AN: Prequel to The Bat's Out of the Bag but intended to be read in order of publication.

*Title derived from Ella Wheeler Wilcox's "Solitude"

Smile and the World Smiles With You (Cry and You Cry Alone)

The funeral's a bleak affair. Short. Tim doesn't really keep track of the time.

He spends most of the service watching the officiant, actually. It's a pastor they managed to scrape together last minute, a younger man from a chapel on the other side of town. Tim can imagine Mom would've had kittens if she were alive enough to see it, her being Catholic and all, but he doubts Dad would've cared either way. "So long as you put me under," he'd have waved off.

And that's exactly what happens.

It's quiet when the officiant goes through the eulogy. The man's complexion is a glossy, translucent white, like a dragonfly's wing or the color of light on rain, and he looks inches from being sick on whatever words he's choking out.

It's because of the earthquake, Tim knows.

Officiants are in short supply these days.

At this point, the pastor's long since left, off to stumble through the same requiem for a no-doubt vastly different person, and everyone else has followed suit. They stayed just long enough to chitter about supposed remnants of the Drake fortune, about getting in good with wealth, and to look at Tim with daggered eyes like he's fresh meat.

They're all gone now.

He's alone with two faces of stone.

Tim thinks he should go soon, though, considers it. It'd be best to head back home, heat up something from the freezer, and set his headphones to something loud enough to blow his eardrums out. If Tim could teleport, he'd likely do just that. Sadly, Tim can't, and he's acutely aware that he doesn't have the energy to move his feet one inch from where they're lodged in the mud. Tim stares at the sloppy knot of his laces instead, at the ground under his cap-toes.

Dad's down there, he thinks.

His diaphragm jumps for the fifth time that hour. It begs the empty part of him to sink his fingers into the mud, to pull the earth open like flesh, and rip every last person out of their rest, to reassemble bones and paint faces back over decayed sinew. It's almost pleuritic, the way his lungs smart from that urge.

None of this feels real still.

Relaxing his jaw, Tim lets the feelings go. Like little flecks of ash caught in the swell.

After all, Tim can feel a new presence near him. Not like that really matters.

They could have him at gunpoint for all he cared.

"They were wonderful people," his guest offers after a minute, just one more faked truism that impales Tim's chest. The scalding anger and frustration flares up even worse, like a hurricane, because that rich baritone is one Tim immediately recognizes. He remembers the last time he saw the man, back when he was four, maybe five. He caught just a glimpse of him then, boozing and drunken and careless. And right now, he's the last thing Tim needs.

"That's interesting," Tim says. "I didn't know you knew them that well."

The teen levels a serrated look Mr. Wayne's way, daring him to mention money or fame or favors. Strangely, Mr. Wayne doesn't wither under Tim's gaze like most people would. His eyebrows are bent faintly in a look that's sad yet calm. Empathetic.

Guilt nets Tim's throat.

He looks away.

"Thank you for coming…" Tim swaps out smally, back to the expected banality, and Mr. Wayne follows in step.

"Of course."

From then on, there's not much more for either of them to do other than stare at the plaque, just two strangers in the nihility of grief. A few people walk by on the path behind them, feet clacking on stone. Tim wonders if they're mourners or tourists. There's plenty of things for them to see here. Graves of writers. Actors. Politicians.

Because—naturally—the land Mom and Dad bought years ago was in a memorial park rather than your average cemetery. They never could do things in halves.

Tim snorts out a bitter laugh.

"It's just funny," Tim explains, not really knowing why he's talking to Bruce Wayne of all people about this, although it's not like he has anyone else. "They could've bought a way nicer plot, you know?" Tim glances up at the dozens of other grave plaques that bead the ground. "They'd have been buried with Reagan, if they could've swung it. Settled hard to be put next to popstars instead."

The teen looks back to the two slabs at his feet.

Janet Drake.

Jack Drake.

Probably every visitor to this place will see their names and think of no one in particular, just rush off to the next big hit actor. It's a cruel tragedy. That people who once clung so desperately to status could end up mere footnotes in the annals of fame.

And well, it's not like Dad cared much about that in the end—the fame, that is. He changed a lot between Tim's childhood and his teenage years, between the time he and Mom ponied up the cash for this place and the time the man died. Still, Tim wonders what it says about his father that this is his resting place: a vacuous, unfamiliar tourist trap.

And more importantly, Tim wonders what it says about himself that he resents that.

"Walk with me?"

Mr. Wayne's presence slashes the riptide of Tim's thought, drags him back to shore.

Tim blinks at him. The trees are shaking behind the man and sprinkling whatever remnants of light they can, and the request is harmless enough. Tim's stomach leaps, though, because he can't leave. Leaving is the last nail in the coffin, the last letter on the page, the last word said.

