AN: Gonna be honest, this chapter's really heavy. I promise the next one is a lot lighter, though (Dick gets a lot of screentime. It's gonna be good.), and until then, I hope this update isn't not too info-dumpy...
Chapter Five: Cottonwood Trees
Jason likes to drive.
It's more than just a superiority complex, Tim's realized, but something he actually enjoys doing, like he's in control when he's got the pedals and the wheel and nothing can touch him. But there are moments when it's as if the man is running from something instead, determined to keep himself in check because he's afraid of what might happen if he doesn't.
Regulation states drivers should check their rear-view mirrors every five to eight seconds. And Tim has noticed Jason checks his every four.
It's always small things like that, indiscernible to most people yet always there if they look hard enough, if they only watch. And watching—That was something Tim did a lot on the farm.
Now, he finds himself watching Jason, trying to figure him out. There's something about him that's off. He doesn't know why, but there is, and it's that mystery that keeps Tim in the car or the office or that grungy apartment he goes home to at night.
He doesn't watch Jason all the time, though. Sometimes, the view outside the car window catches his attention more.
It's all city streets and smog, same as from childhood, with trash sitting beneath the curbs and dreary clouds rending the sky. There's the preschool, the mall, the harbor, and the fire station. That bus stop over there Tim remembers taking to university, and the other one he remembers taking to the police academy against his parents' wishes.
Tim told them he wanted to be a cop a long time back, back in high school when things were mostly good, but they'd both looked at him and said, "Tim, you can't make money that way." They made it sound like they were pinching pennies and just happened to have nannies and maids lying around. But, regardless, he went to university like they wanted him to. Chemistry. Physics. The works.
They never checked his schedule to notice he had the classes stacked flawlessly, just so he could simultaneously enroll at the police academy with Conner without them knowing. The university courses lined up to make him the explosives specialist that they needed so badly at the MPD (Conner had mentioned it once.), and with many sleepless nights and part-time jobs under his belt, Tim managed to pass them all.
He got away with the lie too. Mom and Dad didn't realize what he'd done until he was already in Metropolis working under a certain Clark Kent.
It's been three years, and they're still convinced the Kents ruined him. What they don't realize is it's the other way around.
By now, fifteen minutes have passed and Jason's pulled up to an intersection. They're on their way to another one of the bombing sites. Considering his partner, Tim doubts there'll be much in the way of a lead; Jason's already been there once, and it's becoming clear the man's good at what he does.
It leaves Tim in the passenger seat with little to mull over past the scenery outside the window.
The car is still stopped at the light, and Tim can't keep himself from taking in the jade leaves of a tree on the sidewalk. It's a scrawny thing that looks like it can't support a single bird on its branches. There really are no birds, not even a nest perched between the boughs. Tim's already looked.
A lot of trees are like that in Gotham, weak and flimsy and nothing like the strong cottonwood next to the Kent's farm house. The tree's a behemoth, still there after its twenty years of service, standing at attention with its branches brushing up against the side of the house like its going for an embrace that never quite reaches. It sits right beneath the window of the room Tim and Conner split over summers, and they snuck down it sometimes when they were sure everyone else was asleep.
There wasn't much to do at the farm back then—still isn't, but they'd slip over to the neighbor's cornfield and try to scare each other between the stalks, far away enough that no one could hear if one of them succeeded. And when that got boring, they'd walk the country road for a good mile, kicking up dirt and turning over rocks just to hear the earth move beneath them.
That was back when they'd just started middle school, a bit rowdy and thrill-seeking, testing themselves to slink back into the house without anyone noticing. Pa Kent never caught them, but sometimes, they'd return to find Clark had flown back from Metropolis, sitting on the steps with the porchlight on and an eyebrow raised because they'd forgotten the cottonwood blooms in June, the white fluff evident on their clothes and in their hair.
But unlike Tim, Conner never loved the farm. It's not something he ever really voiced, but it wasn't hard to tell.
He was Clark's son. That's what the paperwork says. But Lois has always been Clark's soulmate, and Conner wasn't Lois' son. Jon is, but Conner… He was just the kid from a failed marriage in Gotham, New Jersey. The Kents loved him still. Lois and Jon did too. That didn't make him any less of a black sheep though, and maybe that's why he and Tim got along so well.
