Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sebastian Ives lives five miles from Tim’s house, in a cul-de-sac with a sidewalk and a neighborhood watch. Sebastian Ives has a grandmother who watches the kids play outside in the afternoons, knitting or sewing, but more importantly keeping an eye on all the little boys and girls and making sure none go missing. Sebastian Ives invited Tim Drake to his seventh birthday party, and they’ve been best friends ever since.

So really, it’s not much of a surprise that Tim routinely rides home from school with Sebastian instead of going home. There’s not much to do at home, certainly not a dozen or so other children to play with. No one is waiting for him, no one will worry if he’s out past sunset, and Sebastian’s Grandma never seems to notice one more kid hanging around.

It’s fun. Makes him feel independent, to bike home all on his own in the dark. The laughter and heat of the sun warm him enough that when he retreats into the vacant halls of Drake manor, the chill doesn’t set in quite as quickly.

He’s careful, always aware of his surroundings, makes sure to leave at different times so he doesn’t have an exact routine. Tim’s a Gotham native, he’s not stupid.

He’s very good at going unnoticed. For five days a week, thirty six weeks a year, he makes the five mile bike-ride from Sebastian’s cul-de-sac to the secluded grounds of Drake Manor without incident, and he does it for two years.

Which is why it’s a little surprising that he screws up so phenomenally just two months shy of his tenth birthday.

He’s four miles in, skirting the line of the Drake property, sweating profusely. Most of the journey home is in full sun, so the shade of the Wayne wall is a bit of a relief, and he sticks close to the pillared fence, pushing his bike along on the uphill stretch.

Sebastian says it’s lazy, to push and not ride up hill, but Tim’s tired and there’s no one around to see, so he thinks he can be forgiven for a bit of laziness.

The exhaustion dissipates entirely when he spots it though. It being a small frog, hopping along the soft dirt, presumably in search of the stream Tim knows runs through the Wayne property.

It’s a cute little frog, in Tim’s nine-year-old opinion. Very fast. Would make a good pet.

He perks up, swiping an arm over his brow to rub the sweat out of his eyes, face an unbecoming shade of red.

Instead of tanning, Tim tends to freckle in the sun. His great aunt Sharon thinks it’s extremely cute. Janet doesn’t share her enthusiasm. Every time they do photos or galas she has to pay someone to do his makeup and conceal them. 

He can’t really be bothered to put on sunscreen, though. There are much more important things for a nine-year-old to be doing, after all.

Such as improving his frog-catching technique.

Tim speeds up a little, digging his feet into the uneven ground to push both himself and the bicycle up the steep incline.

He makes a wild grab for it, coming up with only a fistful of dirt. The frog lets out a squeaky little croak and hops even further away.

“Wait a minute!” Tim says. “Come back.”

He growls a little, frustrated. The bike is too heavy, but he’s loath to leave it behind, precariously balancing it while he chases after the flash of brown and green.

He should really be more careful. He isn’t. He doesn’t watch the ground, or mind his feet, and he certainly doesn’t see the small pothole until his foot is already catching in it.

Tim squawks, weight falling awkwardly as his ankle twists to the right. He falls, and the bike comes with him, arms and legs entangled as he crumples to the ground, wrists bent at a dangerous angle.

A sharp spike of pain, and Tim can’t untwist himself fast enough to relieve the pressure on his foot before something in his ankle snaps.

The sound hurts the most. Tim hits the ground hard, jerking his knee to his chest, agony flaring when his bike falls on top of his injured angle.

He bursts into tears, and screams.

Just once, high and short, before he manages to cut the noise off by biting down on his fist. The taste of his own skin and sweat on his tongue does nothing to help the sudden swell of nausea. Tim gags once, flushed with heat and pain, sobbing hard enough to shake his slight shoulders.

His ankle is throbbing, waves of pain that just crest on each other, and he doesn’t want to look at it, certain that it will be twisted into a grotesque parody of his foot.

Tim buries his face in his hands, gasping for breath, and tells himself that he’ll get up in a minute.

Just a minute, to see if the pain gets any better. Then he can walk home. 

That plan is shattered into a million pieces at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Abruptly, Tim shuts himself up, shoving his hand into his mouth and biting down hard on his palm. He looks up, blinking rapidly in hopes of dispelling the tears that cling to his eyelashes. 

There’s no one he can see, nobody’s coming, and yet Tim can hear the swishing of grass as someone comes closer.

He turns, careful to keep the lower half of his body completely immobile, listening hard.

There, between the slats of the fence, Tim is sure he can see a figure moving toward him.

A figure from beyond Wayne wall. 

Tim scrubs madly at his splotchy face, patting himself as if he’ll suddenly become more presentable from that alone. It doesn’t really work. He still feels incredibly humiliated when a soft voice calls out.

“Hello? Are you okay?”

And… that’s not the voice he was expecting. Tim had anticipated meeting staff. A gardener, maybe, or a groundskeeper. His greatest fear was that it was Mr. Wayne behind that fence, and that he’d see the disgrace that is Tim Drake and immediately tell his parents.

But that voice, the slim shadow cast through the fence, it's not one that belongs to a grown man.

Tim peers up at another young, black-haired child, embarrassment forgotten in favor of deep confusion.

“Who are you?”

The boy bristles, craning his neck to get a better look at Tim without coming any closer. “I live here. Who are you?”

That’s a lie, Tim’s pretty sure. Anyone who does something as novel as living with Bruce Wayne ends up in the papers, even his butler Mr. Pennyworth. “No you don’t! That’s where Bruce Wayne lives,” He says factually, grimacing a little when his ankle twinges. It hurts down to the bone, almost like a root canal, a cold grinding pain.

The nausea comes back with a vengeance. Tim swallows down bile.

“I live with him, dummy.” The boy crosses his arms over his chest, scowling down at Tim like he’s a particularly annoying bug. “Bruce is… he’s keeping me.”

“Since when?”

“Nunya,” The older boy snaps. “Now tell me who the fuck you are.”

Tim deflates a little, discouraged by the sudden anger. “I’m Tim Drake. I live over there.”

 He points. Jason follows his finger to the horizon, unable to see Drake Manor from their vantage point.

“Why were you screaming?” He asks, peering through the gate to assess Tim. “Did you fall?”

And well. Tim knows how to lie. He’s plopped on the ground, rumpled, with tears staining his cheeks. Claiming that he hadn’t fallen would just be stupid.
“I’m fine,” Tim says. 

“Where’s your mom and dad?”

“At home.”

The boy doesn’t even blink, and Tim mentally pats himself on the back. He’s been getting better at faking signatures and promising his teachers that his mom or dad signed the permission slips, but he didn’t know if the skill would transfer over smoothly.

It probably helps that the boy doesn’t know that Tim licks his teeth before he lies.

There’s an awkward silence, before he seems to make up his mind, crouching so he and Tim are closer to the same height. “Do you need help? I— I could call Bruce to take you home.”

“No!”

They both flinch at Tim’s vehemence, and Tim almost starts crying again when the motion sends pain zinging up his spine.

“I’m fine,” He repeats. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t need any help.”

The boy doesn’t move, but that’s okay. Tim really is fine, and he’s not going to allow himself to be humiliated in front of Bruce Wayne of all people.

