Work Text:
Tim doesn’t really like school. Sure, he’s good at it – too good, maybe, seeing how he’s skipped three grades and is in every AP and honors class Gotham Academy offers, but that doesn't mean he likes it. In fact, he’d love to just… drop out, and focus on being Robin full-time. That’d be a dream, but he knows Bruce wouldn’t approve (something about robbing another kid of their childhood) and his parents would kill him. Like, actually kill him, gun to his head, and bribes to get rid of the body.
Which means he goes to school, no matter how miserable it makes him. And his morning so far has been absolutely amazing . His parents got home really fucking late last night, two weeks earlier than they said they would, and pissed off to no end. Slamming doors and screaming back and forth, uncaring that Tim had to wake up for school in an hour and that he had only fallen asleep thirty minutes ago – not that they knew that.
They had slept for the best part of their flight home, so they were wide awake when Tim finally emerged from his room. He expected to have a quiet, tense morning. However, Father was still mad about their excavation in Chile being cut short ( “Those idiotic, ungrateful halfwits, they should be worshiping the ground we walk on, for caring about their stupid artifacts ”), so he left for class with a brand new, hand-shaped bruise on his wrist and a sore cheek.
But it’s okay. It’s not the first time it has happened, and Tim has a lot of experience dealing with his parents’ anger. He made sure to trip on the entrance, face-planting in front of most of the school, so his ‘I fell’ excuse for the red mark on his face is actually believable. His CompSci teacher even made a sarcastic remark about his clumsiness as she helped him gather his stuff from the ground.
The day doesn't get better. He sleeps through Latin III and wakes up to Mr. Bales slamming the thick dictionary in his head. It still hurts, ten minutes and a change of class later, so he closes his eyes and rests his forehead on the cool surface of his desk. At least he can sleep again now, during English, as Mrs. Fraser always looks so done with life that she doesn’t care what they do as long as they’re not bothering anyone with it.
With that in mind, Tim makes himself more comfortable on the chair, pillowing his head in his arms. He hears the door open and the class shut up, so he assumes Mrs. Fraser must look pissed today. Oh well, all the better for him, she’ll probably have them doing silent reading instead of actually teaching.
“Morning, everyone,” says a voice that is definitely not Mrs. Fraser, and Tim’s head shoots up so fast it almost gives him whiplash. At the front of the class, writing a name on the blackboard, is a man Tim is sure he has never seen at the school. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair a bit too long to be considered professional, and he keeps talking without even turning around. “I’m Mr. Peters and I’ll be your English teacher until Mrs. Fraser returns from her maternity leave.”
“ Maternity leave ?” he hears someone say to his right, bewildered. “ She’s like 50. ”
“ I thought she was just fat, ” someone else says, and Tim shares the sentiment.
Soon, the whole class is muttering amongst themselves about the new, clearly young teacher, but Tim feels like the world stops spinning when he turns around. He recognizes him, those eyes that used to be icy blue and are now a warm teal. He recognizes the face he used to see every week, covered by a domino but so unequivocally him .
His heart skips a beat as he takes in the sight of a supposedly dead boy, now turned man, standing at the front of his classroom.
His new English teacher is Jason fucking Todd .
His new English teacher is Jason Todd– sorry, Todd Peters , and he’s a goddamn menace. And not in a good way.
For one, he seems to actually care about teaching, which is weird in and of itself. After roughly five years of Mrs. Fraser, it’s a bit overwhelming to be asked for his homework and to be given extra work when he doesn’t do it. Which, to his absolute delight , is happening way too often.
That brings him to his second point.
Mr. Peters is out to get him . He’s not used to being acknowledged by his teachers, let alone singled out. They tend to –correctly– assume that if he’s where he is at his age, it is for a damn good reason, and they leave him alone as long as he maintains his straight As. And that’s fine by him, honest. It gives him time to work cases in his head during class, so all the better, but Mr. Peters always asks him questions. Questions he doesn’t always know the answer to, and Tim ends up making a fool of himself in front of everyone and reminding them he’s just 14 and should not be there, no matter how hard he worked for it.
So, yeah. School hasn’t been the most pleasant experience lately, and that’s without even touching the whole can of worms that is not knowing how to bring up the subject to Bruce. Because, after some research, he is absolutely sure that the pain in his ass teaching him about Pride and Prejudice is Bruce’s died-and-apparently-got-better son.
