Chapter Text
Tim propped his chin on his hand, taking a wild stab at casual, and tried to ignore all the looks aimed at their table. Kept his eyes glued to his phone. Tried not to listen as his father berated the server over his chicken being served with the wrong sauce, a real but that’s what it says on the menu sir vs well only a moron would prepare the dish that way sort of dance, loud and rude and in the middle of a crowded restaurant and Tim could just die.
And the thing was. It was nice of his dad to take him on a trip to Atlanta. They’d been at odds lately, for reasons Tim knew for a fact were his own fault, and this was an actual, honest attempt to reach out. A week-long vacation, just the two of them. An opportunity to bond and reconnect.
Tim hadn’t expected the trip to actually happen. He’d resigned himself to that cold, familiar dread, waiting for something else to come up, for his dad to cancel at the last minute; it had seemed too good to be true. But fall break had ticked closer and closer with no change in plans, and Tim was left scrambling to pack the night before, almost giddy with excitement.
They’d made it a road trip, setting out at the crack of dawn. Their breath was foggy in the early morning chill, and they had split an enormous thermos of hot, black coffee between the two of them. It had been intimate and quaint and familial, and had bolstered his mood for the remainder of the morning. His good cheer was catching, apparently, because his dad had forgone his usual complaints to share stories about growing up in Atlanta between sips of coffee, laughing at his own jokes and smiling at Tim’s wry input.
Jack didn’t even comment on the fact that Tim was currently scraping together the itinerary he’d been asked to prepare a week ago, even though he must have noticed. That had been fun too, finding and planning cool stuff for the two of them to do together. And while they hadn’t exactly stuck to his list to the letter (such as the French bistro they currently found themselves in, rather than the little Italian place Tim had selected), it wasn’t about that. Tim knew that wasn’t the point.
He should be grateful. Making scenes in restaurants was just what parents did, right? He’d probably be more used to it if he’d been to more restaurants with parents. Head still ducked, cheeks prickling with embarrassment, he quietly skimmed the Wikipedia page for pickling salt. He was sending a screenshot of a particularly befuddling diagram of Lactobacillus to Dick, just for something to distract himself with, when the server, a plump, friendly teenager with bright eyes and dimples, began to cry.
And that was as far as Tim was willing to stand. “Dad!” He hadn’t said it loudly, exactly, but with the way heads swiveled toward him and locked on, he might as well have shouted. Tim wilted slightly under his dad’s furious gaze, but held his ground. “Dad,” he tried again, “This behavior is entirely unacceptable. I understand that you’re unhappy with the food, but this isn’t accomplishing anything.”
“The only thing I am trying to accomplish,” —Jack somehow said the word as though Tim had simultaneously used it incorrectly and just made it up—“is communicating to this young person here that I have no intention of paying for this meal.” The smile he directed at Tim was brittle. “But if you love it here so much, why don’t you foot the bill?”
Tim knew this dance. He was supposed to act alarmed at the idea, pretend to get flustered and say no. Then his dad would wave it off as just kidding and laugh knowingly with the server at Tim’s expense. Kids these days, so dependent. Guess he still needs his old man for something, right?
Tim hated it. His dad thought it was hilarious.
Logically, Tim knew that playing along might help to de-escalate the situation. But looking at the smug expectancy on his father’s face must have crossed a wire somewhere in Tim’s brain, because what he said was a firm, unamused, “I left my wallet in the car, so I guess it’s going to have to be you.”
Even as the words were leaving his mouth, he knew he'd made a mistake.
Jack's chair clattered to the ground from the force with which he stood. The mocking smile on his face had frozen into something cold and hard.
"Get up," he snarled, curling a forceful hand around Tim's bicep and hauling him out of his seat. He stalked out of the restaurant, Tim stumbling to keep up, wincing at the painful grip.
Jack dragged him all the way into the alley behind the restaurant before letting go. "You think that little display was cute, boy?"
"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking," Tim immediately apologized, throwing his hands up. "I wasn't trying to disrespect you; I answered you truthfully without considering the context of the conversation."
