Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Someone--Tim couldn't remember a face, but that someone's voice was youngish but raspy--told him in a dream that family was everything.

That night, he walked out the front door of his empty mansion and took the bus to urban Gotham like he did almost every night. Except for Mondays, when the house cleaner stayed and had dinner with him. Mrs. McIlvaine was mortally convinced that he was going to become a hooligan if she didn't check in (read: harp on) him once a week.

Well, she wasn't entirely wrong. But he wasn't breaking the law...at least, that night he wasn't intentionally stalking the city's vigilantes. Just taking some neat pictures.

Tim had his camera, which was attached to a black and red stripped lanyard. He was perched precariously on the edge of a rooftop, leaning forward and taking pictures of the murky skyline. He was up there to capture that slick oily sheen that only made itself known at that faint edge where the lamplight bled into darkness, but he'd quickly become transfixed by something in the distance. Like every other night, it seemed.

A few blocks away, a black-clad figure was pursuing something, its path straight as an arrow and undeterred by silly things like the gaps between buildings or AC units.

The shadows of the city rendered the figure near-invisible, and it was its own shadow that betrayed its presence. The red of a bluebird's breast, the yellow of a canary, and the green of a parrot defied the smothering smog, fluttering and flipping with all the care of a Grayson, but it was more bird than acrobat as its feet barely touched the ground.

Tim visited the local gym near the estate on occasion to ask its patrons for a couple photos, but ever since he'd first set eyes on the colorful shadow he'd known that his mortal eyes and clumsy fingers could not take a picture that did the bright shadow justice.

He leaned forward even further and readied his camera anyway when the figure and its shadow abruptly changed their course and came swinging his way. His amateurish skills aside, Tim was eager to see Batman and Robin up close.

A light flashed as he took a picture of Robin flying just above Batman, their free arms having miraculously lined up with the edges of their flung-out capes and given the impression of wings. He grinned with pride at the preview of the picture, then dismissed it and readied for another shot, his hands steady and his eyes trained for another shot.

They suddenly dived down, he took another picture, and an explosion shook the block, all in the span of a second.

The nine-year-old slipped, and for a second all he'd felt was the air under his shoes and the pounding in his chest. The only sound he made was a small gasp. His arms flailed like the wings of a baby bird thrown from the nest too soon, and he did not fly.

Instead, a hand whipped out and caught him from behind, and he hanged there by the back of his grey hoodie as someone cursed above. An elbow hooked underneath his armpit, and he was unceremoniously dragged from the edge and dropped onto the rooftop.

It wasn't hard. He weighed eighty pounds wet on a good day.

His fingers clutched the camera, his knuckles bone white with terror as he realized what had nearly happened. His eyes were wide as he'd whipped around at the clearing of a throat.

He saw a man with worn jeans and a red leather jacket bent over, his hair drooping and obscuring the top half of his face. His chin was nicked, likely from shaving, but otherwise strong. His knuckles were also scratched, likely not from shaving, but his hands were well-worked. There were two lumps under his jacket. The boy wondered with apprehension what kind of person the man was.

Tim also remembered wondering what was up with the gray streak in the man's otherwise raven-black hair, and why the roots were white. His fingers twitched, his thumbs hovering over the screen of his camera.

The boy realized that, no matter who the man was, the stranger had saved him. The boy opened his mouth to say thank you.

"You do not look well" slipped out instead when he noticed the sagging shoulders and the pallor of the hands.

Instead of looking up at him indignantly or getting angry, the man chuckled. "Yeah, you could say that." His voice was tired and bore a lower Gotham accent hesitately, as though the man had grown up with it, grew out of it, then found it in the back of his closet. There was a nasal quality to the vowels that spoke to at least Diamond district, which didn't make sense, but it tickled his brain anyway. Where did the boy remember the man from?

"What are you up here for? There are easier ways to get yourself killed, you know. Not that you should, though, I'd heard it's not all it's cracked up to be," the man continued with a wry smile, seemingly unaware of the curious gaze that was burning into his obscured face.

