Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In all fairness, Tim should’ve seen this coming. Three weeks ago his dad, Jack Drake, was laid off down by the pier in the half decomposing warehouse where he works, gutting the fish that come in from the large fishing boats. 

Well, laid off is a light term. Really, two-face went bat shit crazy again (literally, all to get back at Batman for kicking him straight back into Arkham a couple months before, after being free for an underwhelming 6 weeks), and blew it up as collateral. Unfortunately, that meant the 48 guys scraping by, gutting fish for 12 bucks an hour, were definitely out of jobs.

This isn’t new for Tim or his Mum Janet, Jack having a hard time holding down work. But most of the time he’s fired because he showed up to a shift drunk, or high, or angry and itching for a fight. This is probably the only time he's left with dignity.

Though all in all, It’s not too bad for fourteen year old Tim, he stays away as much as he can. Whether it’s taking Bernard up on his offers to go skate around the city, or staying late at Gotham Academy, where he’s on a scholarship which expects top of the line grades and nothing less, if he wants to stay. Tim doesn’t mind though, finding the work not as challenging as his peers do, itching for when he can graduate and move far, far away from the rotting that is his home. 

He also has a job (unlike his dad) down in Bristol, at one of the elitist restaurants that serve meals that could feel Tim’s family for a week, but in the size of a crushed can of coke. However, the pay is good, really good, and Tim will take dealing with Gotham’s royalty if it meant he didn’t have to see the worry in Bernard’s eyes when he comes to school foodless for the fourth day in a row, or the hunger pains that come with it

That’s where Tim is coming back from now, around 11:30 pm after his shift, suit collar undone and tie loose around his neck (that he is required to wear at work, which took Tim 3 weeks to save up for because God forbid they gave him his own uniform for free), a dark red hoodie helping provide shelter from most of the late night cold. He has his wired earphones in, bobbing subtly to the music, knowing that it is definitely not the safest thing to be partaking in, reducing his awareness at least three notches, but it makes the 30 minute walk from Bristol go by fast. 

For some reason, the Gotham Mayor decided to cut city buses run times off at 11:00pm, something about reducing movement around the city to limit crime, but the gang dickheads have enough money from the drugs they push they can afford a car, whereas poor folk like Tim, their the ones who are now set to suffer. But their good old Mayor is too naïve to understand anything complex like that.

He turns towards his street, humming along while he passes closed store fronts, tipped rubbish bins, and a balcony where two men sit just above him, sharing a cigarette. They give him a nod, which he returns, although a little awkwardly, and he makes his way up the steps to their apartment. The Drakes live on the top flat of an deeply unflattering three story building, each level its own apartment. 

Tim’s neighbours are nice enough, he muses, an anciently old couple live on the floor under, which is fate or just God having a laugh, as it means they’re oblivious when Jack Drake decides to use his son as a human punching bag. 

Or maybe they just don’t care.

His other neighbours he barely sees, a middle aged, frail and hallowed looking couple, who from the rare times he’s seen them seem skittish and off centered. He secretly thinks they're hiding a meth lab in there, if their pale and scrawny figures give any indication. Plus the amount of foot traffic out of their door late in the night. Meth lab or some secret sex club, Tim shivers at the thought.

He walks the steps two at a time, pulling out the key he had in between his pointer and middle finger, hand hidden in a jumper pocket, in case anyone tried anything on the walk home. Wouldn’t be the first time, definitely won’t be the last. 

Stupid fucking Mayor.

Key slides in, requiring a slight jiggle before it unlocks, he slowly opens the door praying he’s met with darkness and silence, but life has never been kind to Tim. He steps in to find his Dad laid on the couch only in pants, watching eyelids half open the tv in front of him. The smell of booze is immediate, and small fiery anger flutters in Tim's chest, but he pushes it down, as per usual.

He makes his way to the fridge, hungry from the 6 hour shift he just ran, feet sore from walking around the harsh tiles at his workplace. He spies a left over half of a sandwich, smiling down as he goes to grab it.

An iron grip stops him. 

Tim’s Dad pulls him away from the meal, so silent in a way that would be amusing for such a large man, if the grip wasn’t increasing ten fold on Tim’s arm.

“And where the hell have you been?” His Dad growls, eyes slightly glazed over. His face is crowding Tim’s, alcohol thick and heavy making Tim nauseous. There’s two ways to play this: say work and have Jack Drake rip him a new one because he feels insecure his 14 year old son can hold down a job better than he can, or lie but have his Dad not believe him, call him a liar or a thief or a slut, and come out of it black and bruised.

Neither options sound any fucking good right now, so he goes for the one he hopes will get him out and back to bed sooner. 

“Working, Dad, I had a shift tonight, remember?” He tries for casual but something must not have pleased the unstable force that is his dad, and Jack's face goes from two shades darker, pushing Tim up against a neighbouring wall. He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just stares expression unreadable into Tim’s eyes. Quicker than he can anticipate, Jack starts patting Tim down, hands undoing his jacket zipper, turning out pockets and reaching into his suit blazer. “What the hell Dad.”

The man grabs Tim’s face, cheeks immediately sore from the tight grip, and his Dads face suddenly drops the anger, to one of desperation. The emotional whiplash leaves Tim dizzy.

“Tim…” He starts, licking his lips nervously, a tick that always makes its show in times when he’s trying to get himself under control. “Your old man needs a hand, you can help me, right?” 

Tim nods, more for show, but if it's something that can get him off Tim’s back (or in this case, hands off his face), he should do it. Right? He’s never seen his dad nervous, not like now. No, that’s not the right word, sheepish? Embarrassed? It's hard to read what's what when Jacks listing sideways slightly. 

“I, look, I need $200, the boys and I, we’re in some bad shit with Tommy down at the pier,” Tommy was the name of the drug dealer the fishing guys would buy from, Tim knows this because Tommy is also the dealer of every rich prick at his school.

“And you and your fancy job, well, I know you ain’t spending it all on hookers and blow, so lend your pops some. It’s only fair son, think about all me and your mother do for you.” Right, all we do, like Tim doesn’t go to school for free on a scholarship he was awarded based on his own intellect.

Like Tim didn’t buy his own food every week, even their food sometimes, to keep the fridge not depressingly empty.

Like the night before tonight, Jack didn’t slap Tim for breathing too loud while doing homework. In his room. With the door closed.

There’s anger now, humming and low, at the pathetic excuse of a man who now stepped back, hand off his jaw and arms out, like he’s saying he means no harm . Tim knows what he is meant to say, he will reluctantly agree, tell him he can go to the bank first thing tomorrow, and withdraw the money from there since they don’t pay him in cash. He’ll receive an arm squeeze or God forbid, a hug, that will make him flinch more than it will comfort him, and go to bed, only for this strange dynamic to return back to normal once his Dad gets his money. 

He means to say that, but for some reason his mouth speaks faster than his brain, and what he really says is,

“Are you fucking serious?”

He should get some satisfaction at the shocked look on his dads face, but there is none. Only burning hot anger that clouds his head with buzzing and makes his body feel not his own. 

“What the hell did you say to me boy?” Dangerous is the only way he can describe the tone, but Tim has had enough. He’s fresh out of fucks to give.

“I said are you fucking kidding me? Do you feel like a big man, asking your son for money to feed your drug addiction?” He spits.

”Maybe next time, don’t buy coke you can’t pay for with the money you don’t get from a job you don’t have!”

He should’ve expected the fist that came flying at his face, but it always takes him by surprise. Heat and pain blooms under his eye, but he barely feels it, slightly numb. So instead, Tim pounces.

A right hook at his dad is so unexpected that the man cannot dodge, nailing him right where he himself was hit. Tim stands there, chest heaving, knuckles probably sprained, and feels his body come back to him. His dad looks up, and oh, he’s pissed .

What the fuck did I do.

Shaky hands come up in front of Tim, like he’s trying to calm a wild animal, “I’m, I’m sorry Dad, I didn’t mean that. I’m just tired, I can get you that money as soon as-”

Tim’s father darts forward, and everything gets a little bit blurry after that.

Tim comes too, he doesn't know if it’s minutes or hours later, with his face against the hard wood floor, drool slightly leaking from his mouth. He knows something is different about tonight. His dad isn’t pulling any punches.

And it scares Tim.

His dad takes a brief break from kicking the shit out of his ribs, looming over where Tim lies curled up on the floor. Tim decides now is his chance. Like an instinct, Tim's arm darts out and grabs his Dads leg, still unsteady with his intoxicated state. He yanks it, causing the older man to stumble, find no surface to grab to, and fall with a thump, joining his son on the floor. But not for long,

Tim scrambles up, ignoring the flames in his ribs or the throbbing of his face. He half runs, half hobbles to the bathroom, swiping his phone off the kitchen counter on his way.

Scrambling to shut and lock the door behind him, Tim falls to his knees, desperate lungs kick starting to get some grasp of control. He can’t afford a panic attack, not right now, not when he’s pretty sure his dad has no care if he kills Tim or not.

Tim has been living like this for longer than not, in fear and flinches and bruises. He’s thought of seeking help, anonymously or getting someone involved. But his teachers don’t care about anything except his grades, and he sure as hell ain’t telling Bernard. He already has to deal with the panic attacks in between classes, bringing extra food for Tim and letting him stay the night whenever he needs, not bringing up the bruises that sometimes appear after about the 6th time Tim yelled at him to let it go.

But maybe it’s time he did. Thudding steps sound from the living area, and Tim scrambles so his back is against the wall opposite the door, his heart stutters every second beat. Fuck this.

Frantically, he slides open his phone with shaky hands, pulling up his phone app. Shouting can now be heard from the other side of the door, a colourful range of swear words and insults, accompanied with bone rattling shaking of the door. It’s loud and terrifying, but Tim pays it no mind, dialling the 3 numbers.

“911, what’s your emergency?"

“I need police and ambulance to 19 Blackwood Road.” He’s panting, he thinks distantly.

“Okay, son they’re on their way. I need you to breathe and tell me what's happening.” Her voice is smooth, and it grounds him slightly, heart thumping in time with the door. 

“My…it’s my dad, we got into an argument and he started hitting and kicking me and I think,” His voice stutters, the yelling outside the bathroom only increasing, the door losing durability by the second. “I think he might kill me.” This is a whisper, soft and conflicted, voice breaking slightly at the end.

A pause, before the voice he's anchoring himself too continues. “Are you in a safe place right now?” Tim makes a negative sound, throat dry and all he can do is watch the door throb with each shove. “I’m locked in the bathroom, but, the door’s not going to hold for very long.”

