Work Text:
When Tim dies, he does so quietly and neatly and without remark. There’s no sense in making a fuss when no one is around to witness it. There’s no sense in making a mess when he won’t be there afterwards to clean it up. He struggles a bit, so it’s inevitable that a book or two makes its way to the floor, but it really just blends in with the normal state of disarray, and it’s his things anyways; no one will be too upset.
He stuffs his body (a mannequin found in a dumpster) into a trash bag, adds a few rocks, and then heaves the whole thing into the trunk of the dilapidated Subaru, bought from a guy on a street corner for $5000. Then he pulls his hood over his head, pulls on the too-big boots (stuffed with newspaper to give him some height), and climbs into the drivers side, and heads into the city.
The bag he dumps off Crown Point Bridge, over the fastest running current of Gotham River. The car he brings to a chop-shop, leaving it with a bribe and an (empty) threat on the windshield to ensure that it’s destroyed first thing in the morning. Then he slips into a condemned building, changes his outfit from sketchy murderer to invisible stalker, and spends the rest of the night trailing Batman and Robin, snapping pictures and trying to ignore the butterflies flapping away in his stomach.
Tim knows what he’s doing is potentially dangerous. He knows his parents might get in trouble, he knows he might get in trouble, but the thing is. The thing is, Tim’s bored. And he thinks he might be smarter than all the criminals combined, because he’s watched the shows and read the case files, and he sees the mistakes and he knows, long before he’s reached the end, exactly what happened and where it went wrong.
But he also knows that it’s only obvious in hindsight, and the criminals must be under a lot of stress, and if he really wants to condemn them for their stupidity, he’ll have to walk a mile in their shoes. He’ll have to prove to himself that he’s not crazy, and that these things really are simple. So he had done his research and crafted a plan, and orchestrated the murder of one Timothy Jackson Drake.
He has to wait nine days before the police arrive.
He watches from behind the stone wall as they take Mrs. Mac’s statement. He waits with bated breath as they try again and again to reach his parents - but he’s also planned for this, and so he isn’t surprised when the call doesn’t go through (he’s not disappointed either, nope). Because his parents are on a dig in the Sahara, and won’t be reachable for at least another two months.
And then when the police tape up the door and get back in their cruiser, he takes his bike and pedals like he never has before, racing through the woods and dodging branches and roots to make it in record time to the property of Bruce Wayne, AKA Batman, AKA the World’s Greatest Detective (AKA Tim’s neighbor).
Alfred opens the door, expression growing grimmer and grimmer until he steps back, inviting the officers inside.
Tim pulls out his binoculars, and settles in to watch.
Whatever conversation they have, it isn’t very long. Bruce invites the officers to his study, and then they all stand stiffly by the desk, just... talking. It isn’t very exciting. One of the officers is taking notes, and Alfred comes back after a moment with a tray of tea and cookies, but besides that there’s nothing much to see. That’s okay though. This is just the beginning, just a necessary step in Tim’s elaborate plan. This is getting Bruce’s attention. This is letting Batman know that a crime was committed not one mile from where he lives.
This is Tim, pretty much murdering someone on Batman’s home turf.
This is where it starts to get exciting.
“I thought it was a summer home.” Jason says, standing in the middle of the room with a lost expression beneath his mask, arms crossed against his chest. “I thought no one lived here.”
“See what you can get from the security footage.” Bruce says, instead of agreeing. Instead of saying Yes or I thought that too or I should have known better. He looks at the organized chaos of the room, so familiar to him after nearly fourteen years of raising his own boys. He sees the desk, homework scattered across it with barely legible notes scribbled on the pages. He sees the empty hamper, and the piles of clothes rising like mountains from the floor. He sees photos scattered over every surface, little windows to little worlds captured by a discerning eye. He sees the posters taped to the wall, music and movies and superheros. His own image stares out at him from the boy’s closet door, a shadow in the dark, filled with condemnation.