The boy shook his head. "I was taking pictures and did not know that there was going to be an explosion in the street. It is not like i could plan for that sort of thing." Fingering his camera for a moment, he quietly added, "I would have fallen if you had not saved me. Thank you."

The man shook his head and finally looked up, and Tim was startled to see a red domino mask covering his features. He held up his fingers in a rectangle as though to frame him. "You're gonna put a big red notice right over your head with all that formal talk, kid. And no problem, I was just passing by." He dropped his hands, waving them in a weird jerk motion dismissively.

Then the man straightened his back, and Tim craned his neck because of how tall the man was. Or maybe he was just short. Probably both. Sure, Tim was shortest in his class, but the stranger looked as tall as Batman.

"Be careful in the future and don't do anything stupid. I have a feeling that you wouldn't listen if I said stop following the bats, but yeah...coffee is drugs, stay in school...Bye."

The man turned and walked away. Tim shouted after him, "Who are you?" The man looked back, his foot braced against the edge of the rooftop and his right hand reaching underneath his jacket. His teeth then bared in a too-wide grin, almost cocky but in a 'I will go down swinging and take the scrum of the earth with me' sort of way. Tim didn't know why he thought that, but it felt apt.

"I'm Red Hood." And Tim gasped as the man kicked off the roof and flipped, falling until he threw out his arm at the last second. Something clicked, and Red Hood was flying through the air, disappearing into the night that he belonged in.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Tim woke up biting back a scream, his legs tangled in the blankets and his skin clammy with sweat. He quickly kicked his way out of the cocoon and sat up. He rubbed his eyes and looked over at the digital clock on his bedside table.

'4:28' it read cheerfully, ignorant of or even gleeful at how damning its report was. The numbers were a bright yellow against the black screen, and its case was decorated with Gotham Duo stickers and a laminated picture of Robin kicking Two-Face in the, well, face. Tim had to sit in the warehouse rafters for hours until Batman and Robin finally caught up, but it was totally worth it.

Anyway, it was too early in the morning to even consider even being up, especially since it was a Saturday.

And his nightmare didn't even make sense; some rando in a red helmet and jacket was chasing him around an unfamiliar set of grey-washed hallways with a knife, shouting something about cutting the replacement's wings. 

The only person Tim had met in person recently who even wore red was the man from last night (Robin didn't count, nor did Harley Quinn, the old immortal guy, the katana ladies, etc., because he only saw them from a few hundred feet away through a camera lens)-- Red Hood...like The Joker's rumored former alias. But he was wearing a red domino mask, not a helmet!

Not to mention the man, you know, saved his life.

Eh, Tim probably needed to stop reading slasher horror novels before bed after running around in a city that could probably be the setting of a slasher horror documentary series.

Never mind that it actually helped him figure out where the best spots for waiting for picture opportunities because most of them were written by former Gothamites.

His stomach growled, and the boy reluctantly left his bed to trundle to get something to eat. Wasn't like he could fall back to sleep.

As he walked down the long hall, he looked at the pictures of his parents, almost all of which were from some excavation or function. Even their wedding photo was meticulously planned to feature their newest contribution to the museum. It was sad. And not just as a reminder that he wasn't considered worthy of a picture, but because their lives revolved around their work.

At least he enjoyed running after the Gotham Duo. They didn't even like their work half the time, just the fame and status that came with it.

His parents didn't even know that he enjoyed photography; every birthday and Christmas, he got a couple random videogames for the game system collecting dust in his closet and a generic gift card containing a couple hundred bucks. He knows they're too busy doing important things, but it still stung.

Well, their absence let him do what he wanted, so the situation wasn't entirely shoddy.

Tim felt a sudden burst of rebellion when he reached the stairs, and he eagerly if clumsily hopped on the banister and slid down to the next floor. He had to hop off onto the last step because of the post anchoring the rail to the ground and barely stopped himself from tripping onto his face.

He would have to work on that. Later though.