Tim’s sitting on the floor of his room, his back against the bed, and dozens of papers and pictures scattered around him. Last week, right after AP English, he ditched class (he actually faked a call from his parents so the secretary let him leave for “the dentist”) and took the bus to the nearest public library, where he promptly hacked into Gotham Academy’s staff database and printed everything they had on Todd Henry Peters. (And then he changed his attendance records for the day because his parents are still home and he doesn’t want more bruises than his punishments for her existing wrong , thank you very much.)
He’s appalled to see that “Mr. Peters” records match Jason’s before his death. He didn’t even bother with a believable fake identity– well, believable to them Bats. His place of birth is listed as the old apartment where he lived when Catherine was still alive; his fake social security number is just a combination of important dates like his birthday and the day he blew up, and his home address is the building in which roof Bruce and Jason had their last fight before Jason fucked off to Ethiopia.
(...let’s not ask why Tim knows that.)
What finally convinces him that he is actually Jason Todd and not some clone is the new villain/anti-hero/crime lord running around Crime Alley.
He doesn’t say any of this to Bruce. Jason’s death anniversary is near and Bruce is more closed off, more violent, as he is every year during this month. And despite what he tells himself, Tim’s not completely sure he’s not going crazy and seeing things, so he’d rather not be committed to Arkham against his will for seeing ghosts. His parents wouldn’t like that.
So, he needs proof. And he’d love to get it, really, but he can’t focus on how he’ll manage to get a DNA sample or steal Wonder Woman’s lasso, because Jason keeps giving him fucking homework .
Tim swipes his papers to the side –he tells himself he’ll organize them later, but the several piles of documents scattered around his room say otherwise– and pulls his copy of Frankenstein from his backpack. He has a character analysis to do, a biography on Mary Shelley to write, and two hours before patrol. He won’t be touching his bed tonight, again , and with his parents home until next month, he can’t skip school to catch up on sleep.
Tim knows he should be happy his childhood hero is (most likely) alive and well, but as he downs his third cup of coffee and applies concealer to a newly acquired black eye, the only thing he’s capable of feeling is pure, unadulterated rage .
He’s been back in Gotham for a month and Jason is having the time of his life. Of both of his lives.
When he brought up his plan with Talia, he thought she wouldn’t approve. The League’s way of dealing with enemies is usually more about making them stop breathing in the most painful way known to man rather than being a huge pain in the ass, but Jason refuses to hurt a kid. No matter how much the green boils in his veins whenever he thinks of him, Timothy Drake is just a kid.
And, honestly? Being his teacher fills him with much more joy than any amount of torture ever could. The look on the Replacement’s face when he turned around and locked eyes with him will forever be etched into his memory. The way his face paled like he saw a ghost (and in a way, he did), or the way he fumbles and flushes every time Jason asks him a question he doesn’t know the answer to.
The best part, however, is giving the little shit extra homework. And alright, yes, Jason might be a bit more of an asshole with Drake, but holy shit does the kid make it easy. Despite having “perfect” attendance, he falls asleep in class, is zoned out more often than not, and doesn’t do his homework half the time. His grades would have tanked if it weren’t for the fact that he does great on exams and his essays always walk the fine line between insanity and brilliance.
The Replacement is a mystery, if he’s being honest. There’s a dissonance between what Talia spoon-fed him and what he sees every day – and every night.
Being a teacher doesn’t exempt him from his side gig as a full-time crime lord, and Jason sees Robin almost as much as Timothy Drake. It doesn’t matter how much homework he gives the class, or that he announces a pop quiz for the next day, like he just did a couple of hours ago , the kid is jumping from buildings with his traffic light colors without a care in the world.
Jason watches the fight from across the rooftop. To the untrained eye, it might seem like there’s nothing wrong, but he’s not untrained: Robin’s movements are slow and sluggish, and his reflexes are not as sharp as usual. He’s fighting two goons; one of them manages to land a punch to his jaw before the Replacement knocks him out with his staff. Robin turns around just in time to see the second goon fall to the ground, a tranq bullet lodged in his shoulder and a knife clattering out of his hand. He looks for the shooter, freezing in place when he locks eyes– well, masks with the Red Hood.