Jack looked somewhat mollified by this apology, which he should, because Tim practically had a doctorate in apologizing to people for stuff that wasn’t his fault. He should start putting it on his resume.
With his dad cooling down, Tim decided to press his luck. "So, this place was a bust. Why don't we just pay and get out of here, go check out the…um, museum or something?" he asked hopefully, but Jack was already shaking his head.
"It's the principle of the matter, Tim,” he stated firmly. “You can't just let people walk all over you." Carefully ignoring the hypocritical irony of that particular lesson, Tim stared at his father. Really looked at him.
"You don't have your wallet either," he said slowly, "do you?"
Immediately, Jack’s face burned beet red. "I...uh…" he trailed off. Unbelievable.
"What's the matter with you?" Tim exploded. "That was insanely inappropriate. You made that poor girl cry over—"
Jack backhanded him across the face. The shock of it, the suddenness of it, prevented Tim from either dodging or reacting like a normal kid would; as it was, he took it like a brick wall.
His dad, shaking out sore fingers, looked almost as surprised as Tim.
And the thing was. As Robin, he was no stranger to physical altercation; he'd taken countless harder hits from exponentially more capable opponents in the past. The ring on his dad’s hand had barely clipped him enough to draw blood.
So why couldn’t he shake it off? And why wasn’t his dad saying anything?
The phone clenched in his fist chirped, breaking the tense silence and making them both jump. Tim glanced down robotically. Dick had responded; he swiped the notification away, looking back towards his father, but not quickly enough. Jack had already seen, and, vying to regain control of the conversation, latched onto the interruption with a particular fervor.
“You want to talk about inappropriate behavior, boy? What about you and that phone of yours?” Tim flinched, cursed himself for not expecting this. Cursed himself for not leaving his phone on the table, unfamiliar city be damned. Jack stepped into his space, crowding him. “Hand it over.” Tim shook his head frantically. Jack sneered down at him. “I paid for it, didn’t I? It doesn’t belong to you; I allow you to have it. Now give it here.” His tone left no room for argument.
Feeling a particular kind of helpless, Tim placed his phone carefully into his father’s outstretched palm. It was all right, he told himself. His phone had two passcodes: one into his civilian cell and one for Robin, so he wasn’t putting anyone’s identities at risk. Still, Tim’s fingers itched and his mind raced, trying to remember if he’d looked up or texted anything that might wind his dad up further, and cursed himself thricefold for not clearing his history more often.
Last time, his father had dug through his recent pages and found how to tell if you like boys? sandwiched between queries and articles for a chemistry paper.
Tim preferred to keep his civilian and vigilante lives as separate as possible, but the fallout from that particular misstep had left him sleeping at the Manor for about three weeks. Luckily, it had been around the time Red Hood had swanned into Gotham, so Bruce had been preoccupied enough with Jason’s theatrics that Tim had gone more-or-less unnoticed.
But this time, Jack didn’t demand the passcode and snidely read aloud whatever dirt he thought would best serve to shame Tim. Instead, shooting him a nasty glance, his dad hefted the phone, like he was going to hurl it down the alleyway and Tim instinctively lunged forward with a shout, because his phone, but he wasn’t fast enough.
The device struck the pavement with a terrible crack.
Tim looked at his dad in askance, desperate for some sort of explanation, but Jack just doubled down. “You spend too much time on that phone as it is,” he said impassively. “I know exactly what kinds of filth teenagers get exposed to on the internet; don’t think I don’t.” He sighed and pinched the skin between his eyebrows, as though warding off a headache. “I planned this trip for us, Tim, because you said you wanted to spend time together. But if you can’t be bothered to look up from your goddamn phone for two seconds of conversation, I don’t know why I bother.” His dad rubbed his sore hand again, muttering a faint curse under his breath. He threw one last furious glare Tim’s way before snapping, “I’m going to the car!”
With that, Jack turned his back to his son and stormed off without another word.
For an idiotic half-second, Tim actually considered following him. Luckily, he immediately recognized this as his father’s attempt to physically remove himself from the situation. A way to give them both time to cool off before continuing the argument.
