Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was never unexpected.

Being a vigilante meant leaving the comfort of your home knowing the implications of never returning. It just happened to be at an unconventional time that made Tim more than irritated.

Bruce, his father is missing, presumed dead. Dick had put the boots on his feet the next day and walked in his footsteps. Tim remembered feeling a blinding rage that was shrouded with grief as he gawked at the familiar bat silhouette sauntering to the Batmobile. They hadn't even held their father's funeral yet, and it took a few weeks for Tim to understand that Dick was trained for the moment the original Bat didn't come home, yet it didn't let up the simmering sorrow that burrowed into his chest every time Dick's cowl turned to address him, piercing eyes invisible behind the white sclera.

He wasn't surprised by the grief-stricken demon child lashing out at low-level thugs but he was perturbed by the eerie calmness that Jason projected, still ever the leader in Crime Alley and sticking to Nightwing- Batman's side when called without a single complaint. Tim could've only wished for that treatment from him years ago when he rose from the dead and attempted to murder his replacement, he still saw those glowing green Lazarus eyes during his nightmares that woke him with a cold sweat clinging onto his damp pyjamas with tacky hands grasping at his throat that bore the scar of that night.

Alfred was the one person he couldn't get a read on, the tidbits of sorrow poked through on Sundays when the vacant, silent chair at the end of the table was the loudest in the solemn room. His emotions showed in the deepening lines of age on his face and in the squint of his eyes as he watched his bat kids, keeping their bellies full and beds made, even when some of them flew from the nest, unable to live in the stifling manor that bore shadows of love in strange ways. Like the empty coffee mug Bruce last used lay on his office desk with a dried ring of coffee at the base, the files he last read lay waiting for his return beside the computer down in the cave that not one soul touched. Each time Tim saw these little evidences of a soul now missing, it drove the knife of anguish deeper into his chest.

His estranged siblings have called him plenty of harmful names but none of them registered until the day Dick called him crazy. He wasn't crazy, the Joker was crazy, was he implying that he was like the Joker? Tim had scowled at him, but his ramblings fell on deaf ears even as his hands flailed and pointed at the proof on the monitor. It was a hunch Tim had, an instinct he was taught to follow from the beginning of his Robin days, "When all else fails, you can only listen to your gut." and he kept that quote at the back of his mind as it had stuck out to his younger self as strange and illogical compared to his various other lessons. It had resurfaced with vigour one night as he lay on his bed, counting the number of books stacked on his shelves for the umpteenth time while struggling to fall asleep, it's his version of counting sheep.

The signals he scanned took hours to finalize when he saw a WOW signal bright as day along the sea of steady binaries. His heart leapt into his throat and his hands shook as he scanned again in a broader section. And there it was, the WOW signal repeating every hour on the dot.

Dick had threatened to send him to Arkham, booting him out of the cave to go back to his apartment and get a full night's sleep as it wasn't happening at the manor. Damian had woken to the fight, despite his usually stunted emotions, he'd seemed crestfallen with watery eyes when Tim rode off into the night, hugging the blanket that was thrown over his shoulders. He looked like a proper child in that moment and all Tim could feel was guilt despite the suffering the little demon put him through, no child deserves this lifestyle. Maybe he was going crazy.

Kon died.

Tim threw himself back into the streets and if every punch was a little too harsh, no one commented on it.

Dick had been ordering Robin and Red Robin to work together, to teach the youngest more about street intelligence. They bickered and caught constantly which usually ended in one of Damian's knives tickling Tim's skin more often than not. He never brought that fickle information up in their reports, he knew the kid was lashing out and if he were still young, he would too. How much he wants to kick and scream at the nearest wall and smash it into smithereens to leave his knuckles bloody and broken, is nobody's business but his own.

It was supposed to be a simple stakeout to teach the little demon about patience. They had a corkboard in the bat cave for this project, showing him how to tie the threads together and leave coherent notes.

"Why must we do this when we remember it all anyway?" He'd complained, kicking around a small stone that Alfred the cat brought in as a present.

"It's not for us, it's for the police, and to keep it organized," Tim explained, crossing off a portrait with a red marker, "And if anyone else needs to take over, they can carry on where we left off." That wasn't the full truth; he needed Damian to write down his thought processes. But the board is still useful, he supposes.

Robin and Red Robin were tucked tightly together on the beams of a warehouse as a garage door opened, vibrating the walls made of tin with an ear-piercing screech. They were practically cuddling and Tim could feel the simmering rage building in the small boy.

Tim isn't used to the close contact but it felt pleasant in the chilly climate, the condensation plastered on the ceiling and walls froze long ago making making everything extra slippery, thus Tim held on tightly to Damian's bicep much to his dispute. Just two little birds huddled together to protect themselves from the environment, no vigilantes to be seen here.

He'd handed the binoculars to Damian a while back, leaving Tim with his bare boned sight and sense of hearing. It's just low-grade drugs and a few boxes of ammunition as far as the two can tell. Robin's face is still scrunched up as he stalks them, lips pouting like a petulant child, making Tim bite the inside of his cheek to hold in a chuckle.

It was moments like this that made him wish he and the other brothers were closer. He knew he was the cuckoo bird infiltrating the nest when he first approached the manor with his files and photo evidence tucked under his arm. At some point, life with the Wayne family was good, if you could cancel out the fact that they were all mourning a fallen robin. Dick treated him like a brother, a misplaced one, not as close as he was with Jason, but close nonetheless. He took him to the arcade on less chaotic days, watched movies on the VHS theatre and picked on him when he would do his homework. Even when he got that glint of sadness when he looked down at Timothy and Tim got a small stab of jealousy, he never held that against Dick. Not even when Bruce would accidentally call him by Jason's name.

Damian just called him Drake when he wasn't calling him an insult. It didn't bother him at first until Jason laughed and told Damian that his name is actually a Replacement. Yet he smiles and laughs alongside them and ignores the churning in his guts when he hears the truth between the lines.