He keeps his leg still, propping his good foot under himself and rising into a crouch, leg splayed out in front of him. The other boy doesn’t comment on the awkward maneuver, though he must know Tim isn’t as fine as he claims to be.

From his crouch, Tim levers himself to his feet, with more grace than he thought himself capable of. He still has to blink tears out of his eyes, of course, when he swings his leg down, but he manages to suppress the urge to hurl.

Shuddering, Tim tentatively puts his injured foot on the ground. The immediate, overwhelming pain has him sobbing, digging his nails into his skin and covering his eyes.

From across the fence, the other boy is silent, but Tim can feel his stare burning into his back.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it home like this. Well, he does, but it’s going to be particularly humiliating to crawl for over half a mile.

“Tim.”

He glances up, parting his fingers, face wet with tears and sweat.

“Your ankle’s fucked,” The boy says, pointing idly.

“It’s fine,” Tim says, trying for a smile and hiding his watery attempt behind his palms. “Please don’t call someone. Please.”

The boy thrusts his right arm through the fence, holding it out to Tim. “I won’t tell. C’mere.”

Tim grabs the hand, and then then the left one when he offers it, and lets the other boy pull him closer to the fence and take his weight.

Tim stands there, face pressed into the warm wooden posts, while he crouches in front of him again, carefully picking up his leg and pulling it through the gap.

“My name’s Jason,” He mumbles, drowning out Tim’s soft crying. “By the way.”

Jason pulls up the legs of Tim’s pants, and both of them wince at the swollen redness around his joint. He examines it for a moment, one hand on Tim’s calf to hold him still, the other hovering carefully over Tim’s foot. Then Jason straightens, hands on his hips, and looks Tim up and down critically. “Take off your belt.”

“What?”

“I don’t have one,” Jason says, gesturing to his basketball shorts. “Take it off. I’ll be right back.”

Tim, a little dazed, fumbles with his belt, slipping the expensive leather out of the loops and leaning hard against the wall. He watches as Jason stalks off, trying not to panic when the boy ducks out of sight.

It’s fine. He’s fine. Even if Jason runs off without explaining himself, that’s fine too, because Tim just met the boy today and he can’t rely on strangers.

For a minute there, though, it really did seem like Jason would fix everything.

Tim’s just about to put his belt back on, reprimanding himself for just going along with whatever some strange kid said, when Jason comes jogging back, two sticks in hand.

“I’m gonna make a splint,” He says, peeling off his thin flannel. There are small dots on his arms, larger than Tim’s freckles, pink and puckered. “Give me your belt.”

Tim watches curiously as he wedges the tree branches into his shoe. It hurts a lot, but Jason is careful and methodical, and Tim only gags once by the time he’s done. 

He weaves the flannel between Tim’s skin and the sticks, not pulling tightly at all, cushioning the joint of his ankle. The belt is tied much tighter, enough that Jason has to grip his calf again, holding Tim still while the younger boy cries.

“Done,” Jason says, tying the belt to the flannel, sitting back on his heels. “You should bike home. That will probably take some of the weight off.”

“Th—” Tim heaves a breath, pulling his leg back to his own side. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well,” Jason huffs, looking away. “Whatever.”

Tim opens his mouth, wanting to reiterate how very much he appreciates this, when something rings and vibrates, startling them both.

Jason’s pocket is buzzing quite angrily, and he grimaces, pulling out his phone. 

While he answers it, Tim puts his leg down. His ankle is held still, which is good, but putting weight on it still hurts considerably. He wonders if he can ride his bike home, with how stiff he feels.

“Yes sir,” Jason says into the receiver, sounding significantly less abrupt than he did with Tim. “I’m coming now. Sorry.”

Tim doesn’t hear the response, but he winces. He didn’t mean to get Jason in trouble with Mr. Wayne.

“No, I’ll come back now. Bye.” Jason hangs up, biting his lip, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

It’s almost dusk, Tim notes, a little surprised. It was six thirty when he left Sebastian’s, surely it shouldn’t be this late already.

“I’ve gotta go,” Jason says, shifting away. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call anyone?”

“Yes,” Tim says. “Thank you again.”

He waves Tim away, taking a step backward, seemingly hesitant. 

Tim braces himself on the fence, bending awkwardly to pick up his bike. It still hurts, but less overwhelming now that his ankle isn’t grinding and twisting, compressed by the belt.

“Take the splint off when you get home,” Jason says. “See you around, slim.”

“Tim,” He corrects absently, missing the disbelieving look Jason gives him. “It was nice to meet you, Jason.”

He swings his splinted leg over the bicycle, and starts the long and painful journey home.

It’s not until a week later that Vicki Vale runs a story about Wayne’s adopted son, Jason Todd, and Tim hears about his new friend again.

There’s a metal fence between Gotham Academy Junior High and Gotham Academy High School. 

It’s twelve feet high, runs the perimeter of both schools, and keeps a firm boundary between the two student populaces, in the hopes of reducing the rampant truancy and smuggling.

Tim knows this, and he also knows that the space between the trailer classes and the fence is the best place to eat lunch and do homework.

Middle school has not been kind to him.

He was supposed to be in fifth grade this year, not seventh, but his parents pushed and pushed, and instead of taking extracurriculars or tutoring sessions, they thought it’d be best to move him up a couple of grades.

And really, Tim has never been so academically challenged in his life. Gotham Academy is a good school, and he loves his classes.

The other kids, however, don’t take very kindly to Tim.

Hence eating alone, skipping gym, and finishing his homework before seventh period. He and Mrs. Clyde— the gym teacher— have an understanding. Meaning that, she understands how much Tim is being terrorized in the locker rooms and in team sports, and has excused him from her class quietly. 

Tim is just finishing up his chemistry homework, cracking open his grammar workbook, when he catches the edges of conversation approaching.

An angry, stilted conversation, with lots of jeering.

Tim watches, quietly grateful for the flimsy wall between himself and the approaching teenagers.

High schoolers, the softball team if they’re uniforms are anything to go by. A cluster of boys with a few girls tagging along, laughing loudly amongst themselves, sneers marring their young faces.

Tim draws his book up like a shield, and does his best to turn invisible.

“Say it again,” One boy, blonde and tan, demands, voice carrying to Tim’s shady corner. “C’mon Jay, tell us how much you love your sugar daddy.”

“Fuck you,” A younger voice, slightly familiar. Tim peeks up, just a little, in time to watch the blonde one slam a smaller boy against the fence.

Black hair, wearing the gray tank top and shorts of the gym uniform. Small pink scars on his arms.

Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne’s adopted son, but before that Tim knew him as the kid who splinted his ankle.

Now... Now Tim knows he’s Robin. Knows that he could throw off the kid that shoves him against the wall, knows that he could beat them into the ground without breaking a sweat.

That sort of power should be scary, but it’s not. Not when Tim also remembers how gentle he was when he wrapped that belt around his leg, not when he watched the older boy giggle as he swung through Gotham’s streets.

Tim can’t ride home with Sebastian anymore, so sometimes he doesn’t go home at all. Sometimes he takes his camera and his pocket knife and ventures into the city alone.

He’s chasing the warmth, the feeling of belonging. He knows that, and he chases it anyway, melting into shadows and living vicariously through his heroes.

Robin is so fascinating. And so good. There’s nothing to be scared of, as long as he’s around.

