Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim is absolutely, 100%, totally not panicking, thank you very much.

He’s cold, and soaking wet, and feels stupidly mortified about the situation he’s landed himself in, but he’s not panicking. Really. 

He’s just trapped in a supply closet is all. 

On the roof of the west wing science building on the whole other end of campus. The science building that hardly anyone but the high school seniors use, and that's usually only during exam time, during a freak rainstorm that’s drowning out every shout of his as he repeatedly bangs his fists against the heavy metal door. 

His voice feels raw, like he’s been screaming for help for hours. It’s probably been closer to 30 minutes but his hands and throat feel frozen and numb all the same. 

And holy crap, he can’t stop shivering. His soaking Gotham Academy uniform is heavy and frigid against his skin, constricting him in a way that’s making him a little insane, like he’s stuck in a freezing wet straightjacket. He wants to at least take the outer uniform coat off, but he’s pretty sure he’ll die of hypothermia if he does, even if it feels like it’s doing utterly nothing to help retain his body heat in the late September weather.

But even if he didn’t freeze to death, his hands are shaking so bad that he probably wouldn’t be able to take it off even if he wanted to. 

Ok. So maybe Tim’s panicking a little. Sue him. He’s had a rough day. 

(More like a rough couple of weeks. And months. Certainly years? Probably his whole life, but who’s keeping track? Certainly not rich kid Timothy Jackson Drake, child genius and heir to Drake Industries. Either way, it doesn’t matter.) 

He didn’t mean to mouth off to the 200 pound 8th grader. 

He didn’t mean to do a lot of things that morning. Like sleeping past his alarm clock, practically tripping over his own two feet as he rocketed out of bed, stuffing what he hoped was his early Mesopotamia history essay (it wasn’t) into his backpack as he raced out of the house in order to reach the bus out of Bristol in time. (He made it, but just barely, considering the closest bus stop into Gotham was over a mile away and he had to sprint the entire time.)

He didn’t mean to leave his history essay behind, because again, he was running late. It thankfully wasn’t worth a lot of points, even if he did spend the better half of his Saturday afternoon ensuring it was at least an A-, but his history teacher, Mrs. Morris did give him a little grief about it. 

Which sucked, because he liked Mrs. Morris. She was one of the few teachers that didn’t belittle or baby him for skipping two grades and essentially being the only ten year old in a sea of middle and highschoolers. But that also meant she had high standards for him. 

And, apparently, having high standards meant calling him after class and asking if everything was all right, because this was the third missed assignment this year, they were barely into the first month of the school semester, and maybe she needed to have a conversation with the counselor and his parents if the course load was getting to be too much for him.

Panic leaping into his throat, Tim assured her it wasn’t. Because it really wasn’t. He had just accidentally packed the wrong essay into his backpack last night, but if she wouldn’t mind waiting until lunch time, he could print off a copy of his essay on the second story library computer and hand it in then, with points redacted of course. He had worked really hard on it after all. It was an honest mistake. She didn’t need to call the counselor in. She didn’t need to inform his parents. Thankfully, Mrs. Morris was one of his favorites for a reason, because she just wrinkled her nose and sighed heavily, waving him off and telling him that the essay had better be dropped off at the front desk for her by the end of the day if he still wanted full points, which he happily accepted and profusely thanked her for. 

He didn’t mean to forget his Spider-Man wallet on the kitchen counter. He had gotten it out so he could manually input the card number when he had ordered pizza last night and had forgotten to put it back into his backpack. Thankfully, he always kept his Gotham city bus pass on his school ID lanyard, which was literally attached to his backpack, so he couldn’t have forgotten them if he tried. 

But a bus pass and school ID was not going to help him buy his lunch. Especially not an expensive, Gotham Academy preparatory school lunch that, if you were not registered on a meal plan for the year, had to be paid for up front and out of pocket. 

Tim was not registered for a meal plan. Which meant Tim was not getting a lunch that day.

Which, ok, was fine. He hadn’t had breakfast either, and the pizza from the night before might as well have been a distant and far off memory, but it was fine. Tim was fine. He could wait till he got home to eat.  

He’d gone longer without eating before. Tim likes Mrs. Mac, even though she was getting a little too old to still be the Drakes occasional housekeeper. She was starting to become more and more forgetful, and would sometimes get her work schedule confused. She was only supposed to come once every two weeks, to tidy up and drop off the necessary groceries Tim needed, and, usually, it was fine because sometimes she came twice in one week, and whenever Mrs. Mac came over she’d bake Tim her famous snickerdoodle bundt cakes as a desert. 

Mrs. Mac wasn’t the best baker by any means, but it made her smile like a warm summer's day when Tim excitedly took big slices and ate the entire piece right in front of her as she cleaned and chatted with him. She was a talker, chatting circles around Tim and gossiping about her neighbors and sister like that was her real paying job, instead of the housecleaning one his parents paid her for, but Tim hardly minded. He adored the attention and company, despite only ever getting in a polite, ‘uh-huh’ and ‘oh, wow’ while she steamrolled her way through a conversation. And, if he’s being honest, he’d probably stomach Mrs. Mac’s worst dishes if it meant she continued to smile at him like that. Like he was worth being fussed over and happy about.

And cake was cake, no matter how soggy or burned the bottom was. He certainly wasn’t going to complain about getting two cakes in a single week.

But sometimes, however, she’d let her days get a little away from her, and she didn’t come in at all until the following month. Tim never held it against her, but if he started keeping emergency stashes of canned vegetables in the back of the pantry and frozen bread in the freezer, well, that was his business and his alone. 

So instead of feeling sorry for himself and acting like a little stomach ache was the worst thing in the world, Tim decided to use his free lunch period to print out and drop off his history essay for Mrs. Morris, and pretended the growing headache behind his eyes was just a side effect of the barometric pressure from the developing storm outside. 

Because it certainly wasn’t because he was tired. Or hungry. Or frustrated at himself. Or miserable. Definitely not miserable. What did he even have to be miserable about anyway? Because he was a little sleepy? Because he hadn’t eaten in a few hours? Because he embarrassed himself in front of his favorite teacher and made her worried about him? Because he just couldn’t seem to do anything right?

Pathetic, he can hear his father’s voice in his head, and Tim can’t really help but agree with him.

There are street kids down in crime alley that have to worry about getting stabbed or trafficked or worse, and little rich kid Tim Drake is a little bent out of shape because he had a rough morning. Tim is more ashamed of his own behavior than anything else. 

His mother always says he has a bad habit of not being grateful for all that was provided for him, and usually Tim would argue that fact (in his head, of course, because he would never talk back to his mother) because he is well aware of his privileges. But right now is a perfect example of how his parents were always right, and Tim rarely ever proves them wrong.

He needs to get over himself. He needs to stop messing up. He needs to be better.

He needs to really watch what he says, because when Kevin Delancey, a hulking, 15 year old eighth grader (who really was only still allowed to attend Gotham Academy because his parents chuck a ridiculous amount of money at the school every year) shoves Tim hard into a locker on his way to lunch, Tim kind of snaps.

In his defense, he’s mostly just angry and bitter at himself for his bad attitude. He didn’t mean to pick a fight with Kevin and his friends, just like he didn’t mean to wake up late, or forget his homework and lunch money, or be a general burden onto himself and others. 

But it doesn’t really matter whether he meant to or not. He did it. He can't undo it.

And he couldn’t really blame Kevin when he and his friends all but dragged Tim across the courtyard and up the stairs to the roof of the rarely used science building. Tim tried to break free, tried to say he’s sorry- he’s really, really sorry, but Kevin's hands were like iron vices around Tim’s arms. Heavy and strong and bruising fingerprints into Tim’s biceps that he knew he was going to be feeling for the next couple of weeks.

