It was midnight. Tim had been in the Batcave since 9 that morning. He had been helping Bruce with all the DNA tests (as he had with Jason's a couple of nights before), but Bruce had gone off on patrol hours ago so now he was alone. Again.
Everybody seemed to have a habit of forgetting Tim. His parents certainly had no issues with leaving their only son alone in that huge mansion that seemed far too big for three people. Sure, there were all the maids and the cook and the butler and his nanny, but they didn't live there. That was something that his parents had always made crystal clear, they were merely the servants, the workers, the help.
Not part of the family, no matter how much the scullery maid helped him with his homework when his parents were off on some 'business' trip; or how much his nanny ruffled his hair and played catch with him in the gardens when his father was in his office 'too busy for such uncultured activities'; or how many times the cook slipped his favourite dessert into his room after he'd argued with his parents about going to a real school, with children his own age, and not having some stuffy history tutor who was probably old enough to have seen the pyramids being built and who rapped Tim's knuckles with a wooden ruler when he got a date wrong.
These people were not Tim's family for one very simple reason: they were not Drakes – or rather, they weren't 'worthy' of being Drakes. Family was your blood and nothing else. No amount of mollycoddling or trivial sentiment will ever change that, boy, his father had said after firing another one of his nannies. She had been 'getting to close' to Tim, as his mother had put it. So, she had to go, lest their son be exposed to some kind of affection.
No, if Tim wasn't going to get any love from his parents, he sure as hell wasn't going to get it from anyone else. He wasn't even sure his parents remembered his name – well, his father at least.
There were too many occasions where his parents would drag him to some kind of pompous event and his mother's nails would dig into his shoulder through his suit as his father bragged about how 'bright the young lad was' (which was honestly the closest thing to affection either of them had ever shown him and even this was forced at best and completely fake at worst). Then his father would call him ' Harry' or 'James' or 'Brad' and his mother's grip on him would tighten so much that it would leave marks the next morning and she'd hiss Tim's name under her breath and his father would say, oh yes, dear! My mistake, my boy, and ruffle his hair, heavy-handedly, it must be the champagne.
Then his parents and their friends would let out the same fake laugh that they always did, and Tim would feel the same sinking in his chest that he always did, but he wouldn't let his smile falter, because he was a good son.
People like us do not have time for such weakness, a sharp voice, which sounded awfully like his mother's, would repeat in his head. So, he would bottle it all up, keep up that façade of perfection and happiness that his parents insisted on broadcasting to anyone and anything that would listen, nod and do all the things that sons were supposed to do and ignore the pricking of tears in his eyes.
Until he got home.
He would hand his jacket to the butler (do not thank him, Timothy, it is his job), and go up to his room and change into the clothes that one of the maids had placed out for him, all the while feeling desperately numb and completely hollow. His mother would come up to his bedroom at 9 PM sharp to tuck him in and Tim would ignore the smell of wine and cigarettes on her breath as she kissed him goodnight, and then she would leave and Tim would lay in the darkness as the feeling returned to his body, making him feel even emptier.
Sometimes, he would lie there and listen to his parents arguing, as they did, every night, in the living room – always about him. Sometimes, he would wonder if his parents would be better off without him. Sometimes, he couldn't hear them at all, their voices not quite carrying through the solid brick or perhaps they were away, arguing in some hotel room in Beijing or Belarus or wherever it was that they had left him for. These were the worst nights.
He had nothing to distract him, to lull him off to sleep, and he'd spend the night repeating everything in his head, over and over and over, until one of the maids came in to wake him, 7 sharp. "Good morning, Master Drake," they would say. If it was of the younger ones, he might even be called Tim.
They would place his clothes on his bedside table and their eyes would dart up to his, bloodshot and red, but they would never remain there for long. Maybe, they would ask if everything was okay, knowing full well that he would – could – only ever say 'yes,' but it would soothe their conscience.
Breakfast would be quiet, as always. The only noises the gentle scraping of silver cutlery on fine china and the occasional flicking of the pages of his father's newspaper. Neither of them would acknowledge his presence as he came in through the door and at most, maybe his mother's eyes would flicker up at him if he sat down too heavily. His father would finish his coffee shortly after and he would get up to leave, Tim and his mother following dutifully after.
At the door, the butler would hand his father his coat and he would kiss Tim's mother on the cheek, and maybe Tim would get a pat on the shoulder if his father had his coffee Irish that morning.