When he got to the kitchen, Tim checked the microwave for any breakfast pastries Mrs. McIlvaine might've left him while he was at school yesterday. There was a four-count box of blueberry muffins from the local grocery store, so he got a plate and helped himself to one.

He wasn't in the mood for water at the moment, so after a quick glance at the coffee maker he turned away to the fridge and got out the blown glass bottle of fancy organic vitamin-rich orange juice. He wasn't going anywhere anyway, so he could stand not getting any. Usually he abstained from his favorite beverage on Sundays because he liked to go out on Saturdays and needed to practice restraint so he didn't develop a dependency on the stuff, but he figured why not? He could always buy some if he needed it later.

He didn't bother getting a glass. He was the only one who drank the stuff, so he just took a seat at the counter and carefully took the wrapper of the muffin off, then the top.

First he folded the wrapper; then he ate the main part of the muffin until he reached the base; then put that down and ate the interior of the muffin top; then put that down and ate the muffin base; then ate the rest of the muffin top; then finally ate the wrapper because why not. It wouldn't give him poisoning.

After he finished the solid part of his breakfast, he grabbed his phone from the charger next to the coffee maker and held the bottle by the neck as he unlocked the device and opened the news app. He took a swig of orange juice as he scrolled through the headlines, which he then regretted as he spit out said orange juice upon seeing a post from last night: 'New Vigilante in Town? Man Saved by a Man in Red.'

The image was blurry, but it still didn't paint a good picture: it featured a boy hanging from the back of his hoodie, as though he had been caught leaning forward too far. His face was cast in shadow. One of his hands was curled toward his chest, the other thrown out as though he was trying to get his rescuer to let go.

The man above was better lit, and Tim was startled to see such an anguished look on a stranger. The photo was black and white, but the mask almost shone in the light, and the side of his jacket was thrown out of the way in the lunge toward the edge, revealing his shirt. It was black, which made the bat symbol peeking out even more distinctive.

The picture was blurry, but it was tasteful in a morbid sort of way.

Nothing in the article commented on who the kid was; in fact, it only described the picture in brief detail and put a couple help lines in before listing theories on who the man was, spanning from a new member of the Gotham Duo to a new villain mocking the city's symbol of justice.

It curdled his stomach that someone even implied that he was...anyway, Tim had a day to get to, and fortunately his face wasn't clear, so nothing bad happened after all. He knew to be more careful from then on, and to watch out for other photographers so something like that wouldn't happen again.

He drank a couple gulps of orange juice before getting a paper towel and spray bottle to clean up the result of his spit take, then put the bottle into the fridge and the plate in the sink. His teeth felt gross from the bits of orange pulp and acid, so he went back upstairs and brushed his teeth.

Looking in the mirror, he noticed his hair was tossled, so he ran a comb through it. While he was at it, he washed his face and rubbed some lotion into his hands. They were dry from exposure to cold air, and he didn't want them to get chapped.

As he pulled on a Gotham Watchers t-shirt he'd gotten online, Tim ran through possible options for activities to pass the time.

There was usually something going on at the Iceberg Lounge, but he probably needed to stay away for a bit so he didn't establish a pattern for creeps to folllow. And besides, the platinum members were arrested by the police a couple days ago, a remarkable feat of competence for them considering Commissioner Gordon was out sick that day, so nothing particularly interesting would be there for another week at least.

Pamela Isley was still away on a business trip, so the gardens were safe for some nature shots...but Tim was in a mood for something heart-racing. Maybe he should go there and see what gossip was circulating. You'd be surprised at what dog walkers had to say about the criminal underground and economic trends.

(The last one wasn't really related to his photography ventures, but he was looking for some safe companies to invest some of his allowance in. Wayne Enterprises was a maybe, but there were some rumblings of numbers not adding up, so he wasn't sure.)

Tim slipped his camera and wallet into his backpack along with his homework and pocketed his phone. It took another three minutes to walk from his room to the front door, as he had made a detour to the kitchen to make a packed lunch, but a few short minutes later he was tapping his foot at the bus stop.