“Okay, that’s alright, the police are 7 minutes away bud. Can I get your name and age, kid?”

“Tim Drake, I'm, uh, 15 years old.” She starts replying when the door flings open, his dad taking up the whole doorway, breathing heavily. Tim drops the phone from his hand shaking with tremors, as his dad slowly stalks forward. There is a small voice that comes from his phone, and Jacks eyes zoom onto it, like a dog with a bird. 

The face is phone up, the clear numbers blaring up at them, and his fathers face goes from scared, to annoyed, to just plain furious.

“You’re going to regret that,” yeah he fucking knows, but his Dad just grabs Tim’s arm, pitching him forward hard enough he's surprised his arm wasn’t removed from his socket, throwing him down on the floor in the living room. 

The rest comes in flashes.

More kicks, yelling, crying from someone that Tim doesn’t recognise as himself.

Tim’s dad straddling him, arms around his neck, cutting off those cries.

A lamp, fallen over from the struggling, in arms reach of Tim's flailing limbs.

One last bout of energy, and Tim’s arm shoots out, grabbing the object and slamming it over his dads head. He slumps.

Adrenaline and shock is one hell of a hormone, because Tim shoves a body, triple his weight, off him, bolting for the door. Stumbling down 3 flights of stairs, out into a deserted street, Tim just runs.

He can’t feel his body, only a wet drop of blood that drips from his hairline down his cheek slightly itchy, but he doesn’t wipe it away, only movement that is necessary right now, thank you very much. What he can hear, however, is the door that he came out of moments before bursting open, and disoriented Jack Drake flying out of the apartment, eyes snapping to the sprinting figure of his son.

Tim has never, ever felt relief when seeing a cop car flying down his neighbourhood, but now he breathes out a sob. Blue and red lights fill the street, and skid to a stop about 40 feet in front of Tim. 

Two figures emerge quickly from each side door, and Tim staggers to the one who sat in the passenger seat, cowering behind the officer, hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. The other officer, the one from the driver's seat, stands behind her opened door like a shield, gun out and trained on Tim's dad. 

“Get your hands up where I can see them, now.” It’s a female officer and she’s met with swearing and insults from the grown man in front, but after a beat he does as he's ordered. She heads towards him, carefully, before reaching quickly at her belt for metal handcuffs, slapping them on the cowering figure of Jack Drake.

Hands touch Tim’s shoulders, and he spins around, waiting for the blow. But he’s just met with warm blue eyes, so unlike his dads that his heart calms slightly. The cop in front of him has his hands up carefully, to not spook a shaking Tim, and a smile that looks only half forced stretches his face. Light brown skin and dark black curls hide under his head, and for some reason Tim feels like he’s seen him before. 

The hands now return slowly, one on each shoulder, Tim tracks the movement but makes no attempt to move them off. “Hey bud, are you the Tim who called us?” He nods, not trusting his voice, his gaze getting distracted to look behind the police officer where an ambulance has just arrived. Right, cause he’s half way to a grave right now, makes sense. There's too many noises right now, and he finds he doesn't have much energy to do a whole lot, quite liking this in between state that must be shock.  

“-id, Tim?” He must loose some time, the police officer snaps him back to the present, where now he is crouched, eyeline level with Tim. Kind eyes meet his, “My name is Officer Grayson Timmy, I’m here to help you out, alright?” Another nod, and the other man's smile turns slightly sad. 

“Can you speak? Or does it just hurt.” He gestures to what Tim thinks is an impressive bruising on his neck. Tim just shrugs, because honestly? He’s kind of floating, not really feeling anything right now. 

Officer Grayson regards him for a second, before offering out a hand. Tim stares at it for a second too long to be normal, before grabbing onto it, feeling four not fourteen.

“Let’s get you looked at kiddo, what do you say?” And well, Tim’s not really thinking about anything right now. Just the warm palm against his and the red and blue lights twirling before him, so he lets the officer with the kind eyes and smile lead him wherever he needs to go next.

Chapter Text

Tim can’t really remember how he got here.

Here being: sitting in a chair in the bullpen of the Gotham Police Department, opposite a desk with every inch covered by paperwork, photo frames, small figurines, and a name plaque with ‘Officer Grayson’ engraved in cheap metal.

He remembers bits and pieces of the night, a kind hand dragging him to the ambulance, other cold ones poking and prodding him, wrapping bleeding wounds. He remembers hearing an all clear, no broken bones just extensive bruising, and a sigh of relief from the Officer next to him. He remembers heat in his cheeks as gentle hands help remove items of clothing, replaced with a shirt and pants that felt too foreign to be of comfort. 

He knows at some point he was moved to a police car, with that same officer at the wheel, glancing every couple of minutes at Tim where he sits in the passenger seat, shivering slightly. At a red light, Officer Grayson turned around and reached into the back seat, (which definitely didn't make Tim flinch), and grabbed the warmest hoodie he's ever seen, and chucked it gently at Tim's body. It’s my brothers , he said, trust me, he wouldn’t mind, and it looks like you need it bud .

They pulled up to the station at some point, Tim being ushered inside and gently coaxed into the seat, Officer Grayson assuring him he’ll be back in a bit. 

That was about 10 minutes ago, if the clock above the entrance is correct, but it could’ve been ten hours and Tim wouldn’t have known, he just sits there, body aching, mind drifting away. 

“Sorry, that took longer than I thought it would,” A soft voice comes from behind him, but Tim still startles slightly. Officer Grayson gives him an apologetic smile, sitting on the other side of his desk. He now has a file in his hands, he flips open the blue cover and gets a pencil at the ready. 

He meets tired and worn eyes, distant. “Tim, I’m going to need you to run me through what happened tonight kid.” Tim definitely does not want to, but the look Grayson’s giving him is kind but firm, and he knows there isn’t a way around this. So he speaks.

By the end of it, he’s one blink away from falling asleep, and Grayson is two shades paler. He closes his folder, detailing tonight as well as multiple other nights that weren’t as bad as this, but nearly, and the officer brings a hand to his head, massaging it like he has a headache.

Yeah, how do you think I feel, Tim thinks bitterly. 

Tim clears his throat, a mental tang filling his mouth and speaks, hoarse and raspy. “What’s going to happen, to me?” Officer Grayson just gives him a sad, contemplating look, before breathing out deeply, leaning back in his seat. 

“As of now, your parents have been arrested and removed as your primary caregiver.” He starts, slowly, like trying not to spook Tim. Even though he doesn’t react, Grayson still stops himself, looking at Tim before deciding on something. 

“I’m going to be honest kid, because you’ve been through hell of a lot tonight,” he pauses, “Probably for a while actually, so I know the last thing you need right now is some bullshit answer.” Tim’s eyebrows raise at that, and tries to conceal the wince from the stretch of his face. He doesn’t know how to answer, so he just nods. 

“You're now a kid of the Gotham Foster system, a case worker has been assigned to your case. Normally, they’d be the ones to take you to a group house until they can find a placement for you,” He sighs, “but they’re short staffed at the moment, so you're stuck with me dropping you off” The humour falls flat.  

Tim’s heart sinks. He knows it was irrational but some small part of him was hoping that they would let him just go home, so he can lie in his bed and sob without the entire goddamn Gotham Police Force watching him. But when has life ever done him some favours?

He continues looking down at his feet, hands fidgeting with one of his rings, and gives a slight nod of his head. He hears Grayon sigh again, softer this time, before he hears the chair in front of him roll to move around the desk, and only when it stops next to him does he look up.

Officer Grayson has a soft look on his face, one bone tired as it’s 2 am now, and also filled with guilt. For what reason, Tim doesn’t know. He slowly moves his hand, pressing one on Tim’s knee.

“I know how you feel. This is probably alo-,” Tim scoffs, bitter and annoyed, cutting him off. 

“Yeah” he starts, shrugging off the hand on his knee, "I'm sure you know exactly how I feel, did your dad nearly beat you to death too?” Grayson flinches at that, and the guilt on his face amplifies. He leans back in his chair, and the air is awkward for a moment, before he continues. 

“You’re right, I don’t know exactly what you're feeling,” He corrects, “ But, I do know what it’s like to lose your parents and be left in the home of a stranger in the same night.” He finishes, which shocks Tim, only slightly, through his haze. “I was only in a group home for a week or so after my parents died before Bru-” Grayson cuts himself off sheepishly, “Before my foster dad adopted me, so yes, I do know how you're feeling.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes forcing Tim's to meet him. “I know you're confused, and scared, and a shit ton of other complicated emotions, but, it will get better, trust me.” There’s movement from behind Grayson as a woman, no not a woman, Janet Drake, is dragged in.

She’s stumbling, if not for the two officers beside her she would be a heap on the floor, drunk out of her mind.  Grayson turns around and follows his line of sight, grimacing, before forcing a reassuring smile on his face. 

“Just one step in front of the other kiddo, that’s all you need.” He stands, grabbing the blue folder and placing it on the desk next to him, checking his watch, before turning to Tim. 

“We should get going.” Tim nods and rises on shaking legs, body protesting the movement but continuing, because what else can he do but follow?

Officer Grayson places a kind hand on Tim’s shoulder, ushering him around messy desks and sleep deprived cops, and they exit the gloomy building. The pair don’t go for a police car this time, instead, an inconspicuous black sedan is what they enter. Tim goes for the backdoor, but the officer just gives him a look, gesturing to the passenger seat, and Tim folds. 

He slides into his seat as slowly as he can, trying to limit movement, and his head throbs in time with his ribs. No broken ribs, my ass . 

From the fifteen minute ride, Tim concludes three things about Officer Grayson:

1. He is messy. Incredibly, shockingly messy. His car is littered with empty zesti bottles and lolly packets, Tim thinks he counted a total of 6 items of clothing thrown lazily in the back seat. 
2. The Officer next to him cannot go a second without fidgeting. Right now, he’s tapping the wheel to some song he must be singing in his head, and before in the precinct his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. Tim finds it comforting, that even though he wasn’t allowed the luxury to fidget, unless he wanted a beer bottle thrown at his face, seeing someone else do it so freely and carelessly brings him a little warmth. 
3. Lastly, Grayson does indeed have a brother, if the selfie set as his phone screen that Tim got a glimpse of as he plugged the aux cord in his phone was any indication. From the familiar pamphlet left on the passenger seat, an invite to a science fair down at Gotham Prep that Tim himself has entered, the brother must go to his school.