Because among the chaos, there are signs of a struggle. Books, face down with the pages crumpled against the floorboards; sheets twisted, half on the bed, half off; a smattering of the child’s - Timothy’s - blood, marked with tape.
There’s only one security camera on the property, watching the front door and the drive. Jason comes back with a flashdrive, and they both watch the grainy footage of a small figure enter through the front door. A woman, or a man of small stature? Another child, perhaps a false friend? Bruce has known such things to happen, although he hates to consider it. They enter the home, and then half an hour later they exit again, a bag slung across their back. Jason lets out a small sound to his right, and Bruce knows he’ll have nightmares as something heavy settles in his stomach.
There’s no doubt as to what - or rather who - is in the bag.
It’s been nine days since the initial kidnapping. It’s been nine days and the police haven’t been able to get ahold of the Drakes, and there’s been no evidence of a ransom note. Looking at the footage, Bruce has to wonder if this isn’t a kidnapping at all.
Later, back in the cave, they track the car through the streets of Gotham. They track it to Crown Point Bridge (where the bag - the body - is dumped), and then to Willy’s Autoworks, where the car is crushed the very next day.
“I didn’t know.” Jason says, tone almost desperate as he watches the footage over Bruce’s shoulder. “Bruce, I... we have to get them. We have to.”
“We will.” Bruce says.
There had been a child living not one mile away. A boy who liked music and photography and superheros, who had lived life so quietly that not even Bruce - not even Alfred - had noticed he was there.
That boy - Timothy - had died, and no one had noticed.
Well. Someone is noticing now.
Things are going well. It’s a little hard to keep up sometimes, because of how careful he has to be, but Tim is managing. Crammed into the old oak’s hollow trunk, or tucked away behind the stonewall, or clinging to the wall of the manor, Tim follows Batman and Robin, and watches as they find all the clues and watch all the footage he left, and come to all the right conclusions. It’s fascinating. What Tim really wants is to be right there with them, but this is the next best thing. This will have to do.
It’s a game, and to be completely honest, Tim hadn’t expected to be playing this long. He still doesn’t expect to win - he’s playing against the World’s Greatest Detective, he’s playing against Robin - but he’s starting to get... not worried, but there may be a bit of a reality check coming up around the next corner, and he’s a little hesitant to get there.
Because he can’t be dead forever. His parents are coming back, for one, and he wants to be alive and well for them when they arrive. He also has school which, while he doesn’t actually attend, is very important to still be enrolled in. And as soon as someone decides that Timothy Drake died (despite the lack of a body) he will be unenrolled not only from school, but from life itself. His birth certificate will become a death certificate. He needs his birth certificate.
So he’s not worried, he’s just - a little cautious, maybe, of the future.
He’s having fun camping, at least. Sometimes it’s on a roof in Gotham, and sometimes it’s on his property or the Waynes, but either way he’s doing very well at not getting caught. This, at least, Tim knows he’s good at. He can be sneaky, and quiet, and invisible, and he knows better than anyone that out of sight is out of mind, and out of mind is good.
It’s good. This is something Tim likes being good at.
Two weeks since Timothy Drake disappeared, three weeks since Tim executed his own murder, Tim has come to the conclusion that criminals really are stupid, because he is still somehow winning - until he’s not. Until suddenly he’s the stupid one, he’s the one making a mistake, and walking his bike through the woods and around a big tree and straight into Jason, tiptoeing his way through the underbrush.
“Oh!” Tim says, stopping cold.
“Hey.” Jason says, looking up in surprise. And then, louder, “Hey! You murdered Timothy Drake!”
I am Timothy Drake, is what Tim should have said. Or maybe What? No I didn’t. Instead he panics, and kicks his bike around, and jumps on it and starts pedaling for all he’s worth in the opposite direction.
“Hey, wait! Fuck. Come back, you coward!”
