Chapter Text
"Nothing you confess, could make me love you less. I'll stand by you"
Timothy Jason Drake isn't Timothy Jackson Drake anymore.
Or, well, he is and he isn't.
He's never liked Timothy before, thank you very much. So that part is fine. He can go by Tim now without being told he is being improper.
He's not sure how he feels about the Drake part. It's still, you know, legally, his surname, he guesses. Unless they went and changed that. Would they bother making the effort? But he had said it.
Right there, while he slammed the door in his son's face, Jack had told him.
"You're not our son. You're not a Drake. Timothy Jackson Drake is dead to us."
And, after so many days on the streets of Gotham, Tim really could have been dead for all his parents know.
And that is fine. Tim is fine. Really. He doesn't need family. It's not really like he had much of it before. There are things he misses, of course. The way his mother would smile and talk about their trips, teaching Tim about different cultures and histories. How his father would ruffle his hair when Tim brought home straight A's, when Jack Drake had been home to see it. It hurts, but Tim honestly finds that he misses actual, physical, things more than his parents most of the time. A warm bed. Food in the fridge, even if he had to make it himself. Heating. Plumbing. Electricity. Sure, some of the shelters he lands at have those things, but they're never a guarantee now.
He also sorely misses Batman.
Tim had grabbed his camera when he was kicked out. Had grabbed his few personal or prized possessions. His laptop keeps him working, earning some money. He may not be enrolled in school anymore but there are still plenty of people who will pay a decent dollar amount for essays and homework. His phone had been disconnected the day after he had been booted. He had kept it for some of the photographs. Some of the texts from his parents. But soon sold it for money for food. He bought a cheap model with prepaid minutes, just to keep in better contact with his "clients". He is always so careful with his computer and phone. Having them out in the wrong place only brings trouble. The camera even more so. And it took up valuable backpack space. He needs to fit his entire life on his shoulders now and extra weight isn't worth it. It's not like he can even take pictures anymore. Batman's busy hours are late in the night and if Tim wants to get to the shelters before they are full, he can't risk it. There are a few nights, when the places are too packed anyway, that Tim resumes his rooftop romps, but they are too few and far between for the camera to be worth it. He keeps the SD card in a hidden hand-sewn pocket of the bag. He can't part with those. Not ever.
Today is Thanksgiving, which means the shelters are about to have some of the best food of the year. Tim should know. He volunteered enough serving food and donating boxes upon boxes every holiday season. His parents were always either out of the country working or busy with holiday galas and charity events to concern themselves with Gotham's poor - even if some of those events were to raise money for them. An older boy Tim has seen at the nicer youth shelter off of 15th from time to time warned Tim of the mad rush today. The shelters are flooded during dinner time with those that are homeless and others that, while they have a roof over their heads, don't have food in their pantries. Some folks stay away from the shelters because they tend to crack down on crime or drugs or younger kids - Tim's thankful he hasn't been sent off into the system yet, despite a few social workers sniffing around. But they all come out of the woodwork today for the heapings of potatoes and turkey and pie.
Tim is taking the advice and heading there early when it happens.
"Hey! Tommy!"
The guy is at the other end of the alley, but for some reason it sounds like he is addressing Tim. Tim doesn't stop walking though. You never stop walking.
"Jimbo! Jim?" A second voice spouts.
"Hey, Andy - I think it's Tim!" A third man adds.
Tim's foot falters as he takes his next step. They might be a few yards away, but they definitely notice.
"Yeah, Tim! That's right. Hey, Tim! Hold up!"
And it's not like he has a choice, now that a fourth guy has rounded the corner, blocking his exit. Tim turns, gripping his pack's straps and casually backing toward a wall so none of them are behind him.
"Hey," he tries to sound calm but some part of the word squeaks, "what's up?"
"Ricky here," the first guy points to the third, "says he's seen you down at some coffee place on 9th."
"Yeah, so?" Tim swallows, straightening because there is only one reason he goes to the tiny little cafe with the free wi-fi.
"With a laptop," the stranger finishes with a sick sort of sneer. "Now, we figure, a kid who can afford a little caffeine, and a whole ass computer, must have some money."
