(Tim Drake)
He's third in a short list of screw-ups and derelicts but fifth (he counts down in his head, Bruce, Barbara, Dick, Jason–and pauses at five, knowing the name'll be Tim) in a long list of rebels and problem-children.
Third in a list of possible successors.
Third in a probable list to make it out right.
Gee, can you feel the pressure?
Bruce has only told him briefly about Jason Todd--more or less leaving it up to Barbara and Alfred to fill in the dirty details–and Dick, for once in his illustrious career, gave no opinion. When Tim tried asking him about it, about the notorious Jason Todd and Round Two of let's-create-a-non-rebellious-sidekick, he simply tightened his jaw, shook his head and then stared directly at Tim and said: "Watch yourself."
Tim knows it wasn't meant as a threat, meant more as a warning to him to watch the big-bad world, the Old Man and even himself, but even when he thinks back at the words, something in his gut twists and growls.
Watch yourself.
Against what? For what? Why?
So many secrets in the Batclan, in Wayne Manor and in Bruce Wayne. All these locked doors, shadowy rooms, smoky corridors...hell, maybe Tim doesn't even want to know half the shit that frequents his life. Maybe ignorance is bliss.
Ask no questions, tell no lies...it worked for half of Gotham and even some of the Batclan for a while.
Oh, yeah. But then that bliss backfired and bit them all in the ass.
Hmm. Guess that makes it official.
(Tim writes in his brain, in a small corner where no one will regard him strangely ignorance equals ass-biting. It's succinct enough, and he reasons that no one will ever find it.)
Anyway, back to the number in point:
Myths and fairy tales and urban legends seem to have all specified three as the lucky number.
(that and seven, but Tim is doubtful that Bruce will keep bringing in problem children to become crime-fighters. As it is, he seems to have a problem with the Batclan number of offspring settled in at a–is it a coincidence?–very comfortable three.)
Two? They don't talk about two much, and one is always the beginning of the end and the end of the beginning.
But three is lucky. You put it with one and no, bad things start happening (13) but three by itself (three witches of Macbeth, three little piggies and beware the idles of March aside)and it's a good number.
It even rolls of the tongue gracefully.
Three.
Trente.
Tres.
Drei.
See? With that cool of a word, a place in fairy tales and in superstitions, Tim would like to consider himself lucky.
Of course, now staring at Unlucky (dead, a part of him shrieks, dead as a DOORNAIL) Number Two, this self-reassuring back-pat might just be the thing that kills him.
After it kills the Bat, that is.
Detective Tim knows instinctively that the creature masquerading as Jason Todd, a.k.a. Red Hood (Oh, like Robin Hood! the dumb teenager part of him exclaims in realization, and he tells it to shut-up) can't really exist, can't be alive and by the force of science itself is quite dead, but even then, facing old ex-Robin is unnerving.
Watch yourself suddenly comes back and slaps him full in the face.
This is what he could become. This monster, this ghost that taunts Bruce every waking night of his life and tells him that he failed the boy, failed Gotham and failed his parents.
Sure, Tim can't hear what's being said–not after Bruce told him to stay back and stay out–but he understands body language well enough to know when jeers are being thrown, and when rage is slowly building up, block upon volatile block until it all becomes too much. The Bat is a whirlwind of kicks and punches, but both he as well as Tim realize that his opponent is bending around these moves with a frightening ease.
The Batman is the best. Period.
...but this Jason Todd is no slouch, either.
Watch yourself.
Don't worry, Dick, Tim says, voice nearing sarcasm, I'm watchin'.
It's terrible, really, to only be allowed to sit on the sidelines and watch a nightmare play out in front of your eyes. To some extent, it's like watching a movie with a predictable, terrible, gut-wrenching ending; you tell yourself that you saw it comin' but even then your eyes never leave the screen.
To another extent it's akin to...to watching a train wreck.Or murder.
Or, hell, dumb teenage part of him grumbles in, trying to be a smart-ass, even that awful Barney show.
