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On November 2nd, at 5:47 am, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne was the only living soul within Gotham Cemetery.
At that time, good little vigilantes were at home in bed. The annual Halloween shitshow had been a Riddler joint this year, which was, in the grand scheme of things, not so bad. Nygma was in custody and there were no recorded deaths. Still, Tim had been puzzle solving for the last 32 hours, and his overworked brain had him feeling a little hazy.
It was good, though, that things got wrapped up in time this year. Well, mostly in time. Tim was late for los Angelitos , but that was alright. This was more about honor and tradition than it was the spirit of a boy long gone, and every time that Tim had missed it, it itched at his skin, just a little.
He had cleaned the grave as well as he could, and had the little altar set up. It was the only ofrenda in sight: Gotham had a thriving immigrant population, but they didn’t tend to be buried on this side of town. All there was left to do was arrange the flowers, and then Tim would go. He would come back that night, after any mourners were gone, and take it all back down. (It didn’t feel like enough.)
“What the hell are you doing here?” a familiar mechanized voice asked from behind him, and Tim jumped and spun, marigolds still clutched in his fist.
There stood the Red Hood, fully kitted out in his gear, looking down at Tim still half crouched in front of Jason Todd’s grave.
The first thing that Tim’s overworked, sleep deprived, delusional and apparently stupid brain came up with was, holy shit, it worked?
Then he remembered that marigolds probably didn’t actually call out to spirits, and, more importantly, that Jason was alive, not dead.
Tim was in civilian garb, jeans and a t-shirt with a worn out band logo. Obviously Tim Drake-Wayne wasn’t meant to be in the cemetery while it was closed, but it would be less problematic to get in trouble for that than for a Robin to be caught tending Jason Todd’s grave. Regardless, at that moment, he was wishing for the suit anyways. It would be nice to have it – the armor, the mask. He was feeling vulnerable, and more than a little exposed.
Tim straightened, and tried to think of something to say. He knew that he needed to explain himself. But he couldn’t find it in him to start.
Red Hood was staring, impossible to read. Jason was so expressive that sometimes body language was enough with him (“incandescent with rage” was usually pretty clear,) but the helmet did a great job of erasing nuance. Tim had no idea what he was thinking.
Lucky, then, that he reached up to unlatch the hood and slid it off, tucking it under his arm and revealing a mocking smirk. “Aw, did you bring me flowers, Replacement?” he asked. “How cute.”
“Yeah,” Tim said, before he could think better of it, because he had, hadn't he? Everything here was for Jason, if one took the tradition literally. “Here.” He thrust out the orange flowers, still bunched together in something of a bouquet.
Jason took them, seemingly on reflex, awkwardly having to gather the loose stems. His expression had gone blank. His eyes were still covered by a mask, but Tim saw his head twitch minutely in a way that meant his gaze was flickering around. He could be looking at Tim, or the flowers, or the colorful altar set at the feet of a stone angel.
Jason turned towards the grave and took a step forwards, examining something. “Where the fuck did you get that picture?” he asked.
Tim looked, as well. The ofrenda he'd set up was perhaps overly simplistic. There was a little wooden platform that Tim had bought secondhand (he thought it may have begun life as a shoe rack) with a bright purple cloth laid over it. On either end were two candles, yet to be lit, and in the center was a copy of Emma stolen from the Wayne family library, placed so that the spine faced outwards. A plain picture frame sat atop the book, and within was a photo of Jason at age 15. Also on the raised level were a pack of #2 pencils, a few of them carefully sharpened and pulled partially out of the cardboard to display them, and a little statuette of a robin that Tim hadn't been able to resist.
Below that, on the surface of the grave, Tim had laid out squares of cut paper that he'd gotten a couple of years ago from a local artist downtown. They were brightly colored – orange, blue, purple, and pink – and featured designs of flowers and skulls. On top of those were the offerings. Two warm lumps wrapped in tinfoil, a strawberry milkshake, and a pack of the cigarettes that Tim used to see Robin pull out on quiet nights.
The photo was a candid that had been cropped to the head and shoulders. Jason was outside, with a grey-blue sky and the bare branches of a tree making up the background. He was wearing his school uniform, and the straps of his backpack were visible. He was laughing. His head was tilted back, his grin was wide, and his eyes squinted nearly shut. That captured moment was infectiously joyous.
Tim shrugged, trying to play nonchalant. “It's just a stalker shot,” he said.
Jason made a point of looking over at Tim. “Hey, Timbit,” he said, drawing out the words, “what in the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He sounded genuinely baffled.