Batman chooses that exact moment to fall from another, higher building, and the sound of his boots hitting gravel is deafening in the tense silence.
“Do not engage,” Batman warns, his voice as deep and level as always. The dark knight is standing between his partner and him, protecting him from the threat. Jason would be lying if he said that doesn’t sting a bit, but he’s made an effort to be perceived as such.
Robin, however, doesn’t seem intimidated in the slightest. He’s shaking a bit, sure, but his hands are clutching his bo staff like he’s about to throw it javelin-style. Honestly, it’s a bit funny because it looks like a baby bird threatening an eagle with a toothpick. Jason’s suddenly grateful his helmet doesn’t let his smile show, it’d ruin his image.
“You fucker! ” the birdie screams, startling Batman, who shoots his sidekick a glance that just screams ‘what the hell’. “Stop giving me fucking homework, you asshole!”
“Robin, what–” B starts, clearly confused (the smallest crease between his eyebrows), but the kid is not done. Jason is trying really hard not to burst out laughing. Of course Drake would find out he’s the Red Hood, but he’s not surprised by that. His reaction, however…
“Do you know how much work I have?! And I still have to study for that goddamn pop quiz! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
“I’ve got no idea what the pipsqueak’s talkin’ about,” Jason says, the mechanical voice hiding the glee and laughter in his tone. And because he’s a bit of an asshole, he takes a step forward and crosses his arms in front of his chest, subtly drawing attention to all the weapons he carries – including his own body. “Don’t drop by my turf again if you don’t want another kid’s death in your hands.”
He watches as Batman grabs his partner like one would grab a naughty cat – by the scruff and at arm’s length in case he bites, which the new Robin definitely seems to have a tendency for –, grappling away with one last look in Jason’s direction.
“What in God’s green Earth–” he catches B saying, and he snorts before turning around to continue his patrol.
The next day, Drake’s eye doesn’t stop twitching, and he can’t stop yawning during class. He’s sure the kid fell asleep with his eyes open more than once. Jason almost feels bad, but then he turns in the essay he asked them to write at the beginning of the week and it’s in fucking Italian . Sure, it is a creative writing exercise in which they had to write a letter from Victor Frankenstein’s perspective, but Jason is not fond of having to hire a translator so he can accurately grade the hellspawn. The smug smile on Drake's face as he places the paper on the table almost justifies the unholy amount of homework he then gives the class.
Yeah, better than any kind of physical torture.
Tim’s grades are slipping.
To be fair, he’s not that surprised. Bruce has doubled his workload, both as a punishment for his reaction to the Red Hood and to delegate cases so Bruce has time to investigate the aforementioned crime lord.
His grades are the last thing Tim’s worried about, though. He’s barely holding it together. The pressure is too much and his heart is constantly beating a bit too quickly from all the caffeine he’s consuming. His parents are still home, the longest they’ve stayed since he was 7, and they are still mad about their failed project. He's lost weight; Mother praised him for losing his “childish appearance”, and Bruce chewed him out for half an hour for not caring about his diet and losing muscle mass.
It's exhausting. Tim's exhausted. He's running on empty and there's nothing he wants more than a hot cup of tea and to sleep for a week, but there's always something else to do: another criminal to catch, another essay to write, another gala to attend.
It starts catching up to him on a random Friday, almost three months after Jason Todd came back from the dead.
He has made a habit of taking a nap after school, just so he can survive the night, but he couldn't yesterday – his parents dragged him to a charity function that lasted the whole evening, and then he had to finish his Physics homework before patrol.
By the time lunch rolls around, Tim’s nearing his 30th hour awake, having only one hour of uninterrupted sleep before that. The previous classes are more of a blur than actual memory, and even his classmates are side-eyeing him in worry when he makes a beeline for the library instead of the cafeteria.
And that's his mistake, really. Spending his free time in a secluded, dimly lit, completely silent space? He should have known better.
That's where Mr. Peters finds him halfway through the 5th period, his knees to his chest and drooling against them.
Tim almost falls out of his chair when a hand slams against the table in front of him, and it's a testament to how tired he is that he doesn't immediately register the danger. It takes him a couple of seconds to realize where he is, and a couple more to follow the arm attached to the hand until his eyes fall on a face he recognizes.