Kevin’s two friends, Tim doesn’t know their names, (he only really knows Delancey's because his parents are friends with Tim’s, and his mother forces him to make small talk with the bigger boy whenever they see each other at a gala or charity event. Tim eventually learned to hide underneath the buffet tables until it was time to leave when he knew the Delancey's would be attending) follow and chortle along after them. Egging Kevin on and burying every apology Tim managed to grit out. 

When they finally get onto the roof, the storm outside had only gotten worse, and they’re soaked in seconds. Tim was half afraid Kevin was going to drag him over the edge and unceremoniously toss him over the side, and for a second he almost pleaded with Kevin to toss him over the side that had the rose bushes on it. If it didn’t cushion his fall, at the very least his body would have made a good fertilizer. His mother’s favorite flowers are roses, after all. 

But then Kevin turned and pulled him towards the supply shed and dread pooled into his stomach.

“W-wait, wait! Kevin, wait, p-please,” Tim gasped out before Kevin pulled out a key from his pants pockets and unlocked the shed door. Tim didn’t even have time to process how or why Kevin even had the key, before he’d been shoved, hard, inside. 

Tim managed to put his hands out and catch himself before he broke his nose against the cold concrete floor, and turned himself around just in time to see Kevin’s cruel glare look down on him as he shut the door.

“My dad always says you Drakes think you’re so much better than everyone else. Locking you in here for a few hours should help deflate that giant, nerdy head of yours.” Kevin practically spat at him like venom, before slamming the door so hard that Tim could feel the vibrations of it all the way down to his bones. 

It wasn’t until Tim heard the soft click of the door being locked that reality hit him like a sack of bricks, and he quickly pushed himself back up off the ground, ignoring the slight stinging of his left wrist, and began banging on the metal door. 

“Wait! Kevin, wait, I’m sorry! I’m really sorry, p-please! Please don’t leave me in here! Kevin!”

The only reply Tim received back was the slam of the stair entrance door shutting, and the rainstorm pelting against the metal roof. 

And that’s where Tim finds himself. Suffering the consequences of his own actions, freezing cold, hungry, tired, and alone. And he has no one to blame but himself.

Tim is not going to cry, because getting locked in a supply closet is bottom tier stuff when kids are literally dying in the streets of Gotham, but he has to really convince himself that the water dripping down his face is from his wet hair and not tears.

He sniffs once, and rubs his cold hands against his face to try and clear his head. 

He hasn’t been in here very long, he’s pretty sure, so safe to say that there really wouldn’t be a point to continue yelling his head off trying to get someone's attention since no one has probably even noticed him missing yet. 

Not that he really knows who would notice him missing. It’s not like he has any friends (who knew skipping two grades would be so isolating? Tim certainly did, not that his parents listened to him) and his parents were still on their excavation in Suriname and wouldn’t be home for another month and a half. Mrs. Mac wasn’t due for another few days to clean the house, but Tim couldn’t possibly be trapped in here for that long. 

Kevin did say that Tim would only be locked in here for a few hours, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was the one that was going to unlock the door. Or if he would tell anyone that Tim was stuck up here in the first place.

Someone… someone had to notice he would be gone. Someone had to notice he would be missing and know to come look for him. Tim didn’t know who, but someone.. Someone just had to…

Right?

The dull headache from before is turning into something like a jackhammer against his skull, and Tim slides down against one of the walls so he can pull his knees up to his chest. He takes a couple of deep, shaky breaths and tries to think.

He doesn’t know if anyone will try to save him, so in the meantime, instead of worrying himself into an impending panic attack, he has to work under the impression that he has to be the one to get himself out. 

You got yourself into this mess Timothy, his mother’s voice chastises in his head, you will get yourself out.

Tim almost laughs. This isn’t anything new. Tim has always been self-reliant, ever since he was six years old, and his parents told him he didn’t need a live-in nanny any more. He was a big boy now. You don’t need someone holding your hand and coddling you, Timothy. You can do things all by yourself now, isn’t that exciting? Your father and I trust you to be able to manage on your own. Don’t you want to make your father and I proud? Now don’t cry, Timothy, it isn’t befitting of a Drake. 

Tim had felt very grown up about it back then, the pride he felt that his parents trusted him enough to leave him on his own was something he had carried around on his shoulders like a superhero cape. It made him feel brave. It made him feel confident. At least, it did for those first couple of lonely days. 

But he did it. He managed. And he was fine.  

Like the time his parents were invited to a dig site in Egypt when he was seven years old, and a storm like a hurricane had all but ripped one of the nearby trees from its roots and shoved it half way through the downstairs bay windows and into the parlor room. More than a few priceless heirlooms from his parents’ expeditions had been ruined as collateral damage, including a fourteen thousand dollar antique weave Serapi rug that, to this day, his mother still gives him grief about. 

As if the water damage hadn’t been enough, Tim had also accidentally gotten a few drops of blood on it from when he tried to clean up the broken window glass and cut the inside of his palm. Apparently blood stains are nearly impossible to get out of an exquisite hand knotted Indian rug. 

His mother had furiously thrown away the rug. Tim still has the faded scar line across his left palm.

Or like the time when his parents were on a business trip in Hong Kong when he was eight, and a particularly loud thunder clap had echoed throughout the house like a gunshot and scared him right off the library ladder he had been using. He was able to slow his fall down by catching himself on one of the lower rungs, but not without dislocating his right shoulder. That had sucked, but a few youtube videos later and he was, luckily, able to pop it back into place without completely blacking out from the pain, and avoided having to go to the ER all together. 

He’s pretty sure his parents wouldn’t have been very happy if they had to fly home early from their trip before brokering a deal with Hong Kong’s Heritage museum curators just because Tim was being stupid and reckless and got injured, so he kept the incident to himself. The pain had only lasted a few weeks anyway, and when his parents sent him an email regarding the successful venture out, he could only feel pride that he made the right call.

Hmm, storms seemed to be a recurring factor in all these mess ups of his. Was that a component he needed to think about? Should he just stay in bed the moment he notices a storm is brewing? He hasn’t had the best luck with them so far, current problem included.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter, he’ll shelf the idea for post-trapped-Tim to dissect. Storms weren’t the point.

The point was that Tim can take care of himself just fine, regardless of the situation he was in. He has to. He doesn’t have a choice.

Taking another few breaths in, Tim rubs his eyes with his numb fingers, trying to get feeling in them again, and decides to take stock of what's around him. It's dark in the shed, and the only light is coming from the crack at the bottom of the door, which isn’t all that helpful, considering it’s a very overcast day, but he gets something of an idea of what's around the small room. 

Which is… not a lot, unfortunately. There's a tall metal shelving unit across from him, with only a few messy piles of wrapped up Christmas lights on the lower shelves and a single bucket’s worth of cleaning supplies. There's a large broom leaning against it that looks like it hasn’t been used in literal years, and a single, chunky eight-step ladder leaning against the wall beside him. Besides that, nothing. The shed is practically empty. 

Tim takes a couple more breaths in. Fast and short. They make him feel dizzy.

It’s not… it’s not anything he can work with. 

He’s ten years old, but he’s frustratingly small for his age, and the ladder is frankly still too big and heavy for him to try and hold up and use as a battering ram against the door. He doesn’t know how to pick a lock, and the few cleaning supplies aren't strong enough to mix and create some sort of concoction to weaken the door knob. Even if they were, with such a small space and practically no air flow, he’d choke on the chemical fumes before any real damage to the door is done, that is, if the cold air and his wet clothes don’t kill him off first. He has a weakened immune system, and even though he takes his antibiotics he can still get sick so easily, and a simple cold can really do a lot of damage if he isn’t careful and-

And Tim doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t- there isn’t anything he can do. 

He’s breathing fast now, way faster than he rightly knows how to manage. And he knows he needs to calm down- he knows - but he can’t. He just can’t.

Now don’t cry, Timothy, it isn’t befitting of a Drake.

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t- he can’t-

Come now, Timothy, really? Crying again? You’re four years old, you’re too old to be acting like a brat. Stop distracting mommy and go to your room.