Breakfast would resume, then Tim would spend the next couple of hours in his room, and his mother would come up at 10 to tell him that his tutor was here and how he 'spends too much time glued to that screen of yours' (to which he would think that maybe, if his mother allowed him to have friends his own age, maybe he wouldn't). His lessons would drag by, his focus being drawn by anything and everything else, only to be brought back by his tutor slamming his hand down on the desk.
The butler brought him lunch at 12 and he'd usually eat as slowly as he possibly could, finishing at around 1, and then it was back to the tortures of trigonometry or Shakespeare or the Egyptians or whatever else his tutor wanted to drone at him about. He didn't care anyway; the man clearly had no idea what he was doing and it gave Tim something to distract himself with until 6.
Dinner would be served in the same terse silence, and then Tim would return to the sanctuary of his room. A pretty boring day, huh?
Try going through that, six days a week every week for your entire life. It was murder.
The galas and charity balls were actually the highlights of Tim's week because at least he had the chance to interact with children his own age. Well…
The children of his parents' friends.
Some of them were actually okay, y'know, not completely and utterly insufferable. His parents had also tried their damnedest to cosy up to Bruce Wayne (because of course they did, Bruce Wayne was the richest man in Gotham, they'd be stupid not to), who was a genuinely nice human being (a rarer occurrence than you'd expect in places like these).
In Tim's younger years, he'd spent a fair amount of time at galas with both Bruce and Dick Grayson (despite the boy's more than humble beginnings, his parents had insisted that Tim spend as much time as possible getting into the boy's good books). Dick had been kind to him, the fourteen-year-old allowing a six-year-old Tim to trail around behind him. It was nice enough, if slightly awkward (there being a pretty sizable age gap) and Dick actually remembered Tim's name.
Tim finally had something close to a friend, sure Dick couldn't be at every gala Tim was at, but Tim appreciated the company, someone to steal entrees with.
Then, that Robin had flown the nest and Tim was alone, again. He'd sulked very dramatically in his room when Dick had told him that he wouldn't be seeing Dick at any more galas and that he was moving to Bludhaven.
Although, this was short-lived when he'd found out the reason why, Bruce had adopted another kid, and this one was closer to Tim's own age!
Jason Todd.
Tim may or may not have spent a great deal of time 'researching' (stalking) Jason and he was really excited, if somewhat nervous, to meet him. Jason was a Crime Alley kid, born and raised, which Tim had found endlessly fascinating, having never been exposed to anyone not in his own social class (excluding Dick).
He was hoping that Jason would tell him about what it was like growing up in the East Side of Gotham, since Tim had never actually been there, and since Dick seemed more than happy to tell Tim a million and one things about growing up in the circus.
But Tim had never gotten to meet Jason. His parents had strictly forbidden that Tim be 'exposed' to Jason. Even at the cost of not being able to suck up to the illustrious Bruce Wayne (they still did, just when Jason wasn't there).
Jason seemed exactly the sort of person that Tim could have been friends with. Admittedly, at first, Jason had seemed a little rough around the edges, glaring at anyone and anything that got too close. Tim couldn't really blame Jason for being hostile– the galas, at best, were probably unbelievably overwhelming and tiring, and, at worst, really, really insulting. Especially if you considered Jason's background.
Jason, from the age of seven (if Tim remembered correctly), had literally lived on the streets and had probably never had a decent meal in his entire life. Despite being two years older than Tim, Jason was tiny (4 feet tall and like maybe 40 pounds tiny). It was honestly impressive how such a small child could look so intimidating, though Tim suspected that it was just a Crime Alley thing.
He'd had to fight for things that Tim, and everyone else in that damned room, could never imagine living without. Jason had seen things that no child ever have to see – people starving, struggling, suffering.
Whilst Jason's friends and family had been on the brink of starvation, these people were here, holding lavish parties in ballrooms with crystal chandeliers in mansions that were far bigger than anyone could possibly ever justify, with more food than any of them could ever possibly eat.
The thought of this must have been infuriating to Jason.
None of them cared, or at least none of them cared enough to really do something (even Bruce Wayne, the ever-so-generous Bruce Wayne, didn't really give much attention nor money to poverty charities until after he adopted Jason. Although, in the man's defence, he did and still did give heavily). Maybe it was ignorance, they didn't really know what it was like, but, and this was more than likely the case, they just didn't want to really know. Why worry about someone else's miserable existence when you can afford a yacht, right?