Tim, eager to clear the semi-awkward and still air, pulls the pamphlet from under his leg, fake reading it before turning to a humming Grayson.

“You’re brother, does he go to Gotham Prep?” If Grayson is surprised by the question, he doesn't show it, just hums affirmatively.   

“Yeah, his name is Jason, Jason Todd? I don’t know if you’ve seen him around, he likes to avoid sticking out.” The name is vaguely familiar, Tim gives it a second to try and grasp some familiarity. 

The face pops into mind, and Tim nods. “Yeah I think he might be in my Literature class?” Grayson's face lights up, and he laughs lightly. “Yeah, that’ll be him, kid breathes for that shi- uh I mean stuff.” Tims rolls his eyes at the censoring, hesitating, before continuing. 

“You said Todd. How come you guys don’t have the same last name?” He hopes it's not an invasive question, but Dick just answers in stride. “I’m adopted, remember?” Right, Tim’s not really thinking that straight right now but he still curses himself for missing that piece of information. He blushes, embarrassed. 

The rest of the ride is in silence, Tim’s heart beat increasing as they turn into a carpark, outside a depressing apartment block, completely concrete. Grayson goes to open the car door, but falters when Tim doesn’t move, just staring down at his lap.

Tim can feel his breathing pick up, but he’s not going to freak out in front of Officer Grayson. No, he will wait until he can lock himself in whatever bathroom they’ve got. 

“Kid…” The other says after a minute or two passes with no movement, but Tim just ignores him, pulling in one more deep breath then pushing the door handle out and open. Cool air greets him, a welcomed relief. 

Officer Grayson walks in front, buzzing the intercom. When a tired and blunt voice answers. Grayson identifies himself and there’s only slight hesitation before it buzzes again, letting them both in. They climb four flights, with only about 60% of the stairs not half crumbled, until they reach the desired door, a “4” barley sticking to the wood. Grayson doesn’t hesitate, knocking swiftly on it, rocking on his feet. 

There’s a cut off shout, before the door swings open, a woman who has a furrow in her brow already greets them. She gives Officer Grayson a one over, distaste clear on her face, before moving them to Tim.

“You the Drake boy then?” He doesn’t really feel like talking, so he just nods, face hopefully neutral. She huffs, before stepping aside, letting them in. Grayson tries to introduce himself, even sticking out a hand, but the woman ignores it, giving a toneless Hi in response.

She closes the door, turning to Tim. “You can call me Ma’am.” She says, like answering a question Tim definitely didn’t ask, but he nods again in understanding. That seems to annoy her, and she rolls her eyes at his nonverbal-ness.

Tim can already tell this is going to fucking suck.

She gives them a half-hearted tour of the kitchen that looks like it hasn’t been used apart from the fridge for years, to the small bathroom opposite it, shower with no curtain and toilet in the tight space. The lounge room is just a simple couch, with a door near it leading to what Ma’am explains, is the master room. 

“Under no circumstances, are you allowed in there. Do I make myself clear boy.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He replies, because Tim thinks if he nods again she might be the second person to slap him today. 

She then leads them outside two doors next to each other, gesturing to them lazily. “That one's the girls room,” she points to the left, “and that one's for the boys,” pointing to the right. “We have nearly a full house here, so I hope you ain’t expecting a five star resort, you're lucky a picked up the phone and agreed to take your sorry ass in.” 

What does she want him to do, apologise for his father beating the shit out of him? His bad? Tim’s face must do something because a hand presses on the small of his back, in warning and comfort. Grayson has a strained smile on his face, and gestures for her to move on, which she does with another, impatient huff. 

They finish the tour not shortly after, because every room can be seen from the front door, the small light from a singular lamp illuminating their faces. “So, grab your shit, where do I need to sign?” Officer Grayson steps in now, hands placidly in front of him. 

“The social worker unfortunately can’t come until the day after tomorrow…” Ma’am scoffs, “Lazy fucking bitch.” Grayson just pauses, smiles so obviously fake, and seems to collect himself.

“So I'll be back tomorrow midday to take Tim back to his place, pick up a few of his things, how does that sound Ma’am?” She waves him off, nodding her approval, and looks at Tim. An overwhelming urge to get the fuck out of there washes over him. Grayson's about to say something when Tim interrupts him. 

“Can I talk to you outside quickly, Officer Grayson?” He tries to sound casual, but the strain in his voice must be obvious, from the concerned look the other shoots him. But Grayson just turns with one of his signature smiles, giving a we’ll be one minute, excuse me , always so polite. They exit the door, and the cop closes it slowly behind them, leaning against it shut, eyes assessing Tim. 

And Tim?

He just needs a minute. Maybe five. 

He walks a couple steps ahead to the opposite wall, a hand rubbing his chest in some pathetic attempt to get this breathing under control. Tears fall without his permission, and he leans his forehead against a stone cold concrete wall. The pressure calms him slightly, but not enough to stop the stream of tears, breaths hiccupping slightly. 

He would be more embarrassed by having an audience if he wasn’t so done with the day, and Grayson thankfully leaves him be, watching from afar.

Tim gives himself a minute, one minute to feel and cry and break down, before he stands up straight again. He uses the hoodie that the man behind gave him, wiping his nose and eyes with the sleeves and only slightly feeling bad about it. 

One more deep breath. He would do this routine if his dad ever picked a fight before school or work, to try and take control again, and not let anyone see how damaged he really is. One more breath and he turns, avoiding eye contact with the person whose eyes are like daggers, observing him. 

He moves to slip his arms out of the hoodie, but is stopped by a large hand, soft and gentle. He looks up to meet warm blue eyes again, slightly misty in a deep boned sadness, who stops his movements. 

“Keep that kiddo, trust me, Jason wouldn’t care.” He’s going to file the warm feeling he gets in his chest for later. “I’ll be back around 12 tomorrow Tim, okay? And we’re going to go get some of your stuff.”

Tim sighs, but replies anyway. “Yeah, I'll see you then I guess.” Grayson looks like he wants to go in for a hug, which Tim secretly desperately wants, but he also knows that the second he’s in that embrace, he's going to break down, and he can't afford that right now. 

So Tim gives an awkward nod, before pulling open the door, stepping inside, knowing he’s never going back to how it was.

Chapter Text

Noon the next day came painfully slow.

After Officer Grayson left, Tim was ushered into the boys room, Ma’am pointing at a bed that looked unused, before shutting the door, lock clicking. In the darkness, he tried his best to soften his footsteps to the bunk bed on the left, slowly pulling his aching body down onto the concrete hard mattress.

Slight snoring now sounds to his left, where the second bunk bed lays. He can’t see enough to  make out any features of the other boy on the bottom bunk, except for a mop of hair peaking out of the covers. Tim was honestly stumped on how he was expected to fall asleep, in a room full of complete strangers, and not think he’s going to wake up threatened with a home made shiv.

And he didn’t sleep, not really. For an hour or so he seemed to doze, eyes half shut, but when his mind started drifting his body would flinch, waking himself up again. I guess I should be grateful my dad waited until late, Tim thinks, now he only has to lie bored and aching, head throbbing in beat with the breaths above him, for a couple hours.

It was eight in the morning when the first boy rose, however footsteps and low voices already sounded from the kitchen for a while. The front door creaked with every entrance and exit. The boy on the bunk next to Tim, looked similar age. He had long shaggy brown hair that covered his eyes, and a lanky bony body. Pale skin was littered with freckles, like someone got a paintbrush and splattered them on. His face was all sharp, except for kind eyes. From where Tim laid on his back but head tilted to observe, once the other boy had pulled his covers off his body, he stretched his arms over his head, shirt riding up slightly, before pushing himself out of the comfort of the covers. 

Once he stood, he made eye contact with a still in bed Tim, eyes scanning the array of bruising around his exposed face. With a slither of sympathy in his face, he nodded in greeting, then walked hands rubbing sleep out of his eyes, out the room.

After about five minutes of internal panic, Tim decided that it was time for him to get up and face the metaphorical music. 

Once his head stopped spinning and the pain in his ribs decreased to a dull roar from sitting up, unclothed feet instantly became numbed by the cold wooden floor. He hobbled out of the room, greeted with a surprising abundance of people.

In the kitchen, and around a barely standing dining table, were three girls, all who looked younger than Tim, around 10 or 12. The boy from before is standing by what looks like a poor excuse for a coffee machine, which is saying something as Tim has spent his entire life drinking from shitty machines since he couldn’t afford on brand ones, however the sight of it makes Tim salivate for the caffeine he definitely needs.

Another boy, who looks older, like seventeen, sits at the table glaring at his food, a sad slice of toast, and looks up when Tim walks in.

Well, they all sort of turn, regarding him with caution and curiosity. 

Tim lifts a hand in a half wave.

The boy his age snorts into his coffee, and the girls stare unamused before going back to their quiet discussion. Tim takes this as permission to enter the little atmosphere they have going on.

Walking up closer, the boy with the coffee lifts his eyebrows up as Tim approaches him, who is giving a small sheepish smile, “Could I get some of that?” Tim nods to the coffee, voice hoarse from the asphyxiation.

The other boy regards him for a few seconds, and before Tim can start squirming under his gaze, he shrugs, grabbing a chipped but thankfully empty mug from behind. “Knock yourself out.”

Tim mutters a thank you, pouring the coffee from the pot into his cup, and leaning back against the counter, matching the other boy. He is watching Tim with curiosity, face focused and hard before it turns to one of decision.

“Lu.” The boy sticks out the hand not currently occupied with coffee, and Tim switches his cup to meet him halfway. “Tim.”

Lu seems to like people watching, as he holds onto the grip for a second too long, before moving his hand away. He tilts his head, very dog-like. “Who the hell did you kill Tim?”

A surprised huff of laughter escapes him, which earns Tim a small amused smile on Lu’s face.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he rolls his eyes, “You think I would look like this if I won the fight?” A small smirk creeps onto Lu’s face, returning back to his coffee, thinking, before speaking again. 

“Then who tried to kill you ?” The accuracy of this question opens Tim’s eyes slightly to how perceptive the other boy is. 

Tim thinks about lying, brain already formulating some story of fiction, but then realises, why should I try and protect my good for nothing dad?

“My dad, I guess.” He says, avoiding the other's gaze and staring at his coffee. His admission leaves Lu with a brow furrowed, like he’s trying to work out a puzzle. Thankfully, the awkward silence doesn’t last long because he gives a slight sympathetic smile.

“That sucks, I'm sorry dude.”

A shrug. “That’s life, but thanks.”