He can’t do anything right. He can’t- he can’t. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. And he can’t escape and h-he doesn’t know what to do-

Timothy Jackson Drake, if you don’t stop bothering your mother with your incessant moping, I will give you something to cry about.

He’s going to die here. He can’t- no one will find him. No one will even know where to look. His parents- they- they won’t even notice till it’s too late. T-they-they won’t even car-

SLAM

“Christ, it’s cold out here,” a voice says, sharp and crisp and Tim latches onto it like the lifeline it is, snapping his head from where he had it pressed against his knees and listens.

Another harsh slam of a door. Then footsteps, quick and speedy until they’re right outside the locked shed door. Until they’re right next to Tim’s locked door. Tim scrambles to his feet, almost knocking himself out against the metal door when they don’t cooperate immediately, feeling cold and numb and useless with pins and needles. 

“Fucking storm- a little rain and suddenly everyone wants to hang out in all the best smoking spots. Had to drag my ass all the way over here-” a pause, a few clicks of something metallic. A slow, deep breath. Tim holds his own as he presses himself flat against the metal door, flinching at the biting cold against his face as he holds his ear close. “Just to get a break. Fucking rich kids.”

There's a little metal awning over the entrance of the shed door. It’s tiny, but it’s the only place on the roof to hide from the rain, and Tim could cry if he wasn’t already trying to stop himself from doing just that. Because someone is here. Someone is here. He isn’t alone because someone found him.

Rubbing his eyes and nose hard against his forearm, Tim clears his throat once and calls out. 

“Um, excuse me-,”

“Holy shit!” The voice, thick with a lower Gotham accent you didn’t often hear at Gotham Academy, shouts from the other side of the door. Banging against it like they had accidentally bumped into it. Tim hears the boy’s, Tim is sure it’s a boy, shoes scuff against the wet roof. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry, s-sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!” Tim quickly tries to assure the stranger, remembering his manners. He can tell the kid is older, but by how much, he isn’t sure. Maybe a highschooler, if he’s lucky. His voice cracks when he adds, “I’m T-Tim!”

There’s a pause, and suddenly Tim kind of wishes Kevin had thrown Tim off the roof instead, as a rush of heat races across the back of his neck and ears. He hopes he doesn’t scare the guy away with how weird he sounds. Tim certainly would be. 

Thankfully, the other boy is a lot braver than Tim.

“... Tim,” the voice echoes, sounding more confused than weirded out, and Tim breathes a sigh of relief as he nods enthusiastically, even though the guy can’t see him. Tim can work with confused. “What’re you doing?”

Tim swallows. “I’m sorta, um, s-stuck. I need help getting out, please."

“Stuck...,” the voice repeats again, and takes a moment to wiggle the door knob. “What do ya mean, stuck? Can’t you unlock the door? ”

Tim starts taping the door gently with his frozen fingers, and his heart beat feels like a conga line against his ribcage. “It locks from the outside,” he says in a small voice. 

The voice stops wiggling the door knob almost immediately, and Tim waits ten whole seconds before he starts to feel light headed with worry. What did he do? What did he say wrong? “H-hello? Are you- are you still there?”

“Kid… how did you get locked in there? ” The voice finally replies, a low, dangerous growl that Tim knows better than to answer with anything resembling the truth. Because what could he say? He was a little grumpy and backtalked an upperclassman three times his size and got his just deserts because of it? Yeah, no, not gonna happen. He doesn’t want the guy to agree that he deserves to be locked up here and turn tail and leave him all alone again. 

But Tim doesn’t want to lie to him either. Especially if he’d be willing to help Tim.

So Tim sidesteps the whole question entirely. 

“Sorry, it’s really, um, really cold in here, and my c-clothes are wet. Could you help me unlock the door, p-please?” Tim says, trying really hard to speak clearly through the chattering of his teeth. 

He thinks he sells his point, even if the stuttering was involuntary, because the voice immediately replies back.

“Shit. Shoot! I mean- yeah, yeah ok, hold on,” the voice says, with an urgency that Tim can’t help but find comfort in as the guy on the other end turns the door knob again more vigorously. “Ok, ok hold on kid, I’ll go grab a teacher and-,”

Tim’s mind short circuits. 

“No! No please! Don’t leave! Don’t- don’t leave me, please!” Tim practically screams, and he feels like he’s gonna pass out with how hard his head is pounding. He leans his head against the metal door and hardly registers the sting of the freezing metal. “Please, I- You can’t leave me! I can’t- I don’t, please! Please d-don’t go!”

There are spots dancing behind his eye lids when he blinks hard, and Tim can barely think straight as he leans his entire body weight into the door. He knows, logically, that the other boy needs to go get a teacher, or really any adult, to get a spare key or call the fire department, but he isn’t thinking logically. He’s barely thinking at all. 

All he knows is that he can’t be left alone, he just can’t. And crying isn’t gonna help but he can feel the tears spill down his cheeks completely and treacherously without his consent anyway. 

He can’t breathe.

His parents would be so disappointed that he’s crying.

He can’t br-breathe.

His parent’s will never know he’s missing.

He doesn’t know how to breathe . 

Tim doesn’t want to die alone. 

“-id! Kid! Are you listening to me? Can you hear me? Kid! I’m not lea-”

There's a harsh banging on the door Tim is leaning his head against. It makes his headache worse. He wants it to stop. He wants to make everything stop.

“-eathe! Ki- Tim! Tim, breathe! I need you to breathe with me bud, ok? In… and out… In… good job buddy, and out. Keep breathing with me, dude. I’m right he-”

In … He’s breathing. He’s breathing but… it's not what he wants. Out … He wants to get out of here. He doesn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t want to be in here all alone again. In …

“-and out. I said I’m not leaving, ok kid? You got me, I’m here. I’m working on the fuckin- freaking lock as we speak. Just keep, yeah that’s it, big breaths like that for me dude. You’re doing great, I’m almost- shit! I mean shoot! I mean-” 

Tim didn’t mean for this to happen. He really didn’t. He knows better than to be a burden like this. To be such a hassle. He was just having a bad start to the day, but- but that’s no excuse. He shouldn’t be freaking out like he is. He knows better. He needs to be better. He needs-

Fresh air hits him in the face like a glass door, and suddenly Tim is falling forward, the door supporting his weight swinging open and hitting the opposite wall with a loud smack, and the concrete roof top is rushing towards him, and he doesn’t have time to shoot his hands out to catch himself and-

“Woah there,” the voice from before says, and then there are arms, gentle and strong, catching Tim’s middle and steadying him. Pulling him up, away from the floor and away from the open door, until he’s half leaning against the far corner of the wall under the awning and half leaning against a chest. “I gotcha. I gotcha, Timbo. Let’s just walk over- yeah ok, never mind, you weigh like 20 pounds, lets just-, yeah, like that. Right up against the wall here.”

Tim takes a moment to greedily suck in the fresh, cold air. Gasping loudly as he tries to blink the sudden change of light into his eyes until he can see properly. Something big and dry and warm gets dropped on top of him as he gulps down air. It practically burns down his throat, but Tim can’t find it in himself to really care. The pain grounds him.

It takes a moment, a long, painful moment, but clarity comes back to him in a merciful wave, and it doesn’t take long to realize the figure holding him steady is still talking.

“-don’t like tight spaces either. My older brother, he’s a freak, he fuc-I mean, freaking loves contorting his body and hiding in the most absurd spots all around the damn- dang house. Likes jumping out and scaring the hell outta me. You’d think he’d get the picture after the first four times I’ve accidentally socked ‘im in the jaw, but he’s still jumping out like a friggin jack in the box. He’s an idiot like that, but one of these days I’m gonna actually flip and break his nose.”

The boy is kneeling beside him, rubbing light circles into Tim’s back and talking softly. He smells like cinnamon and cigarette smoke, and Tim finds himself relaxing fully into the arm that’s still holding him up, and sighing loudly.