No wonder Jason looked so angry all the time. They were all lucky that he hadn't done more than glare at them and mutter under his breath. Tim was sure that, if he had been in Jason's position, he wouldn't have been able to maintain the self-control needed to only bruise egos for the amount of time that Jason had.
Tim had admired Jason immensely.
From what he'd overheard from the kids that went to Gotham Academy, Jason was smart – like crazy smart. He held top grades in every class, despite being at least two years behind everyone else, which pissed them all off to no end (Tim found this unbelievably funny, not that he'd ever say that to them). The sheer amount of work ethic and determination that must have gone into it was something that Tim coveted.
There was also a resilience to Jason that Tim envied. He'd heard all the comments that had been made about Jason, both by other children and adults, and he was sure that Jason had as well. They were cruel and spiteful, and some were just downright sadistic, but none of it ever seemed to affect him. Gala after gala, charity ball after charity ball, and that same genuine boyish grin would be spread across his face.
And, after he'd become more comfortable in his new arrangement, Jason also just seemed like a genuinely nice person to be around. There had been several occasions, too many to count, where Tim would look across the ballroom to see Bruce Wayne doubled over with shoulder shaking laughter, with a hand clasping Jason's shoulder, as the boy grinned. It never failed to make Tim smile, but it also left this empty feeling in his chest.
Then Tim had found out that Jason was Robin and his little fanboy heart was just about fit to burst. The boy he admired was also a crime-fighting vigilante.
Tim had learned so much more about Jason through how he acted as Robin than he'd expected. The second Robin was, much like Jason, rough around the edges and so, so different to how Dick had been. Jason was more aggressive and more independent from the get-go – he was more like Bruce than Dick. The puns and one-liners had morphed into sharp insults and snarky comments, still light-hearted but a different kind of humour.
Even their fighting styles were different. Dick was somersaults and judo throws, the sound of a body hitting a wall – rarely any offensive tactics, at least not yet. But Jason, Jason was all offence. Jason was tackles and bare-knuckled punches, the sound of bones breaking. Dick was graceful, Jason was quick; Dick smiled and laughed, Jason snarled and grin, teeth bloody; Dick was an acrobat, Jason was a brawler.
Despite the brutality of the newest Robin, the people of Gotham adored him as much, if not more, than they had the first. There was a compassion in this Robin, a goodness to him, that they couldn't help but fall in love with. Jason sat with the victims whilst Bruce stalked the crime scene, he was good with them, patient, kind, understanding.
And maybe it was because Jason did understand them. He knew what it was like.
All too well.
When he died, Gotham mourned. More people than Tim had ever seen turned up to his memorial, the entire city stood still, felt the loss of a child.
None more than Bruce.
There was a change in Bruce, he'd become more aggressive, more brutal.
Everyone noticed it.
Criminals would be thrown into cells with broken bones where there may have once been sprains. Nobody said anything, not Gordon or Barbara or even Dick. Maybe, they agreed with him. After all, these were people who stole and raped and killed, who would torment a good man and paralyse his daughter, who would kidnap and torture and murder a fourteen-year-old boy. And maybe they deserved it.
But Bruce got worse, he was more impulsive and more violent than he had ever been and it was all because Robin had been taken away from him - because Jason had been taken from him.
Tim wanted to help, he wanted to give Bruce back his Robin. At first, he tried to convince Dick to take up the mantle of Robin again, but he'd refused.
So, Tim did something stupid, Tim did something that was so illogical and dumb… and it worked.
He'd given Batman a Robin. Sure, it wasn't Jason, god how he wished it could be, but it had worked. And if Bruce still stared at Jason's costume in the Batcave, then so be it. At least he was still Batman.
But Tim would be lying if he didn't feel like he had enormously large shoes to fill, but he'd done his best and that had been good enough (it had been more than enough, but Tim would never let himself believe that).
He'd heard Bruce and Barbara and Alfred and everyone else (even Dick) sing Jason's praises and Tim just couldn't help but feel like Jason was just made to be Robin and that maybe he wasn't. Those were the days where he wondered how Dick and Jason had managed it and where he'd prayed for Jason come back so that he didn't have to do this anymore.
Then he had.
By some miracle, Jason had stumbled through those manor doors, alive.
And Jason had been everything that Tim had expected and so much more.
Yeah, Tim and Jason would have been great friends and maybe they still could be.