They continue talking from their perch in the kitchen, as more boys filter through the rooms. Lu explains that people don’t stay here for long, rotating like clockwork, however the older kids take longer as foster homes prefer younger kids to take in. Out of all the four boys and three girls here, Tim and Lu are the second eldest, with the older boy Tim spied earlier being two months off eighteen, which will mean he's phased out of the Foster System and sent out to the streets. 

Fucking horrible.

Lu doesn’t know many of the other foster kids here, having moved in about two months ago, and he explains how after the first two friends he made moved out within a week or two from him meeting them, he’s kept his distance.

“So we can’t be friends?” Tim asks, tone teasing. That earns an eyeroll from the other.

“No we can.” Lu answers, “but only because I'm pitying your sorry ass, someone has to make sure you don’t pop a lung with a broken rib.”

“Well I thank you for your service, asshole.”

“Your welcome, princess.”

—--------------------------------------

The rest of the day until lunch goes fast enough, it being a weekend means there's no school to attend, so the girls go back to their rooms, while some of the other boys leave for other various reasons. 

Somehow, Tim finds himself sitting in the bathtub, knees pressed together with Lu. When he asked the other to explain why the hell they would sit here, when there's a perfectly good couch in the other room, Lu explains that they’re not allowed on the couch, and if Ma’am finds out they sat on it she removes food privileges for 3 days. 

“That’s fucked up.”

“It’s what you said this morning,” Lu explains, “That’s life”

Lu tells him briefly how he ended up here. His dad fell into the wrong crowd, drug dealers and crime lords, an abundance of those in Gotham, before becoming a bit too big for his boots, and getting arrested with 54 tonnes of cocaine in the back of his car after an anonymous tip was given on where the stash was. Lu’s dad is now serving 35 years to life.

“I hate him, don't get me wrong, and this whole situation,” he gestures around with his hands, referring to what Tim understands as Foster Care, “But at least now I'm not five seconds away from being asked to do a drug run for my dad since kids are less likely to be patted down. Or clean up my mum’s vomit after a night out.” 

“But I mean, it’s only been two months, maybe I'm still in the honeymoon period.” Lu finishes, and Tim snorts.

“I wish I had some of that right now.” Lu winces in sympathy.

He also tells Tim about the public school he goes to, near Gotham Prep but a couple stops further on the train, but he hates school with a passion, so being able to ditch without alerting the god damn media is a plus. 

“I’m sure you Gotham Prep kids have a problem with someone and the next second they’re calling the fucking Batman to defend your honor.” Tim snorts in reply, flipping the other off. 

“Not me man, I think they’re praying for the day I kick the bucket,” he drawls, a smirk on his lips, “Only, they have to keep me, ‘cause I'm the smartest fucking guy there, who’s daddy didn’t just buy his way in.” Lu scrunched his face in disgust.

“Please don’t say daddy.”

Tim flips him off again.

The tub is comfortable though, the cold tiles cooling his burning bruised skin. They’ve been sitting for a while, scrunched up like dead spiders, mostly in surprisingly comfortable silence, when there’s a confident knock from the front door. Tim hears the door to the master bedroom swing open for the first time that day, and hurried footsteps open the door. There’s a low murmur of chatter, one sounding much more chipper than the other, before a sharp Tim! , is heard.

“Adopted already? Tim you’re breaking my heart here man.”

“I’ll think of you while I sit on their couch.” Lu slaps Tim’s leg as he rises to get out of the tub, knees cracking like he’s eighty. He feels fucking ancient. Once Tim’s successful in escaping the cold porcelain, he throws a lazy glance over at the other.

“They’re just taking me to get some shit from my apartment, s’nothing important.” Lu nods in understanding, before making a shooing movement with his hands. “Go, trust me, you’re not missing anything here.” Lu states, throwing an arm over his eyes, sighing and stretching out in the tub. “Enjoy your freedom, don’t go getting into any more fights.”

“No promises.”

He exits the bathroom, comfort exchanged for nerves, and approaches the door, where a leaning Officer Grayson is trying to make small talk with a stubborn Ma’am. Lu told Tim her name is actually Mary Anne Lander, which he saw when snooping through the mail one time, they all call her Mary behind her back, in the smallest bit of rebellion their allowed.

Grayson's smile lights up when he sees Tim, which is, uh, weird , considering they don’t know each other, but it’s a nice change from the glares and sideeyes. 

“Hey Timmy, how’re you feeling bud.” Tim gives a shrug, ribs, arm, everything , screaming in protest. “Like I could fight Bane” He replies flatly, and if anything Grayson's smile grows. He turns back to Ma’am, looking like he wants to shake her hand but stops himself, before placing that hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“We should get going, but it shouldn’t be too long.” She's barely listening, waves him off with a quick yes okay fine , before wandering off down the hall to the girls room. Tim moves through the front door before Grayson can keep staring at him with that warm smile, making his way down the stars two at a time, hands in his brother's jacket.

As they exit the apartments, which somehow looks worse in the daylight, he spies the only car in the parking spots, an old black sedan sitting under the bleating sun. It unlocks with a click from behind him, and so Tim rounds to the passenger seat, only hesitating slightly this time before opening the door. 

Grayson climbs in too, starting the engine which causes cool air to immediately fill the car, a welcomed relief from the stuffiness of the apartment. He eases them out onto the street, and they’re off.

Since Grayson has his eyes on the road, Tim gives himself a moment to scan him over, taking in his casual denim jeans, just a police polo and the gun on his hips. A lot less formal than the full gear of last night, which he appreciates. His lack of sleep and jitters from coffee makes him feel uneasy. The absence of a hat now allows Grayson's curls to frame his face, and put emphasis on his attractive features. 

The distant feeling of familiarity starts up again, and Grayson turns to talk to him, but Tim ignores the words. It’s right on the tip of his tongue, he searches his brain, his beautiful brilliant brain, when-

“Oh my fucking God .” He blurts out, causing whatever small talk Grayson was saying to stop. His eyes are wide, and he’s half starstruck and just shocked that it was right in front of his face this whole time. “You’re Dick Grayson .”

Dick’s previous concerned face falls into one of amusement. “I try not to be too up myself, but you really didn’t notice?” Heat blooms on Tim’s face, and he crosses his arms in hope it makes him look tough, when really he’s sure he looks like an angry kitten. 

“I was kind of distracted last night. Dad, getting beat the shit out of, rings any bells?” Instead of the awkward air Tim thought would appear, Dick chuckles, amused. “Touché, little man.”

Tim continues to stare, taking in the man beside him. Because it’s not just Dick Grayson-Wayne next to him.

Its Night-Fucking-Wing. 

Now, Tim’s not exactly a die hard fan of the Bats, though he does appreciate them for what they do. He thinks that out there, in another universe, he could’ve been, as he was obsessed with them for a brief month when he was eight. But after his dad gave him his first broken rib after trying to sneak out to go sightseeing one night with a shitty camera he found dumpster diving, (that was consequently broken), he didn’t dare feel the same again. 

No way is he going to bring that up with the other though, not interested in learning what the Bats do to one who uncovers the truth of their identities, instead he says,

“I’ve met you before,” That causes an amused Dick to look slightly startled, aiming a curious look at Tim before bringing his eyes back to the road. “At the circus.” Dick coughs on an inhale, thumping his chest, and Tim just waits patiently. 

“You saw Haly’s Circus? That’s fuck- I mean, freaking crazy. You would’ve been young.” Tim nods, he was there at the last show Dick ever performed, but he’s not going to bring that up right now, he has some sense of social intelligence right now.

“Yeah, I must’ve been four? I think? I don't remember much.” He tells with a small frown, looking out the window shield. “My parents and I just moved to the states, they won the tickets from some lottery on the radio.” He turns back to stare at the side profile of the other.

“What I do remember, is before the show, part of the tickets were to meet you and your, um, parents.” He clears his throat before continuing, “You gave me a hug, took a picture with me and then told me you were going to do a… shit what was it.” He tries to remember, before huffing in annoyance.

‘The flip one? That only, like, five people in the world can do?” He motions with his hands, and luckily Dick catches on what he’s saying. “Quadraple Flip?” Dick offers, and Tim smiles, snapping his fingers. 

“ Yeah man, little me thought you were the shit.”

“Oh, so not anymore?” Dick teases, and Tim rolls his eyes lazily, “No, somehow spandex and spins don’t impress me as much.  “What a shame, I still do a mean backflip when prompted.” Tim snorts, “When is that ever needed in day to day life.” Dick just winks, “You wouldn’t believe it.” Tim realises he’s smiling, genuinely, for the first time in a while, fondness growing in his chest.

“I still have the photo we took, it’s in my room.” Dick’s eyebrows fly to his forehead, slamming on the breaks a little too hard at a red light. “Really?” Tim shrugs, “Yeah I can show you.” Dick looks forward, grief and fondness and nostalgia all wrapped together in one emotion, before sighing slightly. 

“I’d like that.” Almost like a whisper. 

They continue driving, Tim recognising the streets now, they’re not far off from his house. Tim winces. “Just a disclaimer…” He starts, and he can see Dick’s cops ears perk up. “My place isn’t, well, it’s no Wayne Manor I’m sure.” Dick has a frown on his face at his statement, but doesn’t answer for a beat. “There’s no judgement from me bud,” He decides to start with, soft and careful, “I hope you know that, and know I spent my early childhood travelling with the circus. You can trust me.”

And surprisingly, he does.

They pull up next to Tim's apartment, and he finds himself both dreading and excited to get there. He desperately wants to change out of these unknown itchy clothes, but also, there’s something wholeheartedly depressing about knowing he won’t be able to return back here for years, or even ever.

With a heavy heart, they make their way up another flight of stairs, until they reach his front door. Crime Scene tape is in front of it, and Dick apologetically sends him a small smile, before ducking under it. Tim follows suit. The house looks untouched, beer bottles all over the floor, slightly molded plates of food and a broken lamp shattered to pieces. Tim moves over to the spot where he was pinned down less than 24 hours before, and sees a small pool of blood.

Mine or dads? He thinks, pretty sure he would laugh if he wasn’t suddenly drained of energy. He must’ve been staring for a little too long, as reassuring hands find his shoulders not for the first time today. They guide him away silently, which Tim appreciates, as he doesn’t know how else he could've pulled himself from the puddle.

His feet make themselves his own again, and bring him to the doorway of his room. Light tears spring to his eyes, and he tries his damn hardest to stop them from falling. He walks in, feeling like a stranger in his own space, grabbing his dufflebag from the corner. 