“Hey. Hey kid, you with me now?” The voice asks, and Tim nods, before leaning away a little bit and blinking up to look at the face of his newest hero.

Tim’s brain short circuits again.

“Hey there,” Jason Wayne, with his wind swept wild hair and a constellation of freckles across his tan skin, says through a crooked and amused half smile; his green eyes soft and leaf-like as he looks Tim up and down. “You good, man?”

Tim practically flinches out from under his touch.

“Woah, woah, hey easy,” Jason, Jason freaking Todd-Wayne holy cow, says, green eyes suddenly sharp and bright and Tim turns away so he isn’t making eye contact.

Because it’s Jason. Jason Wayne, the newest, although it’s been a couple of years, adoptive son of Bruce-net worth of 100 friggin billion dollars- Wayne. 

Jason Wayne, Tim’s next door neighbor as of three years ago. 

Jason Wayne, the fifteen year old high school freshman that Tim can’t help but admire at every charity gala and fundraiser that Mr. Wayne drags him too, because he’s loud and bright and likable in a down to earth way that Tim’s parents would never allow him to be. 

Jason Wayne, who Tim thought was one of the coolest kids Tim has never actually met, and that was before Jason saved him from a locked supply closet. 

Before Tim basically jumped all over him and probably got an embarrassing amount of tears and snot all over his GA school uniform. Said uniform that is, currently, missing a jacket. Tim notices a little too late that it’s been wrapped around his shoulders. 

“Sorry!” Tim exclaims, and tries to shoot straight up, but his legs feel like jelly and betrayal as they almost fold back out from underneath him. Luckily, Jason is still within reach, and easily catches him and pulls him back so that most of his weight is still leaning against the shed wall. 

“Jesus , dude, chill out. Just hold on a second,” Jason warns, keeping a firm hand on Tim’s shoulder to steady him. “You just had a little bit of a meltdown. Take a knee before you pass out and fall off the damn- dang roof.” 

Tim nods, but doesn’t relax his stance at all. He does, however, take a couple more deep breaths, following Jason’s example when the older boy heaves exaggerated breaths before grunting at Tim to do the same.  

“Better?” Jason asks after a couple of minutes, and Tim nods again, keeping his head down.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You ok?”

Tim nods a third time, his head feeling a little bit like a bobble head, heavy and weightless all at once and not fully attached to his neck. “Thank you. For opening the door, I mean. And for catching me. A-and for, um, helping me to, uh, breathe and-”

“It’s fine,” Jason cuts him off sharply, and he must have felt Tim’s involuntary flinch underneath his hand because he immediately softens again. He sighs, and gives Tim’s shoulder a little squeeze. “You’re welcome, I mean. You don’t- you don't have to apologize. Just glad you’re ok.”

Tim keeps nodding. He should probably stop doing that, his head is starting to feel a little too floaty, but he can’t make eye contact with Jason just yet. Maybe ever, if he can get away with it.

“So,” Jason mutters after a moment, leaning back against the same wall Tim is. Still keeping his hand on Tim’s shoulder, like he is afraid Tim is gonna make another break for it. “You gonna tell me how you got locked in there in the first place?”

Jason’s smart for keeping his hand where it is, because Tim would have bolted if he had let Tim go. Instead, Tim just shrinks into Jason’s jacket wrapped around his shoulders.

“Um, would you believe me if I s-said it was an accident?” Tim shrugs.

“No,” comes Jason’s automatic reply. “Try again.”

“Magic?” Tim ventures.

“Strike two, Houdini,” Jason responds flatly, and Tim can almost see the passive aggressive brow raise even though he’s purposely keeping his gaze on everything but Jason's freckled face.

“... Aliens?”

“Oh, ok, cool, so we’re doing this then,” Jason responds coldly, and Tim feels his brain fall back through his skull and down to his feet when Jason stands up straight and away from him. “Come on, up you get. We’re going to the office.”

“Huh?” Tim asks, eloquent as ever, as he shakily goes to follow. “The o-office? Why?”

Tim accidentally catches Jason’s hard glare and he immediately shoots his head back down to look at Jason's knees. There’s a slight tear on the right pant leg. Tim wonders, briefly, how he had gotten it. 

“Because I’m not an idiot, kid. I know it wasn’t aliens or magic or an accident. I know someone locked you in there,” Jason snaps back, but there isn’t any heat or anger behind his words, at least not the kind that Tim is used to receiving from grownups, and he risks a quick, curious glance back up to see the older boy’s face. There’s something steadfast and resilient blazing in Jason’s eyes; he’s angry in a way that Tim is confused by, because it doesn’t completely feel like it’s pointed at him, which doesn’t make any sense at all because who else would Jason be mad at? “But I’m also not a jackass. If you don’t wanna tell the principal there’s fucking bullies hazing elementary students, then I’ll go with you, and we can tell him together.”

Tim is kind of tired of his brain frying itself useless, he can’t afford to be this stupid.

“I’m in 7th grade,” Tim says lamely, trying to swallow the panic crawling up his throat as he buys time to disarm the literal bomb Jason just threw into his lap, because the absolute last thing he needs is the principal getting involved. 

Because if the principal gets involved, then he’s going to want to get Tim’s parents involved. And when he realizes he can’t get ahold of Tim’s parents because they have literally been out of the country for 3 months, then he’s going to call the GCPD instead. And then they’re gonna call CPS. And that’s too many inconveniencing phone calls to too many people and Tim refuses to be that much of a problem child.

Tim’s comment seems to work in that it buys him a few seconds, Jason seems stunned by the correction.

“What, really? But you’re tiny.”

“Don’t tell the principal!” Tim begs, steamrolling right over the tiny comment (because he’s really not, he’s just a ten year old 7th grader is all). He grabs onto Jason’s rolled up sleeve with a faint tug and does the best puppy dog eyes he can muster. It never works on his parents, but it’s been known to have a 73.4% success rate with adults that aren’t related to him, and even though Jason isn’t an adult it’s a risk he’s willing to take. “We-we don’t have to go to the office! I’m fine, I’m- really . It wasn't bullying! It really was just an accident! I was being s-stupid and I locked myself in there but- please. Please don’t tell!”

It was the truth, as far as Tim was concerned. Kevin may have been the one to shove him into the shed and physically lock the door, but Tim had basically asked for it. He gave attitude and got his due punishment because of it. Kevin wasn’t bullying him. He didn’t seek Tim out. He didn’t mess with Tim unprovoked. Jason was blowing this all out of proportion and it was going to get Tim in serious trouble. 

Jason stares at Tim like he’s grown a second head, brows furrowing dangerously over piercing green eyes and Tim has to do his best to not look away, even though making eye contact elicits some primal urge in him to run and hide under cover. He needs Jason to understand. He tugs a little more on Jason’s shirt sleeve and hopes he looks as pathetic as possible to get his point across.  

“Don’t tell?” Jason’s eyes narrow and Tim feels his stomach drop in alarm. Jason grabs the wrist Tim’s using to hold onto his shirt sleeve and Tim tries not to flinch away like the contact burns him. Jason’s hand is hot against Tim’s clammy skin. “What do you mean ‘don’t tell’? This isn’t me tattling like some grade schooler. You’re on the verge of hypothermia, about to pass out from a fucking-fricking- damnit! You had a panic attack, kid! You were locked in a shed on the roof of the most remote building on campus and you’re covering for the guy?”

Tim’s brain is kind of becoming mush with how much dread is pooling into his system. Is it leaking out of his ears? Maybe, but that could also be the rain, which Jason had pulled him into and out from under the awning, trying to pull him towards the exit stairwell.