He still viewed them as his family, his brothers, even if it wasn't reciprocated, he would do anything for them if they asked. If Jason asked him to shoot, he would. He called him a pussy regularly but never knew about the time when Tim set off to rid of the Joker himself only to be stopped by Dick.

Cass and Steph are great, Steph left to continue her studies and Cass will visit from Hong Kong.

Dinners were full of sibling rivalry that would leave him watching in silence, slowly chewing on his food that would start to taste like starch as longing filled his belly instead.

He was too far into his head, he should've noticed when the voices of the thugs were suddenly hushed as they opened packages. Should've seen the way Damian leaned in a little too much to try and get a closer look at the opened boxes, should have heard the ice beneath Robin's boot crack before the younger one slipped from the bar. Should've been quieter, quicker and smarter.

They panicked.

He was able to stabilize himself on the bar by grasping it between his thighs and pulled Robin by his bicep who had dropped the binoculars with a loud clang, cape swishing in the air as he grappled at Tim's arm to drag himself back up with panic etched into his face. He manages to hold onto the bar with his other arm but still flails as he tries to get a grip on the icy iron.

Tim heard the telltale click of safeties on the rifles that were now pointed directly at Tim and his brother. He felt his blood run cold as he held onto the arm of Robin, staring back into the eyes of the leader, frowning up at the boys who were meant to be hidden in the corner, now swaying in the air.

Before he could muster up any other idea, Tim slipped down holding onto the bar with both hands, his body flushed with the younger as he blocked him from their view. There was no time to grapple, no time to hide and his lungs seized with anxiety and adrenaline. He knew deep down that the only thing he wanted in that moment was for Damian to get out alive.

Time slowed for Tim, feeling the jerky movement of Robin scuffling to steady himself to reach for his tools. He crunched his body up so Damian was practically seated on Tim's knees mid air and when he saw those fingers clasp around the grapple he knew he would be okay. There was a weight-bearing pillar a few metres away that he could get behind.

That was when the first pop rang out, followed by multiple more. Some shots ricocheted off the metal walls with loud clangs making his ears ring. It was silent for just a moment and Tim knew they were reloading without hearing them. That's when he felt the pain in his back spread, it started with a low burning sensation like he stepped too close to the fireplace not unlike the time he came in from a brisk winter and Alfred surprised him with a hot cocoa. Then it started to sting, badly, like thousands of wasps swarmed him, stabbing at him relentlessly as if he stood on their hive. It felt like he had been dunked in water as trails of it slid down his body, warming his cold skin through the suit.

Damian was frozen, his back still to him and hunched up in fear. Tim was surprised to see himself still gripping onto the beam with locked fingers, nudging at Damian with his forehead and whispering with a wet gurgle that stunned even himself, "Run."

He didn't see or hear Robin flee but he knew he had when he felt the warm body disappear. He suddenly felt exhausted and cold, like a boulder had been lifted off his shoulders and tossed to the side. He didn't feel himself hit the ground but he did feel the water pool around him, cooling in the night air. He tasted metal in his mouth and couldn't inhale a breath and he suddenly knew it wasn't water. It was blood, his blood. Lots of it, too much of it.

The silence stretched wide in the warehouse as the concrete beneath him cradled him. His chest heaved and blood gushed from his mouth, spraying back onto his face with a warm splash in contrast to the bone-chilling cold that started to seep into the marrow of his bones.

His comms crackled to life and he could hear panicked breaths and screams that he couldn't make out like they were muffled by water. He thought he heard Robin, but he couldn't tell. The pain became excruciating, spreading into his limbs, throbbing in time with his slowing heartbeat. He felt vibrations beneath him and it was familiar to the rumble of Jason's bike but that couldn't be, he was busy in a meeting that night.
He's never responded to any distress calls so he wouldn't arrive anyway, it's a bat's job he'd say. He would just have to patiently wait for Dick if he weren't occupied.

His chest seized and another gush of blood dribbled from his face and dripped onto the floor with tantalizing calmness. He attempted to move his fingers but as soon as a muscle moved the pain was so intense he wanted to scream.

He just wants Bruce to come and pick him up like he used to all those years ago. To ruffle his hair and tell him he'd done well like he had with his grades in school. He missed his dad and the brothers he never truly had and he would give anything to try again.

Now he knows this is it, he's heard stories and read books about the sense of impending doom, and he understands it now. Was this how Jason felt in his last moments? The coldness that seeped through your skin so callously that it burned?

He just wished he had some company for his last breaths and he felt selfish for it.

Chapter Text

He feels light-headed, like he is floating along a river in a tube without the nuisance of rocks blocking his path or stones scraping his bottom when the water becomes too shallow. He hasn't felt this carefree since he was an infant, and that was alarming.

He slowly peeled his eyes open, expecting the blinding white fluorescent lights of an infirmary and the beeping of monitors he had awoken to many times before. But there was nothing of the sort and it made the hairs on his arms stand on end.

His ears worked first, catching the sounds of delicate running water trickling between rocks like the batcave's ambiance but it didn't smell the same with its leathery scent with car oil. He shot up, and flinched, expecting pain to bloom somewhere on his body, but none of the sensations he expected came.

He blinked rapidly and his blurry vision finally focused on pointed stalactites that hung from a cave ceiling. The Batcave consists of a gloomy grey but the area he was in consisted of a courteous beige with a warm humid atmosphere. He is startled when he looks around for the source of light to find nothing but a large statue looming over the cave walls with a cool glow. He shouldn't be able to see as clearly as he was right now with no cracks in the walls to allow light to seep in. He carefully sits on his knees, ignoring the dampness of the floor to get a better look.

The statue had a cupped hand reaching outwards as if to beckon one closer to grasp it. The style reminds him vaguely of the gargoyles around Gotham that he constantly uses as rest stops while on patrol, sitting on them like he would a dragon and swinging his legs idly as he watches traffic. It's an ambiguous-looking thing, its head covered by a stone variation of an animal skull, looking down at him where he sat. It had long hair tangled into two braids and fur covering most parts of the body with a slim waist and human-like arms with talons, he couldn't describe it to anyone if he dared try. Was this a fever dream from the wounds he bore? Was he currently fighting a ferocious infection with Dr. Thompkins by his side?