Tim felt his eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, I thought you knew that I used to, um,” he fumbled over his words in discomfort, not prepared for how embarrassing this was to explain, “I used to, you know, follow you around and take pictures.” Then, realizing what he'd just implied, he added, “As Batman and Robin! I followed Batman and Robin around. Not, um, civilian you. This one–” he gestured towards the photo “–was a coincidence.”
Tim remembered it. He'd just been learning how to skateboard, and was practicing stability by going down the sidewalk, when he happened to see Jason getting out of school late. On pure instinct, he stopped himself, and with steady, quiet hands, pulled out his camera. He was across the street from the school, and managed to go unnoticed.
Dick was there, waiting by leaning against his car pulled up to the curb. Tim didn't hear what the man said, but the laugh that bubbled up out of Jason in response was loud and brilliant and perfect. Tim had snapped the picture before he remembered himself and got back on his board, his heart in his throat. When he developed it, he could barely believe what an amazing shot it ended up being.
It felt sort of messed up for Tim to have it, but there was no way he'd ever get rid of it. He remembered the moment perfectly whenever he saw it – the crisp air in late autumn, the ringing sound of Jason's laugh, the sight of a grin that Tim usually only saw behind a mask. A younger Tim would stare at that photo, kept carefully separate from the ones he had of vigilantes for plausible deniability's sake, and remember that Robin wasn't just a hero, or a legend, but a real, living person.
Jason had died less than six months after that picture was taken.
Jason, sounding thoughtful and a little cautious, said, “Dick showed me that Batman file you gave him when you met, the one with all the photos, but I never thought it was a long standing thing.” He paused, then asked, “You have pictures of me as Robin?”
“Yeah,” Tim said, mostly just grateful to have the stalker topic dropped. “One second.”
It was probably stupid, but if Jason wanted to see one of his photos, Tim wasn't going to deny him. He picked up the frame sitting on the ofrenda and flipped it over. He removed the back panel, and then performed the trick that unlocked the secret compartment inside. Tim slid the picture free and held it out for Jason to see.
This was a younger Jason of 13. It was slightly out of focus, and Tim lamented his amateurism at the time, but he liked what it represented. Robin was mid-swing on a grapple, flying through the air in an almost seated position with his legs stretched straight out in front of him. With the blurriness and the action smears, he looked like a wild thing, all vibrant color and streaming black hair. His expression was still parseable, though, his teeth bared in a manic grin.
He looked free.
Jason reached out for the photo, and Tim let him take it, pinching it between careful fingers. He stared down at it, expression unreadable. “What the hell,” he said in a flat tone. He glanced up at Tim, then went back to the picture, as if he didn’t want to take his eyes off it. “You took this? How? When?”
Tim cleared his throat and looked away. “I started mapping out Bruce's patrol routes when I was 10, mostly from police reports and online sightings. Then I found spots in the city to post up where I knew Batman and Robin were likely to pass by. 4 out of 5 nights, I got nothing, and even when I lucked into seeing you, the pictures were usually garbage. But every once in a while…” he shrugged. “I'd have my camera set up just right.”
“That’s…” Jason shook his head and snorted in amusement, handing the photo back to Tim. “That’s insane. How the hell did we not notice a 10 year old stalker?”
Tim smiled slightly. “How did you think I got so good at stake-outs?”
“You’re a little creep,” Jason concluded, but he didn’t say it overly unkindly, so Tim figured it was fine. He slipped the photo back into its hidden spot and placed the frame back where it belonged. It drew Jason’s attention to the altar, and he crouched down in front of it.
It was sort of surreal, having Jason here. Here lies Jason Todd, the inscription said, but it wasn't true. Here squatted Jason Todd, on grass that grew above his own broken coffin, peering at the symbols and offerings that Tim had brought for him.
Jason broke the silence, saying, “Bruce and I used to do this for my mom.”
Tim couldn’t help but awkwardly shift his weight. “I know,” he said. “He, um–” the words didn’t want to come out, no matter how much Tim tried to restructure them in his mouth, so he had to just force them “–after you died, he used to do it here. But he stopped when you came back.”
Jason straightened up and nodded, still facing down towards the pedestal. “Makes sense.” He looked sidelong at Tim, and gestured at the small attempt he’d made. “So what’s all this shit, then?”
Tim scrubbed a hand through the back of his hair, messing it up. “I just– I didn’t like– it felt wrong.” He gave himself time for a breath. “It felt like somebody should do it. So I decided I would.”
“You put all this together?” Jason asked.
Tim nodded, not looking at him.