"I can assure you -"
"Assure me?" He cackles. "Listen to this kid. Yeah, he's got money. No way you from around here Richie Rich."
"Please," Tim tries, "just leave me alone."
"Yeah, sure," he pats Tim's arm, his eyes shining just a little brighter at how it makes Tim flinch. "We'll leave you alone. Soon as you hand over the laptop and any other money you got on you."
"I don't -"
"Are you lying to us?" The pat on his arm turns to a push and Tim feels himself collide with the wall behind him. "Huh? You wouldn't lie to us, right?"
"I - I can give you some cash," Tim stammers, reaching into his pockets, "but I need the computer."
Not to mention the photos that are saved on there. The only identity-revealing shots are still securely stored on the SD card, but still. He isn't going to just give up the one thing keeping him fed out here. And anything, even a small thing, that could somehow, even a little bit, hurt Batman. Not to mention that these guys don't seem like they're just going to let Tim sort through his bag before they take it off of him. So that's goodbye to the SD card too. Not that these idiots could crack the encryption. But again, Tim won't risk Batman for anything. And he won't risk losing the only piece he has left from that part of his life.
"I don't think this is a negotiation."
The first guy still has Tim pushed up against the wall but he clocks it when Ricky lifts an arm. Tim drops down, slipping out of Andy's hold and ducking Ricky's swing. He is idly wondering if all of their names end in "y" as he kicks out his leg, using Ricky's momentum against him. The guy goes down face first onto the concrete. Tim scrambles between legs and feet but is hauled up from behind by Number 4. Tim whirls wildly, the guy forced to come along for the ride as Number 4's side slams into the wall. Andy lunges for him and Tim drops again, ducking as Andy flails over Tim's bent back, falling onto the ground on Tim's other side. He's about to laugh when a knee connects with his nose and Tim feels something squish and his whole body bucks backward. A meaty set of knuckles knocks into his jaw and Tim topples over. His face is shoved into the gravel by several sets of hands. They're yanking off his backpack and Tim is too dazed to do anything about it as a foot kicks out against his stomach and he loses air for a moment.
"Hey assholes!"
A new voice sounds from somewhere nearby and Tim's head uselessly echoes "A New Challenger Approaches" in a deep video game announcer voice. Thanks, random internal monologue. Super helpful.
Tim squints through a haze of pain just in time to see a blurry flash of something round and green go soaring down the alley, and straight into Andy's face.
"What the -"
The man's words are muffled by the sudden fist springing out of seemingly nowhere because there is another new person who apparently just apparated into the middle of the alley. There is a flurry of movement, a lot of grunting and groaning, and then the footfalls from four men running and stumbling their way out of there.
"Don't chase them!" The next new voice is firm, but not unkind - and maybe a little exasperated, like he is used to saying things like this to the other person.
"What? They deserve it!" This voice is younger, but older than Tim, and very angry.
"I think he needs us more." Older voice is soft now.
Someone needs something? Needs help maybe? Tim should get up and help. Tim should -
"Hey," Voice #2, soft but still strong, "are you okay?"
Hands find his shoulders and move to help Tim sit up but Tim isn't processing things great just yet, hold please, so he sort of scurries backward on his sore hands until he crashes up against the wall, nowhere left to go.
"Kid, hey, we're not going to hurt you. We promise."
And, whoa, now that Tim's brain is buzzing a little less, that Voice #2 sounds suspiciously familiar. His vision is still a little wonky though and there might be something sticky in his eyes.
"N-Nightwing?"
There's a sudden tension in the air. Tim, well, Tim still can't see, but he can definitely feel it. Maybe Tim is wrong. But he's heard that voice so many times before. As Nightwing. As Robin. As Dick Grayson. As the youngest Flying Grayson all the way back there at the circus, at the start of it all. He hears that voice most in his dreams. And nightmares.
"Nightwing?" Tim tries again, because maybe he had been too quiet because his throat is pretty thick with something wet. "I can't see. I can't see."
He's trying really hard not to panic because it's not the coolest way to meet, or well, re-meet, your hero.