The most damning thing about it was that the scythe attached to its back, large and imposing. He looks down at the concrete slab it rests on, reading "Gotham." he muttered to himself, hearing the echoes of his voice like a grounding vice.

The floor beneath him began to rumble so he stood quickly on his feet, planting them into the ground and drilling his toes into the crannies of the stone, expecting the cave to either collapse or for an earthquake to pass through that usually stemmed from Metropolis's big blue. His heart thuds in his panic but it all ceases as soon as it started, lifting his head back up from the floor just to notice that the statue had changed positions. From where it sat with one palm reaching out, another was hovering above it like it was holding something he couldn't see.

Jason could have a knife to his jugular again and he still wouldn't admit the yelp that tore from his throat as he scrambled back, falling onto his ass.

"Fear, not." A voice appears from thin air, rumbling within the walls of the cavern making his skin crawl from the inside out. The sound was uncanny, like it used its last energy to speak through various tones from high-pitched to low and grovelly like a few dozen people were speaking at once. It made Tim's breath hitch in his throat like his airway had been obstructed. His eyes flicker around again despite knowing that there was no escape as he assessed earlier, but by the gods does he wish that anybody would blow down a wall to come and grab him, to take him home.

"I adhere to your call," it speaks again.

Tim flinches back at the grating voice, tucking his legs to his chest protectively, hugging himself close. Tim doesn't know what they were talking about, he never called anyone, not that he can remember.

He pauses, what can he remember? Damian was there in all his grouchy glory, no DNA test needed from Bruce. Snippets of memories bolt around his brain and he curls further into himself to clutch at his throbbing head. He saved Damian, he really did it. Now maybe the child will live the way he always wanted to, to be the best and only Robin. Maybe even Dick and Jason would be proud of him for protecting the youngest.

His head stopped hurting as quickly as it came, untucking himself to look back at the statue, all training instincts slowly rebooting through his battered mind.

He abruptly stands on his feet again, assessing his body with prodding hands, his Robin suit is tattered beyond recognition but nothing damningly noticeably wrong with him. What he last remembers seems more like a vivid, lucid dream the longer he sits there in the dull light.

"What's your name?" his voice cracks, making him wince. That wasn't the question he wanted to ask but it will suffice for now until he gathers more intel. The few seconds of silence that followed were stifling, the dripping of water a stark contrast to his sensitive ears.

"I do not have one." came the response, and it didn't sound mocking or confrontational, just factual.

"Then, not to be mean," he worries, waving his hands complicitly, "What are you?"

"Gotham's reaper, your kind would say, a grim reaper to be more specific in my duties." The sentence ends like a whisper, the vowels trailing along the walls.

It was like an ice-cold bucket of fear was dumped onto him from head to toe making him stagger on his feet as a wave of nausea hit him. This isn't real, it couldn't be, this must just be Jason and Damian pulling a prank.

"Come, child." The hands lower towards him, "It is not your time, and I am very drained from this excursion." The voice transformed into a softer tone, the whispering of the walls silenced itself as the being started to sound somewhat kind in response to his fear.

"Come and do what?" He questions, feeling his hackles rise, face scrunching with scrutiny. His knees began to feel like jello, like the energy that woke him slowly started to sap out of his bones. He could feel the panic rise and in the back of his mind, he admits that he's scared.

"What you always do." Tim didn't need further explanation for that but it didn't help him relax. He took a small step closer to eye the— deity. Tim's eyes followed the nooks and crannies of the carved animal skull trying to find a face hidden beneath it to no avail.

"I will warn you, it has been a while since you've seen the sun, do not fret, I brought you back as quickly as I could. I am no longer as strong as I were thousands of years ago," Tim could feel sweat dampening his forehead as the voice grew distant as if it were walking away from him, but Tim didn't want to be alone. Even if it were just a stranger staying at his side; he was terrified.

"I will not leave you, par for the deal we have," Tim can't recall what the deal was and he felt frustration start to burn in the pit of his belly and he shook his head to try and jog his memories. "Carry on your duties and with the last of my energy I shall inform you not to leave Gotham yet, as I cannot follow, I will need your blind trust. I will see you soon, Timothy."

***

Tim gasped a ragged breath and every bone in his chest croaked in disapproval as it felt like every rib bone clicked back together and his lungs burned like he had inhaled tons of thick muddy water. His body felt stiff and cold, coming to life under his actions with creaks of protest. Something felt soft on his back, making the small movements of rolling his shoulders more comfortable than they should have been with the silky material caressing his skin. The coldness started to feel too hot too fast with each shaky breath he took. He bent his knees to sit but was met with a harsh resistance creating a loud thud with a splintering echo.

Red-hot alarm shot through his system as he raised his hands to pat the wooden casing surrounding him, looking for an indent, a latch, anything to pry it open when it wouldn't budge with plain strength. He felt a sob tear through his body as he punched at the lid, feeling wood give beneath his knuckles. Maybe the box was weak. He shuffles in his confined space patting at his body, the familiar caress of his favourite hoodie Grayson gifted him comforted him enough to take a relaxing puff of air to think. There was a blunt object next to his right thigh that he felt when he moved his leg.

He grasps at it, uncaring as to what it is and starts hacking at the wood, bits of debris falling onto his face into his eyes making him squint against the splinters as they graze his skin. He didn't have enough time to think, just kept swinging and spitting out dirt that fell onto his face, encasing his body with the frosty soil cooling his heated skin as he exerted himself against the earth. He was fucking buried alive. The panic in his chest melted into raw anguish, his limbs shaking with every hit, his chest rattling with every small intake. Just when he thought he wouldn't make it, nails scraped and raw, he felt a trickle of water touch the top of his hand as he fisted up the dirt.