He knew the pins for their security system by heart after 'accidentally' setting it off last fall. It resulted in some scolding, but it was worth it. Especially since they didn't check the cameras or anything. So there weren't any obstacles between him and the faded blue bench at Ashton on Florence.

There were a couple other kids there, but they were both huddled over an overpriced phone with underperformed top forties music blaring through the speakers, so Tim ignored them. He plugged his ear buds into his phone and opened the Gotham Watchers podcast. They were usually live around seven in the morning; it was only 6:34, but there were some episodes he enjoyed listening to. They were funny and not usually made or taken seriously.

Tim clicked on the one labeled 'Is Robin an Alien?' and set the app to switch over to the live podcast when the signal connected. Then the familiar squeal of old brakes echoed around the corner, and he hurriedly stood up and pocketed the phone.

He showed the driver his pass, and the tired man scanned the card and waved him through. The boy walked down the aisle. Looking over at his normal seat, he noticed that someone was already sitting there and opted to move further down.

He sat a couple rows back on the opposite side than he was used to so he could study (read: glare at) the newcomer.

The man's head and shoulders jutted over the top of the seat, and he saw an oversized red hoodie (WHERE DID HE GET A HOODIE THAT BIG???), a black Gotham Academy baseball cap drawn over his face, and a grey backpack strap over one shoulder.

Tim had never seen this man before, but the build seemed familiar.

Broad shoulders...well, that could describe most hired thugs, some celebrities, and some vigilantes. Not to mention the fitness nuts at the gym.

Shame Dick Grayson didn't go to the local gym. Those would've been some great shots.

But anyway, the stranger had taken his spot, which wasn't cool.

Tim was so busy brooding over the slight (major) slight that he nearly tumbled into the aisle when his phone let out a loud click. He was quickly distracted by the goofy Gotham theme that became a meme.

"Hello, folks, this is the Gotham Watchers talking at you live from an undisclosed location, as always. This is Gothamite warbling, and I used Mary Poppins' voice from the first movie last time-"

"-And this is Watchit gabbing, and I was totally rocking Chimney Man number five. Y'all know we claim no ownership to the film or their characters-"

"-And the movies and characters aee chosen at random, so don't get any ideas. Now on to the weather. Watchit?"

"On it, Gothamite. Weather is shit, like always, but what is Gotham without its nasty, slightly poisonous smog?"

"I suppose it would be Metropolis. Everyone knows they love the sun. Their resident 'superhero' runs on it, like a little plant man. Hold up, plant man, what does that remind you of, Watchit?"

"OMG, keep him away from Gotham, we don't need to give P.I. any ideas."
For some reason they never refer to villains or vigilantes by their names, always giving them nicknames or descriptions. It would be alarming if they ever broke that trend.

"Ha. Ha. Funny. I was actually thinking of aliens--you know, little green men--but that was good too. Now, while I was consulting the Oracle, having made my sacrifices to the internet gods to grant me safe passage on the web, I found something interesting."

"Okay, y'all prolly can't see this, considering you would have to hack our super-secret channel to even find us to do so, but Gothamite's referring to that pic from the Gotham Gazette. You know, the one with the new vigilante and that kid?"

Tim scooted so that his back was wedged between the window and the seat, fully engrossed in the podcast. He had some interest in the story, considering that Red Hood had saved his life.

"Thank you, Watchit. Now, the article itself focuses on the new guy in town, and while I am itching to dig into that story, the comments section brought the kid to the foreground in my research."

Tim had some regrets.

"Again, y'all can't see it, but Gothamite's doing the thing with the zoom in feature and focusing on the hand by the kid's chest. This might not work on your device, but you can still follow along."

"Again, thank you, Watchit. Now, as I was about to say, the hand is closed over a black box roughly half the size of his head, and there is a black cord going from the box to his neck. And you know what that means-"

"We've got a bitty paparazzi on our hands!"

