Chapter Text
Tim doesn’t set out to become a villain, or even villain-adjacent. That idea is the furthest thing from his mind as he creeps through alleyways, clambers up fire escapes, and races across rooftops in pursuit of one breathless glimpse of his heroes. Just as he’s getting in position to intercept the vigilantes’ probable route for tonight, his foot slips on an icy fire escape and he barely manages to hold on to his brand-new camera with small fingers made clumsy by the bitter cold.
“No,” he whispers, terrified he’ll lose his tenuous grip and the camera will shatter on the cobblestones below, not even a week after he received it. His parents would not appreciate the knowledge that he treated their birthday gift so cavalierly—that is, if they think to ask about it later at all.
Considering the fact that the package arrived in January with a scribbled note wishing him a happy eighth birthday and his ninth birthday was in July, it seems unlikely.
His heart races as he crouches down and clutches the precious camera to his chest, breath escaping in little puffs that cloud the crisp air. It’s so cold the exposed skin of his face and hands stopped stinging a while ago and just feels numb now. His jacket, never designed to withstand a harsh Gotham winter, does little to keep out the sharp wind, which keeps gusting up before dying down again.
He doesn’t care. He’s finally going to be able to take pictures of Batman and Robin as they protect the city. Following them and trying to figure out their patrol routes over the past few months has been more thrilling than anything he’s ever experienced, with the possible exception of that electrifying moment when he saw Robin do a quadruple flip on the news and realized the boy wonder’s true identity. If he can just get some good pictures of them, maybe he can stretch that feeling of excitement and happiness out a little longer.
Drake Manor is so cold and empty. Maybe some pictures of the vigilantes—perhaps capturing the vivid, bright joy that is Robin, and the valiant nobility of Batman—can change that, at least for a while.
Tim sighs, closing his eyes and remembering the last time his parents were home. It’s been so long, a trip that was supposed to take seven weeks having stretched to seven months now and still counting. The last night before they left, his parents took him to a gala and they posed on the steps for the photographers gathered there to snap Gotham’s glitterati.
He knows his parents’ smiles and affectionate gestures were for the cameras, not for him, but that doesn’t change the sense of yearning that twists his heart and makes his eyes sting as his throat thickens. Something small and cold and starved surges up within him, craving something he doesn’t know how to name.
Tim wants to freeze those moments and hold them in his heart so he can always remember. If he could freeze the feeling of Janet’s warm arms around him, Jack’s approving grin and hand squeezing his shoulder…
He could pretend they loved him.
But those kinds of moments always slip away, fleeting, and leave him colder than ever.
His thoughts scatter as a flicker of movement draws his attention up, where a dark figure cuts a distinctive silhouette as it moves across the cloudy sky. A smaller figure follows just behind, clad in bright colors that seem to bring a little warmth despite tonight’s frigid temperatures.
Shivering in the biting cold, watching Batman and Robin dance through the skies, Tim wonders what makes him so different. Why is his life so barren and cold, when others seem to have so much brightness and warmth?
Tim manages to fumble his camera up and snap a couple of pictures, then watches until they disappear. As a light snow begins to fall, he lingers, hoping they’ll pass by again.
When he realizes he’s starting to lose sensation in his fingers and toes and the cold seems to be seeping into his very core, he finally uncurls his small body from his crouch and rises painfully to his feet. Muscles locked into one position for too long protest the movement, and he feels the unwelcome prickle of pins and needles in limbs that have fallen asleep.
It’s only when he takes the first step down the fire escape and reaches for the handrail that he realizes he has a problem. His hands are so cold it’s difficult to grip effectively, and the steps are still slick and icy. His heart begins to pound as his eyes flick involuntarily to the ground. It’s really far. He’s five stories above the alleyway and the longer he looks down, the farther away it seems and the more precarious the rickety old fire escape he climbed to get here.
He takes a deep, tremulous breath. It’ll be fine. He just needs to take it one step at a time.
By the time he reaches the final flight of stairs, his arms are shaking and he’s panting, little gasps that don’t seem to be enough to get air to his lungs despite how fast his heart insists on beating. He glances down at the ground, so close and welcoming, and speeds up as he descends the last few steps in hopes of getting there just a bit faster.
Of course, that’s when his foot slips out from under him and the force of his fall drags his numb, trembling hand right off of the handrail. As he feels himself falling, he squeezes his eyes closed, miserably anticipating the jarring pain to come.
