Chapter Text
Tim's sneakers slap against the stony concrete. He hits a puddle and his pant leg comes back soaked but the kid just keeps going. Tim has been using Gotham as his personal playground for years. Not for the first time, though, he wishes for a grappling hook - or a driver's license.
He doesn't have either of those.
He doesn't have a cape or a mask or cool gadgets.
But what Tim does have, is a camera.
In the hands of the right sleuth or detective, a good lens with a decent zoom is a weapon in and of itself.
Tim has been following Batman and Robin's current case closely.
He follows all of their cases.
Felipe Garzonas is going to get away with everything he's done. All because he has diplomatic immunity, thanks to his father. Sure, he's been booted back to his country, but that doesn't stop him from hurting someone else or sneaking back into the states. It doesn't heal the wounds he's already inflicted here.
Tim doesn't exactly run around with drug dealers or criminals, but he's grown up around enough of them. They just come in different packaging than how the media and society usually see them. The kids at his boarding school could probably get away with murder with their moms and dads there to bail them out.
Just like Felipe.
The kids that bullied Justin Osterberg into the hospital ended up with barely a slap on their wrists from their folks, and the school board. Justin Osterberg got into the school on a scholarship. His bullies, did not.
So if a set of photographs of Justin's bullies drinking and smashing up a cop car was sent straight to the press from an anonymous source so their parents couldn't do damage control before the pictures reached the masses, well, Tim certainly knew nothing of that.
Tim isn't sure he can actually get a photo of Felipe doing anything illegal enough to make a difference, but it's worth a shot.
It's not like he hasn't snapped criminals in action before, sending off the evidence to the police or Batman - all also anonymously, of course.
Tim has hung upside down above mobster meetings, snuck into stairwells for drug deals, and hidden atop cargo crates during weapons buys.
He's on a rooftop now, having climbed the fire escape in a mix of sprinting and jumping. Another place Tim has grown comfortable running and hiding and napping and doing all sorts of things on that a 12-year-old probably shouldn't be.
But hey, he's done the math. Dick Grayson was younger than Tim when he first put on the tights and cape. And Tim is just grabbing photographs from afar. It's not like he's actively going toward the danger or bullets or bombs or -
Except that time he almost got clipped by a batarang.
Or that other instance where he nearly was knocked off a twelfth story fire escape by Killer Croc.
Or -
Okay. So maybe Tim gets a little too close.
And maybe those brief moments of adrenaline and fear are the closest thing Tim gets to feeling really, truly alive in his lonely, dull, life.
And maybe he's okay with that.
Maybe some things are worth the risks.
Like this.
Like laying on his stomach on a rooftop just across from Felipe Garzonas' window.
He's hoping to get an incriminating snapshot, but there's also the possibility of Batman and Robin showing up to scare the guy from darkening Gotham's doorstep again. It won't be the riveting action shots of the vigilante's mid-battle with a meta or mob, but it's still something.
And this definitely beats the alternative of getting another high score on one of his video games for the 100th time.
Or listening to his roommate at the boarding school complain about football practice, again - or rather, smelling him while he talks and airs out his cleats and socks.
A blur catches Tim's watchful eye and he zooms in, squinting against the camera. There's a flash of yellow and green, then red. Robin is grappling toward them, and quickly. Tim glances back at Felipe, now on the balcony and gazing out over the city. He leans against the edge, looking wistful and smug. It makes Tim a little sick. The guy still thinks he's won.
And, in a way, he has.
Tim aims his lens back at Robin, who is much closer now.
And angry.
No - furious.
Something's happened.
For an awful, fleeting moment Tim thinks Felipe left some sort of parting gift for the vigilantes and Batman has been hurt, or worse, because Robin looks like someone set on revenge, but then there's a clang and Robin is landing on the balcony's railing and Felipe - Felipe is falling.
It's a split second.
That's all it takes.
Robin is across the small space now, bent over and reaching out for a body he can never hope to catch. His grapple can't even help the criminal now.