Jason’s not Robin right now though. He spits in the face of his bullies, but his hands stay slack at his sides, immobile as a fist drives itself into his stomach.

“You get on your knees for Wayne?” The blonde boy snarls. “Would you get on your knees for me? Huh, Jay?”

“You’re so sus, man,” Another boy grumbles. The girls all roll their eyes, watching with sadistic amusement.

“Fuck.” Jason leans back against the metal wiring, breathing evenly, looking almost casual. “You.”

The blonde one doesn’t even see it coming, not until Jason’s knee has driven up into his groin. He doubles over, groaning, and Tim suppresses a smile.

“You’re such an idiot, Matt.” One of the girls cackles, apparently not loyal enough to hide her enjoyment at her friend’s suffering. 

Tim watches her sway close to Jason, watches her tilt her head, and then slap him across the face.

Jason takes it. Takes it, and grits his teeth, and doesn’t look her in the eye.

Tim puts down his homework, stumbling to his feet. No one’s spotted his position in the shade, none of them so much as look at him as he strides up to them.

“Camilla?” He says, eyes wide and innocent. The girl looks up, hand still on Jason’s face, her french-tipped nails digging into his skin.

Tim doesn’t quail under the full attention of the teenagers. He was raised by Janet Drake, after all.

“Cameron told me to find you,” Tim shifts back on his heels, running his tongue over his teeth. “Wanted me to tell you that the police are searching lockers today. They started this morning and they’re gonna do the high school this afternoon.”

Matt looks up, paling considerably. None of them question the legitimacy of his information. If Cameron Boyd ever finds out Tim used her name to lie to her sister, he’s going to die.

It’ll be slow and miserable, but maybe it will be worth it.

“Fuck!” Camilla says letting go of Jason. “Fuck this, I’ve gotta go.”

  There’s a raw, satisfied moment where Tim and Jason stand together and watch the bullies trot back to the high school. At least, they’re almost standing together. There’s still the fence, after all.

But then Jason turns around, and gives Tim a long look, eyes straying from the tips of his hair to his loafer-clad feet.

“Huh,” He says eloquently. “It’s you.”

Tim blushes. He’d hoped Jason wouldn’t recognize him. They’d only met one time, after all. It’s kind of humiliating to be remembered as that one particularly pathetic kid who sprained his ankle.

“Your, um,” Jason gestures vaguely at him, leaning against the fence in an attempt to hide his exhaustion. “Your foot okay?”

Tim nods quickly. He’d made it all the way home, and up three flights of stairs to ice and elevate his ankle, then he took ibuprofen and put on an old boot from when he sprained his ankle skating last year, and prayed it’d heal before his parent’s next visit.

“Thank you again,” Tim says. “For helping.”

That prompts a wry grin, and Tim is relieved to see some of the misery bleed away from Jason’s expression. “I think we’re just about even now. Thank you for tricking those dumbasses.”

Tim shrugs, biting down a happy little smile.

“I know those guys,” Tim says, because fence or not, Gotham Academy can’t seem to stop the students from interacting. “They’re dangerous.”

“They bother you?”

There’s something sharp and dangerous in Jason’s eyes. Tim probably should have guessed that Jason would be a lot more willing to punch someone in defense of another person. It’s kind of heartwarming, though Tim knows it doesn’t make him special or anything. That’s just who Jason is.

“No. I um. Just hear about them sometimes.”

Heard about Cameron and Camilla Boyd teaming up to leak naked pictures of half the girls in their respective classes, heard about Matt Donavon and his team holding a few ninth graders underwater after swimming practice. They aren’t the sort of people Tim can afford to mess around with.

“You should probably stay away from them.” Jason snags his fingers in the links of the fence, rattling the cheap metal and forcing Tim’s attention back to his face. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

Tim opens his mouth and considers telling Jason exactly why he’s skipping gym, then thinks better of it.

In comparison to him, Tim’s problems are kind of pathetic. He’s getting picked on, yeah, but not by the literal demons of the school. Not to mention, Jason’s Robin. He’ll probably think Tim’s being a crybaby.

So he just shrugs, trying not to look too guilty as he folds his hands behind his back.

Jason’s frown grows deeper, riding the edges of concern that, admittedly, Tim hadn’t been expecting.

“Can I ask you a question?” He blurts, calling out before Jason can think too hard about Tim skipping class. The diversion successfully distracts Jason. He nods slowly, eyeing Tim like he’s a live bomb.

“Why, um.” Tim inches closer to the fence, as if there’s a nearby crowd that might overhear him. As if they aren’t alone together. “Why did you help me? With my ankle. Why didn’t you just call Mr. Wayne?”

He was expecting Jason to. Or maybe just walk away and leave him there, because honestly, Tim is not his problem. Going as far as splinting his ankle, allowing him to get home no questions asked… 

Well. Not many people have done that for him, and Tim is grateful.

Jason, though, looks bashful. And a little pained, like he’s embarrassed. He shifts restlessly on the balls of his feet, rubbing at the back of his neck and avoiding Tim’s gaze. “Well, um. I didn’t really know how Bruce would… react. To you, I mean. I didn’t want to get you h— in trouble or something.”

“Thank you,” Tim says quietly, though he doubts he would have gotten in trouble with Mr. Wayne. His own parents, most likely, but not Batman. “For, um. Just thank you.”

“You say that a lot.” There’s a smile tugging at Jason’s lip, awkwardness giving way to wry amusement. “It’s no big deal, Timmers. ‘Sides, I told you; We’re even.”

To make his point, Jason wiggles his slim wrist into the gaps of the fence, offering Tim his hand.

Tim takes it. The handshake is stiff, and Jason’s palm is warm and calloused to contrast with Tim’s cold, soft one, but the younger boy still feels a swell of pride at the respect in Jason’s eyes. 

Maybe the older boy is just humoring him, but Tim really would like to think he makes an ally of Robin that day.

“It’s a little past your bedtime, don’t you think?”

Tim jumps so hard he nearly drops his camera, one hand still elbow-deep in his backpack as he whips around to face the amused voice.

It’s nearly too dark to see. Gotham is light polluted, of course, but Bristol less so. Here, boxed in on both sides by trees and a fence, Tim is completely shrouded in shadow. Which is kind of the point, seeing as how the Drakes have motion sensing yard lights and the Drakes are in town, for once.

He wasn’t even going to go out tonight. Robin had been injured less than a week ago, won’t be on patrol for a while, and Batman was always a bit harder to spot without his colorful companion. With his parents in town, its just not worth the risk of getting caught.

But. 

The Riddler broke out of Arkham last month, and tonight is the night he staged his big coming back party, and Tim would rather die than miss the chance to witness his debut. It wasn’t even that deadly this time! Just some general mayhem, meaning Tim got up close and personal. He even got a few shots of Nygma himself.

Maybe the success is making him a little careless, because he hadn’t even noticed Jason Todd sneaking up on him.

Well. Jason Todd Wayne.

He’s leaned up against a tree, one hand propping open a book, the other pointing the flashlight at Tim’s feet. Through the darkness, all Tim can see is his white grin and the glint of his pupils. 

“Um,” Tim says, intelligently.

It’s been a while since he’s seen Jason as Jason and not Robin. Aside from the occasional rare spotting at school, he never really gets a chance to, despite the fact that their neighbors. Tim has extracurriculars and a non-existent social life since he started middled school, and it’s not like he can go to galas alone. Mr. Wayne doesn’t like Jason in the spotlight, so he’s never been at any of the ones Tim has attended.