The sensation of being caught and held in a gentle grip is so unexpected, he doesn’t even register it for a moment. Then his eyes fly open. “What—” He breaks off as he stares, wide-eyed, into the pale, stern face of Mr. Freeze. “Eep,” he manages after a moment.
The initial sensation of shock and fear quickly gives way to curiosity. Mr. Freeze is generally not known to be violent except in self-defense, and hardly ever toward civilians. Tim has never heard of him harming a child. Besides, he doesn’t seem to be in his villain persona right now.
He’s not wearing his heavy-duty cryogenic suit, just slacks and a worn button-down. There’s no helmet trapping a bubble of cold air around his head. He isn’t even wearing his trademark goggles. Tim stares, fascinated. He always heard that Mr. Freeze couldn’t survive without his special suit.
Mr. Freeze’s blue-tinged face, so smooth and expressionless, softens. “Blue eyes,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering on Tim’s face. “Like hers.” He blinks, then frowns, seeming to take in Tim’s trembling form and insufficient jacket. “You should not be out here like this, child. It is far too cold for one who can still walk on a summer’s day and feel the hot wind on his face.” He adjusts his grip and lifts him, cradling him to his chest. “Where do you live? I will return you to your home.”
Mr. Freeze—or should it just be Mr. Fries right now? He’s not committing a crime or even carrying his iconic freeze ray—looks at him expectantly, clearly waiting for him to point out one of the apartment buildings nearby.
Tim shakes his head, still staring at the man’s exposed face. “Where’s your helmet, Mr. Fries? Don’t you need it?” He’s never seen the villain in person before, but based on everything he’s read, he’s certain the cryogenic accident which injured him changed his physiology such that he requires subzero temperatures to survive. He frowns, suddenly concerned. “You need to put it back on, Mister, or you’re going to get hurt!”
“You—” Mr. Fries pauses, brow furrowed and an expression of mild wonder crossing over his stern features. “You’re kind like my Nora, too. You need not worry about me, little one. It is cold enough for me to venture out without my cryogenic suit. Nights such as this are the only time I can feel a breeze upon my skin, and while it is not what I might want, such is the half-life which remains to me.” He frowns. “You, on the other hand, risk hypothermia if you linger here too long.” His face gentles again. “Now tell me, where are your parents?”
The feeling of being held is so comforting, despite the bite of cold coming both from the environment and the man who is holding him. The wind is picking up again, stealing away his last remaining bits of warmth even faster. Tim blinks, feeling suddenly very sleepy. “Brazil, maybe? No, wait, I’m pretty sure they’re in Japan by now.” He yawns.
Mr. Fries frowns, grip tightening marginally. “Stay awake,” he says, voice sharper. “When will they be home? Who is looking after you? Do you even go to school?”
“Another few weeks, maybe, or their trip might get extended again,” Tim mumbles, eyelids going heavy and starting to droop. “And I look after m’self, I’m not a baby. I’m home schooled, but the programs are really easy and I just do all the work online.” His eyes snap open again as he realizes they’re starting to move. “Where are we going? You don’t have to take me home—I can get back on my own.”
Mr. Fries snorts and shakes his head, walking briskly. “I am not going to allow a boy with eyes like Nora’s to freeze to death on the streets of Gotham, or suffer alone because his parents are fools.”
“You… aren’t?” Tim is so confused. It doesn’t help that the rhythmic swaying motion of being carried is making him even sleepier. He must have been out in the cold longer than he thought.
“I have a spare room,” Mr. Fries says, sounding almost like he’s talking to himself. “It’s what she would have wanted—Nora loved children, and we might have had a boy this age by now if not for—” He breaks off, shifting Tim’s weight to one side so he can reach out and unlock a door.
He steps through into what looks like a fairly normal, furnished apartment. There’s a kitchen to the right of a spacious living room, with doors in the back that probably lead to bedrooms. Mr. Fries sets Tim down on the couch and moves to fiddle with a dial on the wall.
It’s just as cold inside as it was outside and Tim shivers, confused and curious but not frightened. “Am I allowed to leave?” He’s not sure exactly what’s happening right now, but if he’s being kidnapped he should probably at least be aware of it.
Mr. Fries pauses and looks down at him, focusing on his eyes and studying him. “Of course, if you wish,” he says at last. “I have no desire to hold you here against your will. Although you are welcome to stay, at least until your parents are home.” He fiddles with the dial some more and, a moment later, warm air begins to waft out of several ventilation panels on the walls. It feels wonderful, heating Tim’s chilled cheeks and spilling welcome warmth into his chilled fingers.