"You're going to be okay," Nightwing says finally, his voice a little tight but still so very kind.
"What can I do?" The first voice is quiet, controlled, and -
Robin. It's Robin.
Tim doesn't say that aloud this time because they didn't seem to like it when he said Nightwing's name before. Maybe because -
Shit.
Tim remembers. They had only been blurs. Shapes and colors as his vision went all wishy washy. But those shapes and colors weren't black and blue or green and red. They were just sort of blue and beige and white and - regular clothing colored. Not vigilante outfit colored.
Dick Grayson is kneeling in front of him. And Tim called him Nightwing.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
"Who are you?" Tim goes with, letting them figure out how they want to play this.
He'll roll with whatever story they try to spin. It's his stupid fault he almost outed them anyway.
"This is Jason," Nightwing answers smoothly, "he saw what was happening and came and got me."
Came and got Nightwing? In the middle of the day? That's a little thin even for them. Are they going to pretend he is concussed, which, Tim really thinks he might be anyway. Or - got it.
Tim reaches up, rubbing one eye, clearing the image just enough to confirm his suspicions, despite Nightwing's protests to "stop" and "be careful". Tim isn't sure whether he is stalling, wanting to keep Tim blind until he can disappear into the dark of the alley, or is actually concerned. Either way, it's done now and Dick Grayson is sat before him, all sympathetic eyes and furrowed brow.
"Wait - you're not -" Tim lets the pain and confusion sell the lie. "I - I'm sorry. I thought - you sounded like - my head feels fuzzy."
"I bet," Dick gives a little grin, and maybe his shoulders relax just a bit. "Do you think you can stand?"
Tim wiggles his feet and legs a little, testing them. He hears Jason laugh lightly as he nods.
"Can I help?" Dick extends his arms toward him, slower this time, and Tim reaches up, still a bit blindly, for the helping hands.
Jason had apparently grabbed a crate from somewhere else in the alley and overturns it nearby as Dick helps Tim sit down on it. Dick's fingers are gentle on his face but it still makes pain shoot through his head and Tim yelps.
"Sorry," Dick makes a sympathetic face, "yeah, that feels broken."
Tim just hums because it's really all he can do right now. This is all way too much.
"Can I clean up your face?" Jason's voice is closer now and it sounds a lot nicer than when he was wanting to chase after those guys.
Tim nods and something wet and cold wipes at his eyes. There is blood and gravel and dirt and when it's all gone Tim can blink and finally really see the two faces in front of him without all the red or blurs. Tim glances down and watches as Jason uses a wet piece of fabric to clean up the rest of the blood from his nose. It's still giving a good sluggish flow, though, and Jason instructs Tim to hold the fabric there. Wait, not fabric. This is a sweatshirt. Tim looks over to where Jason is backing up now, sporting an open thin jacket over a white tank top.
"You - your shirt?" Tim mumbles against the sweatshirt, mortified.
Jason just shrugs.
"What's your name?" Dick asks, his smile now spreading across the lower half of his face and Tim just wants so badly to have that smile be for him.
"Tim."
Dick cocks his head to one side and Tim wonders if he can guess what the oldest Wayne kid is thinking. Dick's smart. Nightwing is trained in remembering people, faces. But his eyes are calculating something, like they're trying to see if it's risky to ask Tim if they know each other after Tim has just accused him of being his alter ego. Tim decides to spare him the headache. Tim's already got one anyway.
"We've met."
Dick's eyes go a tiny bit wide and Tim hurries to finish.
"When I was little," Tim finishes, frowning, "at the circus."
It's not a great memory to bring up, but it keeps Dick from trying to navigate a minefield so maybe it's worth it. When Dick frowns too, Tim worries it isn't.
"You were there," Dick breathes, "that - that night."
Tim bows his head. In all of his fantasies about meeting Dick again, this wasn't anywhere near what he had in mind.
"I'm sorry."
"It's," Dick starts, stops, swallows, "it's okay." And then he is smiling again, even if it doesn't light up as bright as before. "It's nice to meet you again, Tim."