“Wha–”
“When I took attendance and you weren't there, Mr. Drake, I assumed you were sick or that something had come up,” the man says, interrupting him with a wicked smile. “Imagine my surprise when your classmates said they saw you coming to the library and not leaving.”
“It's not–”
“It's unfortunate to see such a promising student fall behind like you,” Jason shakes his head in false disappointment because he's still smiling like the cat who got the cream. “Maybe a week of detention will make you reconsider this path.”
No.
Not detention .
Not when his parents are still home to pick up the phone when the school calls.
“Please, I'm–” Tim begins, cold dread pooling in his stomach. Anything but detention.
Jason raises a hand and he snaps his mouth shut.
“Go back to class, Mr. Drake, while I inform the headmaster and your parents about this… incident . There's a worksheet on your desk and I expect it to be done by Monday.”
Tim can only nod and gather his things in silence, tears blurry his vision as he walks out of the library under the scrutinizing gaze of his predecessor. His cheeks burn in embarrassment and he really feels like curling into a ball under his bed and never coming out. The bathroom, however, is closer, and that’s where he spends the rest of the period.
If anyone notices his eyes are red and puffy by the time he joins his classmates at Chem lab, well, no one says anything.
“I see,” Janet Drake says, cold like the fucking Arctic, her voice static-y through the old phone in the school’s office. Jason’s eye twitches in annoyance. He just spent ten minutes trying to get a hold of Drake’s parents, and when the woman finally decides to pick up the phone, this is her whole reaction? It’s… a bit disappointing, to be honest.
“The punishment will be a week of detention after classes,” he adds, listening to Mrs. Drake sigh deeply. He kind of understands; dealing with the feral gremlin that is Timothy can’t be easy.
“ Is this… incident going to be reflected on his school record?”
“Well, no, ma’am, not the one available to colleges, at least. It will, however, be written down on his local file. That way, if something like this happens again, we will know to issue a more severe punishment or have him talk with the school’s counselor.”
“ Alright then,” says Mrs. Drake, and Jason can hear her whispering something to someone on her end. “ Thank you for calling personally. My husband and I will make sure to talk to Timothy to correct his behavior. ”
There is something in the way she talks that sends shivers down his spine. Not in the ‘imminent danger’ way, but in the “Drake's going to be grounded until he graduates from college” way, and Jason genuinely does not envy the kid right now.
“I appreciate it, ma’am. Have a good evening,” he doesn’t bother to wait for the answer before hanging up the phone.
When he turns around, the school’s secretary is looking at him with both eyebrows so high up her forehead it’s almost comical.
“What? Did I say something wrong? Is there a protocol I didn’t follow?”
“No! It’s not that. It’s just… to be completely honest, I wasn’t sure Mr. and Mrs. Drake even existed ,” the young woman says, shaking her head in what seems like resignation.
“What do you mean?” Jason frowns as Ms. Baker leans back on her chair with a heavy sigh.
“Ah, well… It’s really hard to get a hold of them, you know? Most of the communication we've had has been through their secretary. They're good folks, honestly, just really busy,” she explains, waving her hands around, probably scared of having said something bad about one of the school’s biggest donor families.
Jason just hums, filing this new information for later. He excuses himself with Ms. Baker, rushing to get back to his class.
It’s not hard to notice the vacant seat in a sea of full ones. He sends Leo, one of his best students, a look, but the kid just shrugs. So does Katie and Priyanka, and even Nico, who is known for not giving a shit about anything. They’re all covering for Drake, and they all seem guilty for snitching on their classmate. Caleb, the one who told him where Drake had gone, has his head down and is twiddling his thumbs; the poor kid looks like he’s about to break down crying.
Jason sighs with his arms crossed over his chest. Drake is so fucking lucky to have such caring classmates.
“He’s not in trouble,” he announces, and he sees several shoulders relax. “Do any of you know if this has happened before?”
Silence. No one is looking at him.
“Alright then. Why don’t we watch a movie to lighten up the mood? Since we’re already reading the play, let’s watch the Hamlet movie from 1996, and I want all of you to write down every difference you see. We’ll go over them on Monday.”
There's a general mutter of approval as he puts on the movie. He sits down at the back of the class, purposefully ignoring the little squares of light that emerge from under a lot of desks.
The movie begins, a couple of phones turn off, and Jason can't help the worry that pools in his stomach when his eyes fall on Drake's table.