But it’s not supposed to be warm right now—Mr. Fries is still not wearing his suit! His eyes widen and he sits up straight. “Mr. Fries! Please, you don’t have to do that—I’ll go, there’s no need to make it warm in here for me. You’re going to hurt yourself!”
Shaking his head, Mr. Fries opens a door Tim thought was a coat closet and steps inside, emerging a moment later clad in his usual silver and blue suit. He reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a clear, dome-shaped helmet, which he places over his own head. It locks into place with a soft hiss. “I will be quite well, I assure you. The important thing right now is to warm you up.” He tilts his head, regarding him for a long moment, gaze traveling over his flushed cheeks and pink fingers. “I do not believe any permanent damage was done. Although I suspect it has been far too long since you have eaten, considering your situation,” he mutters, moving stiffly into the kitchen.
Tim watches, bemused, as the notorious Mr. Fries putters around in his kitchen, chopping and slicing and moving easily through the motions of cooking something that smells amazing.
It’s weird.
But it’s also strangely nice. When Mr. Fries puts a plate in front of him, piled high with a delicious-looking curry, Tim can’t help but smile. “I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me,” he whispers, reaching for the plate with warmed, pink hands.
Mr. Fries sighs, the sound echoing through the speakers on his suit. “And I cannot recall the last time I had someone to cook for,” he says, with a wistful note in his voice. “I cannot eat this kind of food anymore. For my own sustenance, I generally freeze dry everything prior to consumption. It is… less than pleasant. Tell me, how does it taste? I don’t remember.”
“Wonderful,” Tim says, trying not to shove another forkful in his mouth too fast. His parents may not be around much, but they certainly managed to drill an understanding of proper manners into him.
“I’m glad,” Mr. Fries says, his suit creaking as he settles awkwardly next to Tim on the couch. He retrieves a tablet from the side table and begins tapping away at it using a stylus. Of course—a touch screen wouldn’t work with his gloves, and probably not with his bare hands, either, since electronics don’t tend to do well in the subzero temperatures his unique physiology requires. He probably has to wear his cryogenic suit even in his home most of the time, because extremely low temperatures can cause issues with batteries and electronics.
Maybe Tim should get him a pair of the special gloves his mother wears so she can use touch screens despite her poor circulation. Then he’d at least be able to use touch screens without a stylus if he wanted. Idly, he leans over as he stuffs another bite in his mouth, trying to surreptitiously get a peek at what’s on the screen.
He’s so surprised at what he sees, he stops chewing altogether and just stares. The display Mr. Fries is so studiously tapping through is filled with snowsuits and cold weather gear, all in children’s sizes. As Tim watches, stunned, Mr. Fries selects a blue one that’s so puffy, Tim’s not sure he could even lower his arms with it on.
“Is that for me?” he squeaks, too surprised to be cautious. He usually knows better than to assume anything an adult does is for him. He winces, waiting for Mr. Fries to snap at his presumption.
He doesn’t. Instead, he glances over, a faint smile curving his thin lips. “Of course,” he says. “You will require much more insulating clothing if you intend to continue going outside during the Gotham winter. Besides, with this, I will be able to safely show you my lab. If you’re interested, that is.” He hesitates, looking uncertain.
See the inside of Mr. Fries’ lab? That sounds so cool—ha, literally!—even better than following Batman around. Having a hero is all well and good, but Batman doesn’t know Tim exists, and he’s far too busy to care even if he did know. Mr. Fries is looking at him like he’s important, like he matters, and there’s a loneliness in his eyes that reflects the emptiness Tim has felt all his life.
It’s that, more than anything, that decides him. He’s going to stay. No one deserves to be that lonely, especially someone as kind as Mr. Fries is turning out to be. “That sounds like fun,” he says, already pondering whether or not he can wheedle Mr. Fries into letting him try one of his freeze rays. They make such a cool noise.
Maybe he could help him out in the lab, and in the field, too. Jack Frost has a nice ring to it. Tim tilts his head and leans back, allowing the peaceful calm, good food, and quiet companionship to wash over him as he drifts off to sleep. Dimly, he’s aware of a blanket being laid over him, and a gentle hand brushing his hair back from his forehead. Hands tug the blanket up and tuck it under his chin so he’s surrounded by a cocoon of warmth.
It’s strange.
But it’s also weirdly nice.
No one’s ever tucked him in before. He thinks he likes it.