First, he goes to his cupboard, filling it with clothing, already sparse to begin with, mostly second hand. Then, he grabs a couple books that line his shelf, so special to him that he finds a piece of him he wasn’t aware was uneasy, soothed by holding them again. After, just random knick knacks, his laptop and headphones, all while Dick waits patiently and silently at the doorway.

Lastly, when he’s packed his entire world in a bag, he pulls open his bottom desk drawer, filtering through loose papers and worksheets when he finds the two desired items.

He shuts the drawer, throws the bag over his shoulder, and grip the pictures and rolled up poster tightly, one last glance to the room before fast walking away, head up through the rest of the apartment so the mocking puddle of blood doesn’t seep back into his vision.

He hears Dick sigh quietly behind him, but follow suit, quickly locking up behind them as they exit.

Once they’re in the car, duffle bag in the seats behind, Tim lets out a breath of air he didn’t know he was holding, feeling twitchy. The apartment felt like a hotel, a shell of his old life. How quick perspectives can change.

To do something, he holds out the photo in front of Dick, catching his attention away from his phone. “Here is the picture, Officer Grayson .” He mockingly calls the other, and Dick grabs it off him lightly. 

“Dick is just fine.”

“Oh? Wasn’t aware you swung that way, but good for you?” Dick splutters, pulling his eyes away from the photograph in front of him.

“Don’t be an ass.”

“If only I could.” Tim sighs, wistfully.

Dick is smiling fondly at the picture, cooing at baby Tim as teenager Tim scowls back. There is comfortable silence while slight radio chatter fills the air, and Dick hands the picture back. Tim tucks it carefully in his pocket, before handing the rolled up poster to the older man.

“You can keep this one.” He says easily, hands returning to drum against the window. “You’d probably appreciate it more than me.”

There's silence for too long, and Tim draws his eyes away from watching a dog walk by to see Dick, eyes red rimmed and teary.

“Oh fuck,” Tim breathes out, “Shit, i’m sorry, I knew this might freak you out, fuck me, I-” 

“Timmy, stop thinking for two seconds.” Dick doesn’t sound upset, really he sounds pretty neutral. He rolls up the poster slowly, like he's afraid it might disappear, and places it in a cup holder.

Attention turned back to Tim, who looked like a frightened deer gazing into headlights, warm hands grabbing his face.

‘Thank you, I don’t think you understand how much this means to me.”

And, well, Tim can guess it does. The poster is rare, he knows for sure because in desperate times he’s thought of selling it. A poster for The Flying Graysons, illustrated in all their glory, painted in beautiful red and greens, in better hands than the bottom of Tim’s draw.

Tim just nods, embarrassed but also satisfied.

“Give me your phone.” The change in tune startles Tim, who stares at a smiling Dick, hand out patiently. “Is that an order, Officer Grayson?” He says wearily, but slowly pulls it out of his back pocket.

“Dick.” The other says, in reminder, but also as an insult. Tim unlocks his phone and passes it on, waiting for the other to finish. When Dick is done, he hands it back, to see a text message sent to a number named “Dick :)”. A text tone sounds, and Dick pulls his own phone out, saving the number as “Punk”. Dick’s face turns serious, and he full body rotates towards the other.

“That’s my number.” Before Tim can say something sarcastic because, no shit sherlock , the other continues. “I want you to call, message, hell carrier pigeon, for anything, okay?” Dick asks, tone sharp and leaving no room for disagreement. All Tim can do is nod.

“I’m in your corner kid, not as Officer Grayson, but as a friend. Even if you're in trouble, or just need someone to talk to, I’m Dick first, got that? I need some verbal conformation kiddo, we know your head is banged up right now”

“Yeah, I got it.” He swallows roughly, choosing to ignore the lump in his throat. “Thanks, Dick.” The Officer ruffles Tim’s hair affectionately. “You do this with all of your charity cases?” Tim snarks back, after attempting to flatten his hair.

“Nah, what can I say? You’ve grown on me kid.” Dick replies. 

“So does fungus.” The older man laughs, full body with his head thrown back, and Tim thinks maybe it’s not all too bad.

—----------------------------------------------------

They get back to the apartment, and with fond goodbyes, Dick leaves. It leaves Tim feeling strangely empty, unaware of the impact the other man could have on him. Lu isn’t there at the apartment, one of the girls helpfully explains he left to meet up with some school friends.

Tim decides to spend his afternoon re reading one of his books, lying on his bed immersed until Ma’am calls for dinner. The same girl who talked to her before, Leia she told him, explained while four of them eat cold chicken, that if they’re late to dinner, they don’t get it, and there’s no eating from the fridge later to make up for it.

Simple enough.

Lu doesn’t make it back in time, instead, sometime around 9pm when some of the younger kids are asleep and Tim is finishing his book, does he come waltzing back in. 

“Ah, you’re back, I was hoping they decided to keep you.”

“You wish, who would you bitch and moan to every waking second of the day.” That earns him an ear flick from the other, who stands next to his bed gazing down. Lu is still for a moment, before nodding towards the door.

“You want to get some air?” He asks, casual with a hint of mischief. Tim sighs dramatically, “Yes, but if this is an excuse to beat my ass I'm going to be pissed.

“Well there goes my nightly fun.” Lu holds out a hand and Tim grabs it, lifting himself up out of bed. His body doesn’t feel any better. They make their way out of the apartment, Tim sending a nervous glance towards the master room door, but it doesn’t make a sound. 

Instead of going down stairs like Tim though, they climb up even further, exiting an emergency exit onto a small rooftop, barren and concrete floor. Lu immediately beelines for the edge, sitting down carefully, legs hung off and over. Tim follows, loving the cold nip of the night on his cheeks, legs pressed against Lu’s. 

They take in the view, which is barely a view, just row after row of apartment buildings, but the height is nice. Daring and intriguing.  Lu shuffles his weight, digging into his back pocket while Tim rubs his hands, trying to warm them up. 

“Aha!” The other exclaims, pulling a packet of shitty branded cigarettes.

Tim’s eyebrows rise, pulling his gaze to the other. “Cigarettes? Really?”

Lu matches his expression. “Don’t tell me you’ve never smoked? Mr I-beat-up-my-own-father .” Tim shoves the other's shoulder. “You know that’s not what happened.” Lu shrugs, pulling out a singular cigarette, placing it between slightly chapped pink lips, bringing a lighter out from somewhere, and lighting it without moving his gaze from Tim’s eyes.

He takes a drag, effortless and practiced, only tearing his eyes from the other to look at the skyline, blowing it out, grey fog filling the air in front. He takes it out of his mouth, placing it in between his pointer and middle fingers, and bringing it in front of Tim's face in invitation.

“Come on Princess, don’t be a princess .” Lu has a level look, slightly challenging but overall intrigued by his next move, and Tim?

Well, he just got the shit beaten out of him by his dad, placed into a group home, became property of Gotham Foster care, befriended an ex-circus freak turned vigilante and a boy with long sandy hair that made him smile for the first time in a while.

He leans forward, wrapping his lips slowly around it and pulling a puff, secretly congratulating himself for not coughing. He lightly takes it from the other hand, eyes holding the dark hazel they’re locked on, before breaking the moment and turning to expel it.

Lu smiles, then giggles into the night air. Tim finds his own chest light and bubbly. The cigarette, while disgusting, does manage to somehow clear Tim's mind.

Well, not clear, more like fog it up so much that everything becomes more still, quiet. Tim leans back until his back is against the floor, eyes up at a surprisingly clear night, and watches the stars, wondering if they’re looking back and watching them too.

Chapter Text

The world doesn’t stop for newly fostered 14-year-olds, so Monday comes around too fast for Tim’s liking. On one hand, he’s excited to finally get out of the apartment and do something productive, having called off work for a week while the bruising goes down, but on the other, he doesn’t know how to enter back into regular acting society. 

Lu and him have to wake up at the God awful hour of 5:30am, to make their 6am train from East Gotham. It’s a solid hour train ride to the main station they both get off at, before a further 30 minutes in separate directions to their respective schools. And, it being Gotham, their specific trains run every 3 hours, so if they miss the first one they’re Screwed with a capital S. 

The first morning, they’re both too exhausted to converse, instead they sit in a blessedly empty train cart, Lu napping and Tim with one earbud in, the depressing lyrics of various artists playing a soundtrack to his current feelings. Tim shakes his friend's shoulder, nudging him awake before their stops, and bleary brown eyes blink sleepily in response, before Lu moves his head off Tim’s shoulder. Once they’re off and in the main station, they give a tired fist bump, no verbal goodbyes needed, before making their way to different stations.

Walking through the halls of Gotham Prep brings a sense of vertigo to Tim, dizzying and nauseous. The stares he gets from people mapping the injuries on his face are like sharp little prickles, he wishes he could go back to being the invisible scholarship kid. His only comfort is that this will blow over in a week, once the rumours and gossip mill has its turn with him, it will move onto the next hot item of the week.

The attention span of the adolescent mind is fascinatingly short.

Advanced Maths and Chemistry are first, which allows Tim to sit at the back and pull all his attention onto the equations on the board and away from the aching in his ribs. First bell for break shrieks and Tim’s headache continues to grow closer to a migraine. 

He slides into the constant stream of teens through an entirely too small corridor, dodging flinging backpacks and careless walkers. By some stroke of luck, he gets to his locker without breaking another rib, and shoves his armful of books in it. 

Normally, he would exchange his books for a pre-packed sandwich, but Tim still is unsure of the explicit and implicit rules of the group home, and is not ready to push it by grabbing something from a fridge that isn’t his. 

He shoulders his way again to the cafeteria, spotting Bernard and Ives seated at their table in the back corner, and watches as the blonde haired boy’s eyes get wider the closer he gets.

“Tim.” Bernard's mouth is floundering as Tim sits, and suddenly warm hands grab at his face carefully, turning it to get a full view of the extensive bruising. Ives is sitting up straighter and leaning in, alert, emotions much more reserved than the blonde but eyes filled with overwhelming concern.

“Tim.” Bernard repeats, forcing eye contact until Tim squirms, shoving the hands away lightly. 

“Bernard.” He tries with a small smile, but the tone falls flat, his knee bounces faster in response, eyes avoiding the two others. 

“Dude, What happened?” Bernard asks, shocked, face always so open, shameless of his emotions. “You go MIA all weekend, no texts and straight to voicemail? You look like you’re one step away from death’s fucking door.” Bernard's voice picks up at the end, edging on hysterical, and Tim wants to add that this is nothing compared to what he looked like on Friday night, but he doesn’t think that would help his case, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Instead, he gives himself one deep breath, and drags a hand over his face and through his greasy hair. The sheer amount of worry on both their faces causes Tim to go slightly breathless, and he gives himself a second to gather his thoughts. 