Still, he finds himself growing excited, zipping up his backpack quickly and turning to face the boy fully.

“What are you doing out here?” Jason puts the book down, getting to his feet and stretching laboriously. 

“Nighttime photography,” Tim says, the same thing he’s said to anyone questioning an unattended minor at this time of night.

“Sure.” 

It’s not much of a response, Tim notes. There’s something unreadable on Jason’s face, and between the dimness and the light suddenly aimed right at his face, Tim can’t make heads or tails of it.

“What’s the bag for, Tim?”

Oh. 

Maybe it’s a little suspicious, to be on the outskirts of the Drake property in the dead of night, trying to sneak in and out unnoticed. Tim probably should have realized that he looks like he’s running away.

“Just my photography stuff,” He blinked owlishly at the light still in his face. “You can see if you want.”

Jason does want. He takes the bag from Tim, easing it between the slats of the fence with a gentleness that isn’t uncalled for, and starts rifling through his stuff. 

Almost immediately, he comes out with Tim’s swiss army knife.

“Planning on fighting a raccoon?” He says, flicking open the blade and gesturing pointedly at the wood and brush surrounding them. Tim shakes his head. “What’s the knife for, slim?”

There’s no accusation in his eyes, nothing but wary curiosity, but Tim still feels his shoulders hunch, like he’s been caught in a lie. He kind of has.

Licking his teeth, Tim says, “My dad gave it to me. For just in case.”

“Does your Dad know you’re wandering around taking pictures at night?”

“He wouldn’t care.” 

The reassurance does not have the desired effect. Jason’s eyes just narrow further, and he snaps the knife closed, tossing it to Tim a little harder than strictly necessary. He inhales deeply, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking his hip, and Tim takes a step back from the confrontation in his eyes.

But whatever Jason was going to say is drowned out by a strange, melodious chirp of some kind.

Tim looks up at the tree canopy above them, holding his breath for a second, two, before the bird’s call rings out again.

It’s so strange. And a very nice distraction, if Tim says so himself. 

Jason copies him, tilting his head back, scanning the sky for the sound. It’s hard to pinpoint, echoing through the woods.

“It’s a whip-poor-will,” Jason murmurs, and the words send an odd shiver down Tim’s spine. “My mom, um. She told me that you only hear them right before someone dies.”

Tim draws his gaze back to the older boy, staring at Jason’s silhouette. There’s a brace around his wrist, not large, almost hidden by his sleeves, but maybe big enough to stop him from grappling around the city.

It’s such a quiet moment, with Jason staring up at the stars, listening to a whip-poor-will sing in the dark, that Tim itches to fill that. To take up sound and space in a way that, usually, he wouldn’t dare.

“Why are you out here?” 

Jason doesn’t look away, but he does bring up a hand to scratch absently at the brace, and Tim sees the way his face twists ever so slightly.

“Bruce won’t look for me here,” Jason says.

“Oh.”

Another piercing, three-toned cry from the whip-po-will, echoing Tim’s soft remark. He’s not sure what he should say to that. Tim never avoids his parents, not purposefully. It’s a struggle to warrant enough attention, he’s never fathomed going out of his way to make sure they won’t find him. 

It seems so… novel. Pigs have half a chance of flying before Jack or Janet actually seek their son out.

So Tim inches closer to the gate, wraps a hand around two pillars and tilts his head so he can get a better look at Jason. “Are you mad at him?”

“No,” Jason says, too quickly. Then, almost just as fast. “I don’t know, maybe. It’s not about Bruce.”

At twelve years old, Tim kind of assumed he was as mature as he was ever going to get. Smart enough to be starting ninth grade this year, old enough to be left alone while his parents are busy. But looking at Jason, at the tension of conflict that wrinkles his pimply, teenaged face, Tim thinks that maybe he has a little more growing up to do.

Because clearly it’s complicated, but Tim doesn’t understand why.

“Then how come you’re avoiding him?” He asks. “He’s your dad, right?”

“No!”

Tim startles a little, at the venom in Jason’s glare. He’s breathing faster now, fingers clamping down around his injured wrist. “Bruce is not my dad. My dad’s in prison.”

“But he’s better?” Tim says, confused by the desperate, horrified note in Jason’s tone. Why else would Bruce have Jason? Kids only got taken away from their real parents when the parents were bad. 

As soon as he says it, though, Tim knows he’s made a mistake. Jason’s glower only grows, and he paces up to the gate, gripping it in a harsh parody of the way Tim is, bending down so they’re eye to eye.

“Bruce isn’t better,” Jason snarls. “He’s just some guy. He’s not blood to me, he doesn’t care.”

“Yes he does!” Tim says, without really thinking about it. 

“How would you know?”

And how would he? As far as Jason is aware, Tim’s never met Bruce Wayne. Couldn’t attest to his character beyond what he’s seen on television. 

But Mr. Wayne is Batman. He can’t not care about his Robin.

“I just do,” Tim says, even though it’s been years since that argument worked. Years since he was biking around as an almost-ten-year-old, in a neighborhood that wasn’t his, surrounded by friends that treated him like family.

Tim kind of hates being twelve, because it means that, instead of arguing back, Jason just shakes his head and scoffs, looking at Tim like he’s the stupidest boy on Earth.

“You don’t get it,” Jason says eventually. “You’re just a kid, you don’t know.”

And maybe he doesn’t, but Tim still thinks that Jason is wrong about this one.

If there’s one thing Bruce Wayne cares about, it’s his son.

Tim inhales sharply, jerking his hand away from the plant, pinching the small pinprick of blood on his thumb.

He sticks his finger in his mouth, sucking at the coppery taste, almost on instinct. The offending flower just sways slightly in the breeze, a bright pop of color amidst the deep green of the bush.

Tim tries again, digging his nails into a softer part of the stem, where there aren’t as many thorns. The flower bends, then snaps, and Tim yelps when it lands right on the back of his hand, scratching red lines into his hand.

He probably should have seen that coming. 

Still, he bends to pick it up, tucking it into his book bag carefully and praying it won’t get crumpled, before turning his attention back to the bush.

They’re beautiful flowers, really. All yellow with pointed green leaves and a single spot of red right in the center. 

Tim picks a handful, unable to completely avoid the thorns, and earns a few dozen new cuts for his effort. He wipes his bloody palms on his jeans, glad that they’re dark.

With half a dozen flowers in his bag, Tim sets out through the sparse wood behind Drake Manor.

He likes it here, the soil is red clay, the trees old and weathered. There are plenty of rocks to climb over, and streams to explore. He’s a city boy at heart, could never give up paved roads and lightspeed internet.

The scenery takes his mind off the task at hand, though, and he appreciates that.

Humming to himself, Tim climbs over a downed oak tree, straddling the large trunk before flipping both legs over and hopping down.

His footing gives, and Tim catches himself on his palms, wincing when dirt and foliage digs into the scrapes.

At least he doesn’t go face first.

He straightens, pats himself clean once more, and sets off once more.

It’s a two mile walk to the far end of the Drake property, and another half mile on undeveloped land before he hits the west side of the Wayne wall. Already, the sun has started its downward slant. He’s not far now, but Tim’s not sure he wants to be traversing the woods alone in the dark, with only a flashlight and his swiss army knife.