He can't let go of Dad yet. He's not ready.

Instantly, Tim's inundated with the future that could've been. Dad was supposed to see Tim graduate high school in a few years. Supposed to take awkward prom photos, nag him to clean his room, go with him to that Knights' game next month. The tickets are still tacked to the fridge, right next to the calendar, and…

He was supposed to be there.

Anger surges again. All Tim wants to do is take this place, peaceful and quiet, and rip it to shreds. But Tim can't do anything except look down at that stupid plaque in this stupid place and try to connect the man to the name written there. It doesn't click. Doesn't hit him. The flowers crowning the grave are already wilting, and that doesn't seem possible.

"…He'll still be here when we get back," Mr. Wayne says gently, and Tim bites back both the expletives and tears.

"No," he disagrees quietly. "He won't."

Without the voice to say goodbye, Tim spins, channeling every last emotion in him to just move his feet. The more momentum he builds up, the more he has to hold himself back from simply running away from it all. He'd run straight back to last week if he could. Redo it and change it and fix it to be not this.

But five minutes later find Tim still stuck in the same place he's been.

Inevitably, Tim's pace slows, right between a corridor of mausoleum walls. The tiles lining the path have the names of donors carved into them, and he challenges himself to count the ones he recognizes. It's a mundane attempt to dull his emotions, and it works. That is, until a shadow stretches over him from behind.

"Tim?" Mr. Wayne's voice comes, hesitant. "Is it alright if I call you Tim?"

Tim whirls around, not bothering to hide his despair.

"Why are you here, Mr. Wayne?"

Mr. Wayne looks at him like he knows. And yet, he doesn't move.

"We were neighbors," the man says. "I owe your family at least this much, although…you're right: Your parents and I often didn't see eye to eye. Competition and all. But still, I had a great respect for them."

Tim searches for an ulterior motive; it feels like a benign half-truth.

"…Okay."

Tim leaves it at that, expecting for the billionaire to drift off only he doesn't do that. Instead, Mr. Wayne looks uncharacteristically uneasy, hands stuffed in his pockets in a suit that fits him perfectly and yet looks constricting. It wars with Tim's conceived notion of him (the boisterous, poised bachelor), because the main impression he's getting is…socially awkward.

"If there's anything I can do to help," Mr. Wayne offers cautiously, "let me know. I've been where you are before, and I know it's not a good place."

It's not.

But Tim can handle it himself.

"Thank you."

Tim gives him another chance to make an exit, a chance the man doesn't take, and Tim watches him. Mr. Wayne's busy looking up past the mausoleums to where the wind is pushing smoked clouds. It's like the world is running through a sped-up film.

The man's eyes soften.

"…What is it that you plan to do now?"

"I petitioned for emancipation a few days ago," Tim says skeptically, still watching his company. "Once things in Gotham settle down, the family courts will look at it and make a decision."

"That's a big step…"

"I don't have many options."

"I suppose that's true." Mr. Wayne inclines his head, following the path of a leaf as it drifts to the grass outside the corridor; the edges are charred. "But there are a lot of responsibilities involved with being your own legal guardian. All the fiduciary duties, both financial and contractual, would fall on your shoulders. And Gotham's family courts are less than stellar."

"…You certainly know a lot about the legalities of emancipation, Mr. Wayne."

The man finally makes eye contact with him, seemingly surprised at himself, before the intelligence blurs into parody. He claps Tim on the shoulder with a laugh. "Just repeating what my lawyers said when I was a boy. I'm afraid I've never had much interest in law myself, too many rules and big words. Just one big headache, really."

Tim doubts that somehow.

"Anyway," the billionaire continues, smile screwed on like a metal plate. "My concern would be how you'd function before the courts review your case. You'll need a steady income—and a place to stay, of course. And considering that you're a student, that also complicates things."

Tim's voice darkens. "It won't. I'm dropping out. Testing for my G.E.D. as soon as the centers reopen."

Mr. Wayne looks both saddened by the news and impressed by it. "I can see you've given this a lot of thought," he says slowly, the caricature fading again.

"Only a bit. I'm still looking for a job and an apartment. Right now's not the best time for doing that, though."

Mr. Wayne hums in agreement.

Tim can tell the man's working his jaw for a good minute, can see he wants to give him some kind of answer or advice. Tim's fine on his own, though. Prefers it, actually.

He'll be fine.

Shifting again, Mr. Wayne pulls his wallet out of his pocket and starts shuffling through it. Tim's horrified for a hot second that the man will try to offer him money (He's not a charity case.), but when a hand extends a moment later, there's a business card trapped between the fingers.

"How soon can you start?"