Robin stares down at the street below. Tim deliberately does not look. He's not sure if he could tear his own eyes away from the boy not much older than himself if he really wanted to. They're both in shock in their own ways, despite the distance between them.
When Batman swings onto the balcony, a breath of relief punches its way out of Tim's chest that his whole body shudders from the force of it. His finger lifts off of the camera's button stiffly. Tim hadn't even realized he'd been tapping it again and again and again until he registered the sound of the shutter stopping.
Still, he doesn't look away.
It's difficult to tell from across the street, and with a full mask, but Batman seems - angry. Accusatory.
Robin swings away first. He moves slower than before, but his posture is rigid and he's just as upset. Maybe even more.
Tim watches Batman hang his head, gloved hands gripping the railing. The detective scans the balcony but then begins his descent. Tim waits until the caped crusader is out of sight before scurrying across a few fire escapes. He slips through the quickly gathering crowd on the street and across to the building. Breaking in is just about as easy as before. The cops aren't crawling around it just yet and Tim has to hurry to finish and be gone before they are. Once inside Felipe's room, Tim retrieves his two recording devices. They're nothing special, really. Just modified tape recorders set to a timer and rigged up with tape below the couch and on the underside of the balcony. It's not like Tim needs anything on Felipe anymore, and he's careful to keep his homemade gadgets from being traced back to him should they fall into the wrong hands, but some risks aren't worth taking.
With his camera and recorders tucked into his backpack, Tim sneaks out the very same way he came, disappearing into the chaos on the street, still keeping his head turned away from whatever grisly and gory sight Felipe has become against the road.
He's almost in the clear when he hears a first responder recognize the human pulp on the pavement.
"Didn't a call just come out about his girlfriend?" He groans. "Isn't she the woman who Batman just found after she'd hung herself?"
Tim's feet fumble.
He knows instantly that Batman isn't the only one who found her.
The woman Felipe had been seeing, had been beating, is dead.
He hadn't been exactly too sad that a drug dealing, woman-beating jerk had kissed the concrete. He's even less upset about it now.
Tim makes it back to the boarding school before bed checks, and then promptly slinks back out after the headcount.
Back before proper fire codes and building safety, there had been bedrooms and community lounges in the underground floors below the dorms. Now, the only accessible room in the basement is for laundry. Well, the only publicly accessible room. There's an old lounge with stacked chairs and booths and a stripped down kitchen. The bedrooms are barren, except for a few rickety bed frames leaned up against the wall. But Tim's favorite room? The old radio station. Yes, the boarding school used to have it's own local radio program, ran and hosted by students and for students. Most of the equipment has long since been removed, but it has the most comfortable old chair and an old desk - and a cubicle studio that transformed into a makeshift darkroom for developing his photographs quite nicely. It also has a removable panel ceiling that conveniently holds all of Tim's own tech and research.
Through his snooping, he's found that the lower level of the dorm next door used to be home to a little library and the one across the path had a whole cafe setup. The school still has all of those things, but they're definitely above ground now, and all housed together in a community building.
Tim keeps backups in the old library and cafe, just in case.
Settling into the squeaky old chair, Tim curls his legs up against his chest and starts spreading out his findings from the day. Scribbling a few notes in his casebook, Tim ejects the tapes from their respective recorders. There's silence for a long while and Tim fast forwards.
"Well, Felipe, the good life was sweet while it lasted. Adiós, Estados Unidos."
"Adiós, creep," Tim mumbles.
"It will not be easy for me back in Bogatoga. Father will be furious."
Tim almost says something along the lines of "too bad" or "poor baby" until he remembers that the man belonging to this voice is dead.
Felipe whines some more but then his words fade farther until Tim can't make them out anymore. With a sigh, he swaps to the balcony tape. He isn't really all that excited to listen to a man scream while falling to his death, even a man like Garzonas.
Tim listens as Robin lands with a soft clang, Felipe's name already on his lips. There is rage behind the single word.