By the time he’s made it to the fence, the orange in Gotham’s skyline has gotten a little more pronounced.

For a moment, Tim just stares past the fence, looking out onto the rolling, well-maintained fields of the Wayne property. Then he hitches his backpack up, braces himself, and starts climbing.

It’s difficult, not impossible, and certainly not the first fence Tim jumped. He’s over the Wayne wall in a matter of minutes, just enough time to wonder why he’s never done this before.

Tim bends his knees as he hops down, the vibration rattling through him, shaking his teeth. For a moment, he lets his eyes close.

When he opens them again, Tim takes a determined breath.

There’s only two things on the west border of the Wayne property. A man-made lake, left to collect mosquitos, unused since the death of Thomas and Martha Wayne. And, only a few yards to the left, is the graveyard.

Well, Tim’s not going to the lake, now is he?

He whistles, sharp, three notes, stumbling through wild grass that scrapes his knees. A snake glides away from him, dragon flies flitting back and forth, hovering around his face curiously. It’s so vibrant here, for a place that houses the dead.

Tim strolls through the rows of gravestones, more comfortable than he should be. He’s an intruder, he has no right to be here, and yet…

He smiles when he spots Jason’s plot, a tight, grim thing.

“Hi,” He says, plopping down into the grass next to the mound of disturbed dirt. There’s no answer. 

A ladybug crawls across the soft stone that declares Jason’s name and status. A Wayne, a beloved son, lost too soon. Tim gently plucks it off, cradling his palm as it crawls over his fingers, heedless of the smudged, scabbing cuts it tickles. 

“Um,” Tim says, because talking with Jason has always been a bumbling, stilted thing. “I miss you.”

That’s not the right thing to say. It’s a little selfish, probably. A lot of people miss Jason, knew him better than Tim, lost more when they lost him.

Dick Grayson lost a brother, Bruce Wayne lost a son. Tim lost… something. A friend, or an ally. A hero.

Now, there’s a lot more between them than just a picketed fence.

Six feet of dirt, for starters.

Tim pats the grave, almost reassuringly, and shrugs off his backpack. “I brought you something,” He says, unzipping it. “I don’t know if you like flowers, but… that’s what they do in movies.”

Tim rests the prickly, red, yellow, green, flowers on the ground, and fights off a sense of numbing alone-ness.

He thought…

Well, admittedly, he thought Jason would be here, which is stupid. It’s just… he misses the presence. The weight of piercing blue eyes on his shoulders, a wry smile in his periphery. Jason felt heavy, a good kind.

And now it’s just… gone. He thought maybe Jason’s spirit would be here. At his grave site, his eternal resting place. But it’s not. There’s no comfort in visiting.

“Sorry,” Tim says, swallowing ash on his tongue. No one hears his apology. He’s alone.

It makes him sad, and that makes him angry, and that makes him guilty. He came all this way, he climbed the wall, and Jason’s just gone.

Tim couldn’t see him, couldn’t be with him because there was always a wall, and now he’s gotten past it, and he just can’t see him period.

He folds his legs, cradling his head in his hands and just sitting there, breathing in the evening breeze.

“I was right,” Tim says, hiding the cracking in his voice behind smugness. “Bruce loves you so much he’s cracked.”

It’s raw, the memory of Jason’s vehemence, his glaring insecurities. For a moment, he’s ashamed of bringing it up.

But Jason’s too dead to get upset about it, so Tim can say whatever he wants.

He sniffles, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes, face hot. His throat is dry, swallowing hurts. He doesn’t want to cry .

“You shouldn’t have left,” Tim spits, and it sounds like an accusation. Like Jason could have helped it. “They still need you. Why would you—”

Die?

But Tim’s not getting answers from a mound of dirt. He feels unsatisfied and hollow, pushing himself to his feet and blowing the ladybug off his palm.

“Bye Jason,” Tim says, standing over the gravestone. “I’ll probably be seeing you again soon.”

Because if being Robin got Jason killed, then Tim’s just doomed, isn’t he?

Chapter Text

There’s only one place in the entire Wayne Estate where Jason can smoke in peace.

Bruce has the manor and gardens covered in cameras, and Alfred has a sixth sense when it comes to that sort of thing, so Jason is kind of limited on where he can light one up.

Fortunately, after a full week of trial and error (and a truly obnoxious amount of confiscated cigarettes) Jason has found the single unguarded, sequestered little nook where Bruce will not be able to stop him.

It’s a quarter mile trek north of the Manor, all the way to the fucking wall that surrounds their property, hidden behind a few willow trees. Jason packs a stick of jerky, his new copy of Because of Winn Dixie, and a box of Marlboros, and heads out on his clandestine mission.

The spot he chooses is kind of perfect, the grass overtaken by weeds and wildflowers, dandelions brushing past his feet. It’s cool too, the shade from the wall and the willows providing enough of a cover that the suffocating heat of July isn’t so bad.

Most importantly, absolutely no one is around, meaning no one comments when he balances the cigarette on his lips, pulling a lighter from his belt and tracking the flame with his eyes.

It’s not like he needs to smoke, not really. He was on the streets for long enough that he can value one, cherish the rush of calm and be grateful that it shrinks his appetite. He’s had more than his fair share, lighting up with friends or under the sadistic eye of a john. For some reason, men always liked watching him smoke.

But, honestly, he doesn’t need to. He’s not addicted. He just likes the pinched look on Bruce’s face when he comes around smelling like the alley, smoke-soaked and dirty.

It proves something. Jason’s not sure what, but it does. 

He inhales smoothly, exhales with the burn of nicotine seeping into his veins, lays in the grass so the humid air and residual dew will seep into the expensive clothes Bruce bought and ruin them. He wants to see what the man will do.

Because Bruce has made promises. Stupid, grandiose promises that he can’t possibly keep. Promises about protection, and safety, and food that doesn’t cost him a thing.

Jason knows it’s only a matter of time before he finds the man’s limit. It might not be ruining clothes or smoking, but he will find that line, and then he’s going to trample on it and see what happens.

Jason is just starting to close his eyes, the shadows of leaves dancing across his face, sunlight warming his skin. He puffs at the cigarette half-heartedly, basking in the cloud it produces, breathing shallowly.

And then a nauseatingly familiar sound jolts him out of his sleep, and Jason’s heart is beating twice as fast in half the time, shooting up in place with wide eyes. 

He whirls around, on his hands and knees, eyes snapping to where he could have sworn he heard the shuttering of a camera lens.

Sure enough, between the stokes of Bruce’s obscenely tall fence, rests a camera, aimed directly at him.

Jason is on his feet before he can remember moving, stalking up to the fence and kicking it one good time, hoping it jostles whatever perv that was peeking at him. 

“The fuck are you doing?” He fumes, reaching down through the gap, snagging the camera and pulling it back out. It’s small too, comes through without any pieces busting off.

Which means nothing, because Jason’s going to smash it pretty damn soon.

Only, instead of a creepy old man or paparazzi or some shit, the face that appears in the fence is small and round, dotted with freckles and framed by dark brown— almost black— hair. 

It’s a kid. A toddler, really, crouched on the ground and only coming up to Jason’s knee, despite the fact that Jason hasn’t had a growth spurt since he was ten.