Tim tells himself that the Bat will fight his way out of this one–he's sure of it–and win, and at heart he understands that's all that matters, but internally the realization comes that there's an angry ex-Robin out there who's giving it his all to whack the flying rodent.
He knows that the composition of the past Robins has been different, from Dick–the great and the first–who had his parents killed at a young, impressionable age, to Jason (who he knows nothing about), to Tim himself, who figured out long before it was necessary that the identities of Batman and the Boy Wonder were really not that secret at all.
Nonetheless, the fact exists that all of them changed over the duration of their tutelage with the Bat.
Dick? Still happy, still humorous and generally optimistic, but there is that undercurrent of rage and bitterness that follows him everywhere. Hidden behind the humor, the laughing and the smiles there is an mad young man who feels that Bruce is partially responsible for a lost childhood.
Jason?
...well, he's battling the Bat and taunting him, wounding in ways that only words and memories can manage, so obviously that partnership didn't end well, either.
Barbara told him that Jason was an angry, angry, angry and confused young man. There were things in his head that–unlike Dick–never really functioned properly.
He had thought of the costume, the city and Bruce's never-ending crusade as a game, Barb had said from her wheelchair, voice soft and eyes filled with sadness. It was something that he could do to play out the fury inside him, but it wasn't something he could feel. Not something he believed in.
It's one reason the Joker got to him, she had whispered quietly, and it's the other reason he died.
Died. Death. Worms in the ground–mmm, fresh compost–cloying sick-sweet odor, misery and the gravestone. Tim wonders vaguely what Jason's epitaph might've been if Bruce hadn't decided that it was to be an honorable one.
Wasn't meant for the job?
No...maybe Too much angst can kill a boy or Two wasn't the luckiest number.
Stop it, the mature part of him commands. Just--stop it.
Okay, smart-ass-teenager replies. I'll quit for now.
And in the meantime, Tim turns back to himself.
What about you? Smart-ass Tim whispers cruelly. What have you become under the Bat?
Tim thinks.
Remembers.
There's something about Tim that isn't in the other two Robins. Sure, Dick had loving parents–who were, like Tim's mother–eventually stolen from him, and Jason's parents (Tim is assuming here) probably loved him as much as any other kid, but Tim...he knows he's different.
He figured out the Bat and the Bird a long time ago. He realized who they were--and god, a part of him wanted to be them--but in the meantime he was raised by parents who completely and utterly loved him. Unlike Bruce and Dick, Tim never had to see his guardians and mentors, friends and family, ripped from him in front of his eyes. His mother died, yes, but Jack Drake was still alive. He wasn't up and walking, but he existed. He didn't know Robin, but he knew of his son, Timothy Allen Drake.
Tim has a father who loved him dearly.
He had a childhood that he remembers fondly.
He has a conscience and an intelligence that he has a feeling will eventually be on par with that of Bruce.
...eventually.
He's not Dick, bitter with the world and to some extent bitter of his life. He's not the ex-Jason Todd, reckless and sure that the costume and the Bat were just games.
He's Tim Drake. The third Robin and the first son of Jack Drake.
Tim turns his eyes nervously back to watch the Bat and the ex-Robin, fingers clenched on a tombstone and limbs wishing to jump in, and then he realizes.
He'll never be the second or the first Robin. There's something apart him that separates his being from those of his predecessors, and it's what makes him him.
Third time's a charm, he tells himself.
Third time's a charm.
A/N: Apologies to those who were reading; it seemed that over the weekend that the document manager had a little bit of a difficult time getting on its feet, thus providing an excuse for my late update.
I, uh, have to confess that the only Tim Drake character I know somewhat well is the one from the Animated Series. Unfortunately, to get an idea of the comic Tim Drake/Robin, I had to go to Wikipedia. I think I did an okay job with characterization, but if that turns out to not be the case, please tell me. I could use the help. And yes, I also realize that this chapter didn't really have a lot to do with the general theme of 'betrayal.' That aside, I hope no one's feathers are ruffled.
Once again, thanks to Makota for her beaming review. I love when I get such happy comments. :)
Enjoy.