They deserve the truth, he thinks, after putting up with all his shit for years and Tim giving nothing special in return. 

His hands fidget with one of his rings, gaze pulling down to his lap, he rips off the Band-Aid.

“My dad,” he starts, mouth dry and filled with a bitter taste, “We got into an argument.” He can feel Bernard freeze from where his leg is pressed up against Tim’s own, and Ives’ breath catches. 

Even though they’re not Tim level genius, they’re also not stupid, so Tim can see in real time as they put the constant bruises, flinches and aversion to staying at home together. Suddenly his hands seem very interesting.

“Normally he’ll hit in places easier to hide, or just stop after a kick or two. You’ve seen him, he's embarrassingly stronger than me, so I’ll take it ‘cause it's just easier that way.” 

He thinks briefly how insane this conversation is, while the other high schoolers sit eating their overpriced cafeteria food and talking about the latest celebrity gossip, Tim’s biggest secret is being spilt out. A wave of shame washes over him for placing this heaviness on his friend, Tim's throat chokes up and eyes start to burn.

He refuses to cry anymore for his dad, so he wipes his eyes quickly with his sleeve and gives a humourless laugh.

“I guess he didn’t care about stopping this time. He lost his job, his dealer was after him, his wife and son hate him,” Tim spits out, but then shrugs feigning casualness once again, “I really think he didn't care if he killed me or not.”

Calloused hands grab his, stopping Tim from where he was unconsciously digging his nails into his palm to ground himself.

Tim gives an appreciative glance, easing the nails away and leaving moon crescent dents, but thankfully not breaking the skin. He sniffs and continues, “So I called the cops. They got there barely in time, and so now you’re looking at the newest property of Gotham city, they put me into CPS and straight into a group home.”

Even in a crowded cafeteria, the silence is deafening. 

“Fuck Tim.” Ives breaks it, and the bluntness causes Tim to snort. 

“Believe me, I know.”

An arm loops around his shoulder and brings his head to rest on Bernard's shoulder. Ives grabs one of his hands and rubs slow smooth circles on the top of it. Tim inhales, smelling the spice of cologne and feeling the warm body next to him. 

“I’m really sorry Tim.” Bernard whispers next to his ear, and Tim can’t help it when his face drops, digging his face into the broad body while two small dry sobs escape him. He gives himself ten seconds to feel before taking in a deep breath to reign the sobs in. The arms and hands just grip tighter, and for someone normally adverse to touch Tim finds he doesn’t mind it right now. 

“We should’ve said something, told someone.” The raw devastation in Ives’ voice startles Tim, and he lifts his head to meet wet dark eyes of the other. “Bernard and I knew something was going on at home, that- that fucker was hurting you.” Ives looks away, wiping the tears that are now free falling down his face, clouded with anger. 

“Don’t be fucking stupid.” Tim bites out, and the others look up in mild surprise at the tone change. 

Tim’s not angry at the others, he's pissed at the whole situation, and how the two kindest people in the world could feel any guilt for the pain he caused them.

“You did bring it up, and I was completely horrible to you anytime you did. I hid it, I denied and denied, and if you did tell anyone? I would’ve never forgiven you.” 

Tim leans in, “Not because it would've been your fault, but because I was so scared, and confused and angry I couldn’t take it out on my dad so I would have taken it out on you.”

He forces himself to hold steady eye contact, flickering between both his friends.

“I got to stand up to my dad on Friday, and while it was stupid and reckless, I don't regret it.” He removes himself from the embrace, full body turned to his closest friends. 

“Don’t you dare blame yourself, you're 14 years old, there wasn’t anything you could do.”

“Fine,” Bernard answers, holding his serious gaze and returning it ten fold, “But you can’t go blaming yourself for any of this either.”

Easier said than done, but Tim gives a small nod.

“I love you guys.” A sandwich is slid in front of him, freshly wrapped and identical to Bernard's own one, but filled with tomato, lettuce and ham, just how Tim likes it.

“We love you too, idiot. Now eat.” That brings a small smile to Tim’s face, more genuine than it has been for a while, and he digs in, not needing to be told twice. 

—-------------------------------------------------

The school doesn’t suck as much after the break, Bernard and Ives sticking to his side most of the day, but unfortunately the comfort comes to an end by last period, Literature, which is technically a senior class but they allowed Tim to join as his scores in English were disrupting averages.

They say goodbyes, Tim promises to text them when he gets home (they were both shaken when they found out his group home was neighbouring The Crime Alley, not that his parents place was really that better).

Literature is a relatively small class, with the desks arranged to sit in pairs, but Tim always goes to the back, he sits by himself as no one wants to sit next to the kid of the class.

Or apparently today, they do.

A heavy bag dropping on the desk startles Tim slightly from doodling in the corner of his Of Mice and Men book. He pulls his glare up to the perpetrator, when he falters, venomous words falling away.

Jason Todd stands there, all muscle and intimidation, eyebrows raised in mock curiosity.

“This seat taken?” Jason asks, voice lazy and deep, but moves into it before waiting for a reply. Tim, in his moment of shock because one of the ex-robins is talking to him, just stares. Jason hums, pulling out his own book, before glancing at Tim’s copy.

“Pretty sure that's a crime.” He gestures vaguely at Tim’s book, and taking his silence for confusion, continues. “You know, drawing anything except annotations in a Library book?”

Jason's now looking at Tim, who's staring too intensely to be normal, at Jason, and it clicks in Tim's head.

Jason's eyes scanning his face, slightly concerned but unsurprised, and the brief flick to where his ribs are under his shirt, confirms it.

“That motherfucker.” The poison in Tim's voice takes Jason back a bit, eye brows raising higher, 

“I’m sorry?”

Tim scowls, “Your brother can’t help to run his mouth about other people's personal business I see.”

Jason doesn’t look offended, if anything he seems amused. “What? Does Dickface talk about me to all his troubled teens? I’m flattered.” Before Tim can interrupt, Jason's hand goes up to stop him.

“Firstly,” He raises one finger in emphasis. Tim rolls his eyes.

“I'm impressed you put two and two together. And secondly, pint-sized Sherlock, Dicky didn’t tell me anything, just that he met a kid on shift who goes to his school and that I should look out for him.”

“So this is pity?” Tim states flatly, arms crossed over his chest.

“Come on, don’t be stupid, this is having someone in your corner. Because while Dickface refuses to accept the shortcomings of Gothams Foster Care, I know how fucked up it is.”

“So I'm here to tell you not out of charity.” he moves his hands to his chest, “But out of the kindness of my heart, if you need to vent to someone who doesn’t have ‘Officer’ in front of their names, I'm here. Got it?”

Complex emotions swirl in Tim's gut, so he just goes for a nod. Jason hums, seemingly satisfied, and opens up his own book, heavily annotated, and continues reading about the best laid plans of mice and men.

Chapter Text

The rest of the school day ends without fanfare, Tim ignoring Jason’s attempt at conversation until he got the hint and left Tim alone. Once the blessed bell rang, he scurried off quickly, before Jason could stop him and talk about feelings again, walking with his music into the train station he got off of this morning. 

Lu is there, where he said he’d be in his text message sent a couple minutes ago, waiting by a police taped off convenience store. Lu smiles, more of a smirk as always, and thumps Tim on the shoulder. 

From the three and a half days he’s been with Lu, Tim has found that they are polar opposites in a lot of sense.

Lu is extroverted, unashamed and physical in the best ways, while Tim is quiet, subdued, and paranoid to the bone. The thump burns in a way that leaves Tim aching for more, his embarrassing wish granted when Lu loops an arm over his shoulders, leading them through the crowded station.

“Made it back in one piece? No more broken bones?” The freckled boy asks, and Tim huffs while elbowing him in the ribs, but Lu remains unaffected as always.

“Thankfully, I live another day.” Tim drawls. “How was, what was it you said? Slumming it with our future vigilantes?” Lu snorts.

It’s a reference to a conversation they had over the weekend about how the Bats, at least some of them, had to be poor or from the alley like themselves. 

No rich asshole would care that much about the little guy, Lu said while laid out on the uncomfortable concrete, jumpers used as pillows, during another one of their late night smoking sessions on the roof. Tim didn’t have the heart to tell him then, choosing to hum neutrally instead.

Now Tim turns his own smirk to the other. “Future vigilantes or mob bosses? It’s a coin toss. Think Two-Face could tell us who would be which?”

“Now where’s the fun in knowing?” Lu cocks his head, pointing a finger at Tim. 

He rolls his eyes. “It's not supposed to be fun, it’s so you can know if your friend will sell you out without a second thought.”

“And your rich dickheads wouldn’t too?” Lu counters.

That causes Tim to pause, before conceding, “Fair.”

“People in general just suck.” Lu states, firm. Before he can reply, they’re separated slightly by the crowd, pushing them to shuffle onto the train that has pulled up at their station. They find a seat at the back and Tim sighs, rubbing his face to wake himself up. 

“Ain’t that the truth.”

—--------------------------------

When they manage to force themselves home, they’re greeted with a small, pale woman who looks one sneeze away from falling over, seated at the dining table with Ma’am. Their stilted chatter cuts off abruptly when the boys enter, and the stranger forces the fakest smile Tim has ever seen on her face.

She stands, flattening her pencil skirt and blouse, before approaching him hand extended.

“Tim! It’s lovely to meet you, I’m Mindy Cherin with Child Protection Services.” He shakes her hand, taking in her exhausted mousy features, before pulling his hand away and standing awkwardly.

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence, before Lu claps his hands together obnoxiously, causing Tim to flinch. 

“Well, I’m out.” He says, a couple decibels too loud, turning to Tim. 

“I’ll be at the usual afterwards, come find me Princess.” Tim rolls his eyes at the embarrassing nickname, but gives a nod. Lu mock salutes them, then waltzes off to get changed. 

The usual isn’t the roof, it’s a small cafe a couple blocks down that Lu says he goes to do his homework, to both get out of the house and keep up with school. Plus, apparently like make a really fucking good vanilla milkshake.

Tim turns his attention back onto the two women in front, one openly annoyed while the other tired but patient.

The caseworker gestures to an empty seat at the table patiently, “Please sit, your group mother and I were just going over the plan for the upcoming months.” Tim slides into the uncomfortable wood, sweaty hands in his lap.