“I swear I’m not- I’m not covering for anyone! It-it-it really was an a-accident!” Jason is full on tugging him along now, and Tim tries to pull away, really, honestly . Or, at least, he thinks he does. But his legs feel like toothpicks barely holding him up and Jason has a steel-like grip around Tim’s wrist that doesn’t hurt, but it’s not relenting either, no matter how much Tim tries to pull away from it. 

It’s a moot point trying to resist with actions. He needs his brain to coagulate itself enough to make his tongue make words. Words that make sense and sound really important and really good and proves his point, preferably. “Please, please just forget it ok. It’s really nothing at all, and I’m fine now! Really, thank you for helping me but I’m-”

“If you say you’re fine one more time,” Jason warns through gritted teeth as he pulls Tim along, but Tim doesn’t know what the underlying threat is because Jason just barrels on. “And seriously? Forget it? If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be stuck in there right now! What would have happened to you if I wasn’t here, huh? It would have taken hours for the school to find you, and your parents would have been worried sick and-”

One of Tim’s legs conveniently gives out at the mention of his parents, and Jason's grip on his wrist is suddenly the only thing that's stopping him from taking his almost third nose dive towards the ground, which is frankly too many times for Tim to be personally comfortable with. Jason makes a little yelp noise as he scrambles to get a better purchase on Tim’s shoulders to keep him up, but something mixed between brilliance and panic at the movement jump starts his idiotic mush brain and gives him an idea.

“If you tell on me, I’ll tell them you were smoking up here,” Tim practically whispers out, but he can feel Jason's startled grip from where he’s got his hands on Tim’s shoulders, locking them both in a standstill. Tim looks up to meet Jason’s glare. 

They’re both soaking wet now, on the middle of the roof, halfway between the supply closet and the only exit. Jason's white academy shirt is practically see through where it clings to skin and Tim’s bangs are hanging over his eyes and sticking to his face awkwardly, but neither of them move. Neither of them blink. Tim’s pretty sure he forgets to breathe.

“...What the fuck,” Jason says after a few seconds pass, slack jawed.

What the fuck, Tim agrees, because seriously, what is he doing? Did he seriously just threaten the kid, no, Jason Todd-friggin-Wayne, who just helped him, who continued to help him, who basically saved him and was just worried about him? Was that really the best plan his stupid brain could come up with?

“Are you seriously blackmailing me?” Jason asks, and he genuinely sounds more bewildered and hurt than mad, and Tim might just pass out from the guilt.

“Sorry. Please, don’t tell,” Tim pleads again, earnest and on the verge of crying, if he wasn’t already. His eyes are stinging and feel hot, but it could just be the rain. He hopes Jason doesn’t notice either way. “I promise I’m ok. No one needs to be in trouble for my s-stupid mistake. I’m sorry you had t-to help me, thank you, but I’m ok.” 

It’s not often Tim feels so stupid. He has a 4.0 grade average and has the WAIS that proves he's anything but.

But Tim is looking right at Jason’s face now. Jason, who Tim admired from the side lines of galas and art expos and fundraiser events for almost 3 years, who Tim hoped maybe one day he’d be brave enough to actually introduce himself to and maybe have Jason turn those bright green eyes and crooked smile his way. Jason, who’s glaring at Tim like Tim’s words have physically cut him, and Tim has never felt more stupid in his entire life. 

But the school can’t find out. They can’t call his parents about this. Tim can’t be any more of a burden. Even if that means Jason has to hate him for it. 

Tim quickly sheds Jason’s uniform jacket off his shoulders, taking Jason’s hands off with it, and folds the jacket as best as he can before ducking his hand and shoving it into the older boy’s chest. His vision blurs and Tim convinces himself it's the rain.

“Sorry. Thank you. I’ll tell on you if you tell on me. Ok, bye.” Tim lets the words spill out of his mouth in a rush before turning quickly on his heel and using his last bit of strength to bolt to the roof exit. Halfway down the stairs, he’s out of breath and his head feels like it weighs a million pounds, but Jason hasn’t made any attempt to follow after him.

Tim hates that he feels a little disappointed by that. 

Chapter Text

Tim counted himself lucky, for once. 

And, ok, sure, he had been locked in that supply closet for way longer than 30 minutes (which he had previously thought) and had accidentally missed two of his remaining classes for that school day, but he was able to make it to the later half of his English lit class before the final bell rung, and Mr. Kelcey had only twitched his nose a little in disgust at Tim’s appearance! Which was a blessing in disguise when it came to the normally irate English teacher, so Tim gave himself a halfhearted mental pat on the back. Mr. Kelcey could be kind of a jerk. 

When the final bell had rung, Tim accomplished a pretty impressive disappearing act, avoiding the main school exit just in case he ran into Delancey in favor of using one of the side exits, and took the 45 minute bus ride back to Bristol. Thankfully, the rain had stopped that afternoon, so the mile and half walk from the bus stop to the mansion wasn’t as miserable as it could have been.

He only had a fever of about 102 by the time he crawled out of his wet uniform and flopped onto his bed, and while he really shouldn’t have made any excuses for himself to not go to school the next day, education is important Timothy and your father and I don’t spend hundreds of dollars for you to waste it by being lazy in bed just because of a little throw up. Now clean yourself up and come downstairs, your father and I leave for Paris in an hour and we need help packing our luggage into the car, he had a headache that he was pretty sure was trying to kill him in cold blood.

He debated it on and off for the next few hours, fading in and out of consciousness between the bouts of nausea and dizzy spells as he wrestled with his sweaty hair and sweaty clothes and sweaty bed sheets and sweaty everything, holy cats! How was everything sweaty and gross and it didn’t even make sense why he was sweating so much because he was literally freezing and wrapped up in, like, thirty blankets (which he liberated from a few guest bedrooms for the greater good of stopping the vibrating chills plaguing his body. Did he have the plague? Maybe. Probably. No, that would be insane. He felt like his fever was cooking and melting his brain all at once and he was sweating it all out and it was making him actually go insane. Which, ugh, also gross. Gross and sweaty and probably not dying but maybe, sort of, kinda was. But probably not. He was still debating).

It wasn’t until he woke up on his bathroom floor around four in the morning, the taste of bile still stuck in his throat and around the toilet seat from where he had hurriedly paid his respects to the porcelain gods that he decided, you know, maybe, it wouldn’t hurt to miss a class or two. There was a dull pain blooming at the back of his head that he really hoped was just a lingering headache and not because he totally might have passed out and hit his head on tile ground. Because that would be bad, but it’s not, because he didn’t, absolutely not, and he totally meant to fall asleep on the cold hard floor after puking his guts out. Totally.  

But…

Just in case. Just to be safe, he managed to stare at his phone screen long enough to not hurl and sent off a quick email to his school from his father’s personal email anyway, (the one the man rarely used and only ever if it was in reference to Tim) stating that ‘Timothy would be out sick for the next couple of days and that any homework he would miss should be forwarded over via this email.’ There was an anxious knot tying itself in circles at the disapproval from his parents if they ever found out he had skipped school, and really, Tim should have been able to push his way through the nausea and pain and bear with it. 

Education was important after all, fever and accidentally passing out be damned.

But the thought of the supply closet, dark and empty and cold, and the chance of running into Delancey again, big and mean and with bruising fists, was enough to burn that anxious knot in his stomach till he tasted the ashes of it on his tongue. If he got caught, he’d rather deal with his parents' anger. 

(At least he wouldn’t have been alone. Snide and harsh comments and cold shoulders were better than nothing at all, and at least then he knew he would have had his parents' attention.)

And despite the whole embarrassing ‘passing out in the bathroom from a mind melting fever’ thing, he was good about taking his antibiotics. He could hardly force himself to eat or drink, his body shivering so hard he could have probably vibrated through the floor if he focused hard enough and the dizzying waves of nausea made him feel like he was on a ship at sea every time he got to his feet, but he always made sure to take his medication. 