The sounds of rain started to fuel his passion as he gripped ahold of the surface and pulled. He doesn't have the mental capacity to think about how he manages to lift himself with the grounds holding him in but he was too relieved to think otherwise. He held onto his tool tightly as he took in a fresh gulp of air, not bothering to get onto his feet as he tilted his head back to feel the water stroke at his cheeks like a gentle hand caressing his skin. His tears mixed with the rain and he couldn't care, he was out, he was alive.

In his hysteria, Tim stroked at the upturned grass around him, freshly cut with the sweet smell still attached to it meaning the gardeners were there recently. He never used to like the rainy weather but it may be his new favourite forecast.

He sniffles out pits of clogged dirt that clung to his nose and mouth, spitting it onto the ground below as he rubbed at his eyes in a poor attempt to bat away the soil that clung to his lashes. His dark red hoodie was a stark contrast to the lush green and brown surrounding him, now covered in soil that made his heart clench, he hoped Alfred had a magical laundry paste that would rid him of it.

The reaper. The memory made him pause for a moment thinking back to the last memory. The warehouse floor, Damian running, and Bruce still missing. His heart lurches, wishing he could scrub the recollection away with the rain. Maybe one day he would wake with no worries but today is not that day.

A stone catches his eye, making him jerk up. It read, "Here rests, Timothy Drake. A great kid." he cringes at the sorrow in his gut and replaces the feeling with indignation, that's all they wrote? It took him a moment for his mind to catch up to the fact that he's dead. This is his stone, his gravestone. It felt like hours as he sat there, staring at the etched letters, willing it to go away with every blink.

A large gust of wind snaps him out of his daze and makes him stand on wobbly feet, swaying to get a look around him to see the public Gotham cemetery surrounding him. Stones lie peacefully untouched despite his own zombified grave. There was a small vase placed next to his with unidentifiable wilted assorted flowers, other than that his stone looked well-kept. He's been gone for a few weeks, maybe even months perhaps with the way the flowers were. Jason should get a kick out of it but might also get pissy at the fact that Tim stole his whole "risen from the ground." spiel. Fuck, he's going to be so pissed that he took another thing from him, making him feel guilty despite just crawling from his own coffin.

He looks down at the object in his hand and feels grief pierce his heart as he inspects the knife Bruce gifted him when he became Robin. The handle a dark green with gold accents to the sharp black blade. Before Dick left the nest, before Jason returned and Damian showed up at his front door. His adopted father never really had time for him and he wasn't necessarily upset about it, it just got lonely when he'd watch him banter with his original kids. He showed his affection in strange ways. He just wishes his life didn't end so rocky and dishevelled with tensions running high and tight.

Tim was feeling worn out now that the adrenaline started to wear off, leaving his limbs full of lead as he trudged towards the park gates, the faint glow of the moon through the clouds guiding him to Gotham's streets. The reaper had mentioned seeing him again and he hoped it wasn't any time soon.

The streets were different. Not in an architectural manner, but there seemed to be less rubbish in an uncanny way. The city was silent during this time of night, some apartments had a warm sheen coming from the inside that accented the wet streets giving it an ethereal look he wished he could capture with a camera. The more he wandered, poking around usual patrol spots to catch his pseudo brothers in the skies proved futile as the skies were just as silent as the streets below.

The usual drunkards were nowhere to be seen and neither were the camp setups of the homeless, even as he glanced down the pitch alleyways. No needles or trash were lying scattered hazardously along the pavement. As he snooped around he realized that the shop windows weren't boarded io like they usually were and displayed the inside proudly. The rumble of an engine pulling up behind him makes him halt and turn stiffly. The low purr was quiet in the night, and a sleek police van pulled up slowly to a stop beside him, the window rolling down as a uniformed officer peeks out at him.

"Hey kid, it's way past curfew, you gotta head home," he announces, raising a brow at the dirt-covered teen. Tim flushes, embarrassed as he repeats the words, "Curfew?" he asks, voice a pitch higher in his confusion, thumbing the ends of his sleeves nervously.

The officer looked unimpressed before unlocking the doors, "Get in, I won't ask questions, I'll just drop ya at the shelter." Tim doesn't want to cause trouble and he doesn't blame the guy for thinking he's homeless, his clothes are filthy with grime and he wouldn't be surprised if a few worms hitched a ride to go sightseeing. Tim enters the vehicle, eyeing the man in his peripheral vision as he grunts when the car door shuts. It's sleek-looking on the inside, layered with false leather and a pungent new car scent that made him a little woozy as the street lights flew by.

His body vibrated with tension and a sick longing pitted in his stomach as he pondered what to do next, flee from the cop or wait until dawn to make his way to the manor. He's so busy with his thoughts he doesn't clock the unfamiliar buildings whizzing by, twiddling his fingers in his lap with his head hanging low. The police man with the name tag 'George.' doesn't seem keen on polite conversation so Tim continues to stew in his brain. It seems like this was a common theme for the officer with his indifference.

Would they even want him back at the manor? Dick already voiced his opinions on sending him away to Arkham which was a death sentence in itself, especially for someone like Tim who would be admitted under the Drake name that was publicly known for his trust funds.

Damian may have held back in poisoning and stabbing him daily but that didn't stop him from insulting him every chance he got, calling him fake as he didn't share blood like he did. He was never as smart as Nightwing or as strong as Red, quick as Cass. The most humiliating one Dami threw at him was calling him average during a spar. He recalls the strong stab of pain at the comment as he's tried so much to be otherwise.

It was silly kids' talk but it still hit a nerve as he had been training his whole life without the physical enhancements or excellent genes that everyone else seemed to carry. He thinks that's when his jealousy spiralled into unadulterated envy.

He hadn't been able to hold a steady conversation with any of the bats in the few months before he died. Thinking about his death made his head spin uncomfortably as it didn't seem plausible or logical despite its not being impossible. Because he's not dead, at least not anymore. What if this were some complex test he's receiving, if so, he should be wary. Don't prove them correct in thinking he's worthless just like B did on his birthday.