"It's nice to meet you at all," Jason playfully shoves his brother against the shoulder to scoot in toward Tim but then turns serious. "Tim, do you have any parents - around?" He's uneasy, shuffling, like he knows the answer already.
Tim shakes his head. This isn't a lie. Because he's not a Drake anymore. Jack had said so.
"Is anyone," Jason bites his lip, "taking care of you?"
"I take care of myself," Tim straightens.
"I know you do," Jason nods, "those guys were banged up good before we got here. I just mean, do you, you know, have anyone watching your back?"
Tim shakes his head, shrugging, because he's never needed anyone to before today.
"Do you have somewhere you're living?" Dick asks next.
Tim glances from his discarded backpack across the alley to the street, gesturing vaguely around them.
"How old are you?" Dick's smile falters.
Tim looks at his bag again, fidgeting.
"Hey," Jason holds up his hands, "we're not going to turn you in or anything."
Dick raises an eyebrow as if to contradict.
"11." Tim says after a long moment.
"Jay," Dick turns to his brother, "is Leslie in today?"
Jason nods.
"Okay, Tim," Dick looks back at him, "how about we head over to visit a friend of ours. She's a doctor and can fix your nose and probably give you something to make it hurt less."
"A... doctor?" Tim asks, through a poorly hidden hitch in his breath.
No, no, no.
A doctor means questions. And calls to the police or protective services.
“I don’t - I don’t need a hospital,” Tim blurts. Too fast. Too sharp.
“It’s not a hospital,” Jason says immediately, hands up, voice softer than before. “It’s a clinic. Like… a basement with bandaids.”
“Yeah,” Dick nods. “Her name’s Leslie. She’s great. Low-key. You’ll like her.”
"I'm fine," he insists.
“You’re not fine,” Dick replies, but not unkindly.
Jason leans forward and Tim just barely stops himself from shrinking away.
"She ain't gonna ask you anything you don't wanna answer."
Tim's eyes flash up to meet Jason's.
How does he know? Are they already figuring him out? They have been trained by the World's Greatest Detective after all -
"That's right," Dick adds. "No forms. No ID. No questions about anything except what hurts and where."
"But they have, like, an oath or something, right?" Tim flounders. "Like a legal obligation -"
"Doc Thompkins patches up weird kids from alleys and mobsters. She doesn't care about legal obligation." Jason scoffs.
Tim is shaking and he grinds his teeth, wishing he could just stop his body from doing that, please.
"We're not just gonna hand you over to anybody." Jason continues. "We just want your face to stop leaking."
Tim huffs a tiny, accidental laugh.
"...okay."
But then he remembers:
Tim stands suddenly, pulling the fabric away from his nose as the bleeding has all but stopped. The world gives a little whoosh as he starts to move.
"I'll be late."
"Late for what?" Jason huffs.
"It's Thanksgiving. This kid said that you have to get there early to get any of the good food."
"Nah," Jason shrugs, confident in his answer, "you'll be good for awhile. People suddenly remember there's poor people whenever there's a holiday so there's always tons. You just going to get a meal or were you going to the food bank too?"
Oh yeah. Jason Todd grew up on these streets. He knows them better than Tim.
"Both," Tim replies, "I mean, I don't have room, for much, from the food bank, but I figured a couple cans?"
"Well," Jason struts over to a box near the mouth of the alley that Tim hadn't noticed, "what do you like?"
Jason is grinning and waving his hands at the box like a magician. Tim shuffles toward it and suddenly the green flashing object that hit Andy in the face makes sense. The box is filled to the brim with canned goods, fresh fruits and vegetables, granola bars, snacks, and more.
"We were taking some stuff down to the shelters when I saw those guys follow you down here." Jason explains. "Could've handled them myself, but I didn't want Dickie here to get scared I'd wandered off and went back to my glamorous life on the streets."
Dick rolls his eyes but doesn't stop smiling at his brother.
"I also could've handled bringing all this stuff to the shelter myself." Jason continues. "I think Alfred just wanted you out of the house and far, far, away from the kitchen." Jason kicks the box. "How about a deal, Tim? You let us take you where you can get your nose fixed up so it stops making that little squishing sound every time you breath, and you can take whatever you want from the boxes we have filling up Dick's car."
