Who's Laughing Now?
Part 3
**
Pierrot: Usually a young and honest but not too bright valet, he is a butt for the jokes of his fellow male actors and an unsuccessful suitor for the hand of the female lead. Originally he wore a loose white jacket and had his face powdered white. In the 19th century he featured in French pantomime, becoming an increasingly melancholy and pathetic figure.
~*~
Tim Drake opened his window and leaned on the sill lazily. "Master of stealth, you are not. I heard you when you came through the bushes. And you're like an hour early, by the way."
Dick grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him out the window. "Yeah, well, we're going to Bludhaven now. I don't care if your homework is done."
"Yes, Bruce," he mocked cheerfully. He had no idea why Dick was his best pal all of a sudden, but he liked it.
Dick grabbed him by the hair and smiled, trying to push that attitude away. The kid wasn't supposed to know what was going on. That'd only make the situation worse, and harder. It would complicate it seven ways to Tuesday, and it wouldn't solve anything.
"You want me to feed you or not?" Dick asked nonchalantly.
Tim pulled his hair out of his friend's hand. "Geeze, hit a guy where it hurts." He started crawling back through the window. Hitting the carpeted floor, he wiped his hands on each other, and then looked at the smudges of pollution and dust now gracing them. "I gotta change, grab my stuff. You can either stand out there, or you can come inside." Even as the boy spoke, he was already digging through his closet. It wasn't often that the private school student got to wear clothing besides the standard suit and tie.
Grabbing clothing off of hangers, he began tearing off his school uniform and throwing it on to the bed. Behind him, he could hear Dick entering the room.
"Is Alfred ironing your jeans too," his friend asked casually as he glanced quickly out the window, past the bushes and to the immaculate grounds of Brentwood Academy for Boys.
"I think I convinced him that it was unnecessary," Tim lied. If he tried to do that, Alfred would simply convince him that his jeans really DID need ironed. "Anyways, you should stick around. Alfred should be back soon."
Turning around, and facing the interior of the inadequately lit room, Dick looked at his watch. Friday was "restocking day" at Doc Leslie's clinic. He had a feeling Alfred was doing more than restocking medical supplies, but never said anything.
"I would, Squirt, but I wanna get the hell out of Dodge, if that's ok with you." Dick sat down on the kid's impeccably made bed and bounced a little. How could Tim sleep on a bed that was only marginally better than a slab of cold stone? He was extremely grateful that Bruce had never sent HIM to boarding school.
Of course, his father knew where he'd spent his nights. Tim's father didn't. All he knew was that his son was a delinquent, in need of reeducation. At least the boy thought that was the worst of his problems. He didn't know how dangerous things really were.
"Daddy-bats giving you a hard time?" Tim tried a green shirt, but didn't like it with his hair, so he dug out a blue one. He woke up with bed-head this morning and had to use excessive amounts of gel, and his hair just wasn't cooperating, or matching his clothes today.
"Oh my GOD. I know GIRLS who don't spend as much time--"
The phone rang once. "Hold that thought. And leave my clothes alone." Tim pulled up the receiver. "Still here, dad," Tim said. His dad liked to call once a day to check and make sure his son was still at school, and still bored out of his mind. With Wesley visiting family this week, and Dick in his room, Tim's dad was the only person who could be calling.
"Aww, isn't that precious," a sickeningly sweet voice announced on the other end.
Tim could feel all the color draining out of his face, and into his stomach. That's why it felt like he was going to throw up right now, right?
"I think you have the wrong number," Tim said quietly.
"Oh no, Boy Blunder, I have the right number. But you never WERE as quick as your predecessors, were you?"
Helplessly, Tim slowly turned and looked to Dick. His friend was sitting on the bed, wiping the windowsill dust from his hands to his light-blue jeans.
"Anyways, I'll make the call short. I was just looking for a little advice. I was wondering if I should kill you, so Batman can get a more interesting Robin. I was hoping for the little quips again. Or, I can kill Batman and Nightwing and you can be all alone. Any preferences?" The Joker took in a sucking breath then began laughing inanely.