He's fine. The kid's fine. Probably sleeping off patrol in some closet.
Jason never patrolled on weeknights.
Maybe he just needs more training. He's a replacement, after all, he needs to prove himself.
Timothy looked so exhausted Jason’s surprised he even managed to stand up and walk away.
It's his fault for not managing his time better.
If he weren't trying to play the hero, he wouldn't be in this situation.
If he hadn't stolen your life-
Jason closes his eyes and forces the green to recede.
He's perfectly fine, Jason tells himself one last time. It might have been the green talking, but it's right.
Timothy Drake is fine because he has the perfect life Jason had always yearned for, and if Drake is not okay…
What hope does Jason have?
Robin doesn't show up Friday night. He's not seen the next night, or the next one.
Batman is the most violent he's been in months.
“Dad, it hurts,” Tim cries out, as Father grabs his arm to yank him out of the car. Mother is standing next to the front door, a displeased expression on her delicate face.
“Do you know,” Jack begins, tightening his hold on Tim and tugging him towards the house, “how embarrassing it is having to cut a meeting short because you decided to skip class ?”
“I wasn't trying to skip–” he begs, but his dad just slaps him so hard he loses balance. Tim feels more than hears the crack before his right side flares up in pain. He tries, he really tries to keep calm, but the scream that leaves his throat is so primal there’s no way to keep it in.
He falls to the floor when his father drops him, cradling his bent arm to his chest. Distantly, Tim hears the door close and Mother’s heels approaching him, but he can’t do much more than whimper pathetically.
“I’ll call Dr. Patel,” she announces before disappearing into the kitchen.
Father crouches before him, grabbing him by the collar, forcing them to lock eyes. Tim is crying as silently as he can, but his dad’s glare is so full of hatred that he starts sobbing in earnest.
“You’re nothing but a spoiled, selfish, attention-seeking brat ,” he spits, his face so close to Tim’s that he can smell the alcohol his parents were probably drinking with their business partners.
“ I’m sorry ,” he whispers; his vision gets a bit blurry when his father lets go of him a bit harder than necessary.
“You will be.”
“B? I… I had an accident with my skateboard. I was trying a new trick and I fell and… Yeah, I broke my arm. Yes, it was stupid. I'm really sorry, I never wanted to make your job harder… No, of course, I'll– Uh-huh, I'll drop by later to get those files. Yes, I'm sure I can still work. Yes. Yes, I'll call if I need anything. Thank you. I'm sorry.”
Timothy Drake doesn't go to school on Monday. His parents call him in sick on Tuesday and Wednesday, and he misses detention.
The Red Hood kills for the first time in months.
It's hard doing your makeup with a broken arm, Tim realizes as he struggles to apply concealer on the big bruise that is his face.
It doesn't look good, too cakey and not quite his shade, but it's infinitely better than what's under it, so it stays. He'll take some laughs and weird looks over a call to CPS any day of the week, and he's not so stupid as to think his current state doesn't warrant one of those.
Father and Mother left for Bahrein two nights ago. They didn’t even say goodbye, didn’t leave a note or anything, and Tim only knows where they are because he hacked into their bank accounts and saw the plane tickets.
He can’t say he’s sad or disappointed. No, he’s more than used to his parents leaving without a word, but he does feel like shit because he’s so relieved they left. What kind of son is he, so glad his parents are miles away, that he won’t see them in months? But knowing he’s an awful person does not erase the fact that he can finally breathe again.
Robin won’t be flying anytime soon, sure, but Timothy Drake feels like the weight of the world just got lifted off his shoulders, and like the biggest piece of shit for it.
He gave himself a day for self-pity after they left, and now he has to go back to school and lie to everyone to their faces.
That’s if anyone even notices , a traitorous part of his mind whispers. He can’t find the lie.
Tim checks himself in the mirror one last time, sighing so deeply his bruised ribs scream in discomfort. He manages to put on his backpack and walk out the door before the weight of reality starts to crash him.
He has a broken arm. Bruised ribs and a galaxy of purple spots on his skin. His face looks like he got into a fistfight with Superman and lost, and none of these things are because of a rogue or a thug.
His parents did this to him.
His parents . The people supposed to love him and care for him, beat him black and blue and fucked off to the other side of the planet after paying a shady doctor a disgusting amount of money to keep her mouth shut.