They stood there for an interminable moment. Then Jason said, “You’re doing it wrong.”
It would've been less hurtful if he had socked Tim across the jaw. This wasn't… it wasn't for Tim. Or, it wasn't supposed to be. There were several ways in which he knew he had no right. Hearing it straight from Jason, though, knowing he'd failed at this, it was hard.
Jason added, “You can't just hang out alone in the dark. You know that it's supposed to be a celebration, right?” He sat down in the grass on one side of the grave.
Tim, slowly and cautiously, also sat, in the spot across from Jason. “Yeah?” he said in a questioning tone, hoping to prompt more.
“Yeah,” Jason said. “I think of it as a celebration of a person's life.” He reached over and grabbed one of the bundles of foil. “You're supposed to tell stories about them – funny ones, if you have ‘em.” He seemed to remember where he was, and he looked up at the stone angel who'd been meant to watch over his rest with the beginnings of a scowl. “I guess I don't have a great memory for those.”
He started to unwrap the several careful layers of aluminum that Tim had applied, and he went from dour to lighting up when he found the chili dog prize inside. “Oh shit, is this from Big Tully's cart?”
Tim grabbed the second chili dog, mostly for lack of anything else to do with his hands. “Yeah, it is,” he said. “I used to hang out near there at the end of your patrols. I'm pretty sure Bruce wanted it to be, like, a special treat? A reward if you did a good job and a pick-me-up if something went really wrong. But you were there a lot of nights.” He picked at the foil wrapping and felt his lips turn up a bit. “I think you got really good at arguing you deserved it.”
Jason gave an amused snort. “Guess I did.” He started in on the chili dog, taking a messy bite.
Tim looked away from him and his eye caught on the cigarette carton. He said, “I actually have a lot of pictures of you smoking.”
Jason coughed. “What?”
Tim nodded. “You had a few spots you liked to take a break at during your solo patrols. It was an easy way to catch you keeping still.”
“That was supposed to be a secret,” Jason told him with an exaggerated frown. “Robin can't be a bad influence on the kiddies, y'know?”
“I'm sure I'm the only one who noticed,” Tim assured him. “That, and there was that one gargoyle you used to talk to–”
Jason interrupted by shoving his knee. “Eat your damn chili dog,” he said.
Tim did, though it made him wish he had a napkin. Jason followed suit, and drank the milkshake, too.
Eventually, Jason said, “I never liked it here.”
Tim swallowed a bite. “No? Then why'd you come here tonight?” he asked.
Jason shrugged. “Was just passing by and saw you,” he said. “Got curious. Couldn't think of what you were doing.”
“I used to come by a lot, actually,” Tim admitted. “Back when I became Robin. To, um, to talk.” He looked down at his hands, crumpling messy foil between them. “Feels pretty stupid now,” he said wryly. “You weren't even here.”
It was quiet for a moment. Then Jason cleared his throat and said, “I mean, it's still a better spot than Bruce's stupid-ass memorial in the cave.
Tim agreed. “That thing is deeply morbid.”
“I mean, my biggest problem with this place is that she's here,” Jason said, scowling and gesturing over his shoulder.
“Oh,” Tim said, “ I thought that– that you two connected. I'm sorry, Jason, that sucks.”
Jason sighed heavily. “B didn't share that tidbit, huh? Forget it. I don't want to talk about it now.” Jason glanced at the cigarettes on the grave stone, then seemed to shudder and think better of it. “You should light the candles,” he mentioned offhandedly.
“Right, I forgot,” Tim said. He did, Jason watching him the whole time.
“I'm not even actually Mexican,” Jason suddenly said. “Catherine and I weren't related. Sheila was second-generation Colombian.”
Tim looked at the candle he'd just lit, thinking. Then he told Jason, “I'm not… I'm probably not the right person to say this, but I don't think she can take that from you. Your culture, I mean. Not anymore than she can make Catherine Todd stop being your mom.”
“Huh,” Jason said. Then he looked over at Tim. “What about you?” he asked. “How come you aren't the ‘right person?’”
“I mean, I'm pretty white,” Tim said. “My mom was an immigrant, but we never really talked about her heritage. When she was around, she was more interested in everyone else's history. And Dad was the sort of white American where all the culture got sucked out generations ago.”
“Where was your mom from?” Jason asked.
“Russia,” Tim told him. “She was half Armenian, though.”
“Damn,” Jason said, something close to reverence in his tone, “no wonder she looked like that.”
“That's stereotyping,” Tim admonished with a small smile. “She was really pretty, though. Sometimes I wished I turned out blonde like her.”