“Sorry,” The little boy blurts, flushing an unbecoming crimson. It makes his pale face all the paler in the contrast, and his big ears are pointy and elfish when they’re red like that. 

“What are you doing?” Jason says only losing a little anger. It’s honestly not much better if Stuart Little himself is creeping on him, even if he’s significantly less threatening. 

The boy has the audacity to pout, sending a spindly little arm through the gap and yelping when Jason slaps it.

“Can I have my camera back?” He says, pulling his arm away and rubbing it, sending Jason accusing puppy eyes.

Irritation flares, annoyance at the privileged little bastard with his clean hands and manicured nails making Jason lean close, slamming his fist against the fence intimidatingly.

Jason’s never been called a bully, but that’s because he’s not an asshole on the regular, not because he doesn’t know how to be one.

“I’m about to smash this fucking camera,” He warns. “Tell me why the hell you were taking pictures of me.”

“I don’t know!” He says, eyes flying wide. “Please, please don’t break my camera. I just wanted to.”

And well, maybe this is why he isn’t a bully. He can’t stand the horrified terror on the kids face, especially not when paired with the wobbling lip.

“Delete it,” Jason says sternly, waiting for a nod before handing it back to the kid, significantly gentler in his handling.

Clearly, it’s kind of sorta precious. Jason’s not gonna break something valuable all because of a nosy mistake. 

“I deleted it,” The boy blurts, after a moment of fiddling with the controls. He turns the device around so Jason can see the display, and relaxes exponentially when the older boy nods his approval. “I’m sorry, most people don’t notice when I take pictures.”

“You shouldn’t just do that kid,” Jason grumbles, massaging at his chest to calm the rhythm into something a little more manageable. He thought— but no, it was just a kid. Some brat that didn’t know any better. “It’s fuckin’ wierd.”

“I’m sorry,” The boy says again but makes no promises. Jason peers at him through the fence, taking in the shorts and polo shirt. The high quality clothes that are fitted too perfectly for them to be from anywhere but a boutique.

Rich. Obviously. No one but a bunch of rich idiots would let a kid wander around with an expensive camera and harass perfectly unsuspecting Jasons. 

“What are you doing out here anyway?” Jason mutters, sitting back down, trying to seem casual and not nosy. The Wayne Estate is kind of in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by forests and sprawling green. If this kid is lost, he’s probably gonna have to get B involved. It’d be kind of unheroic to let a baby run around Gotham unattended.

“I’m Tim Drake,” He says, a little excitedly. In the alley, no one’s that eager to give out their names. “I live just over there. Um. Your neighbor actually.”

“Right.” Bruce hadn’t mentioned anything about neighbors. “But what were you doing?”

“Taking pictures?” Tim says hesitantly. At Jason’s narrowed eyes, he hurries to add, “N—Not of you. Just. in general. I like photography.”

And, well, that means the kid probably won’t get lost and definitely doesn’t need help getting home, leaving Jason free to mind his own business. 

“Well fuck off,” He says, sitting back down with a huff, picking up the Marlboro. “I’m trying to smoke.”

“It’s bad for you,” Tim says, as if Jason asked his fucking opinion. “You could. Um, you could get lung cancer.” 

“Gonna die young anyways.”

Tim makes an affronted noise, and then sits down, decidedly not fucking off like Jason asked him to. “You don’t know that.”

Jason doesn’t respond to that, pointedly lifting his book so it blocks the face Timmy is pressing between the fence, trying and failing to concentrate on the little girl in the story and her lost dog.

He likes Kate DiCamillo a lot. His mother used to read Edward Tulane to him, and they always cried at the sad parts. They cried at all of the parts really, because Edward Tulane was beautiful, and Catherine Todd always enjoyed beautiful things. 

“So, you’re Jason Todd right?” Tim says, still around for some inexplicable reason. “Mr. Wayne’s new son?”

Jason rips his gaze away from the book, narrowing in on Tim’s stupid fucking face. No one, not one person, has called Jason Bruce’s son, even though the adoption papers have gone through a month ago. At most, he’s been called Bruce’s new kid, at worst a street rat and a whore.

Bruce doesn’t correct anyone either, aside from pointed public outings showing how familial and loving their relationship is. It feels fake, it is fake, when the only reason Bruce took him to see Wicked was because he knew Vale would do a fluff piece on it.

“So what if I am?” 

“I just,” Tim stops, falls onto his butt and curls himself into the lotus pose, folding himself in half like a roly poly. Annoying little beetle. “That’s pretty cool, I guess. Mr. Wayne is cool.”

“Not really,” Jason says, and tosses the stick of jerky between the gap, resisting the urge to punch a fist in the air when it thwacks Tim right in the face. “Catch.”

Tim fumbles with it, looking confusedly between the food and Jason, as if he’s never seen processed dried meat logs before.  

Well. Maybe he hasn’t. Do rich people even eat Slim Jims?

“I’m on a low sodium diet,” Tim says, as if any of those words make sense coming out of a mouth that’s missing more than a few teeth. “Thank you for the offer, though.”

“Eat it, dipshit,” Jason snaps. Low sodium diet. Jason would have killed for a Slim Jim when he was this kid’s age, not politely refused it. 

What bullshit.

“Or what?” Tim says, probably just to be contrary. There’s no brattiness on his face, just genuine curiosity. 

“Or I’ll shove that camera up your ass,” He replies, making no mention of how, exactly, he’ll get the camera or get close enough to Tim to perform such an action.

Wisely, Tim doesn’t question this, peeling away the wrapper with clumsy baby hands and nibbling a little on the edge.

His face wrinkles up, and it’s kind of adorable, which is the only reason why Jason doesn’t throw something else at him when he spits out the chunk of beef and pushes the stick away from him.

“I don’t like it,” He says plaintively, lifting his sleeve and licking that, as if to get the taste or texture off his tongue.

“Of course you don’t,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. “Here, toss it back. I’ll finish it.”

“That’s gross.” Despite his revulsion, Tim does throw the jerky stick back to Jason, with far less precision. “You shouldn’t eat after people.”

“You shouldn’t stalk people and take weird pictures of them.”

Jason takes a pointed bite of the jerky, right where Tim did, chews and swallows despite his lack of appetite. The best thing about the manor is the food, and how it never runs out, no matter how much Jason takes from the kitchens.

“What school are you going to?” Tim asks, apropos of nothing, apparently recovered from his harrowing adventure with the high sodium beef jerky.

“Gotham Academy,” Jason says, without really thinking about it. That’s the sort of information Bruce wants to keep hush, so Jason’s school isn’t bombarded by media presence, but he doubts Tim’s going to go yapping on the nightly news about their small conversation.

“Oh,” Tim looks distinctly disappointed. “I go to Bristol Prep. It has a better business program.”

“GA’s reading scores fucking rock,” Jason snaps back. He’d picked out Gotham Academy, thank you very much, and he did so with informed consent and after a thorough vetting of all other candidates. Gotham Academy feeds into the fuckin’ Ivy Leagues, and sure, Bristol Prep does too, but Bristol Prep was only for Bristol trust fund babies. Anyone could go to GA if they applied for a scholarship.

The fact that it’s Wayne funded and Dick’s alumnus didn’t have any bearing on his decision, of course. 