By the time he makes it to school, his makeup is half gone and his eyes are puffy, but nothing that a quick trip to the bathroom before AP Physics can’t solve.
The only saving grace of the day is the fact that he doesn’t have English. Tim allows himself a moment of happiness before remembering he has detention and that he has missed three days of it already, so Ja– Mr. Peters is going to be seriously pissed.
Dread pooling in his stomach, Tim breezes through the day’s classes, unaware of the concerned looks classmates and teachers alike send him. Unaware, that is, until he enters the detention room after the final bell.
“ What the fuck happened to you,” says, more than asks, a voice behind him as he’s putting down his stuff on a desk. He turns around to Jason standing in the doorway, his face pinched with a worry Tim doesn’t really understand the reason for.
“I uh– Skateboarding accident,” he stammers, and Jason's frown deepens. The young man drops his messenger bag on the teacher's desk and then makes a beeline to Tim.
“You're wearing makeup,”
“What, you have a problem with guys using makeup, Mr. Peters? Didn't think you'd be the type,” he tries to channel his inner Robin, but his voice comes off tired and cranky instead of the quippy tone he was going for.
“Who did this,” he says, and he sounds so much like Bruce it's unnerving. The man doesn't seem to notice, teal eyes still fixated on examining every inch of Tim's face, much to his dismay.
“No one! I promise, Mr. Peters, I just fell off my skateboard, I'm not as good as I thought I was and–” his ramble is interrupted by Jason's fist banging the desk, making him flinch so hard his everything hurts.
“Quit the bullshit, Replacement. You've known since the first day so quit pretending you don't. Now who the fuck did this to you.”
Tim stays silent. He doesn't have a solution for this, and it's all his fault. If he had remembered he had detention today, he could've come up with a better cover story than “I fell”. If he had been smarter, more capable, better , he wouldn't have fallen asleep in the library and his parents wouldn't have been mad in the first place. This is his fault, so it's on him to fix it, of course. He just doesn't know how.
Tim snaps out of his thoughts when Jason's breath hitches.
“Did–” his voice trembles before continuing, his hand shooting forward to rest on his injured arm “Did Bruce hit you?”
“What? No! Of course not! What are you even talking about?” Tim screeches, horrified. He swats the hand away from him and takes a step back, a flash of green in the other's eyes.
“Then who? Because this,” Jason points to his arm “might be a skateboarding accident, but these,” he grabs his other arm, pushing the sleeve up “ someone made these. I would know.”
Tim pales when he sees the hand-shaped bruises marking his skin. He hadn't even realized they were there, but going by the crescent moon scabs at the end of each finger, he can assume they were from when Mother dragged him to the sitting room to have him checked over by Dr. Patel.
“I'm– That's– Patrol ,” he says, finally, deciding to cling to Jason's hatred of him even if it could potentially end in more injuries “Yeah, patrol. You know I'm Robin, right? You called me Replacement so you must know. I got jumped by… by some of Riddler’s goons and–”
Jason lets go of his sleeve, taking a step back and leaning on a desk. His fists are clenched tight and his eyes are still flickering green every so often, and as fascinating as that is, Tim's kind of scared of what that could imply for him.
“Why are you trying so hard to protect someone who clearly doesn't give a fuck?” he asks, and his voice sounds defeated. Like he's had this conversation over and over again. Tim guesses he has, knowing the things street workers and Alley kids say about the Red Hood. He doesn't like the idea of being talked to as a victim, because he's not .
He is… not, right?
Tim swallows hard, trying to pass the knot that's suddenly stopping him from talking. He's not a victim. His parents just want what's best for him, and if he were a better son, they wouldn't have to use such crude methods to teach him. It's his fault .
Right?
He doesn't realize he's crying until there's a tissue carefully dabbing at his damp cheeks. Jason's not even touching his skin, aware of the bruises underneath, just letting the soft paper collect the moisture on its own. It's such a minuscule gesture, really, but it's what finally makes him break.
“Why don't they love me?” his voice is barely there, as fragile and vulnerable as he feels, but Jason's so close he has no problem hearing it.
“Your parents,” Jason clenches his jaw at the realization. He looks angry at himself, as if it should've been obvious from the start. “Your parents did this.”