Jason examined him. “Nah, that'd be weird,” he decided. “You're fine as is.”
Tim was glad when Jason looked away to tuck his crumpled ball of foil into a pocket, because he couldn't help but be flustered by that.
Then, Jason picked back up the bundle of marigolds and made it ten times worse.
“Wow,” he said, running a finger over the petals. “You got me dinner, brought me flowers, and admitted to stalking me.” He grinned. “You trying to ask me out, Timbo?”
“Um–” Tim needed to think of a witty response to that, immediately. Instead, his mind went completely blank. The more seconds that ticked by, the more heat he felt pooling in his cheeks, and ears, and the back of his neck.
Jason was staring at him. “You're shitting me,” he said.
“I– I didn't say anything!” Tim protested, feeling pathetic. “And I'm not asking you out,” he added in a grumble, staring down at his lap and knowing that it wasn't helping his case.
It felt like a long while that they sat there in silence. Tim was beyond mortified. Not only had he ruined the best conversation he'd ever managed to have with Jason, he'd also let it slip that he was crushing on a guy who'd never given him the time of day. Jason must think he was an idiot.
Then he heard Jason let out a whistle. “Would you look at that,” he said.
Tim lifted his head.
The sun was a rare sight in Gotham, and a sunrise even moreso. But on a day like this, the smog and pollutants of the normally overcast urban sky made the golds and oranges of the morning rays even more brilliant. The undersides of clouds shone with color, lighting up the graveyard like a plot of land in heaven. The angel on Jason's tomb was half covered in the long shadow of a building, her face and one wing in darkness, and Tim thought that she looked both ethereal and grief stricken. The effect of light and shadow made him itch for a camera.
Jason, too, almost looked like he was glowing, with sun like liquid gold passing through his short curls and bouncing off his face and arms. Tim couldn't help but be captivated by him.
Jason turned away from the light to look back down at Tim, and their eyes locked together for a long moment.
Then Jason said, “I'm gonna go see my mom later today.”
Tim nodded. That was good.
Jason broke eye contact and looked forward again. “You should come with. Or wait, actually, I need to make pozole for her.” He scratched at the stubble of two long nights growing on his jaw. “You know where my place is on St. Elizabeth's?”
“Um, yeah, I do,” Tim answered, words faltering as he tried and failed to understand what was going on.
“Come by at seven,” Jason ordered. “We'll cook and then head out to the church cemetery. Bring your stuff and you can just leave for patrol afterwards.”
“You… you want me there?” Tim asked, looking for some clarification as to why .
Jason looked off into the light of the rising sun. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, all he said was, “Yeah.”
Then he shifted, and started to stand. Tim instinctively followed his lead, rising with him. Jason turned around, his shadowed face looking down on the pedestal of his grave – the simplistic engraving, and the meager offerings Tim had decorated it with. He was still holding the bundle of flowers Tim had foisted on him, and, as Tim watched, he plucked a single stem out of the collection and laid the bloom in front of the smiling photo resting there.
Jason glanced over at Tim. His shoulders looked a bit stiff when he shrugged and said, “For the kid.”
It could’ve made Tim sad. It probably wasn’t healthy for Jason to treat his past self like a different person. Or maybe it was good, to acknowledge it and move on. Tim didn’t know. If he was being honest, though, he thought that it was sort of sweet. He smiled up at Jason.
Jason looked at Tim for a long moment. Then he pivoted, facing him squarely, and Tim got a glimpse of a determined look on his face. Jason was swift, when he made a decision to act. Tim barely had time to feel a stabilizing hand on his shoulder before Jason was ducking down. The touch was fleeting – a quick press of lips upon lips.
Tim had been awake for nearly two days straight. He did not have enough brain power to react to this. He was hallucinating. He was having an out of body experience. He was watching Jason spin around and grab for his helmet, and he could swear that when the cherry red metal went over his head, the brief look that Tim caught of his face was nearly the same color.
Jason, hidden behind his mask, turned back to Tim. “I'll see you later today,” he said, and Tim wasn't sure if it was meant to be a statement or a question.
Tim swallowed. “I– yeah. I'll be there.”
A minute amount of tension lifted from Jason's armored shoulders. “Good,” he said. Without another word or look, he headed off, walking with purpose towards the graveyard's exit.
Tim watched him go. Then he looked down at the ofrenda . There was Jason, eyes crinkled in joy, lit by the candles and the sun and adorned by a single flor de muerto in full bloom. Tim touched his fingers to his lips, mimicking that brief pressure, and smiled back at him.