“I know,” Tim says, and he sounds… sad. “Their humanities extracurriculars have won awards. But mom and dad want me to focus on mathematics and STEM, so…”

“Oh,” Jason says. Yeah, Timmy does look like the kind of geek that would fit in with all the artsy types at GA. 

“I like STEM,” Tim says decisively, no longer looking Jason in the eyes. “Chemistry is my favorite.”

Well… Jason’s not going to touch that with a ten foot pole. Rich people's problems are so petty they’re annoying, and he didn’t come here to listen to a kid whine about having to go to an elite school that didn’t specialize in what he wanted it to.

Jason is grateful enough that he’s getting to go to school. Bruce could drop him off in front of Park Row Public and he’d holler for joy.

Well, in between dodging the smuggled weapons and the crazy tweakers who spent lunch playing Stab in the bathroom.

“Do you live with Dick Grayson?” Tim says, switching subjects like a skipping cassette, jumping to the middle of a conversation Jason doesn’t remember having.

“Not really,” Jason says slowly, unnerved by the way Tim’s face falls. What did he have some fanboy crush on Dickiebird? If that’s why he’s hanging around the Wayne Estate with a camera, Jason’s going to have to nip that shit in the bud.

Anyways, Dick is hardly around, firmly entrenched in his seventeenth year rebellion, moving in with his friends and blocking Bruce’s number. Kind of funny, really. He’s not an ass to Jason, at any rate, which makes him cool, and he doesn’t mind when Jason uses his old stuff.

So… Dick is. Dick is someone Jason wouldn’t mind protecting. Even if it’s only from little fanboy dorks and their nerdy ass cameras.

“What do you know about Dickface anyways?”

“I met him at a gala once,” Tim says, still with that awed smile on his face. “He showed me how to juggle. He’s so cool.”

Jason sighs. The only downside to having a people pleaser for a brother, is that people are generally pleased with him, meaning that Jason looks even more undesirable in comparison.

“He’s alright.”

Tim shifts, clearly discouraged by Jason’s lack of enthusiasm. Then he does that thing again, changing the subject with no sequitur, jumping to whatever makes him less uncomfortable to talk about.

“What are you reading?”

“A book,” Jason deadpans, lifting the hardcover so Tim can read it himself. “You read DiCamillo?”

Tim hesitates, and shakes his head once.

“Not even Edward Tulane?”

“I like watching national geographic,” Tim says, as if this is any excuse at all. 

“What a loser,” Jason grumbles, pushing up off the ground and getting to his feet, swaggering over to where Tim sits in front of the fence. And they call him uncultured. “Here. take this and fuck off.”

Tim blinks up at him owlishly, mouth open in a perfect o, showing off his missing front teeth. “Your book?”

“You’re gonna bring it back,” Jason commands. “In a week, you little nerd. Pristine condition, or I’ll strangle you through the fence.”

“What?”

Jason crouches in front of the boy, sticks his arm through the gap and pokes at the cover. “Read it. Bring it back. It’s not rocket science. Same time in a week?”

Tim nods, head full of hair bobbing with him. The sun washes it out, but with Jason’s shadow engulfing him, it really does look black.

“See you whenever then,” Jason mutters, kicking the fence for good measure, and to jolt Tim into moving. 

The boy scrambles to his feet, still nodding, and clutching the book and camera to his chest like they’re the most precious things he owns. “Um. See you later, Jason.”

Jason watches him go, the small head disappearing from view long before the crunch of his footsteps fades from earshot, and then he scoops up his cigs and heads back to the manor, one book lighter than when he came.

“Is Bruce nice?” Tim asks on their sixth visit, with a look in his eye so haunted that, for a moment, Jason forgets where he is.

He’s not basking in the heat, wearing shorts that fit and a shirt that covers the cigarette burns on his biceps. He’s not underneath a willow tree, talking to the neighbor kid who he lends books to sometimes.

No, for an agonizing moment, Jason is back in his millionth foster home, lying awake on a mat on the floor, the press of six other bodies, boys and girls, old and young, making him claustrophobic. He’s listening to a new kid— really, new, if they’re still asking these questions— listening to a kid whimper at night. Listening to their errant hopes that maybe, just maybe this home won’t be so bad. Maybe the food will be free and the punishment sparing. Maybe Gotham will see fit to shine down some of her rare mercy on them for a change.

But Jason’s not there anymore. Hasn’t been in a home since he was nine, and certainly hasn’t been anywhere near stupid kids who ask those kind of questions.

It isn’t even a sensible question for Tim to be asking. Is Bruce nice ? Why does he care? What does it matter to him, privileged little neighbor boy that he is, if Bruce Wayne is nice or not. 

“He’s fine,” Jason says, trying not to tense up. “It’s whatever. Why’re you asking?”

“No reason.” Tim doesn’t look at him, even though they’re both pressed right up against the fence. He passes Jason a caramel, and changes the subject, and Jason lets him because he hasn’t figured out how not to.

Aside from the books— they’re on Maze Runner now, and Tim likes it a lot better than Because of Winn Dixie — Tim’s started to bring food too. Better food than what Jason brings, according to him, though Jason thinks it’s all pretty lame. He brought rice cakes once, and Jason laughed at him until he went home.

He felt bad about that, though, so when Tim showed up today with caramels he said not a word, even though it’s totally a grandma candy. 

“I heard Dick is back in town,” Tim says, fiddling with his camera, lifting it and pointing it at nothing before putting it down again.

“Yeah.” It made the papers, but really, Dick could fart and someone would find it noteworthy enough to document.

“I kind of thought you weren’t going to come,” Tim admits. “He seems cooler to hang out with.”

“Dick is too busy screaming at Bruce to give me the time of day,” He grumbles, realizing belatedly what he’s said and wincing. “I mean. He’s cool, but we don’t really hang like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, and the look of sympathy on his face grates against Jason’s nerves. 

“Don’t fucking say that, you twerp. The hell are you taking pictures of, anyway?”

“There’s a bird,” Tim points on his side of the fence, past the point where Jason can see. “It keeps hopping around. I want a shot of it.”

Jason sticks his arm into the gap between the fences, grabs one of the candies out of Tim’s lap, and unwraps it. The caramel melts on his mouth, an old fashioned taste that’s slightly nostalgic.

It really is grandma candy.

“Happy birthday, by the way,” Tim says, putting the camera up again. He makes a slightly frustrated noise, but snaps a picture anyways.

Jason’s been around Tim long enough that he doesn’t flinch at the noise, bad memories written over with the lazy curiosity that is Tim’s photography habit. He wishes he could see one of the boy’s pictures, but it feels invasive to ask.

“Want to come to the party?” He asks, though there will be no party. Alfred is making a cake and Bruce will take him skating, but none of Jason’s friends are the kind of people Bruce would let in the manor.

And anyways, he sort of lost them all. Street bonds stay on the street. Once you move on, that’s it. 

Tim hesitates for a long time, genuinely considering the question, and Jason wonders what he’ll do if he says yes. He’s exactly the sort of kid Bruce wouldn’t mind Jason hanging around, and Jason’s pretty sure no one will mind if he invites Tim to roller skate. 

“My parents are in town,” Tim says eventually. “I can’t, sorry.”

“It’s whatever.”

It really is. He wouldn’t mind at all if Tim never met the rest of his… family. He’s not embarrassed of Bruce, per se, but he knows Tim would much rather spend time with him or Dick, that his interest in Jason is largely because of Bruce and Dick.