Tim's body stiffens like a spooked cat. "I…what?" he asks dumbly.

"I'm offering you a job," Mr. Wayne waves off. "Although we'll still have to get your living situation figured out… But I'm sure you can stay with us until the courts make a ruling, and I—"

"What?" Tim chokes again.

The billionaire looks equally lost, as if he's unsure what Tim's confused about. Gradually, Tim's brain begins to catch the words and what they mean when strung together.

"I—I can't accept this, Mr. Wayne," he splutters, waving his hands. "I appreciate your kindness, but—"

"Don't be so polite," the billionaire laughs, loud and somewhat obnoxious. He folds the card into Tim's palm, clasping it there with his other hand. "Just be at W.E. first thing in the morning."

By the time Tim's registered the absence of the man's hand, the coiled press of the paper unfurling, Mr. Wayne's already stepped back to leave. Tim snaps out and grabs his forearm on instinct. "Wait, I…"

That's when Tim realizes he's wrinkling a suit jacket that probably costs more than his life. He lets go like he's been burned.

Mr. Wayne waits.

"Um," Tim swallows, not sure how to shock his mind back into making complete sentences; there are too many things happening. "What I wanted to say was that…um…I'm sorry. For earlier, I mean. You probably think I'm pretty rude…"

A flash of sympathy crosses the man's eyes. "No," the billionaire disagrees. "I just think you're in pain. Understandably so."

The tightness in Tim's chest sinks. It's the best summary of how he feels, and he entertains the idea that Mr. Wayne really does understand all of it.

"Thank you," he says weakly.

Mr. Wayne dips his head. "We'll talk more tomorrow, then."

"Yeah…"

Mr. Wayne's footsteps echo as they fade, and Tim is left there, standing in a library of faceless names with the business card still blooming against his fingers. After a while, the teen straightens it out, looking at the information. It's vague, acknowledging that Bruce Wayne shouldn't need much introduction.

What's odd is his signature.

Starting his walk back to Dad, Tim analyzes the curves and lines.

He's never been one for graphology—a pseudo-science, really—but there's nothing superfluous about it. The letters are neat and trained. Practical. He was expecting that Bruce Wayne's signature would be more…narcissistic?

Tim drones thoughtfully and soccers a stray pebble as he goes.

Clearly, there's more to Mr. Wayne than what the man lets on, like he has two personalities: one suave and obnoxious, the other awkward but intelligent. Two different sides.

Or, perhaps, one is a front.

But why would that be?

Tim ponders the thought until, just out of the corner of his eye, there's a pile of freshly turned dirt. He falters to a stop.

Mom and Dad's graves.

Beside himself, Tim huffs out a sigh, irascible. He feels dumb, just standing here, but he doesn't know what else to do. He's been able to suppress his emotions all week, an endless stream of "I'll deal with it tomorrow, I'll deal with it tomorrow," and now, tomorrow's today and he still doesn't want to address it.

Tim can't tell what he'd want to do more.

To hug Dad.

Or to cuss the man out.

You left me all over again! he'd shout. Don't you get that I was counting on you!? I needed you and all you could do was die!

Gone, gone, gone. Typical, really. Just the way that seven-year-old still in Tim remembers it: Mom and Dad always dissolving into a horizon that Tim couldn't follow.

And in all senses of the phrase, Tim can't follow.

Because someone has to take care of Dana. It's not like Tim blames her for that—of course not. But still, it's another of Dad's responsibilities, an obelisk of them collapsed right on top of him. There are hospital bills and insurance forms and death certificates, and Tim's barely skirting sixteen. There's no way he can afford all of it without doing something highly illegal. Or…

Tim holds up the business card.

In all fairness, the teen knows next to nothing about Wayne Enterprises or the man himself, but it's not like Tim's drowning in options. It's a cruel twist of fate. Dad loathed Bruce Wayne, and here comes the selfsame person out of nowhere to give the freezing girl her match. Tim's tempted to take the man up on his offer just because of that.

Because Tim hates Dad with all that he is right now, as if the man went to the grave willingly. It's easier than admitting the only thing that's anathema to Tim is himself. Tim had a choice, and even if it ended in him getting killed, he wish he'd taken it. He could've helped. Could've seen Dad one more time. Could've been not here, staring down the throat of all of his problems compounded.

The rug's already been pulled out from under him, though. It's up to him to pick up the pieces.

So screw it, Tim decides, kicking the pebble into the grass and watching it skitter.

He'll take the job.

And then that's it.

No more getting invested in people, no more getting tied down only to jump off the cliff and find the cord's been cut. He did it with Mom. He did it with Dad. And he can't do it anymore. He's done.

Tim swears it to himself.