Tim doesn’t wait. He doesn’t go back, swerving through the trunks and bumping over the roots and skidding around ditches and stumps. He jumps over fallen trees, always conscious of Jason following in his wake, because while he has an advantage - he knows these woods like the back of his hand - Jason does too. Because Jason is Robin and Robin can fly, and apparently he has some of his equipment with him despite his civilian clothes. Jason uses his grapple to pull himself through the trees, and Tim wishes he could look back and admire his pursuer, but that would be dumb.
If Tim were thinking straight, he might also be able to appreciate this as the first chase scene of his criminal mastermind debut. As it is, he’s still a little focused on not messing up.
And then he messes up anyways, because he’s not dumb, and he’s not stupid, but Robin is chasing him through the trees, and he can’t help himself. He looks (and maybe he is a little dumb after all, because he considers, for a brief second, taking his camera from around his neck and snapping a picture). He looks, and Jason is right there, and Tim tries to dodge, swerving his bike, but the next thing he knows the wheels are skidding out beneath him and he’s being thrown to the ground, curling protectively around the camera and binoculars strapped to his chest.
“Gotcha!” Jason shouts, losing absolutely no momentum as he crashes into Tim.
And then the forest floor caves beneath them, decomposing leaves giving way over rotten boards and rusty nails, and Tim is falling, Jason still wrapped around him as they both plummet into sudden darkness.
When Jason doesn’t return, Bruce calls the police.
By the time they arrive on the property, Bruce is in bed and Batman is in the foyer, waiting with Alfred by the door.
“Master Wayne has always had a weak constitution, ever since he was a child.” Alfred explains solemnly to the leading officer. “I’m afraid he has been taken with worry for young Master Jason, and is quite unable to leave his room at the moment. I will answer all of your questions and endeavor to help in any way I can.”
“And what about him?” the officer asks, squinting up at Bruce.
“A favor.” Bruce growls, and leaves it at that.
They review security footage. Alfred offers familial information, and Batman makes observations that Bruce Wayne never could have, and buries his fear down deep where it can’t reach him. He tries to remind himself that Jason knows how to survive, that Bruce has taught him all these skills for a reason. That Jason was smart even before Bruce arrived in his life, and knows how to handle himself in dangerous situations.
Even if he should never have to, even if Bruce should have been there, should have been paying more attention -
“If this is the same guy who took the Drake kid, we could be looking at a serialist. There’s a type.”
- he should have noticed this. He should never have brought Jason onto the case, should never have even entertained the notion of letting him investigate alone, especially not with someone capable of and willing to kill children.
One child is already dead, and his own son is missing (but not dead, never dead). Bruce has a vague memory of Alfred telling him a story once, something about a man and a gem and a forest on fire. He thinks that if Alfred were to tell him that story again, he might understand it this time. He thinks that if there were ever a time to burn a forest to the ground, this would be it.
Tim wakes to a pounding headache, and someone pinching his cheeks.
“Go ‘way.” he mutters, flapping his hands at the offending appendage.
“You’re Timothy Drake.” Robin says, and Tim’s eyes snap open. He’s lying on his back, hard rocks stabbing into his arms and lower back, his backpack cushioning the rest. Far above him there’s a circle of light, but nearer (much nearer, actually) is a face that he can just make out, sharp features framed by dark curls.
It’s Jason. It’s Robin bending over him, pinching his cheek and watching with concern as he blinks groggily back up.
“You’re Robin.” Tim says, and then slowly, really enunciating because this time he’ll get it right, “I mean. You’re Jason Todd.”
Jason freezes. “I’m what?”
“I’m... I hit my head.” Everything’s swimming a bit. When Tim reaches back to probe at his head, his hand comes away coated in red. “I’m bleeding.”
“You’ve been out for a while.” Jason says, giving Tim an odd look but sitting back as Tim slowly pushes himself up. “You are Timothy though, right? You look like him. Like the pictures, I mean.”
“Yes.” Tim says, and then - “Oh! But I didn’t kill him! I mean, I didn’t kill myself. Or I tried not to. I’m alive. I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Yeah, I got that... sorry for chasing you. But you escaped the kidnapper? You got away?”