But then Felipe is falling backwards, a frightful gasp growing into a full bodied scream. The recorder thankfully didn't catch the sound of Felipe pancaking against the pavement.
"Robin, what happened?"
Batman's voice is promptly followed by the clang of the vigilante landing on the balcony There's a long pause and Tim can feel the weight and tension of it through just the tape.
"Robin, did Felipe fall…or was he pushed?"
Tim clicks down on the pause button with almost enough force to crack the plastic.
Batman can't actually think Robin would kill, can he? Robin is the light against Batman's darkness. Robin is -
Tim presses play.
"I guess I spooked him. He slipped."
Robin is - broken. His voice hitches, still rimmed with rage and full of righteous fury, but now there is a hollow hurt carved out somewhere in the middle of it.
Tim listens to Robin's grapple gun shoot out and then Batman is left alone on the balcony, a low sigh barely audible.
"What have I done?"
Tim sits back as the silence stretches out into static.
It's a big risk.
Batman might find out. Might put a permanent stop to Tim's extracurriculars. Might snitch to Tim's parents about where he has been running off to in the night.
But some things are worth the risks.
Pocketing the recorders, Tim grabs his camera - and heads to the darkroom.
Jason hefts the Geometry book back into his locker. His thumb runs across the embossed lettering along the cover. He doesn't remember what they even learned in class not five minutes ago. The day passes by with the exchanging of textbooks as the only indication he has been to class at all. This part is habit, routine. And if he doesn't actually pay enough attention during the subject that corresponds with the next book he grabs - well, at least he isn't skipping again.
At least this isn't another thing Bruce can yell at him over.
Be disappointed in him, over.
Wayne Manor is a big place, but he's still overheard enough from Alfred and Bruce. How they think he has been moody lately. How they worry he is still upset over his parents.
And - of course he is. It hasn't really been all that long since either of them - since he lost them.
But that's not what's been bothering him.
And honestly, Jason is a little bitter that "The World's Greatest Detective" can't figure it out.
On autopilot, Jason reaches for his copy of World History but then pauses. Something catches his eye and his hand hovers midair. A manila folder rests atop his Frankenstein paperback.
He should probably bring it to the Batcave. Bruce would X-ray it for bombs or traps or something.
Bruce would also make sure he read it first.
And this was obviously meant for Jason.
Pride, and curiosity, win out in the end.
Nothing explodes when he pops the seal, so that's at least a good start.
Making sure his locker door conceals him, Jason dips into the folder, fishing out the contents - and promptly almost dropping them onto the floor.
Felipe Garzonas falls from the balcony in the first photograph.
In the second, Robin is reaching down to catch him.
Too late.
There's a note, too. Simple, straightforward.
"I know you didn't kill him. Batman should too."
And then, at the bottom:
"Thanks for all you do."
Jason's fingers curl around the photographs enough to crinkle the edges.
He never wanted to see Felipe Garzonas again. Never wanted to be reminded of how much he had failed that day.
And then - there's the other thing.
The big, important, alarm-blaring, thing.
Someone knows.
Someone knows Jason Todd is Robin.
It's like, vigilante Rule #1, or #2 - right after, "don't kill".
And shit, Batman already thinks Jason disobeyed one of those.
The front offices are busy, but a pulled fire alarm clears them easily enough.
Staying low, Jason tiptoes behind the desks until everyone has evacuated. The security cameras are almost too easy to access. He would be disappointed in the lack of an actual challenge if there wasn't someone walking around right now with his secret identity.
And photographs.
How long has this stranger been following them?
Following him?
He watches the hallways on rewind, eyes scanning the screens and pausing at anyone who comes too close to his locker. About halfway through last period, though, the cameras glitch. All of them. Nothing but static, and then a time jump. Approximately ten minutes is missing. Enough time for the stranger to get into the school, deliver the little present, and disappear. It's been over twenty minutes since the cameras came back on, and the mystery man or woman could be anywhere in Gotham by now.
Sighing, Jason scrubs his own fire-alarm-pulling and office-sneaking hijinks from the system too.