He felt his face heat in embarrassment and the car came to a sudden stop. "Head on in." he waved a hand in gesture then idly scratched at his overgrown mustache. Tim gazed at him, perplexed, wondering why he wouldn't escort him in and relay the paperwork he was meant to do. He internally shrugs and exits without a word and the man, George, rightfully fucks off.

Tim glares at the departing vehicle, standing awkwardly with his hands shoved into his hoodie pouch, the Gotham breeze a little warmer in this area ruffling his tangled hair.

Spring must be in the air as the potted plants outside the tinted glass double doors bloomed proudly. His life ended— so to speak with a possible test on his mind— mid-winter, was he stuffed into a cryo chamber just for all of this? Now that he thinks about it the stupid statue was probably M'gann or J'onn's doing. It made sense the way it shifted and how the voices came from everywhere but nowhere. A headache was starting to bloom with how much his forehead was creasing under his frustration, it wasn't fair, he's proved himself multiple times already with exceeding scores.

It was all coming together, the knife he had, the warm but flexible clothing, not a suit like most are buried with and the dirt felt like it gave way beneath his hands far too easily as it should've been packed tightly.

Doors swinging open break him out of his tornadoing beliefs, the hinges creaking slightly as a kind-looking older woman greets him with a small wave, motioning him in with the flick of her wrist. Well, all he can really do is play along, but is that really what Tim wants to do, run along behind like a dog on a leash?

The lady snaps him out of his gloom. "My name is Ms. Darlene, sweetheart. I know this seems like a lot but things heal with time, I won't ask you why you were wandering around at this hour as many lads come in the same." He stifles a laugh, wondering if all the other boys too crawled up from the ground with their bare hands. He vaguely hopes that she doesn't notice the bulge of the knife in his waistband, praying that she wasn't a child lover to look that low. He's seen odder characters.

He instinctively scans his surroundings, mapping out the halls and ventilation systems in the open, eyeing the fake plant decor down to the register and monitor on the table. The seats were well used in the waiting room and the faint smell of antiseptic and lemon cleaner made him loosen up a little as the lady sat at her office chair. "Now, we don't use names in this shelter, we just give you a room number and some clothes to clean overnight then you must be on your way, if you need to stay multiple nights that's fine, but you must be up and out during the day." she raps on the keyboard moderately slow, the sound of her nails clicking filled the room giving him deja vu of being sick at the doctors office as a child, holding his mums hand as she handed over information that didn't stick to his small brain.

He couldn't help the question that bubbles up, "Why no names?" he blurts, unable to hold himself back. Wouldn't they want to keep track of children on the streets? Not that he's complaining, there's no way he could hand over the Drake or Wayne name, Alvin Draper, although.

"Kids in here usually come from trouble, and sometimes they need space from the home they ran from." she eyes him, looking him up and down as if she were conveying, 'like yourself.' and it made him shuffle in his spot, awkwardly pulling at the seams of his hoodie, ears burning as he tries to look anywhere else but back at her all to understanding gaze. She continues unprompted, "You kids are out there for a reason, all we can do is keep you safe." she concludes as she finishes typing with a warm smile. Tim doesn't say anything else as she stands on stiff knees to lead him down the hall.

"Showers, laundry, spare clothes— please try to return those— and the cots are at the end of the hall." she informs him, startling him with a shaky hand on his shoulder, he looks back at her, "Supplies are in a baggie in the lockers, rest well, kiddo." she turns to waltz back to her desk, hips swaying dramatically with her extra weight. He can't help but smile as it reminds him of a secretary Bruce had back at Wayne Enterprises, always kind and patient with a pot of coffee prepared every morning. The sadness weighs on him heavily as he trudges to the showers.

He found the clothes embroidered with 'Diana's Shelter.' and slipped them on before tossing his clothes in a free laundry machine that looked a few months from breaking down and bolted to the showers in a towel, feeling a little insecure about running around bare-naked, not that anybody was up and wandering the silent, sterile halls but the tickle of the air conditioned air on his skin created goosebumps that he was thrilled to rid of.

Being cold is just bringing him back to that night with Damian, even though it wasn't real, he could still feel the way his blood cooled on his skin. Damian probably couldn't stop laughing at his misery, picking apart every stupid action of his that night and gloating to his brothers how much better he was at being Robin.

The showers look fancy but worn with age, stepping into the stall with a silent sigh of relief, cleansing himself and stretching his aching muscles that haven't stopped screaming at him since he woke. The pain was duller than it was but still debilitating as he tried to scrunch his toes to unlock the poor digits from their ramrod position. The dirt swirled with the water at the bottom of the shower, clearing as time ticked by slowly. He felt his body reviving itself beneath the water, no longer on the brink of freezing from the inside out, he left with a forlorn look.

The mirror was faintly foggy but reasonable to check himself over. His body was riddled with deep, angry purple and yellow bruises in the shape of bullets making him twitchy with resentment, thinking about the rubber bullets Jason owned. They still left scar-like welts in his skin that will definitely leave their craters for the foreseeable future, that jackass, will have to reprimand him for using those weapons at all since this was considered non-lethal, they certainly felt lethal.

He did a quick double-take at his older scars that now looked a bit too dark in colour unlike the pale tissue they usually were. Frostbite must be more visible on scars and it made him uneasy that he was able to see them so clearly, especially the one on his neck that made him feel like vomiting every time he lay eyes on it. He could still feel the knife tearing through each layer of skin with sickening clarity.

The more he thinks about it, the more he doesn't even want to return home from this test. It's messed up, everything hurts and no one is here to pick him up, not even Alfred who was pissed at Bruce for the test he created, for months he refused to make him coffee when he found out about the situation he put Tim through, spewing on about how illogical and useless it was, giving Tim a longer than necessary hug and a huge luxurious bath filled with lavender epsom salts.