The hideous bellowing laughs rung in Tim's head, until he worked up the courage to slam the receiver down. For a moment, he just stared at Dick in worried shock.
Looking at the boy, his sea-sick face and his suddenly sullen look, Dick had a good guess what had happened. "Who was that?" he asked anyways. Just in case.
"Th-the Joker," Tim chirped, his voice cracking.
Dick stomped his foot on the floor, disgust creeping in. He knew what it was, but he'd been happier when he'd been able to delude himself just a little longer. "Shit." He and Bruce had been hoping the Joker didn't know Tim's identity. That was why he'd come through the window.
Tim frowned, suddenly more angry than shocked. "Why do I have a feeling you're not telling me something? These frequent visits aren't cause I'm so cool to hang out with, ARE they?"
Dick sighed. He hated lying to the boy. "Tim, the Joker knows. He knows, and he's playing the identity card. OK? We didn't want to tell you because we didn't want to make it more complicated than it is, because no one else knows. We were TRYING to handle this internally."
"Hello? I'm the SIDEKICK? A little KNOWLEDGE would be good," Tim complained. He pulled the backpack containing his uniform and equipment from the bottom of his closet.
Dick didn't have anything to say—he agreed with Bruce's reasons, but he understood Tim's frustration with being left out. "Surprise! You know now. Congrats. You know the secret. The Secret That Sucks."
Tim shook his head and readjusted the bag on his back while he headed towards the window. "We're not going back to Bludhaven tonight, are we?" He decided that he'd really rather work on the case at hand. Especially since he really didn't LIKE either of the options the Joker had given him.
"I guess we meet up with Bruce," Dick said as he rose from the bed and followed. "And we tell him what happened. Welcome to the case." He grabbed Tim's bag and tossed it out the window and to the side, then grabbed hold of the dusty sill. Without hesitation, he dove out the window and onto the mulch below.
Continued in part 4
And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With old odd ends, stol'n out of holy writ,
And seem a saint when most I play the devil.
--Shakespeare, Richard III
Part 3
**
Pierrot: Usually a young and honest but not too bright valet, he is a butt for the jokes of his fellow male actors and an unsuccessful suitor for the hand of the female lead. Originally he wore a loose white jacket and had his face powdered white. In the 19th century he featured in French pantomime, becoming an increasingly melancholy and pathetic figure.
~*~
Tim Drake opened his window and leaned on the sill lazily. "Master of stealth, you are not. I heard you when you came through the bushes. And you're like an hour early, by the way."
Dick grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him out the window. "Yeah, well, we're going to Bludhaven now. I don't care if your homework is done."
"Yes, Bruce," he mocked cheerfully. He had no idea why Dick was his best pal all of a sudden, but he liked it.
Dick grabbed him by the hair and smiled, trying to push that attitude away. The kid wasn't supposed to know what was going on. That'd only make the situation worse, and harder. It would complicate it seven ways to Tuesday, and it wouldn't solve anything.
"You want me to feed you or not?" Dick asked nonchalantly.
Tim pulled his hair out of his friend's hand. "Geeze, hit a guy where it hurts." He started crawling back through the window. Hitting the carpeted floor, he wiped his hands on each other, and then looked at the smudges of pollution and dust now gracing them. "I gotta change, grab my stuff. You can either stand out there, or you can come inside." Even as the boy spoke, he was already digging through his closet. It wasn't often that the private school student got to wear clothing besides the standard suit and tie.
Grabbing clothing off of hangers, he began tearing off his school uniform and throwing it on to the bed. Behind him, he could hear Dick entering the room.
"Is Alfred ironing your jeans too," his friend asked casually as he glanced quickly out the window, past the bushes and to the immaculate grounds of Brentwood Academy for Boys.
"I think I convinced him that it was unnecessary," Tim lied. If he tried to do that, Alfred would simply convince him that his jeans really DID need ironed. "Anyways, you should stick around. Alfred should be back soon."