“No, I... ” Tim’s head is ringing. The darkness is swimming around them like some great serpent, tightening its coils and strangling them alive, and Jason isn’t making any sense. Tim isn’t making any sense either, but he has an excuse, at least. Thinking hurts. “No, I didn’t kill myself.”
Jason is silent for a minute, chewing on his lip as he stares at Tim, and then he sighs, reaching out to pat Tim’s head. “I think we’re in a cave,” he says. “I think I know a way out. Can you stand up?”
Tim stands. Everything hurts, but when he pats himself down and wiggles his toes, nothing feels broken. Just sore, and bruised, and in the case of his head, like a rag in a washer.
Camera. Tim’s hands fly to his chest, and when he looks down (ow) he’s immensely relieved to see that the camera is still intact. The binoculars are smashed, which is unfortunate - they technically belong to Jack Drake, and are hugely expensive - but Tim doubts they’ll be missed. He’s the only one to ever use them. There’s nothing fragile in his backpack, so he doesn’t bother swinging it around to check, and - Tim’s eyes catch on a glint of metal, and his stomach drops.
“Is that my bike?”
“Huh?” Jason asks, sounding strangely breathless. “Oh, yeah. Destroyed, dude. No way you’re getting that back.” He’s also standing, but even as Tim watches his face seems to drain of color, and he lists sideways, holding out a steadying arm.
“Broken arm.” Jason finally manages, when he catches Tim staring. “And ribs, I think. I took the brunt of the fall - which is good, actually, because I get broken ribs a-all the time. Like. This isn’t a big deal.”
It is a big deal. It’s a big deal when Jason can’t take a step without wincing, and it’s a big deal when he has Tim help him tie his jacket in a sling, and it’s an even bigger deal when he slings his good arm around Tim’s shoulder and says, “Do you have a flashlight in that bag of yours? It’s gonna get pretty dark before it gets light again.”
Tim does, in fact, have a flashlight. He’s also completely capable of supporting Jason and not just melting into a puddle at the contact. He just needs to communicate that to his brain, and his brain is currently weaving dizzy lines between his eyes. Fortunately Jason doesn’t seem to notice, because while Tim has a whole internal fanboy moment, Jason starts rambling on about caves and bats and underground networks and “I totally know the way, don’t worry about it.”
Tim doesn’t know how far they get, but two hours in, Jason calls a stop.
“Just - breathe - ow.” Jason gasps, letting Tim lower him gently to the ground. Tim’s head is pounding, and the way the flashlight beam is reflecting off the wet rocks is sending knives of pain through his head and neck. The bats fluttering by over their heads also isn’t helping matters. “We’ll just - take a quick - break.” Jason continues, sprawled on the floor and looking completely disinclined to ever move again.
“Here,” Tim says an hour later, passing Jason a granola bar and his bottle of water. “Did you know people die in caves?”
“Did you know people die in fancy houses in Bristol?” Jason shoots back, looking marginally better after their rest. “Seriously though. What happened?”
So Tim tells him. It’s not a very long story, and as Tim tells it he realizes it’s not a very exciting one. Jason listens with an increasingly incredulous expression, until finally Tim trails off, feeling suddenly guilty in the relative silence of the cave.
“But your parents are in Nigeria.” Jason finally says, face strangely lit by the light of the flashlight.
“Niger.”
“Your parents are in Niger.”
“They’re coming back though. They said they would.”
“Okay.” Jason says. “But, like, until then. Do you want to live with us? Just in case, you know, in case something happens.”
It occurs to Tim, in this moment, that he might be in heaven. That he might have actually died when he fell down that pit, and this is his own personal slice of Elysium - Batcave, Robin and all. Because there’s no way this is actually happening otherwise. There’s no way Jason - Robin - has just invited him to live with Bruce Wayne - Batman! - and there’s no way he’s about to say Yes.