He pouts thinking about the old man, slipping on Diana's apparel with his knife he hid beneath them. Tim then swiftly turned his own clothes to the dryer before he flopped onto a cot in the corner of a dark room filled with light snores surrounding him. He was so exhausted that he hadn't even bothered with a head count which was rule number one in the detective book. He would be disappointed.

Chapter Text

The boys looked like they were plucked from crime alley and plopped into a fancy animal pen. Most of them were adamant about leaving their personal clothing on during the night, not bothering to wash it either. Tim concludes that these kids didn't want the people they left during the night to know that they dipped for better resources. They don't say much but Tim recognized the gleam of overawareness in their eyes that separates them from civil society. He knows that feeling all too well when his biological parents left him to his own devices at a young age, forcing him to adapt and learn quicker than the average child.

Tim blends in seamlessly, almost too perfectly which made him all too focused on his next plan of action. The bats have left him to his own accord either under the guise of a test or it actually was one, one that he didn't want to participate in.

He slipped away unnoticed.

He never really had to patrol south of Gotham, he was usually stationed around Somerset in the centre of the city. The Manor is situated North and he wants to stay as far as possible from it, far from the Drake Manor and even farther from Bristol as a whole. But, living on the main islands would he far too obvious.

Perhaps one of his older safehouses still held up, he bought a rancher in Burnside under his father's name years ago when he was bored at home as they travelled the world. Not that Jack Drake noticed, they had too much money that they hadn't even known how to use. He hadn't wanted to sit in the house and wait, staring at the very priceless artifacts that they had abandoned him for. It was near the water and open land yet close enough to civilization to buy groceries when needed, and little him believed it was the best idea ever.

He's only ever stayed there twice and as he stands before the building now, Tim blanched at the sight, mouth slightly agape. His poor rancher is nearing the point of ruin as vines creep along the sides, digging into the brick and tearing it apart, and thorny brambles are crowded together, choking out all the grass that used to adorn the lawn. He idly wonders if Ivy got caught in a fight somewhere nearby.

The inside was far better but still immensely horrible with a thick inch of dust on every surface, cobwebs wove around the corners of the walls like they were the foundation holding it together. He grimaces as he silently treks through the hallway, batting at the webs. The power was still on, albeit the bulbs flickered with disuse. A storm or a flood must be passed through, wreaking havoc, meaning he will have to slowly repair it himself. He walks into his room and stomps on the ground in frustration, throwing his head back with a groan that borders on a whine. The mattress was mouldy.

The only important thing he cared about was his old suit under a floorboard the hat was vacuum sealed shut. When he pried it open, he gently dug his hands into the splinted ends so the board would crack in half. He couldn't stop the grin from forming on his face as he shuffles it out, holding it in front of him. He quickly plucked out one of his original staffs too, a little annoyed at the old design. Though unbreakable in theory, the blade at the end not unlike a spear could dull and snap easily, the good thing was that it could retract.

Tim used the entirety of his day to clean dust and spray down the mould that also accumulated in the empty kitchen. Just what he wanted to do, he muttered to himself. But he couldn't start his work with a messy environment like he used to as a child, Alfred had drilled it into him enough times that he actually agrees, it is easier to think with a clear table.

His old suit was a protege and still lacked colour which would have sent his younger self spiralling into a tantrum, he's grateful now that Bruce didn't waste money on things that may not stick. The old cape is torn, he pouts, forgetting that he had benched this design for a reason. And the fact that it's far too small.

He lies on the floor, feeling a little defeated with piles of old junk surrounding him. He couldn't just sneak back into the manor or one of the batcaves to retrieve his things that were probably thrown into some dark storage closet he didn't even know existed.

Because Dick sent him out here and hadn't collected him yet, he has a gut feeling that all of his things were shoved to the side to 'save space.' while he was gone, meaning, giving the space to the estranged Jason Todd and Damian Wayne. Damian used to stare at his armoury, arms crossed and slouching in his jealousy but when Tim was about to confront him, trying to be nice, Damian just started yapping about how he had too many things and it was impractical. He knew he was lying, he watched him ogle at his batons so he shoved him away from his bedroom door and slammed it closed with the sound of a latch clicking, not that it would hold the kid back as it was more for theatrics.

Were Jason and Dami in on it too? The probable answer was yes.

He felt another pang of homesickness and rage bubbled through his gut, he grabbed at one of the closest cloths and threw it at the wall and when it only landed with a soft thud, he felt embarrassed about his outburst for a pitiful moment.

He wasn't given a clue on who to look for or how to pass this inspection. He thought back to their last argument about Bruce, perhaps he was testing his sanity and so, he's not passing. He sighs, feeling defeated and strung out like he'd been quartered.

He looks down at his attire and gets an idea.

It's a dumb, stupid idea but he felt like he had to make a point. He kept on the dark red hoodie, tore apart clothing and patched it together with the medical sewing kit and combat boots that still fit thanks to his pitiful growth spurt. He tore up the cape even more, shaping it into a scarf and wrapping it around his head to cover his lower face and adorned the old domino mask. He also found belts and tools at the bottom of the bag. They were a rusty grey other than the usual black or yellow. He ran a finger along the cool, familiar metal for a moment just to feel something other than the pit of grief that continued to grow.

He looks at himself in the bathroom and cringes outwardly, dragging a hand down his face in trepidation. He's reminding himself of Jason, he looks like he stepped out of some Hallmark movie that Alfred refuses to admit he loves. The scarf ends were dangling behind him in a mocking vision of a cape and he well and truly looked like the replacement he's always been.

He frowns but doesn't think too much about it as nightfall breaches the sky, beckoning him back to the city. He felt the pull like it were a real chain attached to his body and he couldn't resist.

It turns out the place he stumbled into the other night was now one of the nicer areas of Gotham, so he carried on further south by the docking bays. The smell of salt and fish was almost intimate with the familiarity it gave him and it settled his nerves enough to think clearly despite the constant turmoil since waking up underground.