“Why am I never enough?” he grabs Jason's shirt, the warmth radiating from his body grounding “What is so wrong with me they can't stand to be around me? Why did they even have me if they never wanted me? Why didn't he just kill me instead of pretending to be my dad?”
Tim's sobbing now, his face pressed against Jason's chest. His foundation is probably ruining the fabric, but it doesn't seem to matter. Jason's hand is rubbing gentle circles on his back, careful not to press him too much against his body so his arm doesn't get squeezed between the both of them.
“There's nothing wrong with you, babybird,” Jason whispers, his fingers now running through his hair. Dull nails scratch his scalp and Tim can feel his body melting into the touch “They're the ones that are wrong. No parent… no one should treat someone like they treat you.”
“But–”
“But nothing, birdie. You…” He sighs deeply “You're a great kid. You're smart, and kind, and a sarcastic little shit. You always make me laugh with your essays. You're passionate about everything you do and you always put your all into it. You care about people, probably more than they deserve, and you don't expect anything in return. And… and you're a great Robin. You're efficient, cunning, and ruthless in the best way possible. There is nothing wrong with you.”
Every word makes Tim sob harder, his legs finally giving up under his weight. Jason carefully lowers them both to the floor, not breaking their awkward hug even for a second. And then Jason just… holds him. He lets him cry into his shirt, running his fingers through his hair and rubbing circles in his back, putting Tim's good hand against his chest so he can feel his heartbeat and match his breathing when he starts to choke on his tears.
They stay like that for what feels like an eternity. His legs are starting to cramp by the time he calms down, exhaustion washing over him.
“Feeling better, babybird?” Jason's voice is soft, uncharacteristically so. It reminds him of… well, it reminds him of Robin. His Robin.
He nods, accidentally rubbing against Jason like a sleepy cat. He kind of feels like one, to be honest.
“‘m sorry,” Tim mutters, and he's not sure what he's apologizing for. The laundry list of reasons why seems too long to go over right now.
“Nothing to apologize for,” he reassures him “We will be talking about all of this later, but for now, let's get you home. You look like you need some soup and to sleep for a week.”
Tim snorts a laugh because Jason's not wrong. He barely notices when the man lifts him, one arm under his knees and one under his shoulders, so careful not to hurt his arm. Tim sighs contentedly and feels himself turn into a puddle, his eyelids heavy and his mind slipping.
He's not sure what he expected to wake up to, to be completely honest.
He knows he stirred awake at some point, curled up in the backseat of a car with the world's fluffiest blanket around his shoulders. Jason looked at him through the rearview mirror, a small twitch to his lips when he saw Tim looking back at him.
“We're not there yet,” he almost whispered, loud enough for him to hear but not enough to break the stillness of the moment “I'll wake you up. Go back to sleep.”
And, well. It wasn't really his intention to do so, but the blanket was so warm and he felt so safe , more than he had in months, that he just slipped into unconsciousness again.
The next time he wakes up, though. That's a whole different thing.
Tim blinks slowly, trying not to hiss in pain at the harsh lights above him. His eyes feel puffy and his head hurts, but that's probably to be expected after crying for… however long that was.
His mind clearer and a bit more alert, he realizes he's lying in his room at Wayne Manor. There's a dip on the other side of the bed as if someone had been sitting there not too long ago, and based on the sounds he can hear in the hallway, it's entirely possible.
Dick has always had a very distinct way of crying. Tim couldn't possibly explain it, but he would recognize those sniffles in the middle of a thunderstorm. Coming from the other side of his half-open door, though, it's almost as easy as recognizing Bruce's voice speaking in a quiet, hushed voice.
He's not sure what's going on. He doesn't know how he ended up at the Manor when Jason said he was taking him home. Maybe he broke into his house and anonymously called the Bats to have them pick him up? It sounds weird, but it's the only logical option here. And why is Dick crying?
Tim frowns, hating not knowing things, and slides off the bed to go investigate. A second later, he kind of wishes he hadn't.
There's a big pile of people on the carpeted floor. Jason is in the middle, being almost choked by Dick on the front, and smothered by Bruce's entire body weight on the back. Alfred is there, too, grabbing the handle of another room so hard his knuckles are probably white under his pristine gloves.
Four pairs of eyes snap up to him when Tim opens his door.