Because a fever usually meant an infection, and he didn’t exactly have all the organs he needed to fight those off, and if a trip to the school office was enough to send him into a spiraling panic attack, then calling the hospital and being rushed to the E.R would have probably sent him into an early grave. Literally and figuratively. His parents would kill him.

Tim absolutely, positively, absolutely couldn’t be the reason his parents came home early from an expedition. Their work was so, so important. This most recent trip in Jodensavanne held so much promise with a possible trade route between an old Dutch settlement and the Ming dynasty that would literally change the narrative of certain Chinese dynasties and how cool was that? His parents were rewriting history with their travels and discoveries! And Tim wasn’t about to risk them losing months of progress over his stupid, dumb soup brain making him all pukey and sweaty and pass-outey. 

His parents had more important things to focus on. Tim knew this. Plague or not, he wasn’t going to be a burden. He was fine. He could handle it. 

And handle it he did, even if it was handled poorly and involved a lot more throwing up and a little more passing out and losing time than he cared to admit to. His fever had finally broke after another two days and by then it was already the weekend, so he dutifully turned in all his homework via his father’s email and cleaned the entire house; both stories, including all nine bedrooms, six bathrooms, two parlor rooms, two lounge rooms, and kitchen, because he still felt a little bad about skipping school without his parents blessing. (It didn’t matter that Mrs. Mac was due to come in a few days. She had been complaining that her back had been bothering her recently, so Tim didn’t mind easing her workload a little and scrubbing at the hard to reach places. Besides, he already had a lot of sweat soaked bed sheets to wash and replace anyway.) 

By Monday morning he was feeling a whole lot better, definitely less sweaty and pukey, which was a huge improvement as far as Tim was concerned, so he had washed his hands of the entire affair and set about starting the week off on the right foot.

And starting off on the right foot included making sure he had all his homework in their proper places, his wallet with his credit cards in his back pocket, and keeping his head down and himself thoroughly to the side lines and out of everyone’s way. 

He still ran into Delancey and crew, but (and Tim desperately thanked every deity in the sky for it) they did little more than trip him in the hallways and knock books out of his hands while calling him a few choice names under their breath in passing. Nothing Tim couldn’t handle. Nothing Tim couldn’t deal with. 

So, yeah, lucky, all things considered.

That was, until the final bell rang, and Tim was well off school campus and on his way to the nearest bus stop, when a heavy arm draped itself across his shoulders and a familiar voice floated past his ear.

“ Heeeeeey, Timmers,” Jason Todd-Wayne practically purred, his teeth white and blinding as he grinned like a shark, leaning so close into Tim’s side that he could have counted every single freckle dusting Jason’s nose. “How’s it going, buddy? Long time, no see.”

Tim would have jumped about three feet in the air if the weight of Jason's arm hadn’t kept him firmly pinned to the older boy’s side. As it was, Tim just flinched hard enough to hurt, not expecting the sudden contact, let alone from one of the few people he had been actively trying very hard to stay far, far away from.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Jason continues, not waiting for Tim to even try to come up with a clever response when he asks, “You been avoiding me?”

His Gotham accent is thick with Park Row, so even though Jason phrases it like a question, Tim knows it isn’t.

“No,” Tim lies immediately, stupidly, because he has been avoiding Jason. Doing his very best to stay clear of any and all hallways and courtyards where the middle and high schoolers intermingled. Hoping that the one time Tim met (and made a fool of himself in front of) his childhood idol would be his last time. 

Jason’s grin twitches, and Tim knows that Jason knows he’s lying. Welp. This sucks. His good luck couldn’t hold out for just a little bit longer, huh?

“Oh, good, because I had some things I wanted to chat about, and it would have really, really sucked if you had been.” Jason begins, never letting up his grin or grip as he uses his full strength to swing them both around back in the direction of Gotham Academy.

“Uhhh,” Tim says, because he’s mastered this whole English language thing, but Jason doesn’t give him a chance to prove that fact further.

“So remember that little conversation we had? On the roof? In the pouring rain? Which was very Jane Austin of us, I might add,” Jason practically whistles, tone light and jovial even though his arm around Tim’s shoulders is a steel bar. “Anyway, remember how you blackmailed me for literally just offering to help you with your little ‘situation’ ?”

Jason moved his fingers in an air quote around the word ‘situation’. Tim bites the inside of his cheek to keep from sassing the older boy, because technically Jason was doing a little more than just ‘offering’, having practically drug Tim across the roof against his will. But talking back to an upperclassman was what got him into that ‘situation’ in the first place, so he carefully keeps his dumb lips shut.

“Yeah, so, no, actually. That's not going to fly with me.”

Tim would have tripped over his own feet if Jason wasn’t dragging him over the concrete sidewalk anyway. They turn around the street corner and Tim can see the architectural pillars of Gotham Academy a few blocks away. He feels like he dropped his stomach somewhere back around the corner.

“See, how I figure it, you actually owe me,” Jason goes on, and Tim feels his heartbeat start to pick up in panic. “I didn’t tell an adult that some punks were picking on you, like I probably should since they practically force feed us those bullying PSA's every semester, and you didn’t rat me out like a narc. So, we’re even there. I don’t like it, but I guess, in some twisted way, it’s fair. I’ve come to terms with it. I’ll admit that.”

The crosswalk in front of them turns red and Tim automatically goes to stop and wait, but Jason is on a roll and keeps walking, dragging Tim right along with him. Tim yelps in protest at the same time a few cars and trucks lay on their horns in annoyance, and Jason does little more than flip them off with the hand that doesn’t have a grip on Tim’s uniform. 

“But see, and here’s the real kicker,” Jason says, keeping his eyes straight ahead, ignoring the traffic around them and the way Tim is slowly freaking out at his side. “I think you still owe me for helping you out of that shed in the first place. I broke my favorite pocket knife trying to pick that lock, and got soaking wet in the process. You’re lucky my last period of the day is self study, or I could have gotten sick.”

Jason says it flippantly, like he’s just saying it to prove a point as opposed to actually caring whether or not he actually got sick, but Tim thinks back on how sick he had been after the incident; how congested and dizzy and nauseous he felt, and remembers how Jason had given Tim his jacket. A solid weight of guilt rests in between Tim’s ribcage, an uncomfortable pressure building against his chest. It makes it hard to breathe. Tim wouldn’t forgive himself if he had gotten Jason sick because of his stupid actions.

“So, I’m cashing in that favor,” Jason says, and his tone takes a more cautious edge to it. He starts absentmindedly tapping his fingers on Tim’s shoulder, like he’s nervous, and that is doing absolutely nothing to calm Tim down. If Tim hadn’t sworn off puking and passing out for the foreseeable forever after his little weekend joyride to feverville, he might have made an exception right then and there.

As it is, instead of pulling Tim towards the gated entrance of the school Jason walks right past it, hauling Tim along towards the carpool and parent pick up area. Most of the lanes are filled with expensive Rolls-Royces and Mercedes-Benzes. A few parents are standing outside chatting and socializing, no doubt showing off while also making connections with fellow Gotham socialites. 

Tim doesn’t look at them too hard. Even if his parents did stay in the country for longer than a few weeks at a time, he doesn’t think they’d be bothered to consider picking him up from school, despite the obvious other benefits they could possibly gain from it on a networking aspect. 

Tim shakes his head. Don’t be stupid. He’s perfectly capable of riding the bus and it’s a selfish thought for him to think that his parents have the time and resources for him to do otherwise. And besides, it’s not like he has any friends with parents to socialize with anyway. 

Jason keeps pulling him along, guiding him past the different rows, until they reach the back of the lanes, where a beat up, robin egg blue pickup truck is running and waiting, standing out like a sore thumb against sports cars that probably cost more than Tim's yearly tuition.

Tim feels his feet freeze to the ground and Jason nearly trips over him at the sudden stop. He swears something incoherent and looks down at Tim in confusion but Tim can’t even bother to meet Jason's glare because his eyes are glued to the young man half hanging out of the truck's window and waving at them excitedly.