"She won't - call - someone - on me?" Tim side-eyes the snacks.
Jason makes a little cross motion above his heart and winks.
"I'll drop off this box at the shelter down the block and go get the car," Dick hefts the box into one arm, gives a little half-wave, half-salute, and then bounds down the alley and out of sight.
Tim uses the time to retrieve his backpack, checking the contents. He has to go back to the crate to sit while he inspects it though because his head is feeling a little too heavy. He hears Jason whistle low as he plops back down.
"No wonder they pegged you," he sighs. "What do you have a laptop out here for?"
"It's everything I have," Tim finishes pulling it out, a piece hanging loosely and then falling off, "had."
The screen is smashed and it's coming apart in pieces here and there and Tim thinks he might be breaking too.
"My life," Tim blinks down at the device, "I kept it all, here, before. So they couldn't - and I use it, out here," he swallows, "I do homework and stuff for money. I don't want to steal or do, you know, other stuff. I know, it's stupid. It's not right either, but it feels less not right. Writing an essay doesn't take away from someone else. And maybe the kid really needs help. Maybe they're really busy or they're parents put a ton of pressure on them to get good grades so they buy them to make their mom and dad happy." He sighs and drops the pieces back in the back. "Guess it wouldn't've survived winter anyway being out the cold."
Jason doesn't say anything for awhile. He just sort of stands there and listens. Really listens. Like he is looking at Tim and paying attention and making these faces like he actually cares about what Tim is saying.
"How long have you been out here, Timmy?" Jason leans against the wall. "Be honest, 'cause I was out here a long time and will know if you're lying."
Tim kicks at some loose gravel on the ground. There are little red flecks in it and Tim belatedly realizes that it's the spot where his face was smashed in.
"Not long," he mutters, head still down.
"Runaway?"
Tim turns away, shaking his head and scooting sideways on the makeshift box chair. Jason pushes off the wall and moves until he's back in front of the boy. When Tim twists again, Jason follows. It's like they're doing this little dance and Jason doesn't stop until Tim finally does.
"This one's really important, okay?" Jason ducks down to look into Tim's lowered eyes. "Are you in any trouble, Tim? Not just 'living on the streets at 11 fucking years old' trouble, either. Besides those assholes - is someone trying to hurt you?"
Someone already did.
Tim meets Jason's gaze.
"No."
"I'm not going to ask you why you're out here, kid," Jason nods. "That's your business and you don't know me or Dick to trust us."
Not true. Tim trusts Jason Todd and Dick Grayson with his life. Just not with, the other stuff.
"But," Jason continues, "if you want to tell me what got you here, or you just want to talk about anything, you can, with me. Dick too. He's an annoying ray of sunshine that won't ever shut up most of the time, but he is actually a good listener. I'd know."
Tim hums again. Robin wants to know about him. Wants to listen to him.
"Uh, thanks."
The two share the silence for some time until Tim goes back to kicking bloody gravel and Jason starts stretching and pacing, most likely trying to shake off the leftover adrenaline from the brief brawl.
"I got one word for you, TimTam," Jason finally speaks again, "newspapers."
Tim pauses his pursuit to dig himself a hole deep enough to bury himself in long enough to squint at the older boy.
"Stuff it in your clothes to keep warm, use it for toilet paper, shelter, blankets, making a fire, bunch a few up for a pillow - easy. And they're always in trash cans. Less now than they used to be 'cause everyone has their phones for news, but, magazines and stuff can work too."
"I like Gotham Gazette," Tim risks a small smile. "It has a lot of ads."
"Better padding," Jason nods with an approving grin, "fast learner."
"I used to volunteer," Tim starts to explain, "at shelters and stuff a lot. We had a lot so I just figured," he shrugs and trails off. "I can't go to those places, though. I tried. I got recognized. They thought I still had - they wanted - but I got away that time. Ran. I stay over here now."
"Smart," Jason compliments, but the grin is gone. "A couple of those shits from before were bleeding good before we got here. Where'd you learn to fight?"