He blinks. And then blinks some more when Jason mouths the words ‘help me ’ with desperation painted on his face.
“Uh–” he begins to say, not sure how to continue that sentence when Bruce suddenly stands up and approaches him in a way that reminds Tim a bit too much of Father.
“You knew,” B says, in the voice Batman uses to interrogate suspects. Tim takes several steps back, blood draining from his face.
I think I'm going to be the first exception to the ‘no-kill’ rule.
“Master Bruce–”
“No! He knew , he knew Jason was alive, he saw him every day and never said anything!” Bruce is screaming, and Tim's lungs don't seem to work correctly, and his back is right against the wall and he can't escape and he can't fight and he's never been afraid of Bruce but right now he is.
“I–”
“What is wrong with you?” Jason barks, helping Dick stand up as he does so himself. Bruce never leaves his sight, though, and for that he is grateful.
“Jaybird–”
“B, look at Tim,” Dick rasps out, still clutching his brother's arms. Bruce complies, and his face crumples when he sees him. Truly sees him.
Tim knows he must not be a pretty sight right now. He's crying again and his legs are shaking, the wall behind him supporting most of his weight. He's trying hard to focus on the situation at hand, but he can't help but wonder what's going to happen now.
Bruce has never had a lot of patience when it comes to him, sure, but he's never been this furious. He's going to fire him, that's for sure, but will that be all? Are they going to send him to Arkham so no one believes him if he ever says anything about their identities? Keep him locked up in the cells of the Batcave? His parents wouldn't even care if he disappeared, B must be aware of that.
He should have said something. He should have told Bruce the moment Jason Todd introduced himself as his sub-teacher. He should have dealt with them thinking he was crazy. Why the hell didn't he do that?
“-im, Tim, are you here?” Jason is crouching next to him. He must have dissociated at some point because he's now sitting on the floor and Bruce is on the other side of the room, his hand over his mouth in horror.
“Please don't send me to Arkham,” he whispers, and Jason's hands on his arms tighten “I swear I won't tell anyone, please don't send me away. I won't ever cross paths with you again, you won't even know I'm there, please don't send me to Arkham.”
“The fuck are you talking about,” Jason blurts out, looking at him like he just grew a third arm. The three other people in the room are sporting similar expressions.
“B-Bruce is– He's gonna fire me, you're back, they know you're back, I'm not needed anymore but I know too much,” he explains as quickly as possible.
“Tim. Timmy,” Jason grabs his face, making Tim look at him “You're not going anywhere. Well, you're going to that awful mansion to get your stuff and then you're coming back here. No one's sending you anywhere, no one's firing you from anything.”
“B-but Bruce–”
“Bruce is a jerk who needs to get his head out of his ass,” Dick intervenes, crouching on his other side and grabbing his good hand. “You thought we wouldn't believe you, didn't you?”
Tim nods slowly.
“I thought… I thought I was going crazy. The records matched but… and the anniversary was really close and…” Dick interrupts him with a sigh.
“It's okay, babybird, you don't need to explain. I get it. And Bruce does too. Don't you, Bruce?” he shoots Bruce the dirtiest look Tim has ever seen, and the man gulps before nodding frantically.
“I… apologize for my reaction. I think– I think I need some time to process all of this,” he mumbles, sitting at the end of the bed. Alfred follows suit. “You don't– I don't blame you for not saying anything. If… if I hadn't seen him myself, if I hadn't checked if it was really him, I don't… I don't think I would have believed you.”
“See?” Jason pokes him gently on his side, making Tim wiggle because it tickles. “The Big Bad Bat is just being his emotionally constipated self. No one's making you go anywhere you don't want to.”
“...Really?”
“Really,” he repeats, and that's Robin telling him, but…
“I don't want to go back,” Tim whispers, pleading eyes dancing between the four people in the room.
“Back to where?” Bruce asks, and the hint of concern in his voice is so different from the accusatory tone from earlier it almost gives him whiplash.
“To… to that house. To them”
“You won't have to,” Jason says in a way that leaves no room for debate “I… there's a lot of things we need to discuss, and if you want me to put a bullet in their heads I will , but you're not ever going back there.”
“I– what is going on here?” Dick is looking frantically between the both of them and Bruce, who looks just as confused as his oldest son.
“We'll talk about it later. For now, B, do you still have your lawyer on speed dial?”