“Hey, hey! Jay! Over here!” Richard Grayson’s voice carries over the parking lot, grabbing the attention and wary stares of a few parents and bystanders, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s grinning from ear to ear and his eyes are a bright brown that catches the little sunlight that’s managed to break through Gotham’s consistent overcast like torches, practically lighting up the street, and Tim forgets to breathe.

Unlike with Jason, Tim actually has met the eldest Wayne heir before, way back when Tim was barely three and old enough to know how to sit somewhat still on his mother’s lap. 

Memories were touch and go back then, like trying to carry sand in a strainer, but he’ll never forget that harrowing night. It was one of the first (and only) times his parents decided to let Tim tag along with them to dinner and then, to Tim’s utter delight, the circus. 

They had been sitting in the front row, and halfway through the show Tim had burst into tears when one of the performing lions had loudly roared too close for a tiny Tim to feel safe about. Before his parents could do anything (comfort or scold, to this day he has no idea how they would have reacted) a young preteen with wavy black hair, tawny skin, and an acrobat’s leotard had practically teleported in front of Tim. 

Tim doesn’t remember what the teen said, only that his smile was as bold and bright as the reds and yellows of his outfit and his laughter was something contagious, pulling tiny giggles out of Tim despite the tears still running off his chubby cheeks. It had been storming that night and the young acrobat had, with a cheerfulness that turned heads, like sunflowers towards the sun, dedicated his performance to Tim.

The young acrobat lost his parents that night. 

Tim’s own parents had never said anything directly to Tim about it, but Tim was pretty sure it was his fault because they never brought him on one of their outings again. Like they thought Tim was bad luck. Like he was a jinx.

Tim had held out hope that that wasn’t true, but his life since then had been a pretty good track record of consistently proving him otherwise. Case in point, being forced to come face to face with the kind young acrobat who’s parents Tim probably accidentally killed for the first time since that night. 

“Ok, play along. We first met when I helped you with your English homework, it was an essay on George Elliot, and we’ve been friends ever since. I invited you to hang out with me today and my brother is chauffeuring us around,” Jason says rapid fire, seemingly not noticing (or caring) that Tim’s heart is about to jackrabbit out of his chest and that Tim isn’t actively breathing. Jason puts his arm back around Tim’s shoulders and pushes him along like Tim is at all capable of following along with what he’s saying. “Remember, you owe me.”

They shuffle along more quickly now that Jason has spotted Richard’s truck, but Tim’s mind feels like concrete. Slow and sluggish and heavy with trepidation and he can’t even think. Can’t even comprehend what’s really going on. He lets himself be pulled along because apparently his motor functions don’t get the friggen memo to stop for a second and figure out what the heck am I doing, oh gosh, oh no, this is bad, abort! ABORT!

“Oh my god, Dick, I see you. I hear you. Stop hanging outta the window like a maniac, it’s embarrassing,” Jason announces, just as loudly as Richard had been a moment ago and not looking embarrassed about it in the slightest. He pulls open the passenger door of the truck just as Richard slides back into the driver's seat and motions with his head. “Timmy, this is my brother, Dick. Dick, this is Tim. He’s jumpy, so fucking behave.”

Tim has no idea why, but there’s an underlying threat somewhere in there, not pointed at Tim himself, he’s pretty sure. An unsaid ‘or else’ that years of fancy galas and social events with his parents have trained him to notice, to act upon if needed, but if Richard feels threatened he doesn’t show it. 

“Hiya Tim, nice to meet you! Jay has told me a little about you,” Richa- Dick, grins, like that little statement isn’t absolutely mind blowing. Why would Jason talk about him? Tim barely has the mental capacity to remember his manners and nod his head in greeting before Dick pats the middle seat next to him expectantly, like he’s wanting Tim to get into the car with them. “Jay, that’s a quarter.”

“Fuck you, you’re not B or Alfred, you can’t just swear jar police me on a boy’s day out. That’s against the code,” Jason shoots back, all but manhandling Tim into the car and waiting for Tim to shuffle in awkwardly and slide his backpack off so that he has it plastered to his chest, before crawling in beside Tim and slamming the door. “That’s, like, illegal. Against the law. You give me a quarter.”

Dick laughs and it’s brilliant, making the dimples cornering his mouth pop. “Against the law? What are you even saying right now?”

I’m being kidnapped, Tim thinks a half a second too late, as Dick waits for them to buckle up before putting the truck into gear and slowly pulling out onto one of the side streets. I’m super, totally being kidnapped right now.

“You know, like, the sibling code. You cover when someone sneaks out or gets blackout drunk at a party. If you don’t label your food in the fridge then it’s fair game. You don’t snitch on me to Alfred or B. Sibling code.”

“First I’m hearing about any of this.”

“Fight club rules. You don’t talk about the code. You just know it. Instinctively. Like, in your heart or whatever.”

“Ok, so all I know instinctively is that you have definitely never seen Fight Club.”

Tim feels like he might throw up. Or pass out. Or cry. Or do all three simultaneously which would be embarrassing, if not completely mortifying. 

Sickening thoughts begin to swirl in the fog that is Tim’s thoughts and he grips his backpack with a white knuckled grip. 

Does Dick somehow remember him from that night? Does he want to get back at Tim for what he’s done and somehow roped Jason into helping him? If Tim apologizes, like really apologizes, will he forgive Tim? Will he let Tim go?

Because Tim has only ever been kidnapped once before, (which was insane in and of itself to admit, because Tim hadn’t thought real life people could be kidnapped. He thought it was only something that happened to rich people in, like, comic books and action movies) sometime around January earlier in the year and he… 

He doesn’t really want to think too hard about what happened then. 

It wasn’t a great time. He made it home alive, but only barely and he… 

And he really should stop thinking about it. 

But sitting here, squeezed between Jason and Dick’s sides, hot air blasting from the console and faint pop music filling in the gaps between the older boy’s banter, Tim is surprised about how… well… how not scared he is. He definitely still feels like throwing up, but he’s not panicking as much as he definitely should be and that's-

That’s extremely concerning. Is he going insane? Is this how Stockholm Syndrome works? He doesn’t think this is how Stockholm Syndrome works, but he should definitely not be this relaxed about his second kidnapping, considering how poorly his first one went. If he ever makes it back home, he might have to reevaluate his own self preservation skills. And maybe look up what Stockholm Syndrome is. 

“Thanks for coming with us on such short notice,” Dick says, pulling Tim out of his more spiraling thoughts, causing him to flinch at the sudden invite into conversation. If Dick or Jason notice though, they kindly didn’t say anything about it. “I didn’t realize our vouchers were only good till the end of the week, and I need to be back in Blüdhaven before Friday ‘cause I have this huge criminal justice essay that I have absolutely not started yet, so this really helps us. Your parents don’t mind too much, right? I don’t think we’ll be out for more than a couple of hours, but it is a school night, so I can always give them a call if you’d like.”

Tim did not like that, at all actually, even if this was a legit kidnapping, which he was starting to think it wasn’t, because… huh. Interesting. Tim didn’t think kidnappers would worry about him staying out too late on a school night, much less offer to call his parents to ask about it. (Not like his parents would answer in the first place. They weren’t very helpful the last time he was kidnapped either.)

“Oh, uh, no- thank you, sir. But it’s alright, they don’t mind,” Tim says automatically, because he remembers Jason’s threat of ‘ playing along ’, whatever that meant, and he can feel Jason’s shoulders against his side loosen back up from when they tensed at the mention of Tim’s parents. “Thank you for, um, inviting me out. It’s very kind of you.”

“So polite,” Dick mutters under his breath, flashing Tim a quick smile, eyes sparkling with something Tim couldn’t quite catch, before turning his attention back on the street. “Absolutely kiddo. And you can just call me Dick. I know, weird name, but it’s one of the only ones I got.”