"Bingo. Now, this is a disclaimer saying that we don't condone underage vigilantism or stalking of any sort-"

"We're still hoping that the Dark Knight gets his shit together and does the responsible thing. But that's got its own podcast episode. If you want to listen to it, it's called 'Child Soldier'. You can tell we're serious by the lack of question mark."

"-and we're concerned. Is this kid a hiree from a newspaper? A snitch from a local gang? Someone who needs help? Or maybe even a photography enthusiast. Regardless of the intentions behind his situation, it looks like he was lucky that vigilante figure was there."

Yeah. Tim couldn't decide whether it was like watching his own demise or a train wreck. Or the Joker smoking weed.

That was weird and scary. He just wanted to capture the weird green light the liquid form of the Joker Gas let off.

Instead he ended up with at least twenty pictures of the Joker high as a kite. And he couldn't even tell if it was a good or bad high.

"The kid's got some guts, though. Wasn't there an explosion over by that building? I recognize that funky tiedye painted fuse box."

"Yep. It was at that overpass, the one by The Knitwit Kit and the healthy food market."

"Is there even an unhealthy food market?"

"Well, I mean, we've got fast food restaurants and bakeries, but I'm not sure about that."

"I'm totally going to open an unhealthy food market and call it A Low Tank."

"Low Tank?"

"You know, because it sells empty calories?"

"Ah...well, you do you, Watchit. Now, back to the kid. I'm wondering if he might not be training to become a vigilante himself. I mean, the fire escape for that building is not well maintained, if I remember correctly. Rusty, missing some bars, too high off the ground, the whole shebang. So he would have had to do some gymnastics to get up there. And the camera could be for taking reference photos for copying later, if it doesn't have video features in the first place."

That was tempting. Tim considered giving them a thank you note for the idea at his next purchase (the lady with the rainbow colored nose piercing totally knew who the Gotham Watchers were). But then again, he didn't really want to throw himself in danger. So probably not.

"Shit. That would sound so cool, and pretty thought out if you ask me, but we don't need a underage vigilante, much less another one. I don't know which would be worse: he is one of The Dark Dude's trainees, or that the kid is doing it by himself."

"Shit is right, Watchit. I hope that, regardless of the motives of the kid, that he is actually an adult with a below-average height, because the implications of that do not sit well with me. Well, that's the end of our podcast for today. If you want to listen to it again, the episode's called 'That Kid.' I'm Gothamite, and I'm finished with my warbling-"

"-and I'm Watchit, and I'm done gabbing. Y'all know the drill-"

"-don't take anything we say as fact because we're not experts-"

"-share the podcast with your friends-"

"-we're just doing this as a way to pass the time, so don't try to straight up send us cash, because we've got jobs, but go check out the merch on our app-"

"-and if you guess whose voices we were using for this podcast, pat yourself on the back. Toodles!"

"Auf wiedersehen!"

"And we're the Gotham Watchers"

"So be sure to download our app if you haven't already-"

"-and you'll hear us next Saturday!"

The click of the podcast cutting out was drowned out by the squeal of brakes.

Tim looked outside and saw a field of green grass and pretty flowers, only marred by the asphalt walkway winding trough it. Somehow the Gotham Watchers always finished right when he was done getting somewhere. It was convenient.

The story itself wasn't convenient, though. It did emphasize the fact that he needed to be more careful.

Was it so obvious that he was a kid?

Tim shook his head. It was too late to grumble about facts.

He slid off of his seat and shouldered his backpack, fastening the buckle over his torso so that it didn't hurt his shoulders or pose an easy snatch opportunity, and shuffled quickly to the front of the bus.

The bus driver was busy drinking his Irish coffee, heavy on the Irish if the smell of whisky was anything to go by, and Tim wrinkled his nose at the faintly rotten bread smell that whisky and bourbon always gave off. He didn't waste any time in getting off the bus and jumping onto the curb.

Unbeknownst to him, the man in the oversized red hoodie followed soon after he'd walked away.