don't work for the Joker, Jason!"


"I- then how do you know this?!"


….


A sigh on the other end of the line.


"Jason…"


"Tim?"


Another sigh, and Jason mentally debated clawing his eyes off his sockets. Or bashing his head against the wall. Both sounded nicer than this conversation.


"… You can't tell anyone."


"I wasn't going to tell anyone."


…


"I can't tell you on the phone, they'll hear."


Who the fuck is they?


"Who the fuck is they?"


"I— Nevermind. Just… meet me at Park Row."


"I… Okay?"


"Okay."


There was a clicking sound, and the call ended.


What the fuck?


——————


It was surprisingly cold for September.


Not the dry type of cold, rather the wet type. Water squelched his boots as he paced around the alley, the petrichor lingering in his sinuses as he kept his eyes on the beginning of the alley.


Jason didn't usually leave the streets as himself.


As much as the fact was weird, it was true. The few times he did go out into the alleys unmasked was one of the most uncomfortable times ever. Once, a measly old woman had burst into tears seeing him. Turns out, he looked like her dead son, and he had been paranoid after that, to say the least.


Something slipped under his feet, and he stopped, his eyes drifting down. Red. Because, of course, what would Park Row be, if not stained in death? Jason's nose scrunched up unbridled, and he continued walking down the streets, purposefully placing more force on his bloodied boot in order to fully scrape off the residue.


At least it wasn't a needle.


He should have worn his suit. The stench of Park Row was strong, and he could already feel the stuffy nose he was going to get later, because these fumes were not healthy… well, what is healthy in Park Row?—


Ah.


Jason's steps faltered, his boot skidding awkwardly against the pavement as he stared at the figure in front of him, shadowed and staring right at him, glowing green irises (green? No, that sounded wrong-) in the midst of darkness, which, freaked him out. He almost debated leaving.


That was until the other stepped closer.


And oh my god, did he look like shit.


What once was the almost pompous young boy that he remembered through obscure books and school buildings, now only showed a messy, dishevelled boy. His eye bags screamed for help, he had multiple cow-licks in his hair which were not salvaged, and his complexion was paler than pale (because the boy had always been deathly pale, anyways.) Jason almost forgot why he met up with the other in the first place.


Almost.


"…ason? Jason!"


Jason blinked back into awareness, his eyes finally registering the flailing hand in front of him as Tim scowled at him.


"Oh, sorry," Jason said awkwardly, glancing back at the empty alleyway, the silence illuminated by the slight scuffle of alley rats. Now, with Tim in front of him, all the aggravation that he felt slowly fizzled out, like a soda slowly losing its sparkle.


A lull of conversation, one where Tim was blatantly sizing him up while Jason stared back with a tad bit of discomfort.


"So? I suppose you have questions," the question drew Jason's attention back to the situation at hand, and he cleared his throat.


"Yeah- Er- How do you know… well, everything," Jason finished lamely, his hand gesturing a 'whatever' before dropping. Tim narrowed his flickering eyes, the conflict in them potent in their surroundings.


"If I tell you, you have to help me."


"Depends on what you're going to tell me, and what you want me to help with."


Tim snorted at that, shaking his head with something almost fond, almost scornful. The gesture was familiar, stray memories tugging around in his brain.


"I'm not from here," Tim's voice was detached, clinical. "Something happened to me, and I appeared in this universe."


That…


Sounded stupid. Insanely stupid. Like the synopsis of the book he read once before scowling and putting it down. But-


Those green eyes stared at him with such finality.


The eyes that were never green.


And somehow, he found himself agreeing.


"Well, okay. That makes sense, I suppose. How… did this happen exactly?"


"Answer my question first. How are you alive?"


Jason blinked, taken aback at the blunt question. Then, as soon as the bewilderment came, it was slowly replaced with understanding and instinctive dread. Oh.


"I- Never died. I never died. I don't know what happened from where you are, but the Joker never killed me."


"That doesn't make sense. Why wouldn't he kill you?"


Ouch.


"I don't remember much. Power play, I suppose."


Tim didn't seem convinced.


"Wouldn't a higher power play be death, especially in Bruce's case."


Ah, so that proved his suspicion. He knew everyone's identities.


"I don't know what to tell you."


Tim sighed, frustration lacing the action. Jason felt muted pity at the action, and he thinned his lips. The lull in conversation only made Jason more on-edge. Another squeak from a rat, and the subtle breeze of autumn ruffled his hoodie.