Tim forced down the fury bubbling inside of him. There was no point in getting mad. It would just make things worse. The phone was smashed. He couldn’t unsmash it by mouthing off. The only thing he could do was get over it.
Maybe, when his dad came back, he’d apologize to Tim.
The demolished slab of sharp plastic went into his pocket. He took a deep breath to ground himself, and another, and another. When he looked up, his dad was nowhere in sight. Probably for the best.
With no other options presenting themselves, Tim wandered back inside, back to his table. When the server approached apprehensively, he waved her off with a smile, and said, “He forgot his wallet. He’s just gone to grab it from the car. Sorry about all the trouble.”
This place was fairly close to the parking garage, which was part of the reason Jack had insisted on it in the first place. It shouldn't take long.
Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Tim was entirely unsurprised when the screen refused to turn on; he dropped it onto the table with a frustrated sigh. Looking past it, he found that his father’s chair had been righted, and the offending meal had been cleared away in their absence. To an uninformed observer, it might appear that Tim was here by himself, and always had been.
Suddenly no longer hungry, Tim pushed his half-finished soup away. He unhooked his camera bag from the back of the seat and clutched it protectively in his lap, finding comfort in the familiar weight. He ran through a few breathing exercises and resolutely did not meet any of the stares.
What must they think of him? His fingers tightened around his camera. Did they see him as a misbehaving child who’d been put in his place?
But wasn’t that what had happened?
Honestly, these uppity tourists probably thought it was funny. He certainly felt like a punchline: Teen on phone argues with dad, they both leave, teen returns minus dad plus a smashed up phone. Like some shitty political cartoon. Didn’t even need a caption. Environmental storytelling, right?
He clenched his eyes shut and focused on breathing.
“Hey, kid?” said a voice way too close to him. He jumped, eyes flying open to see a different employee crouching next to his chair. This one was older, mid twenties, and his expression was so painfully understanding that Tim couldn't hold his gaze for more than a few seconds.
Instead, he glanced at his watch, and discovered it had been almost twenty-five minutes since his dad had left. He shivered.
"I don't have my wallet," Tim whispered, like it was a secret.
"Don't worry about the meal, kid. It's on the house. Do you want anything? A glass of water, maybe? An ice pack?" The man very carefully did not touch him, instead pressing his hands flat against the table, well within Tim's line of sight.
“Don’t need one; it probably won’t bruise,” Tim said absently.
A thought struck him, and he catalogued the man beside him, recontextualizing him with added suspicion. His body language was open and inviting; his face and words, friendly and approachable. His voice was deep, but soothing.
And something about the way he’d spoken…The familiar cadence of the words and tone. Tim had heard that tone before, and had employed it more than a couple of times himself. That, paired with the assumption that Tim was going to be sticking around, set off immediate alarm bells in his head.
He snapped his head up, all business, and ignored his companion in favor of scanning the room with practiced efficiency. And...there.
A balding man with a fancy-looking nametag was huddled near a side door, talking low and fast into a corded phone and throwing surreptitious glances in Tim’s direction. Bingo.
That was Tim’s cue to get out of here.
“Thanks for comping the meal,” Tim told the waiter, sliding the strap of his camera bag securely over his shoulder. “Sorry about the commotion. I really need to be going now.” Whatever they thought was going on...it was just a fight with his dad. He didn't need anyone to get involved.
Before anyone could so much as call out to him, Tim had slipped through the front door of the restaurant and blended seamlessly into a passing crowd.
Tim hung with his group for a little while, watching the streets keenly, but there was no sign of anyone from the restaurant following him or looking for him. No cops, either.
He decided it was safe enough, and doubled back towards the car.
And it.
It was gone.
The car wasn’t there. Jack wasn’t there.
It didn’t necessarily mean anything, of course. But as he stared at that empty block of pavement, fingers of that old, familiar dread crept up his spine.
He didn’t have his wallet. He didn’t have his phone. No cash, no ID, just his stupid camera. His dad wouldn’t—
No. This was just a punishment. It had to be. His dad was back at the hotel, and was making Tim walk back. This was a punishment for mouthing off. That was all. A car roared past, buffeting him with crisp October air, and he shivered in his t-shirt.