Not a meeting goes by where Tim doesn’t mention them. If he’s not fawning over Bruce’s newest accomplishments through Wayne tech, he’s admiring how kind Dick is, and how talented, and, oh Jason, isn’t it so cool that he used to be in a circus?

So yeah. Jason’s cool with keeping Tim to himself.

“Where were they?” Jason asks, crunching into the hard candy. “Your parents, I mean.”

“Peru.” Tim takes another picture, gasping a little and then turning his face toward the fence, so Jason gets more than just a side profile. 

Tim is practically beaming. “I got it!”

“Show me,” Jason demands, licking his sticky fingers and leaning in interestedly. Tim passes the camera through, and Jason examines the picture.

It’s… a bird. In the grass. Kind of in the middle of a hop, and in really clear resolution for hands as unsteady as Tim’s, but it’s just a bird.

Jason thought photography was supposed to be a lot less mundane. 

“I like it,” He says anyway, because Tim seems awfully proud about a picture of a bird. “Cool Tim.”

“Really?”

“Hell yeah, really. Coolest little Blue Jay I’ve ever seen.”

Tim gives him a flat look. “That’s a Bluebird, Jason.”

“The fuck am I supposed to know about birds?” Jason says, amused by Tim's constipated expression. It’s really easy to rile the kid up, he’s found. 

He gives the camera back before Tim can start twitching, a phenomena he’s witnessed more than once. With how possessive he is about it, Jason’s pretty sure Tim’s fastened himself to the thing with an umbilical cord.

 “Thanks,” he murmurs, cradling the camera in his lap, offering Jason another caramel.

“How’d you like Wringer?” Jason asks. That’s the whole reason they’re here, after all, so Tim could hand over his last book and take a new one. 

“I didn’t get it,” Tim grumbles, a common enough refrain when reading Jerry Spinelli. He didn’t really like Star Girl either, though both managed to engage Jason for weeks, occupying his thoughts for hours at a time. “Everyone was really mean. Why did they kill all the pigeons?”

“Money,” Jason says, then, more, “Because they were told to. Because everyone else was doing it.”

“I still don’t get it,” Tim pokes at the book in his lap, the new one.

“You’ll like this one better,” Jason promises. “Just don’t be a wuss. There’s monsters.”

Tim gives him another flat look. “We live in Gotham.”

Well, he’s got a point there. Grievers , as scary as they are, couldn’t hold a candle to the horrors that lurk in the shadows of real life.

Tim shows up with a black eye, and Jason doesn’t talk about it.

His parents are in town, he says. Back from Paris. They aren't happy, he says. Their funding was cut for one of their digs, they had to give up halfway through. She’s stressed, he’s angry. Tim’s there.

Jason doesn’t talk about it, because Jason’s been there too.

Today, Tim’s more of a broken record than a skipping cassette, stammering his way through greetings, unfocused, moving through static.

Jason shares his cosmic brownies he got from the dollar store, they talk about Ella Enchanted. 

“I really liked it,” Tim says, picking off the sprinkles, camera sitting on the ground beside him. “I really liked it.”

“You should read Princess Bride,” Jason reaches past the fence, and picks up the camera.

He aims the sights at Tim, getting some of the fence in the side of the shot, only able to see half his face, the tilted confusion he aims at Jason, and the massive purple bruise above his eye.

Jason takes a picture, and then hands the camera to Tim. “Want to take one of me?”

“Are you sure?” Tim asks, with just enough gravity that Jason worries. “You got mad last time.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “We were strangers. You were a creepy peeping Tim. It’s different now.”

“Kind of,” Tim agrees. “You don’t smoke anymore.”

“Not with you.” He still does sometimes, when he’s sitting with that gargoyle that Catherine always used to point out, the one she’d grin at no matter what else was happening, because it’s just so funny looking. “Wouldn’t want Timberly getting second-hand lung cancer.”

Jason’s still talking, mouth open, a silly grin on his face, when Tim takes the picture. The shutter and the lens make him cringe, but he’s present enough that it doesn’t jar him out of the moment like it might have just a few short months ago.

“Can I see?”

“No.” Tim shakes his head, though Jason hasn’t pressed. “No.”

Jason’s been on the other side. He knows what it’s like to say no just for the sake of it, just for the control, just so he can say he didn’t want it when it’s forced on him.

Jason doesn’t try to take that control. He nods, hands Tim another brownie just so he can watch the boy pick out the sprinkles.

“What’s Princess Bride about?”

Jason grins. “It’s a love story.”

“Gross.”

“Knew you’d say that, you fucking dweeb. It’s got pirates, is that good enough for you?”

Tim considers this, nodding eventually, scuffing his shoes on the ground. “Hey, Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“How do you know if someone loves you?”

They stick around, Jason doesn’t say, because that would be pointed, even for him. They don’t hurt you, but that would be wrong. Jason’s dad loved him, really he did, but that hurt all the time.

“I don’t know.” 

“How do you know if you love someone else?”

“Jeez, kid, I don’t know. You just do. Don’t you? Don’t you love your mom and dad and shit? It’s like that.”

Tim frowns at him, like Jason’s being weird, like he should be making more sense when Tim’s the one who’s asking strange questions and forcing him to ponder the things he wanted to leave in books.

“Do you love Bruce?”

Jason stares at him, and tries to come up with a response. Tim’s side is dimmer, more densely populated with trees. His face is cast in shadows, whereas Jason has the sun on his back.

Does he love Bruce ?

Yes, of course the answer is yes. He’s thought it, whenever the man shows up for his plays. He’s meant it, whenever he calls Bruce Dad or lets the man fold him into a hug.

Has he said it? Has he forced the words past his lips and made them a vulnerable reality?

Does Bruce know that he loves him?

“Yes,” he grits out. “Of course I do. He’s my dad, Tim.”

All he gets is another nod, and a hum. Jason wants to reach out, to put his hands on those shoulders and shake, to ask why these things haven’t been explained to Tim.

Why does he have to ask these questions? Shouldn’t he know, the way Jason knows, without having to ask, that Bruce loves him. That his parents loved him, even if it wasn’t always enough.

Tim’s got enough. He’s got the clothes and the swell of baby fat softening his cheeks. He’s got a big house and education. He’s loved, it’s clearly enough. Tim got to keep his innocence.

“I’m leaving,” Jason says abruptly. “See you next week.”

Neither of them move.

“You just know, Tim,” He says, sighing. “They tell you, but you know it. All the time.”

“Do.” Tim exhales slowly, still rocking. “Do you want the rest of my brownie?”

Jason takes it, and eats after the boy. Tim’s long since gotten used to Jason refusing to let food go to waste, germs or no. 

He wants to ask about the bruise, but that would get them nowhere except for excuses and deflections. Jason’s played both sides of that game, and it’s a stressful tedious one that doesn’t bear repeating. He wants to tell Tim that sometimes love hurts, that it’s better to be hurt and full than in foster care. That CPP failed him and he can never trust it, so he definitely won’t let it happen to Tim.

That maybe, if this weren’t Gotham, Tim’s story could end in a happy foster placement, but this is the cesspit and none of them are going to make it out unscathed. 

“School starts next week,” Jason says instead, and takes a leap. “Do you need concealer?”

“I already have some,” Tim says, and they stop talking about it.