“But nothing happened. I’m not murdered, or dead.”
“And that’s good,” Jason says patiently, reaching up to push his hair out of his eyes. (He is so cool. He is everything Tim aspires to be, everything he strives for) “Let’s keep it that way. So what do you say? Long term sleep-over?”
“Okay,” Tim says, because who’s he kidding? “Yeah.”
It takes them a total of twelve hours to reach the Batcave. Tim has managed to hold down exactly zero granola bars, and Jason manages to faint not once, but twice (which Tim is not to mention ever, under any circumstances, to anyone ever).
“I have a numb... Lorax.” Jason wheezes, his breath whistling in a way that makes Tim’s chest hurt in sympathy. “You have... con-concussion. Got it?”
“Mm.” Tim hums, trying to help Jason limp around the last boulder but mostly just managing to not trip on his own feet. “You think Batman will be mad, even though I didn’t kill myself?”
“Would you stop saying it like that?” Jason groans. “If anything he’ll be mad at me for... for knocking us down that hole and - cough - ow, fuck, the pneumo- um, pneumonia fax.”
They make it down the last bit of rough rock, and are just starting to slowly traverse the rows of old suits (Tim maybe lets them pause next to each one, letting Jason gather his breath as Tim admires the suits) when there’s a loud rumble from deeper within the cave. Tim looks up sharply (ow, mistake) and has to blink away spots as a motorcycle comes to a screeching halt in the main arena, the very air trembling around Tim with the sound of the engine.
“Why’s it so loud?” Tim asks, or tries to. He has a feeling that his words come out a little slurred, because Jason looks suddenly very alarmed.
“It’s not,” Jason says, and then with a sudden deep breath and a hand planted firmly on Tim’s shoulder, he yells “Hey! Hey, we’re here! Over here!”
And then suddenly Nightwing is there, scooping a wheezing, gasping Jason into his arms.
“Jason, oh my god, what happened? Bru- B said you were missing - he said kidnapped, what’s going on?!”
“Bruce doesn’ - doesn’t know... what he’s talking... about. Ow! Careful of the arm... cough - oww, Christ, and th’ pneumothorax - jerkface.”
The look on Nightwing’s face can only be described as frantic. “The what?”
“Fucking - punctured lung!”
“Oh my god.” Nightwing says again, and this time when he looks up, he looks straight at Tim. “We need to get to the hospital. Are you okay?”
“I didn’t kill myself.” Tim says, and then doubles over and throws up all over Dick Grayson’s, AKA Nightwing’s, AKA the original Boy Wonder’s (AKA Robin’s) shoes.
When Bruce arrives at the ER, he finds Dick waiting for him at the reception, shirt buttoned crookedly and hair a mess of locks tugged every which way.
“Tim told me everything on the way here,” Dick explains, giving Bruce the abridged version as they walk briskly through the halls. “Bruce. What the hell? Did you know that’s been going on since he was six?”
“If I had known, I would have done something about it.” Bruce says tightly, rounding a corner and then coming to an abrupt halt at Jason’s bedside. Dick stops beside him, hand reaching up to pull nervously at his hair as they both look down at the sleeping boy.
“No lasting damage.” Dick says quietly after a moment. “It could have been a lot worse.”
“I know,” Bruce murmurs. He looks up, searching the small ward, and - there. Next to the window, two beds over. Timothy Drake, head wrapped and bandaged, also asleep.
Dick follows his gaze, and then says, “He kept insisting he was alive. Between the criminal neglect and the villainous calling, I’m tempted to pose an intervention. That kid needs supervision, Bruce.”
“Hm.”
”...Bruce.”
“Yes?”
“He needs supervision.”
“I heard you the first time, Dick.”
“And?”
Bruce turns to his eldest, and slowly raises an eyebrow. “Do you underestimate me, Richard?”
And Dick smiles, and Bruce feels, for at least a moment, like he might finally be doing the right thing.
“No,” Dick says. “Never.”