Tim shivered, Jason observed, and he leaned a bit closer as to maybe provide the other some warmth, in some weird way of comfort at the bizarre situation they were thrust into. Tim noticed the action and leaned away.


"I need your help on something, Jason."


"Of course."


"I need you all to stay away from me."


Jason flinched back, the previous proximity growing wider.


"What? But- Don't you want help? We have connections, Tim, we can help-"


"Jason."


The words died in his throat. Tim stared at him with apprehension and maybe a little bit of fear. It tugged at something, something in his conscious that screamed 'wrong'… But he couldn't quite reach it.


"Tim, we aren't going to hurt you, I swear."


"You already have. So stay away from me."


So Jason looked at the clearly frightened person in front of him, catalogued his choices, mentally scolded himself, and slowly nodded.


"Okay… Okay, fine."


"Thank you."


Thank you.


The phrase washed over him like searing cold water, because he remembered those exacts words in that exact tone. Bone-deep relief and slight suspicion.


Tim was the boy in the alley who hid.


Who hid from Stephanie.


Who Stephanie was looking for.


"No problem," the words spilled from his mouth, nostalgia painting his words as Tim nodded.


A mutual mockery of understanding. An ally built from distance.


"Do you need help on your way home?"


"No."


Jason examined the other, and then made a split-second decision, drawing his hand back to his pocket where he held a small pocket knife, slightly rusted from accumulated blood and water, but still sharp enough to maim with enough precision.


He held it out to Tim.


"Take this, then."


Tim stared at the knife, and then hesitantly plucked it from his grip, grabbing it with white knuckles and nodding with a white knuckled grip. The thanks went unsaid.


And as Tim sprinted away from the alley, the heavy fog of Crime Alley obscuring the others features and disappearing as a small black figure, he thought of one thing.


He would need to talk with Stephanie.

Chapter Text

I'm sorry Mother.

By the time you have read this letter, I may be gone. Whether by the rope or the knife, whichever comes first. I don't know if you will miss me or not, hell, will I miss you? I do not know. It sometimes seems like we aren't even on the same planet, and I extend my arm out towards you for nothing.

I still love you, though I know you are not concerned. The business is stable and I made sure my average grade was up, as I know you are concerned about that. Why are you never concerned about me I hope you will be able to find peace with my decision soon.

Remember when you told me that your favorite flower were lilies. If you check my phone case, I took a polaroid of the only lily I found. Besides, Gotham doesn't grow many flowers. Maybe that's why you left.

With love and sincerity,

Your son.
Timothy Drake.


-


Dear Father,

By the time you read this letter, I may be gone. I instill you the responsibility of finding my body. I want to be burned, and for my ashes to be thrown in water. I hope you can do that final thing for me when you did nothing else.

The business is stable, so you can hire a good ceo and leave the company running. I didn't want you to be burdened even further. I hope you will also find peace with my decision, and that you can support mom when she inevitably distances herself.


Make sure to check my gallery. There's bound to be some photos you like, and then you can frame them. Or not, because why would you want to frame my work I am a disappointment anyways.

Yours indubitably,
Timothy Drake.

-

Dear Timothy,

I will bring you back. And when I do, I hope you can solve this shithole that is your life. Next time, try not to accidentally do something paranormal.

Yours Truly (Since I am you),
Tim Drake-Wayne.


-


Gosh, Latin was hard.


Tim read through the textbook again, mumbling the words under his breath as he absent mindlessly shoved another piece of black bread in his mouth, chewing slowly as he traced the boldened words with his finger.

Seriously, how was he going to say this fluently without messing up?

He swallows the piece of bread going down his throat like sandpaper as he grabs his spoonful of honey, shoving it in his mouth and sucking on the metal, the organic sweet melting in his tongue. He never really liked honey much, but sometimes a sweet treat was necessary.

He recited the Latin one more time, letting it roll off his tongue in a stilted but flowy way, before humming and standing up, stuffing the last piece of black bread in his mouth and making his way to the mirror, checking his reflection.

He looked like… well, he looked like himself but just slightly different. Green eyes instead of blue, and a softer face than he remembered. Oh well. He adjusts the collar on the shirt he was wearing (because in necromancy, it was common to wear the clothes of the dead.)

There.

Time for a little experiment.

Tim grabs a bag filled with some stuff, cameras, a notebook, whatever stuff he could find that looked mildly interesting, and sets out. He exited his house and into his front porch, the sharp sting of Bristol hitting his cheeks and eyes.