"YouTube."
Jason snorts.
"Well, when your nose isn't all fucked up, I'll show you some moves."
Robin is offering to teach him how to fight. This day keeps getting stranger and better.
"Thanks, but uh, you have better things to do."
Fight crime. Bust supervillains. Save the day. Finish homework.
"And leave a kid like you out here only knowing some shit from a 10 minute tutorial?" Jason sounds offended. "Hell, no."
"Jay, language."
The pair turn at the return of Dick. Tim thinks that these guys should try to stop being so stealthy if they really want to fool anyone.
"We're not at the house," Jason rolls his eyes, "you can stop trying to sound like B."
"And you can take the big fat stick out of your -"
"Jason!"
But Dick doesn't look angry and part of that might just be because Tim, well, Tim is laughing. He has watched Robin and Nightwing bicker before. He has watched them duke it out on a rooftop and scream at each other too. But this, this is brothers. This is just Dick and Jason and it makes Tim feel something inside. It's a warm sort of happiness that seems to evaporate the minute Tim realizes that it's not his to share. The laughter dies and Tim tries to look away from the two of them without being completely obvious.
"Your chariot awaits," Dick makes a flourish, waving Tim down the alley.
Tim stands - apparently too quickly, his head decides - and promptly topples forward.
He is ready to kiss the pavement again but stops short, something both hard and soft catching him under the arms and chest. Tim blinks up as Jason holds Tim against his own body. Some of his nose blood gets on Jason's jacket and now that's two of Robin's items of clothing he has ruined.
"Whoa, Timber," Jason steadies the kid.
"I'm sorry," Tim gapes at the stain. "I'm sorry."
Jason follows the boy's line of sight, glancing down at the blotch of blood.
"No big deal, really."
"You - your sweatshirt, and now -"
"It's okay, Tim," and now Jason is holding Tim's shoulders and speaking to him like it's the most important thing in the world to be saying, like he's trying to keep the kid from crying and - oh, crap.
Tim feels the hot tears on his cold cheeks.
"Wh - what?" Tim scrunches his fast. "I'm sorry, I don't why I'm -"
"Look at his pupils now, shit," Jason mumbles to his brother.
"Tim," Dick brings a hand up to Tim's shoulder too, "you probably have a concussion. It's normal."
"Plus your nose is fucking broken," Jason huffed. "I think I'd cry too."
Tim doesn't know what to say. He's not sobbing or breaking down or anything. He knows how to keep all the little pieces of himself inside. But the tears are still there, silent and streaming. Worst first meeting of Robin and Nightwing. Ever.
"Hm," Tim tries to focus on the right words but all that comes out is, "'m dizzy."
"I think it's time for a ride on the Dickie Express," Jason suggests with a smirk at his brother.
Dick rubs his hands together and spins around, squatting.
"Climb aboard."
Tim squints at Dick's back and then at Jason.
"I'm 11."
"And I'm 13 and I still made him give me one last week," Jason laughs.
"You said your leg still hurt from falling off - on the stairs," Dick cranes his head to glare at his brother.
"I was just tired."
Tim is so incredibly embarrassed. But it's also a piggyback ride, from Nightwing. A once in a lifetime opportunity for him. (Or, at least, that's what he thinks...) And if Robin did it, then maybe -
"Okay."
Tim climbs on, hugging Dick's neck probably a little too tight but the older boy doesn't say anything. Jason picks up Tim's backpack, slinging it over one shoulder and Tim should be freaking out. You never let go of your stuff out here. Not to mention the very sensitive information inside. The very sensitive information about, well, the very kid carrying the bag. But his things feel safe with Jason. Just like he feels safe with Dick. Maybe safe enough that Tim leans his heavy head on Dick's shoulder. It's not much, and it won't last, but for now, Tim lets himself enjoy it. It's not smart, he knows that. Knows it will hurt more when they leave him back alone out here. But it's nice for now. They'll take him to this clinic, say goodbye, and Tim will go back to seeing them in flashes of fists and color against the night sky here and there on late nights when the shelters are full. And this will be enough.
Tim doesn't know, that this is just the beginning.