He manages to blend into the crowd of students returning inside and slips into World History without his teacher ever knowing he wasn't there in the first place.
He still doesn't catch any of the material, but this time he's got something new to distract him.
The pictures feel heavy in his backpack as he walks toward the parking lot. Alfred is already there, of course, standing outside the town car with that same soft smile and wave that greets him every day. Jason still feels weird about it, especially when the butler proceeds to open Jason's own door for him. He's not sure if he'll ever get used to things like this, even after all this time.
"And how was school today, Master Jason?"
"Fine."
Jason nudges his bag with his knee. He usually just tosses it into the empty seat next to him, but today he dropped it between his legs on the floor. The photographs make him feel exposed and there's a subconscious need to hide them, even when buried in an envelope and underneath textbooks.
"You know," Alfred hums as he pulls away from the curb, "I seem to remember a time when a certain young man couldn't wait to tell me all about every new thing he'd learned."
"Maybe I've learned every new thing I can," Jason shrugs, trying to make the words sound light, maybe even jesting, but they fall a little flat.
"Oh, I find that very difficult to believe," Alfred chuckles softly, "as there is always something new to discover. Even in my old age.
"Bite your tongue, Alfie," Jason snorts, "you're not old."
"And your father doesn't dress up like a bat at night," Alfred rolls his eyes.
"He's not -" Jason bites his own tongue instead, the words coming out on instinct.
The pair sit in silence for a long while.
"You know," Alfred clears his throat, "Master Jason, if, if there is ever anything you wish to discuss, anything at all, you know you can come to me."
Jason eyes his bag, knees drawing together around it.
"I know."
"And," the butler continues, quietly, "the same goes for Master Bruce. I know he can sometimes be -" Alfred sighs, searching for the proper word.
"Emotionally constipated?" Jason grunts, grinning.
"To put it most crudely," Alfred raises an eyebrow at him in the rearview mirror, "yes. But you can still talk to him. Either of us."
Jason doesn't respond this time, arms crossing over his stomach as he stares out his window. Alfred is a good person. The best person. Jason might even be able to come clean to him without Bruce ever having to know. If Jason asks, he thinks the butler would keep his secret. The man basically said as much when Bruce first brought Jason to Wayne Manor.
But as much as Jason doesn't want to disappoint Bruce, he definitely doesn't want to disappoint Alfred. The guy looks at Jason like he's special. Like he matters. Not because of pity or shame or judgment. Just, because he's Jason.
He doesn't know if he can handle those stern, but kind eyes looking at him differently.
The drive feels longer today and it isn't until Jason's eye catches a street sign that he puts it together.
Alfred is avoiding passing the building where Felipe Garzonas fell.
The knowledge tastes sour, his lips pursing around anything he might have said to the man.
When they make it to the manor, Jason mumbles a thank you and then disappears down a long hall. Alfred usually fixes him an after school snack but he isn't hungry.
He hasn't been hungry since Felipe took a swan dive and Batman accused Robin of homicide.
Bruce is still at work and Alfred will still go to the kitchens to prepare something for Jason, even if he doesn't eat it. The butler will also give the boy some space before bringing him a tray of whatever treat Alfred thinks will persuade Jason to pick at it, or talk to him. That gives him enough time.
The Batcomputer accesses the city and traffic cameras surrounding the school easily enough. He finds a rough estimate of a window of time for when his supposed stalker should have been coming and going, but apart from a few kids getting picked up and dropped off by parents, there's no stranger in a trench coat or sketchy looking shadowy figure or anyone skulking around with an envelope.
Snapping his fingers, Jason switches to a different set of cameras, and an entirely different day. There isn't a lot of footage available from outside of Felipe Garoznas' place, but enough to get a good glimpse of the street below the balcony.
Most people are gathering around the new crime scene, snapping photos or cupping hands over their faces or craning their necks for a better view. There are some that simply strut on by. This is Gotham afterall. A woman in a three-piece business suit. A man on the phone. A bike messenger. A 20-something with oversized headphones. And - a kid.