He can feel something ticking in the back of his mind and it is uncomfortable. It made his head feel clouded and full of lead and it tends to increase when he gets emotional thinking about his family. It's like something in his brain rewired itself or is now missing. It's the type of self-awareness that makes him twitchy with anxiety that didn't used to course so strongly through him.

Could the cryo chamber have malfunctioned with his oxygen or perhaps the long slumber had decayed his cells? Either way, it made his eyes ache in the darkness that now seemed lighter with the various lights that had been newly placed.

There was a small ringing sensation in his skull as he surveyed the area and no matter how much he shook his head he couldn't free himself of the feeling. It shook him like he had popped his eardrums so he rubbed at them, willing it to just disappear like it was a severe case of tinnitus.

Night shift workers were bustling and chatting, and the sound of their murmurs filled the night as he continued along the rooftops. He occasionally used the ancient grapple but otherwise stuck to leaping on piping and scaffolding, joyous with the feeling of weightlessness.

On a particular metallic rooftop, the ringing sensation got so strong that he crouched where he was to grip at his head, it was as if a hydraulic press were beating down on his cranium without pain, just immense pressure.

He stands and the balls of his feet, watching and listening around him, and there he hears it. A small tang of something hitting metal and it echoed quietly. He froze at first, believing it was a coincidence that a gust of wind hit a chain, but then he heard it again without even a slight breeze in the night and no workers in sight. First time may be a coincidence but the second time was always purposeful.

He leaps down, landing silently with dust kicking beneath his feet, his scarf following behind him silently like ragged flags. One of the number one rules of Robin was to never touch the ground while patrolling, always 'fly.' So his ingrained instincts screamed at him as he stalked through the rows of containers that were rusted by sea air.

He halted in front of a particularly guarded container, hidden from view with a few extra locks lodged into place. The pressure in his head dulled into a tingling and he had an unnatural urge to break it open.

Picklocking was always simple, it just took patience and a lot of looking over your shoulder. What wasn't easy, encountering the dozen children huddled at the back against soundproofing material encasing the box. He stood there dumbfounded for half a second before he rushed forward. They were all silent even as he unlocked the chains bearing all of their feet together. The irregular breathing in the air made his heart lurch as he noticed the bucket in the corner smelling of stool and the open wounds smelled of rot where their confinements met delicate skin.

The world blurred by the rest of the night. He used the back of his Robin knife to sneak behind every worker and guard, innocent or not that stood in their path of freedom. He even through a few rocks at their temples in a self-satisfying temptation and their bodies crumpled to the floor. The only noise the group made consisted of the soft puttering of feet on gravelly concrete and the occasional sniffle.

As they were exiting a fence he sliced open, one of the eldest children looked at him and spoke. It shocked him for a moment as the night had been suffocating with muteness from them. He was surprised they even followed him through the maze without a single peep despite their injuries.

The big kid no older than thirteen was the last to leave, leading the younger ones like ducks through a river.

"Who are you?" Their head was tilted, keeping a watchful eye on the retreating kids as they motioned at Tim.

He didn't know how to respond. And in a way he panicked as an internal crisis writhed in him, coiling around his gut like a vice before he responded irresponsibly, "A dead bird." he hadn't meant to say that aloud and Tim flushed under his mask. Within that moment before he spoke all he could picture was the warehouse, the one where he fell, the one where his body was riddled full of bullet holes, the bruises that were still healing.

They respond in a heavily accented voice, "You mean like a crow?" The boy slides through the fence, his shirt nicking on the snapped wires and looks back at him with expectant eyes.

"My mom used to say crows mean death was near, I happened to see a crow before those men put me in their van." the kid frowns, looking far too old for their age as their gaze became unfocused. "I thought I was going to die."

Tim doesn't know what to say, shuffling uncomfortably on his feet as he watches them retreat to the brightened streets of Gotham. He zips back to base not long after.

A few days later he checks in on the same docks and is surprised to see police tape surrounding the region with policemen lingering on the side as detectives poked and prodded at everything. Over half of the containers have been flipped inside out, leaving merchandise scattered around the entire lot. What was even more shocking was Batman- Dick fucking Grayson milling next to what Tim could guess was, a head detective.

His chest tightens and he feels like he hasn't seen his brother in so long, but every time that pang of longing comes along, it disappears as he remembers what he did to him. The bruising swiftly turned into scarring, leaving mottled dark patches on his torso and back.

As he watches the cape flutter delicately, he could almost imagine it was Bruce and bask in the familiarity. But Bruce was stuck in a timeline and no one had believed him.

He's estimated that the amount of time he's been sleeping for a couple of months means he won't have the means to be allowed within a few hundred kilometres near the watchtower to prove his research, even with the calculations physically written on his desk. Timothy Drake has been considered AWOL since he hadn't completed or returned from his test.

He feels himself deflate as he watches Dick move stiffly through the evidence. He flattens himself onto his belly on the roof, the cool material grounds him and he continues to watch them all mill about with the occasional huff from deep in his chest. It's uneventful as always watching the police work, Tim just hopes this case doesn't make the bats take interest in his new post. It's not like they were actively looking for him anyway, the world's greatest detectives could find him in a heartbeat.

Timothy was shopping for food with the money from his safehouse stash when a headline caught his eye on the news at the far end of the store. "A Crow Saves Trafficked Asylum Seekers." and the world just must be shitting in Tim's cereal. He feels the heat rise in his ears as he dashes towards the checkout, fully believing his cover is blown. There was no possible way the detectives couldn't put the dots together now as they were practically labelled by number like a children's puzzle.

In Tim's haste, he never stopped to look at the date on the bottom of the screen.

***

Tim was correct in assuming the bats would linger around the dock so he opted to roam the streets from above and visit the beloved Crime Alley itself so snoop around and see how Jason was handling his territory. He said no bats were allowed in the Alley but Tim no longer fits in that category so he can't technically be infuriated with him. If he were to recognize him that is.