She pulls out a folder, thin and unalarming, taking out a couple of forms. She makes eye contact with Tim, going suddenly serious.

“Your parents, Tim,” That immediately causes his back to straighten, heart rate jumping. Her gaze turns slightly sympathetic at his reaction, and brings out a police report.

“Their court hearing was earlier this morning.” Her fingers tap the wood table, a dull thud beating off time with the clock behind her, and Tim tries his hardest not to reach over and slap her hand to stop. It takes all his focus to pull it back to the conversation and not scream.

“Your dad, he was sentenced with 30 years for attempted murder, and your mother 10 years for neglect and accomplice.” She swallows, hesitating slightly like she's bracing herself or him.

“They both plead guilty to all counts and were transferred to Gotham Prison immediately.”

There's silence, and Tim feels like someone has kicked him in the stomach, all air expelled. She takes it as an invitation to keep going.

She pulls on a shaky smile. “The good news is, that means there's no trial, and you won’t be needed to testify.” She waits for him to, he doesn't know, smile? Wipe his forehead in relief?

There’s something building up inside him, guilty relief that he won’t see his parents, but also the crushing panic that he’s stuck here, there really is no one else coming to get him.

She keeps talking about how he’s staying here until they can get a placement, but it looks like that will take a while, and Tim zones out. His breathing is picking up every minute they sit here, and his hands shake where they are under his thighs in an attempt to hide them, all signs familiar, pointing towards a panic attack.

Finally, Ms Cherin stops speaking, turning that annoyingly calm gaze on Tim. Practiced and poised.

“Do you have any questions for me, Tim?” He shakes his head, knowing that he can’t speak right now in fear he’ll choke. She smiles slightly, either oblivious to his inner turmoil or uncaring. Equal odds for that. Everything about her screams fake, routine, she’s not here because she cares, she’s here because it’s the job.

Should swap jobs with Dick, he thinks briefly.  

Ms Cherin slides him a business card, explaining to call her for anything, and Tim pockets it quickly, standing up as she does.

Tim doesn’t remember shaking her hand, or exiting the apartment, but one minute he's at that damn dining table and the next he's out on the rooftop, afternoon sunlight blearing down on him.

He frantically tugs at his school tie to loosen it, feeling like a noose around his neck. His breathing comes out in short bursts, lungs trying to get air in but failing. He hasn’t had a panic attack in a while, so it takes him by surprise, this feeling of dread and anxiety, drowning on land, feeling like he's dying.

It brings him back to when his dad was over him, arms around his neck and Tim clawing at his hands to stop. 

He staggers to his knees, stinging immediately, cold concrete trying to ground him but not enough, and he’s one second from tugging at his hair when something flickers at the edge of his mind.

I'm in your corner kid… even if you're in trouble, or just need someone to talk to, got that? 

His hands move without permission, grabbing his phone from his pocket, bringing up the contact and shakily pressing the call button. He puts it on speaker, carelessly placing the phone next to him face up.

He curls his body, kneeled on the floor and tilting his head forward to press against the floor, wheezing.

“Hey Timbo what’s up?” A chipper voice sounds from the left, slightly confused, and his heart jumps in response. He can’t say anything, just sits there failing to catch a breath, so frustrated and scared a wet sob slips out, accompanying the tears he didn't realise were dripping.

Dick must have heard it, because his voice changes from Dick Grayson to Nightwing.

“Tim? Buddy what’s wrong, are you hurt?” Tim makes a low hum, trying to signal no, he’s not hurt, he’s just going to die because his stupid lungs won’t work. Dick must hear his erratic breathing, because his next guess is a lot closer.

“Okay, okay Tim? I need you to name three things you can see? Can you do that for me.”

He lifts his head up, heavy and foggy, eyes scanning the surroundings.

“A door” his voice is a rasp, and barely louder than a whisper, but Dick makes a sound like it was the best thing he’s heard. “Okay good, next one Timbo.” They count down each sense, and   Tim finds that he can feel his body a bit more.

Every bit of him is shaking, a bundle of nerves on fire, but now he’s not struggling to intake air, his head clears and he can hold a breath for longer.

There’s silence, both on the roof and over the phone, before the other breaks it.

“You want to tell me what’s going on Timmers?” He really doesn’t, but the conversation with the CPS woman plays in repeat in his head.

“I’m stuck here, Dick.” Embarrassingly, it comes out like a whine. “I’m never getting out, I’m fucking property of the city, a case file.” He sits up now, looking out at the disgusting skyline of downtown Gotham.

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.” Tim stresses, like he's pleading for Dick to understand. “I was dealing, it was fine, now everything's fucked and I have no control over anything in my life, all choices decided by some witch of a woman who couldn’t give a single fuck about any of her foster kids let alone m -”

“Okay Tim I need you to pause and take another breath for me.” His chest is tight again, and he subconsciously takes a deeper breath at the command. After a minute, he wipes his wet eyes clear, but thankfully the tears have halted.

“Sorry, sorry.”

The other man makes a sound of disapproval over the phone, “Don’t apologise, it’s alright, I really appreciate that you called me.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

There's a beat of silence, the wind cooling Tim's flushed body. 

“But you did Tim, and I hope you know you always can.” 

If Tim has learnt one thing from his 14 years of living, and from the last couple of days, he knows that can never be true. But he’s not about to dump that with Dick, so instead he settles for, “Okay.”

Dick, trained by the world's greatest detective, wasn’t convinced.

“You want me to come out? I can take you for a drive somewhere”

Yes. No. Yes. 

“No, it’s fine.”

“Tim.”

“Dick.” He bites out, wishing the conversation to be over, and the other must hear it in his tone.

“Okay, I'll leave you to it, take it easy today please.” 

Tim hums in affirmation, and the other sighs slightly. They say bye and hang up, leaving Tim pathetically alone. 

—----------------------------------------------------

The rest of the two weeks go by achingly slowly.

Tim finds it difficult to sleep with two other new breaths joining him, instead, spending most of the night on the fire escape outside their window with a cigarette instead of his bed, easier to breath and stop his brain from buzzing.

He’s also become concerningly addicted to cigarettes, having a pack in his pocket at all times of the day, feeling anxious without it. Tim before this whole mess might’ve cared, but right now he has more problems on his mind, including the fact he will probably be dead before he’s thirty anyways so fuck his lungs.

His lack of sleep means that he's exhausted at school, and mixed with a healthy dose of current apathy for life, he spends most of his classes in a daze, permanent headache in the front of his forehead. Jason tries in lit, starting conversations on whatever book they’re picking apart, but it either ends up with Jason becoming frustrated when he gets no reply and ignoring Tim for the rest of the lesson, or deciding to force Tim to listen to him rant and rave about the book in his hand. 

There’s no in between.

Tim spends most of the time listening from where he rests his head in his arms, not caring how rude it is, sometimes even falling asleep. On days where his eyebags look worse than normal, Jason lets him sleep for the whole class and watches him with this far away, sad look on his face that Tim would slap off if holding his head up wasn’t this hard. 

Being at his group home is hell, the only saving grace is Lu, both of the boys finding comfort in each other. Trauma bond or genuine friendship, the line has blurred.

After school most days, they spend it camped out in the cafe, the staff know to now expect a friend with Lu, their heads in textbooks, or Tim’s current book of the week, or a quick nap. 

Anything's better than the apartment, with Ma'am's cutting words and sharp hands that don’t leave bruises but achy red marks. Plus, the older boy, Marcus, being a grade A asshole, always drunk or high doesn't help. Not that he’d admit to anyone, but he’s too similar to Tim’s dad; it makes him a whole different world of nervous, so he avoids him at all cost.

Dick has only messaged him a handful of times, each checking in and asking how Tim is, but after Tim’s third thumbs up, he’s backed off. Tim is too embarrassed from the rooftop incident to care. 

He also had his first shift back a week and a half after the shit show, all the obvious bruising on his face dulled to a faint yellow hidden by the concealing Leia, the only foster sister who actually interacts with him, and while it’s a shade too light, it works.

His side still twinges slightly when grabbing and serving plates, but all in all he’s glad to be back on roster, earning much needed money. He told everyone it was a minor car accident and they left it at that, a shitty excuse because Tim does not and has never owned a car, but the lack of prying (which a certain officer could certainly learn from) is a breath of fresh air, that one part of his life hasn’t changed completely.

The shift was hell, his feet aching by the end, but his head was a little bit clearer after doing something good, that he’s counting down his next one in a few days time.

But until then, he repeats the same routine, train, school, cafe, bed, sit outside, sleep three hours, and repeat. 

That boredom and drumming under his skin is probably why he agreed to Lu’s idea in the first place.

Chapter Text

It went like this:

It was nearly a month into Tim’s new placement, the end of October approaching rapidly, and subsequently the end of freshman year. 

Tim knows the holidays stuck in the stuffy apartment will be a new type of hell, but that's for future Tim to worry about.

He was currently lying on a thick yoga mat he found at some garage sale walking home from school one afternoon when the train was closed for a minor scarecrow attack. He laid on the roof of their building as normal, what he did most Friday afternoons, when the creaky hinges of the heavy door behind him opening startled him. 

He looks up from his novel, the last pages of his English required reading below him, using his pointer finger to hold his page in place as the other boy strides towards him, grin on his face.

This couldn’t be good.

“‘Sup Princess.”

Tim rolls from his stomach onto his back, slinging an arm over his eyes and groaning.

“Again with the nickname Lu, piss off.”

“Nah,” He answers, plopping down next to Tim and wiggling so they share the mat, before lying down. Sharp rocks dig into their backs, the protection too small for both of their bodies. 

Lu’s now entirely pressed up against Tim, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and Tim feels something warm flutter in his stomach. 

He ignores it, like he has for the last month. 

Yes, Lu was attractive, and funny, and smart. 

And yes, Tim may be, possibly, kind of, not straight.

And okay, sure, you could say he might, and he means might, have a slight crush on the boy.

But that’s another problem for future Tim. Right now, he shoves it down with everything else he decides to not deal with. And it’s not too hard, mustering up enough energy to interact with people is a feat every day, most of them he spends numb and exhausted. 

Tim turns to the other, faces inches away, and is able to map every minor and major freckle on the other boy's face. The stupidly wide grin is still stretched ear to ear, and so Tim sighs and gives in.

“What.” He asks drily, and Lu just turns so he is lying on his side, impossibly closer to Tim.

“It’s Halloween.” Lu wiggles his eyebrows, and Tim frowns in response.