The boy can't be older than eleven or twelve. Sure, plenty of people aren't going to stop to rubberneck in this city, but Jason has never seen a kid, especially a boy, not interested in something so gruesome.
He's hauling a heavy looking backpack and wearing his hood low over his head. He's also doing a pretty impressive job of avoiding the cameras. That is, until the bike messenger nearly clips the kid and he has to swing to the side. It's only for a fleeting moment. But it's enough. Jason can make out a flash of young, blue eyes and strips of wild black hair thrusting out from the hood as if the cotton can't contain them. There's something familiar about him.
Jason stares at the frozen frame of the stranger's face for a solid minute before it slots into place.
Swapping back over to the cameras from the school, Jason finds what he is looking for easily enough.
Just a few minutes into Jason's Geometry period, a town car pulls up along the sidewalk. It's not dissimilar to the one Alfred just carted him home in. The kid that slips out is gangly and waves back at the driver, ducking his head so that his face is obscured as he walks. But that messy mop of hair matches. So does the backpack.
Jason has never seen this stranger before, but he is wearing a Gotham Academy uniform and must be at least a few grade levels below him.
Something feels off, though. Why would a student at the Academy be avoiding cameras? Even if he was coming in late to mysteriously deliver a package to a teenage vigilante? Jason hasn't had to employ Bruce's disguise tactics or lessons quite yet, but he's still had them drilled into his head.
Jason starts with the sixth grade roster for Gotham Prep instead, scrolling through school photo ID's on the computer. The kid's sneakers are spotless, and a name brand with a price tag that would've made Jason choke at that age. Still sort of does. When he's exhausted four grade levels, Jason moves on to Gotham Heights.
About six schools later, Jason is doubting his detective and disguise instincts and opens Gotham Academy's files.
"Is there someone at school that you are worried about, Master Jason?"
Jason gives himself twenty bat-points for not startling and shooting straight out of the seat like a damned rocket. Sometimes he really wonders if Batman taught Alfred stealth, or it was the other way around.
The butler is holding a tray with a small sandwich, row of crackers, and a tiny pile of - probably homemade - cookies. Jason sometimes scratches his head at what Alfred considers a "snack" when this would've held him over for a whole day back on the streets. He takes the tray with a shy thank you and turns back to this screen.
"Just trying to find someone I met the other day," Jason slows his scrolling.
Alfred waits a beat. Jason feels the lifted eyebrow behind him.
"And?"
Jason hides a sigh in a bite of the sandwich, stalling for time and trying to look as nonchalant as he can. Batman is the World's Greatest Detective, sure. But Alfred is scarily perceptive at sniffing out bullshit.
"It's nothing," Jason says around a mouthful of bread and cheese, swallowing guiltily when the butler chides him. "I think it's nothing."
"Do you suspect this boy of being in some sort of trouble?"
He's going to be.
"No," Jason shrugs, "I don't know. Just, don't tell Bruce, okay? I don't want him going full Batman on some kid if -"
Jason comes to the end of the male 9th grade students of Gotham Heights and swears under his breath.
"Language in the house, Master Jason."
"Is this technically the house, Alfie?" Jason spins in the chair.
"Well, I would certainly hope so. Seeing as I am employed to serve Master Bruce and Wayne Manor, if this is indeed not part of the house, then I suppose I wouldn't need to bring you sandwiches and cookies, would I?"
"Wait -"
"Actually," Alfred sighs wistfully, "this is a delight. No longer must I spend my evenings in a dreary cave, tending to broken vigilante bones or straining my old eyesight on these dreadful screens. What wonderful news."
Jason crosses his arms, smirking.
"Alright, alright, you win."
"Indeed." The butler's grin is flat, but somehow soft. "Now, about this boy?"
Jason shoves a cookie in his mouth, and promptly doesn't need to fake the little noise his throat makes at the warmth and taste. Jason doesn't like to joke about drugs. But if he did - he'd be making many comments about Alfred's cookies.