The Alley is far cleaner than he expected, still trashed like it was a landfill but the sickly smell of urine wasn't present as he weaved through tightknit spots. There were a few shed-like structures with a washroom label scattered around every few blocks, which is begrudgingly, a nice new addition. He even used one and seemed to be regularly maintained.

The arguments between groups of men were unnervingly hushed with minor shoves at each other's arms, it all seemed too tame for his liking. That was until he spotted a domestic argument in a dimly lit alley. He was roudy, louder than the rest and the gang members as well as regulars walked by them, they would cast worriful glances at the two before looking over their own shoulders then scurrying off in a panic. The male was holding an empty bottle and slurring his words as he waved his hands dramatically while the woman flinched and stared wide-eyed.

This made Tim raise a brow and he was ready to jump down the moment a hand was raised.

As soon as the one arm of the drunkard was raised a flash of red sped through his vision. A violent crack sends a shiver down Tim's spine as he watches his brother- no, Red Hood slam the man's skull into the brick wall and watch him glare with what he could guess was disdain under the helmet. He had to hold back his own flinch when Hood raised a boot and kicked it right into the man's ribs making him gasp and gargle on his own vomit that spewed from the hit. Just when Tim thought he was done, he lifted the drunkard by his collar and swung a fist into his temple, blood dripped from the back of the man's cracked skull and onto the pavement.

He's seen Hood work before and it was never like this, not too simple alcoholics. The work he was witnessing was brutal and without hesitation even as the victim sobbed into his hands, standing on shaking knees.

"Please, stop, you'll kill him!" she cries, bringing an arm out to grab the man from Hood's grip. He drops him at turns to her, seemingly unimpressed with the interruption.

In this moment, being a crow really did fit. He felt forlorn as he gazed below, unrelenting with his gaze as he watched the guy wheeze, kicking his legs out in a desperate attempt at, what? Running away, fighting? Tim didn't know, but what he did know was the rattling sound of death that eased itself through the body on the floor, head bent at an awkward angle with an unblinking stare as bile drips from his mouth.

He didn't mean to watch him die, but it all happened within seconds of him showing up on the damned ledge. The shock of seeing Jason react with such ferocity to a man who hadn't even landed a swing in his drunken actions.

The only thing keeping Tim aware was his breathing techniques, in and out, trying fitfully to ease his racing pulse before blinding adrenaline caught up to him.

The woman was now sobbing hysterically with her hands covering her mouth in shock and her body shook with fear as she stared down at the mess of limbs on the ground as the blood had stopped running from the injuries.

When Hood turned his attention to the woman again, he watched as she violently jerked back while whimpering apologies while Hood just cocked his head to the side, assessing her.

He took a damning heavy step forward and Tim couldn't control the tiny breath that escaped his chest, “Jesus.” he whispered. Hood's head snapped up at an inhuman speed directly up at him where he sat perched behind a ledge in the shadows. Tim falters for a moment, shocked that Hood heard him a few stories up, and from the posture of the older man below, he wasn't happy about the unwelcome bystander.

As soon as a muscle twitched in the vigilante below, Tim bolts, feet thudding on pavement as a crack sounded behind him, no doubt a bullet landing right where his head had been milliseconds before. Jason isn't as adept at rooftops as he used to be as Robin, all Tim could do was pray he hadn't been practicing in his absence.

He didn't dare look back, willing his burning lungs to carry him a little farther a little longer. A sane person may never return to the scene of a crime and Timothy Drake is beginning to appear not as sane as he estimated.

He was back at the Alley with one of his old digital cameras he used to stash around Gotham for emergencies. It took him a while to find a working battery pack to use but it was worth it as he watched the sun setting on a rooftop above the alley and took his first photo in years. The quality was grainy and pure shit, but Tim smiles softly as he looks at it through the tiny buzzing screen.

He'd decided last night that he was over his little pity party about the Waynes and opted to do what he prefers. Working silently at his own pace, gathering intel through personal accounts– stalking. It came back to him naturally as if he were seven again, following and watching his idols the Batman and Robin. It seemed like a millennium ago when he would light up with unbridled joy at seeing the man in the cowl, whereas now all he could feel was a bone-chilling wariness that made him feel like his feet were dragging in mud.

The bats abandoned his docking bay finally a couple of weeks later. He was overly pleased to go back to his unmarked spot as he was sick of watching both men and women getting beaten down for sidestepping out of line. Tim couldn't bring himself to ignore it, so he snapped a few photos from afar, extremely careful not to make a sound again. He hit in ventilation systems, empty elevator shafts and even sewage tunnels a few times and after each stakeout out he felt more and more compelled to step in and that was a dangerous thought.

The bats unquestionably knew about Jason’s actions, and it made him wonder if the Waynes had flipped a coin in their rules, decidedly changing them as the old ones weren't working sufficiently. It made him uneasy, so he redirected into thinking to think it was just Jason acting out in a green-fueled rage, it wouldn't be the first or last time; Tim bore the scars to prove it.

His stalking concluded by overhearing a group of three ranting about a spoiled shipment from overseas, the merchandise ‘returned to the sender.’ and with a sly comment about stinky children and Tim knew they were the ones apart in the trafficking case. He just happened to be on the roof of their apartment at the right time as they muttered and cursed to one another. He took a picture of them.

Tim looks through his camera roll while sitting cross-legged at the far corner of the docks, the farthest out warm breeze from the oncoming summer tickles his face, relaxing him further into his corner. It seemed that this place was much more calming than his rancher would ever be as nowadays he spent more time with the salty air than the farm land. It was a good place to reflect.

He hadn't seen the rest of the Bats but he's heard about them in passing as he wandered the streets in normal clothes and sometimes daring to ask the speaking stranger a question of two. It sounds like Damian hadn't been out as often, he wistfully hopes the boy is finally focused on schooling.

That's when he felt his head throb dully again and he knew in his gut it was time to move.