“You could always go by Richard, you know,” Jason replies, loosening up his uniform tie before he slides it off completely, stuffing it into one of the side pockets of his backpack. “Or, like, Richie. Would probably make your life easier.”

“Do I look like a Richie to you?” Dick raises a skeptical eyebrow, and Jason smiles that crooked smile of his that Tim recognizes as his ‘I’m gonna see how many shrimp hors d'oeuvres I can fit into this annoying rich guy's pocket before Bruce Wayne catches me ’ look from the few galas they’ve both attended.

“Oh, yeah, no, you’re right. You definitely look more like a Dick anyway.”

Dick breathes a sigh through his nose, but it’s light and filled with a genuine sense of humor more than annoyance. “Ok, that was too easy, even for you. You can do better than that.”

“Well, if you loosen your tyrannical hold on the swear jar tax, I’m sure I could come up with a few other creative choices you can use.”

“Thanks Jay, that’s extremely unhelpful.”

“You’re welcome. Never said I was trying to help.”

“How are you even friends with him, Tim?” Dick rolls his eyes, shaking his head a little in exasperation. “He’s such a brat.”

“I'm a goddamn delight,” Jason defends at the same time Tim says, “He’s really nice, actually. He really helped me out.”

Jason shoots Tim a capital L Look™ that Tim is expertly avoiding, hugging his backpack tight to his chest. He just needs to play along, right? Tim can do that. Tim is great at doing just that; at acting like everything is fine. Janet Drake was a professional when it came to charming her way into, out of; and through any conversation with the grace and practiced ease of a high class socialite. Tim had learned from the best. 

“Oh, yeah, with that English essay, right? Jay told us a little about it.” Dick says.

Same, Tim thinks, and he can still feel Jason’s heavy gaze on him but Tim is carefully ignoring him, deciding that the various stickers plastered on Dick’s dashboard are much more interesting to look at. He plays a mental game of trying to figure which are the oldest by comparing how faded and worn they are. He clocks a particular Gotham Pride sticker that looks a bit older than the others, considering the edges are peeling a bit and puts it in second place, right behind a sticker of a cartoon bat that looks so worn out and sun bleached, he can’t tell what expression the bat is making. Tim’s betting his allowance on grumpy.

“I don’t know where I’d be if Jason hadn’t offered to help. He really saved my skin,” Tim admits truthfully, because even though he said he’d play along, Tim has never felt comfortable lying, even by omission. And an uncomfortable itch settles under his skin at the thought of lying to Dick of all people.

So he instead wants to say how genuine and funny Jason is. How the older boy has made him laugh countless times when he catches sight of Jason at a public event, making obnoxious faces and rude gestures behind the backs of prestigious socialites and government officials just to get Dick or Mr. Wayne to crack a smile. They rarely break, but Tim has found himself more than once having to excuse himself to the bathroom or a far enough corner so he can hide how much he’s giggling like an idiot and not be an embarrassment to the Drake name.

Tim also wants to confess how kind and considerate Jason is, current kidnapping notwithstanding. How he had no obligation to help Tim out of that storage closet over a week ago, and even when he did, he certainly had no obligation to stay with Tim and talk him down from his spiraling, fever-inducing anxiety attack. And he really, truly, certainly didn’t have to be considerate enough to give Tim his jacket and rub smooth circles into his back and smile at him all soft and warm and not like some idiot little kid that got himself stuck in the first place. 

Jason didn’t have to care. 

But he did. He cared about Tim in a way that Tim is wholly not used to receiving, definitely not from a stranger and definitely not from the teenager Tim has been quietly idolizing for the past three years. And even though they are currently in some stalemate about the consequences of letting Jason care a little too much about Tim, Tim is self aware enough to know that even if it would really suck for him and cause a whole slew of problems if Jason had told on him, he knew it would have been coming from a thoughtful place. 

Jason was good like that. Tim could tell even with only having officially met him twice. 

And it’s because he’s only officially met the older boy twice, that he carefully keeps all of that stalkerish information to himself, tucks it away in his chest under lock and key and instead says, “I like hanging out with him. I, um, I owe him a lot.”

After a few, quiet seconds, Tim keeping his attention solely on the dashboard before him, he hears a soft, approving hum come from Dick and feels Jason shuffle beside him, leaning against his shoulder a little more.

“Well that’s good. I’m glad you two are friends. He can be a bit too much-,”

“-Your face is too much-”

“-sometimes, but he means well,” Dick says, tapping Tim’s shoulder with his elbow lightly and giving him a small, genuine smile when Tim looks up at him. “I’m glad he has a nice kid like you hanging around him. Maybe your politeness will rub off on him.”

Tim feels a warmth spread to the back of his neck and up his ears with Dick’s words, a heated, burning shame making him blush. Tim doesn’t think he’s very nice.

He’s polite, sure. He knows his manners and he knows how to play the agreeable, satisfactory, quiet role that his parents expect of him, but he’s not nice. He’s not kind. He doesn’t do anything out of the goodness of his heart. He blackmails kids into keeping his secrets. 

He’s not a good kid, like Jason. And he kind of hates himself for tricking Jason’s older brother into thinking otherwise. 

“Or maybe my frankly brilliant sense of humor and dazzling personality, that I give to you all for free, by the way, and yet you still try to charge me for it, will rub off on him . Ever think about that?” Jason maneuvers an arm around the back of Tim’s head to flick Dick in the shoulder. 

The momentary brush of Jason’s palm against the back of Tim’s neck sparks an involuntary flinch out of him, and Tim tries to play it off as him leaning forward so that he can scratch his ankle. Tim really needs to stop being so dang fidgety every time someone touches or talks to him. His mother would make him sit on his hands if he noticed how much Tim was squirming in his own seat.

Dick laughs like it’s easier than breathing, and tries to swat Jason’s hands away with a free hand that isn’t holding onto the steering wheel. “Man, you keep bringing this up- are you still mad about Alfie implementing the swear jar penalty? It’s only been a few weeks, dude.”

“My constitutional right to free speech is being obstructed by a goddamn pay wall, dude.”

“It’s a quarter, Jay.”

“It’s highway robbery.”

“It’s a quarter!”

Jason keeps his arm slug across Tim’s shoulders, and Tim knows it’s just for easier flicking-Dick-in-the-arm reach, he knows, but it does something funny to his chest all the same. It’s like little electric ants crawling on the inside of his skin, tingling and tickling and it’s a sensation Tim kind of wants to chase for the rest of his life.

His body naturally leans into the older boy, just a fraction, just a little tiny bit, and for just that little tiny bit, he can almost, almost pretend it’s a side hug. 

Tim can’t really remember the last time someone hugged him, and- woah, that’s a thought that strikes him completely out of nowhere and leaves a ridiculously hollow feeling echoing against his rib cage. He’s gotten a few gentle taps on his back from his mother over the past years, one or two shoulder squeezes from his father, a pat on the head every once and awhile from Mrs. Mac, but nothing quite as intimate as this.

It’s nice, Tim thinks, softly, slowly, and it’s only through sheer will power that he stops himself from fully sinking into Jason’s side, limiting himself to just letting the two boys invade his personal space and squeeze Tim in between them as much as they want. And if that’s only as much as what will allow them to have better access to smack each other, then it will just have to do.

Don’t be weird. Don’t be selfish, Tim reminds himself, and the voice in his head sounds more like his father’s than his own, but that just makes it easier to comply with and follow along.

Jason, from what Tim is slowly gathering as the older boy continues to lean into him, bumping his chest against Tim’s shoulder, runs hot. His body heat feels like a furnace against Tim’s side, and it does a good job of burning away and warming that somewhat hollow feeling inside Tim’s chest. The ants continue to buzz happily under his skin.

He spends the rest of the car ride in comfortable silence, enjoying the warmth and the brothers’ lighthearted antagonizing and hopes that whatever secondary location they are taking Tim, it takes just a little bit longer to get there.