Jason has to give Alfred something now, though, or the butler will push until Jason squeals like a stuck pig, spilling all of his secrets out on the cave floor.
"I thought - he told me he was a student at Gotham Academy."
It's close enough to the truth.
"And may I assume that he is, in fact, not?"
"I checked every boy in 6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th grade. The kid is - smart." Too smart. "Maybe he skipped ahead."
"Or perhaps he was not entirely honest with you," Alfred hums. "I seem to remember another young boy who needed help and was not always forthcoming. And sometimes, still is not entirely truthful."
Abort. Abort.
Alfred knows. He has to. Or, he's suspicious, at least. Either way, Jason needs to button this conversation up before Bruce is set to be back home soon.
"You're probably right. I checked Gotham Heights, Gotham Prep, and a few public junior and senior high schools."
"Is it possible the lad is," Alfred hesitates.
"Living on the streets?" Jason finishes for him, lacking the little biting edge he. might've had with anyone else. "Like I was? No. His clothes were way too nice. And not just nice. Expensive."
"Homeschooled perhaps?"
Jason eyes the clock in the corner of the computer. Bruce would be getting home any minute now.
"Maybe," Jason begins closing out the various screens, careful to avoid anything too revealing to Alfred, "I don't -"
"Wait!"
Alfred leans forward, pointing at the frozen face from the street cameras. Jason sends up a small thank you to whoever is listening that he left the image so far zoomed in that Alfred won't be able to tell where it was shot.
"Is that the boy?"
Jason swallows, the sirens are getting louder in his head again.
"Uh, yeah. I pulled up security footage of where we met for reference with the pictures. You know, just to be sure."
He bites his lip to stop rambling. A sure sign of lying.
"Master Jason," Alfred's expression warms, "do you want to tell me what is really going on here?"
"I - I told you. It's probably nothing. Um, why?"
"Because that," Alfred makes a few clicks on the keyboard, pulling up a Brentwood Academy Boarding School photo ID, "is Timothy Drake."
Tim Drake lays on his back on the rooftop of a string of brownstone apartments, head dangling backwards over the edge. A beat is thrumming from his headphones, and from the blood rushing to meet his brain. It's a bit of a rush. And a little nauseating. But it passes the time.
These buildings are right along Batman and Robin's usual grid pattern. Or, well, as "usual" as a paranoid billionaire detective dressing up as a superhero gets. They vary the routes and times, so a lot of Tim's work is a guessing game. But that's just it. It's a game to him. A challenge. Using mathematical probabilities and statistical analysis to properly predict when and where the vigilante will show up. Or deducing where crime might be cropping up by employing the detective skills Tim has been honing since he was eight and started reading about The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew and Sherlock Holmes and C Augusta Dupe and -
Something red flashes against the night sky and Tim rolls over, vision going splotchy and ears ringing as he rights himself.
A balloon floats up where Tim had hoped to find Robin. While disappointed, Tim still keeps a careful eye out below for more balloons. One straggler is a coincidence. A few more, could mean clown trouble.
Tim let a balloon go once. His family was driving home from a fair, the first outing they had all gone to together since the day at the circus that wasn't a banquet or ball or gala or anything that required young Tim to wear a tux. It was a reward, of sorts. Tim had stopped having nightmares about The Flying Graysons, finally. Or rather, Tim had stopped telling his parents or crying out when he did. Looking back, a fair is probably a tad too similar to a circus for a traumatized child and his parents should have picked something else, but at the time, Tim didn't mind. He was just happy to be with his mother and father.
That was, at least, until he saw a clown.
One minute, Tim was chewing on cotton candy - that was no good for him, according to his mother, but kept him quiet, according to his father - and the next, he was bursting into tears. Jack Drake tried to convince his son that there was no need to fear clowns. Janet Drake scolded her husband for not thinking this through and that the man with the painted face probably reminded young Timothy of the circus, saying that they should have never come and how could Jack put their boy in such a situation after everything they've been through and -
And the clown, well, he gave Tim a balloon.