Turning around, and facing the interior of the inadequately lit room, Dick looked at his watch. Friday was "restocking day" at Doc Leslie's clinic. He had a feeling Alfred was doing more than restocking medical supplies, but never said anything.
"I would, Squirt, but I wanna get the hell out of Dodge, if that's ok with you." Dick sat down on the kid's impeccably made bed and bounced a little. How could Tim sleep on a bed that was only marginally better than a slab of cold stone? He was extremely grateful that Bruce had never sent HIM to boarding school.
Of course, his father knew where he'd spent his nights. Tim's father didn't. All he knew was that his son was a delinquent, in need of reeducation. At least the boy thought that was the worst of his problems. He didn't know how dangerous things really were.
"Daddy-bats giving you a hard time?" Tim tried a green shirt, but didn't like it with his hair, so he dug out a blue one. He woke up with bed-head this morning and had to use excessive amounts of gel, and his hair just wasn't cooperating, or matching his clothes today.
"Oh my GOD. I know GIRLS who don't spend as much time--"
The phone rang once. "Hold that thought. And leave my clothes alone." Tim pulled up the receiver. "Still here, dad," Tim said. His dad liked to call once a day to check and make sure his son was still at school, and still bored out of his mind. With Wesley visiting family this week, and Dick in his room, Tim's dad was the only person who could be calling.
"Aww, isn't that precious," a sickeningly sweet voice announced on the other end.
Tim could feel all the color draining out of his face, and into his stomach. That's why it felt like he was going to throw up right now, right?
"I think you have the wrong number," Tim said quietly.
"Oh no, Boy Blunder, I have the right number. But you never WERE as quick as your predecessors, were you?"
Helplessly, Tim slowly turned and looked to Dick. His friend was sitting on the bed, wiping the windowsill dust from his hands to his light-blue jeans.
"Anyways, I'll make the call short. I was just looking for a little advice. I was wondering if I should kill you, so Batman can get a more interesting Robin. I was hoping for the little quips again. Or, I can kill Batman and Nightwing and you can be all alone. Any preferences?" The Joker took in a sucking breath then began laughing inanely.
The hideous bellowing laughs rung in Tim's head, until he worked up the courage to slam the receiver down. For a moment, he just stared at Dick in worried shock.
Looking at the boy, his sea-sick face and his suddenly sullen look, Dick had a good guess what had happened. "Who was that?" he asked anyways. Just in case.
"Th-the Joker," Tim chirped, his voice cracking.
Dick stomped his foot on the floor, disgust creeping in. He knew what it was, but he'd been happier when he'd been able to delude himself just a little longer. "Shit." He and Bruce had been hoping the Joker didn't know Tim's identity. That was why he'd come through the window.
Tim frowned, suddenly more angry than shocked. "Why do I have a feeling you're not telling me something? These frequent visits aren't cause I'm so cool to hang out with, ARE they?"
Dick sighed. He hated lying to the boy. "Tim, the Joker knows. He knows, and he's playing the identity card. OK? We didn't want to tell you because we didn't want to make it more complicated than it is, because no one else knows. We were TRYING to handle this internally."
"Hello? I'm the SIDEKICK? A little KNOWLEDGE would be good," Tim complained. He pulled the backpack containing his uniform and equipment from the bottom of his closet.
Dick didn't have anything to say—he agreed with Bruce's reasons, but he understood Tim's frustration with being left out. "Surprise! You know now. Congrats. You know the secret. The Secret That Sucks."
Tim shook his head and readjusted the bag on his back while he headed towards the window. "We're not going back to Bludhaven tonight, are we?" He decided that he'd really rather work on the case at hand. Especially since he really didn't LIKE either of the options the Joker had given him.
"I guess we meet up with Bruce," Dick said as he rose from the bed and followed. "And we tell him what happened. Welcome to the case." He grabbed Tim's bag and tossed it out the window and to the side, then grabbed hold of the dusty sill. Without hesitation, he dove out the window and onto the mulch below.
Continued in part 4
And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With old odd ends, stol'n out of holy writ,
And seem a saint when most I play the devil.
--Shakespeare, Richard III