“And the sky is blue, are we just stating facts or do you have a point?”

Lu rolls his eyes affectionately, “Always so grumpy.” 

I’m not grumpy, Tim mutters, but it’s ignored by the other. 

“It’s pathetic,” Lu starts, a whirl of emotions across his face, eyes always so vibrant and hands so animated. “I will not spend another night here when we could be out doing something.”

“And what would that be?” 

Lu doesn’t miss a beat, “Going to Chuck Lakers Annual Halloween House party.” 

Tim blinks slowly. “Who the fuck is Chuck Lakers?” Lu just waves his hand dismissively, laying on his back again.

“Irrelevant”

“It’s kind of relevant if it’s his house”

“The house doesn’t matter Tim!” Lu stresses, and Tim wonders what's got him so manic today, but lets it go in fear of spoiling his good mood, “What matters is it's an open invite for free booze and actual entertainment.”

“Right, because you know what I'm always saying, gee, I wish I could be wasted right now dancing with a sea of unknown sweaty teens.”

Lu shoves him lightly. 

“Where’s your sense of fun?”

“In the jail cell it is shares with my dad.”

Lu frowns. “That’s too dark and twisty for this early in the night.”

Tim shrugs, “Don’t ask stupid questions then.” 

Lu sits up, pulling himself to stand and giving a stretch, eerily reminiscent of a cat. Tim hopes the blush in his cheeks isn’t noticeable. The standing boy turns around, hands on his hips, channelling all his authority into the stance.

“Please Tim, I'll even hold your hair back if you throw up.”

It’s Tim’s turn to roll his eyes. “You're really selling it.”

“So you want to be stuck with Marcus? Are you saying you would prefer to be with him? Instead of me? I’m hurt, truly, honestly how could you -” Lu squarks as Tim throws his book at him, and he sits up while sighing deeply.

“Are you planning to annoy me into agreeing?”

“Is it working?”

There’s a beat of silence, the ever present police sirens wailing in the distance and a slight breeze causing light goosebumps to raise behind his neck. 

On one hand, Tim is fucking bored out of his mind, needing something to do before the tight coil in his chest explodes, and he does something stupid like hit someone, or worse, cry. It’s also not a work night, he’s off for the weekend so he wouldn’t show up to a shift hungover. 

On the other, a room full of teenagers he doesn’t know sounds like hell. But, it's Halloween, and he can be anything, maybe once he can try and be a normal teenage guy. 

He darts a hand out, and Lu meets him halfway, pulling him up. 

When they’re standing, equal height, he gives in. “Fine, but I'm leaving if it's lame.”

“With me there, it will be the time of your fucking life.”

“Now you're definitely not selling it.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------

A fear hours later, they’re slumped on the train on their way to Chuck-Fucking-Lakers house, Tim sporting a cheap leather jacket Lu had in the back of his closet, gelled back hair and his nicest pair of jeans, cigarette lit and occupied in his mouth finishing off the look but also there for the purpose of calming his nerves. 

Lu was the one who organised the costume, dressed him, even put eyeliner on his water line for fuck sake, and said he was going as a greaser from The Outsiders. Tim has never watched or read The Outsiders, but he looks slightly badass so he takes the others' word.

Lu went for the opposite, a cheap cowboy hat and boots he borrowed from Leia with a tight checked shirt, Tim hasn’t been able to look too long at him in case he does something embarrassing like drool. 

What Lu failed to admit was that there was a no-costume-no-entry policy, and Tim was ready to call the whole thing off but knew it was too late, when Lu had his mind set on something there was no stopping him. 

He also didn’t say that Chuck was a Senior, and that most people there will be older, but apparently Lu is friends with Chuck’s football mates brother who is a freshman, so it’s all good please chill out before you give yourself a stomach ulcer, Tim.

The train was busy for a Friday, filled with already inebriated teens on their way to various parties, a small part of Tim was excited to be part of them in some way. He’s never really been one for parties, or outings, Bernard and Ives rather spending the night in watching a movie then out thrill seeking.

It’s a nice change, but Tim still feels a pang in his chest that wishes they were here with him. As much as he and Lu have become dependent on each other, there's none of the history that there is with his school friends, the unconditional, deeply bonded platonic love they share. 

Instead, Lu and him have this complex, symbiotic and codependent relationship, intertwined together for each other's survival. They balance each other out, pessimist and optimist, both dealt shitty hands and keeping each other afloat, something the others can’t understand. 

But maybe there's something special about that, having friends who don’t know the extent of his fucked up life, and a friend who is one of the sole reasons he keeps going in the group home because Tim know he has someone at his back no matter what he could do. 

They exit the train in a swarm of sweaty bodies, some who clearly are in desperate need of a hygiene lesson, and Lu leads the way through dark streets and closed up store fronts. They gradually move from shops to tightly packed apartments to a slightly nicer spread out neighbourhood with individual houses. It’s no Bristol, definitely no Wayne Manor, but It’s nicer than any home Tim has ever stayed in.

He flicks the cigarette onto the road, stubbing it out. The music can be heard from down the street, a noise complaint waiting to happen, and Tim's glad he wore comfortable shoes in case they need to make a run from the cops. Tim brought that point up with Lu earlier on the train, whose boots have a slight heel, but he wasn’t worried. 

I guess you’ll have to carry me home, princess.

Wouldn’t you be the princess and I be the prince in this situation? Since I’m rescuing you?

Don’t be sexist Timmy.

They glide through the entrance with ease, the only lighting coming from colourful strobe lights pulsing in time with the music, Pop music that makes Tim wince. They’ve gone all out, smoke machines and even a fucking disco ball in the main area, but what's even more impressive was the turnout.

The entire place was one pit of people, constantly brushing and sliding up against each other. It was sweaty, the temperature like a steam shower inside, slightly suffocating. While Tim grimaces, Lu just grins.

He grabs Tim’s hand, and suddenly not all seems bad.

Lu drags the dark harried boy through the thick of it, weaving and giving too enthusiastic Excuse me! Until they’re in front of a table hosting an impressive variety of alcohols and mixes. Lu gets to work, comfortable and practiced, pouring from bottles Tim has never seen before.

Jack Drake only drank beer, and the few moments where Tim was pissed off and hurt and so fucking tired of feeling, he would swipe one from his dads pathetic hoard and sip it on whatever roof top was closest. 

In the end, it would just make him feel more nauseous and alone, sick in the stomach that he might be turning into his old man.

Now, Lu hands him a red cup filled with something sickly yellow and gives him a blinding smile. Tim takes it tentatively, eyeing him with fake distrust.

“Looks acidic.” Lu laughs at Tim’s hesitation, taking a sip from his own cup, before slinging an arm around Tim’s waist lazily and walking towards the thick of the party, “It’s not far off.”

Not feeling comforted at all, Tim takes a large enough gulp and resists the urge to cough. It’s bitter, and leaves a slight burn, but the very artificial mango makes Tim’s lips curl up slightly.

They lean up against a wall, Tim surveying the swell, and Lu leans in so his mouth is near Tim’s ear, they’re in the heart of the party so speaking is impossible below a yell.

“See!” He gestures to the drink that Tim sips pleasantly, “When have I ever led you wrong?”

“Do you want a list?”

Lu eyes him with those searching eyes of his. “Is there a quip you don’t have?”

Tim mock thinks, tapping his chin obnoxiously. “Ask me a couple drinks in, then maybe.” 

Lu crowds him, leaning over where Tim rests against the wall, and his breath stutters slightly. Lu tips his hat in a mock sort of curtsy, before holding a hand out.

“Shall we dance, princess?” Tim thanks the Gods that it’s dark in here, so he can blame any blush on the heat, and grabs the hand after a moment's hesitation. It’s like Lu was handed a bag of candy, his face lights up and they join the crowd, Tim anxiously taking a large swing of his drink . 

—-----------------------------------------------------

It gets a little hazy after that.

They dance, it takes a while for Tim to get comfortable enough to go from bobbing his head to actually moving limbs. But Lu, naturally, is a whirl of motion, instantly comfortable and leaking confidence. 

Tim finds that his hand is never empty of a drink, various friends of Lu come up and greets them, most of them are high out of their minds but a few actually seem pretty cool. Tim takes the drinks he gets offered if they’re cans, not trusting yet for someone else to make his drink.

Because he rarely drinks, he can already feel after a couple that he starts slipping, easing his mind away.

He finds he likes this more, more than the high strung bundle of nerves he normally is. More than the Tim that flinches at loud sounds, with the dark bags under his eyes, the one who has the few decent teachers flashing concerned glances when he brushes past them.

They chat, they dance, they drink.

They dance, they drink, they chat.

He’s scared how much he loves it.

At one point they’re outside in the backyard, a group of maybe ten other boys flung over garden chairs and couches that have been moved outside, having drunk rambling arguments that make Tim laugh at the absurdity. Tim and Lu were squished on the couch together, reminding him of that first day when they sat in the bathtub like scrunched spiders.

They pass around a joint, apparently tonight is a lot of firsts for Tim, and he is only slightly freaked by how his thoughts melt away from him once he takes a puff.

It gets late, you can feel it in the air, and people start dropping off one by one, yelling tearful goodbyes like they won’t see each other come Monday. 

Lu tells Tim, in mumbled inebriated speech, that he overheard Ma’am on the phone, saying she’ll be away for the weekend, and so they should be good to get into the apartment unbothered.

Tim absorbs about 60% of this, nodding along, happy as long as it means Lu keeps staying pressed up next to him on the couch.

Eventually, they take their turn and bid farewell, a glance at someone's phone reads a quarter to 3, and Tim gives heartfelt goodbyes to people who he can’t remember their names, but it doesn’t matter because Tim is feeling too giggly and bubbly to care.

Someone calls them a taxi, paying the driver for them (whether because they can tell they’re poor, or the payer is the kind of rich where they can do it without a second thought), and shove them in the backseats.

They sing some tune that was playing on repeat in their heads obnoxiously loud, slurred but happily, and too soon they turn up in front of the hell that is the apartment. Stumbling up flights of stairs the seem a lot more than usual, eventually by some miracle they make it into their room.

Luckily, Marcus isn’t home and so they clumsily strip out of their jeans and costumes, to their boxers, Tim finding a shirt to slip on and turning to his bed where a now half naked Lu lies on his stomach, passed out already.

Uncaring and exhausted, Tim shoves him over, flopping next to Lu, sleep already on the edges of his vision.

They fall asleep, breaths in time, and for once Tim is lucked with a dreamless sleep.