They went home after that.
And about ten minutes into the car ride, Tim rolled his window down - and let go.
The thing was full of helium. It's very nature was to float, to keep going up and up and up and be free and Tim's tiny fingers clutching at a single string was all that was holding it back. Tim knew what that felt like. His parents weren't always there to physically keep a grip on him, but there were enough invisible strings - their reputations, their expectations of him, their rules - to keep him from flying free.
The balloon, at least, Tim could choose to let go.
He wished he could go with it.
Tim watches the balloon now, and his wishes haven't changed.
When he was little, he had wondered if he could fill himself up with helium too.
Now, he laughs at the notion. And at the likely chances that someone somewhere in Gotham has or will do just that, and then probably become a supervillain too.
He can see the headlines now.
"Helium hoodlum strikes again!"
"Helium hijinks at Gotham Park!"
Tim is thinking up a list of possible pseudonyms for this fictional foe when a string of gunshots pop off. They're close. Closer than even Tim is comfortable with, if he's being honest with himself. But if Batman is running on schedule, he should be here to deal with it soon enough.
Someone screams and then a shadow shifts and Tim just knows.
Batman can be difficult to capture on camera. He moves quickly and quietly and drapes himself in the darkness of the night. Robin, on the other hand, flings himself in with a burst of bright colors and flair and quips. They're like a magician when the pair work together. Robin is the waving hands telling everyone to "look over here" while Batman swoops in to deliver the finale act.
Except - except this time there is no yellow or red or green.
No joke or pun.
No flourished flip or kick.
It's been like this for a few nights now, ever since Felipe Garzonas.
But Tim's photographs should have changed that.
Sighing, Tim shoves his camera into his bag. He could still get some good snapshots of Batman, but he hadn't even planned to come out tonight originally. He'd wanted to make sure Robin was back, sure, but there's also a coding project for his Computer Sciences class isn't going to finish itself. Or, well, it might, if he figures out how to program that AI software he's been daydreaming about that will do his homework while Tim does more important things.
With a grunt, Tim heaves himself over the side of the building and onto the fire escape, sending one last longing look over in the direction of the already-finished fight.
"Where's Robin?"
"Right here."
Tim would have met the same fate as Felipe Garzonas if not for the strong grip on the back of his collar. His feet flail until his sneakers finally find purchase again on the metal. When he can breathe again - which, admittedly, is several seconds later - Tim settles, and then looks up.
Robin is leaning over the edge of the rooftop. Their faces would be comically close, if this was anything to laugh at.
(And Tim will later. When he's Robin and dangling Damian over a ledge in a similar fashion as Jason stands over Tim's shoulder cackling. And then they'll have to explain the joke and how Tim and Jason first met to their newest brother, all while the kid tries to kill Tim to take the mantle or some nonsense that none of the former Robins are going to stand for when united. Because, yeah, Tim is a fixer. He sent the photographs to mend things between Jason and Batman. When he later learns about the strain between Dick and Bruce, well, he gets to work.)
But now, now Tim is staring into stormy blue-green eyes surrounded by a black strip of mask and it's the closest he's ever been to one of his heroes - except Dick Grayson at the circus - and he should be excited but all he can feel right now is sort of like a kitten being carried by its mother.
And then the image of Jason Todd, of Robin, gripping Tim's sweatshirt collar in his teeth, dangling him by the scruff over the edge, and Tim can't help the little high-pitched teetering laugh that sort of squeaks out of him.
Robin is decidedly unamused, thin lips pulled in a long straight line while his eyebrows curve in something between confusion and annoyance.
"Uh - hi." Tim says lamely. "Can you let go?"
Tim probably shouldn't make a joke about Jason's track record with people falling from tall heights so soon. Or ever. Yeah. Probably ever.
Jason seems to realize belatedly that he's still got a hold on him and draws his arm back - once he's noticeably glanced down to check that Tim actually has a firm hold on the bars now.