Tim didn’t even have his coat.
Tim left the parking garage feeling off, and tried in vain to convince himself that if he headed to the hotel, his dad would be waiting there.
But despite all evidence to the contrary, Tim was a smart boy. He knew better than to take that bet.
Moving stiffly, his usual grace absent, he wandered until his feet carried him to a branch of the public library, one he'd noticed in passing while sightseeing the day before.
He felt numb as he took the steps. Sat down at a computer. Checked his email.
Sitting pretty in his inbox was a receipt from a woman named Marcia, letting him know that the rest of his hotel reservation had been canceled successfully, but there would be a surcharge for checking out after 1pm. It was customary, she assured him.
Tim's head thunked sharply against the desk. His breathing became hoarse and ragged.
That was it, then. His dad had actually abandoned him. In an unfamiliar city. With no phone. No money. No forms of ID. No fucking coat.
Gotham was almost 800 miles away.
On autopilot, Tim snapped the face of his watch open, hooked a nail over the tiny thumb switch that would send an immediate distress signal to Batman, and...hesitated.
Was he really going to call down the Batman, at 3pm, to the middle of downtown Not-Gotham because he needed a ride? Not even as Robin, but as Tim Drake? There'd be so many questions, questions he'd have no idea how to answer.
What would he even say to Bruce when he got here? The very thought of telling him about the way Jack had behaved in that restaurant made Tim's chest burn with shame.
And with what happened to his phone…he squirmed in his seat. Jack wasn't the only one who admonished him for being on his phone too much.
What if Batman laughed at him? Well. He wouldn't laugh, but what if he made some sort of comment? What if he smirked?
"I'd literally rather kill myself," Tim said out loud, garnering a few startled looks from nearby patrons.
A final fear, worse than all the rest put together, stole the breath right out of him.
What if Bruce didn’t come at all?
It was likely. Coming to pick Tim up by car was an almost three day round trip, and the Batplane was incredibly conspicuous. He’d most likely wire Tim the money for an airline ticket and make him come back by himself on a plane full of strangers. It was the logical thing to do. It was the fastest way to get home.
The very thought of it made Tim feel sick.
He didn’t want to wait, he didn’t want to sit around depending on adults and not knowing what was going to happen. He didn’t want to wait for Batman to call him back, let him know what he was allowed to do, only to be digitally handed a fistful of cash and told to deal with it himself. He didn’t want to spend one more moment in this fucking city — and he didn’t have to, Tim realized.
It was like a bubble popped, letting the cloud of anger and helplessness and humiliation dissipate harmlessly into the air. He didn’t have to call Batman at all.
Lost Robin Rule #2 states, in no uncertain terms, to contact Batman if he got into trouble.
Except.
This wasn’t a Robin problem; this was a Tim Drake problem. It was always, always better to keep his two lives separate, he knew. It kept him from getting things mixed up in his head. Who cared about who, and so on.
There were no special rules for if Tim Drake was in trouble.
He didn't need Batman. He could figure this out on his own. He could handle this.
Mind made up, Tim snapped his watchface closed and got to his feet. He snagged a copy of Anna Karenina from a nearby display, and copy-pasted the first two-thirds of Wikipedia's plot summary into a fresh word document.
Just in case anyone came around asking questions.
Thirty minutes before the library was set to close, Tim was almost ready.
He ran through his meagre inventory for the final time. His camera. A half-pack of cinnamon gum. His watch. The schedules and maps he’d printed out. Anna Karenina.
There was one more thing he had, of course: Dick Grayson’s email address. Dick wouldn’t laugh at him for getting his phone broken. If he needed a ride, a short one, Dick would come get him personally. Dick loved Robin. Dick liked Tim. Dick could be trusted to not blab about it to Batman.
Dick,
My trip got cut short, so I’ll be heading back into town a little sooner than expected. Everything’s fine, but I’ll be in Bludhaven sometime in the next couple of days and was wondering if you could give me a ride back to Gotham?
-Tim
P.S. Phone charger broke so I can't text.
That done, Tim gathered his effects, popped a stick of gum into his mouth, and stepped out into the night.