At least one thing was familiar.

Tim shouldered his bag higher up as he walked out of the porch and into the streets, holding his bag in a white-knuckled grip as his eyes surveyed the terrain in front of him. It was… nice. Nicer than he expected.

Nicer than he wanted it to be.

He let his legs move on instinct, a right turn and then a sharp left, then go straight until you see the pile of bricks. There were no piles of bricks though, but he knew he was going in the right direction.

Aha.

There it is.

Tim walks up to the small and old wooden bench under a gnarled tree, sitting on it heavily with a sigh leaving his mouth, the sigh visible as white tendrils in the sky.

He places his bag next to himself, opening the zipper slowly and ruffling around the contents until he found the small notepad that he packed with him, clad with a black fountain pen. He pulled it out and uncapped the pen with his teeth, inserting the cap at the back of the pen and opening the notepad.

He would enjoy the peace as it lasted.

He looked forward, trying to find something to draw. Hm. His eyes catch on a couple of leaves growing and extending out of broken rubble, the leaves slightly brown but still prominent in the grey space. He supposes it would be a suitable muse, and his shoulders hunched slightly as he placed his pen to the blank page, starting to roughly sketch the leaves.


It was surprisingly nice, the soft breeze against his hair and cheeks, the sound of rustling paper and the scratch of the pen, and the sharp smell of ink invading his senses in a pleasant way as he hummed an absent tune.


He almost expected one of his family members to come and annoy him, for old times sake.


He wasn't surprised when it actually happened.


A rustle, different from the sound of paper, and he felt a radiating warmth from his side. His eyes slid from his paper to the person sitting next to him, and his gaze meets with familiar blue.


"Brown."


"Tim."


Tim thins his lips, his eyes narrowing for a split-second before he continues his sketch, his fingers nimbly gliding through the vellum paper as the black ink shines before drying. He can feel Stephanie's eyes on the page.


"I- I wanted to say-"


"Sorry? Save it. I won't be here longer."


Stephanie blinks from his peripheral, before her hand comes up. It was probably meant as comfort, but the action died out and her hand lamely fell down.


"You don't have to do this, Tim. I- We can fix this."


"I can fix it. I don't need your help."


"I'm sorry."


"That doesn't matter."


The breeze ruffled Stephanie's spiky hair , appearing almost soft for a moment before sharpening up again. Her eyes drifted to the green leaves that Tim was sketching, her gaze intense.


"I have to do this, Tim. You don't understand."


"And why is that?"


Tim asked quietly, his voice almost carrying away with the wind. The leaves bent in on itself, while one flew back.


"You could kill us. Blackmail us."


"Have I?"


Stephanie's head tilts to Tim, and his head comes up to observe the leaves, studying the angle of the leaves.


"That isn't the point."


"I suppose it isn't."


A lull in conversation, one where Tim put his pen down and analysed his messy sketch. The shape of the leaves were off, and the cracks looked artificial. It looked different from the other sketches in the leather-bound book. He supposes that's another difference that Tim and Timothy had. He picked the pen up again, opting to writing something instead.


"I'm sorry."


"I don't care."


"Can you care just for today?"


The 'for me' went unsaid. It was so achingly familiar, it made Tim's heart beat faster, each palpitation ringing through his veins as he glanced at Stephanie, who was staring at him with pursed lips.


"I'll care later. Maybe ask me then."


"Tim, Please-"


"Don't waste your energy, Stephanie."


Tim shut his book, his hands instinctively securing the strap over the cover as he made his way up from the bench. Stephanie looked up at Tim.


"Just- Acknowledge it. For my peace of mind."


Tim felt a drop of water on his arm, and he glanced up at the cloudy and dark sky. Huh. Rain again? That's nice.


"You'll get your peace soon, Stephanie. Keep your head up."


"At least answer a few of my questions!"


"You'll get your answers soon."


In a flash, Stephanie stands up as well, face to face with Tim, who just tilts his head.


"Don't- Stop answering like that! Give me a straight answer!"


"Tomorrow at midnight. Meet me at the Robinson Park."


"I- What?"


"I'm turning myself in. Consider that my acknowledgement for your apology."


"What?!"


And with that note, Tim turned and started making his way back to his house. Well, not his house, but in a sense. He heard no other footsteps, and the subtle rain was nice on his cold skin.


Phase one was complete.