"We need to talk."
Robin jerks a thumb behind his shoulder, motioning for Tim to climb back up. He obeys, tripping remarkably only once on a ladder rung. Once on solid ground again, Tim swivels his head. He could have sworn he was alone up here before and can't place where Robin even came from. Apparently, the sidekick can stick to the shadows when he wants too.
"Were you following me?"
"No." Robin fixes his hands on his hips in a way Tim has seen Batman do when trying to look bigger and maybe a bit intimidating. "I was following him. You were on my to-do list for tomorrow."
"Me? Why?"
Jason reaches around Tim, making a grab toward his backpack. Instinctively, Tim ducks. Cocking his head, Robin smirks, going again. This time, Tim has to twirl and then sidestep Jason's attempt at sweeping his leg. When Robin dives for the bag, Tim leapfrogs over Jason's head in a mirror movement he's seen Robin do. He's a little busy being impressed with himself that Tim doesn't realize when his arms are suddenly behind his back and the backpack is being swooped off his shoulders and over his head. Somehow, in the mess of limbs, Tim was also turned around. He's a little dizzy too.
"Impressive," Jason huffs, already unzipping the bag.
"Thanks," Tim rubs his elbow, "but I don't know what you're looking for in -"
Jason lifts out the camera, holding it out in his hand with a roll of his eyes.
"I like photography."
"Huh," Jason hums, "and what exactly do you like taking pictures of ?"
"Why? I wasn't doing anything wrong, I swear."
He hates lying to someone he looks up to, but maybe if he pulls the kid-card, he can get out of this with his secret, and his dignity. Tim has practiced the art of crying on cue, courtesy of his parents. Apparently, if a person spends enough time learning how to not cry, doing it on command starts to come easy too.
He feels his throat getting thicker. Wet. Readies himself to pull out all the stops for this one.
But then Jason is rifling through his bag, emptying his school books and supplies and turning the backpack inside out. His fingers trail along the seams until they pause. Tim watches as the corners of Jason's mouth twitch and he knows everything is about to fall apart.
He'd known this was a risk.
He'd known it was worth it.
That doesn't mean he's exactly thrilled.
Jason opens the secret compartment, a small stack of photographs spilling out between their feet. Batman and Robin fighting Two-Face downtown. Robin doing a handstand on a goon's shoulders. The Batmobile barreling through the streets, city lights streaming in colorful rays all around it. They're not dangerous. He's never even tried to get a shot of any of them without a mask or cowl. And he even has a rule to only take pictures in the city and nowhere near Wayne Manor, even if he has followed them back there a time or two.
He's careful, but exposing Batman and Robin's identity to the public or some supervillain is one of those risks that is most definitely not worth it.
The photographs are, however, very close up. And not because of any fancy lenses. And they also can't be found in any past newspaper clipping or online article.
"I heard you had some...interesting...pictures of me." Robin looks from the splayed photos up to Tim. "Pictures that you think are of someone else? Some kid named Jason Todd?"
"You don't have to lie to me."
The tiny tremor Tim had been working into his voice is gone now. His throat is dry. The jig is up. There is no point in trying to deny what Robin so obviously has figured out. And Tim is willing to bet that the older boy has more proof than just Tim's own backpack. Anyone working under The World's Greatest Detective would have to before confronting someone like this. There is no point in trying to keep up the facade anymore.
For either of them.
Robin's forehead crinkles and then smooths, eyes shining bright at Tim's sudden shift. He seems pleased with himself. Or with Tim. Maybe both.
"Not lying."
"Really?" Tim shakes his head. "Then how do you know I had the pictures? I only gave them to Jason."
"Because I'm Robin. I've got eyes and ears everywhere in this city."
"You mean Batman does." Tim folds his arms, but lowers his voice. "Or I should say, Bruce Wayne."
Robin's face darkens, body going rigid all over. Tim suddenly feels very cold. When he's not trying to put on some show of imitating Batman, Jason Todd is terrifying all on his own.
"You're coming with me."