Conner talked about it in vague terms if ever, always hiding it behind a smile and a joke, but Tim asked him directly once after a few years' worth of summers. They'd stopped sneaking out by then, content just sitting in the tree outside the window and listening to the night. But Tim asked him still…if he was really all right with Tim being absorbed so completely into his family when Conner was struggling to fit in.
The reply came fast.
"Nah, doesn't bother me none," he answered through a straw of hay. Conner thought the girls liked that sort of thing, and Tim didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise. It was the middle of the night anyway, just him and Tim, so how he looked didn't really matter. "It's better when you're here, actually," Conner continued casually as he pulled at a branch only to watch it fly back into place, "I don't really fit anywhere. But you're my best friend, I guess, so if we're both here and you fit, then it's kinda like I do too."
He cracked a joke then, same as always, and the moment dissolved.
Looking back on it, that's probably why Conner was so adamant about being a cop, trying to prove himself to his dad. He never got the type of approval he wanted from him, not until it was too late.
Clark regrets that. He doesn't say it, but it's obvious anyway—at least to Tim, because he carries regrets too when it comes to Conner.
They were all Tim had on his mind his last day before coming to Gotham, wandering around the fields, a little dazed, before nightfall came and he'd found his way back to his and Conner's spot in the tree. He didn't do anything, just sat and listened to the crickets and the way the leaves crackled in the wind. Jon found him after a while and hunkered down beside him, looking a bit confused, but he stayed nonetheless.
Neither said anything. There was no point, since Tim knew Jon was too young to know why he was out there that night, too young to remember all the times he and Conner had sat on that same branch and watched the stars pass them by…
"Hey, kid," Jason's voice brings him back. That's right. They're still at the intersection, waiting for the light to turn.
"What's so interesting out there?" the man asks, and Tim doesn't know what to say. He's still looking through the glass at the sad tree outside, its roots choked out by the sidewalk, and he can't think of anything else.
"Just watching the birds," he decides. Jason's eyes burn into him for another second like he knows it's a lie, but the gaze doesn't last.
"Light's green," Tim mutters.
They pull away.
"Welcome back," Dick chirps happily.
The tone is jarring considering how quiet the car ride with Tim was, but their trips have been that way all week. So, Jason takes the shift in stride, dumping—placing his jacket on his chair.
Gotham weather is the most unpredictable kind, the wind picking up randomly from the Atlantic and tossing in hot or cold air on whimsy. Today, mother nature decided she wants icicles, and so, the fan has been turned off—a good thing for Tim—and the AC's finally figured it's cold enough to start running. Its vents are purring from its spot in the window.
"Any luck at the dock?" Dick inquires from his own desk, watching the pair take their seats.
"No," they both reply in unison, and there's this odd moment where they look at each other funny. Jason's especially surprised, because…is Tim starting to rub off on him?
"Uh…no," Jason restarts, still eying Tim but forcing his attention back onto Dick. "They're already rebuilding the area where the explosion happened, so even if there was something I missed, the evidence is long gone."
"Ah, I hear ya." Dick pulls up his coffee as he gives a considering nod. "Businesses have to get back on their feet after something like that. Still, I wish we could keep up the yellow tape a little while longer. I've got a homicide I've been trying to crack lately—took place in a factory—and they kicked me out after only a day. 'Protecting trade secrets,' they said." Dick's eyes thin skeptically. "Pretty sure the victim's boss is hiding something, though…"
"That's no surprise," Jason replies plainly, arm propped up on the back of his chair. "You wear overalls with polka dots. I wouldn't trust you either."
Dick scowls, but at least Tim's biting back a grin. The kid never smiles. It's something Jason has picked up on.
"Hey," Dick's rejoins a minute later, the crude humor already forgotten. (He's got the memory of a goldfish when it comes to people giving him grief.) "It's Saturday tomorrow. You gonna show up this week, Jay?"
"Yeah, I'll be there," the man mutters, attention claimed by the papers on his desk. "Heard a lot of people can't come, and I can't miss two weeks in a row."
"...Miss what?"
Jason perks up at the question.
Tim looks so innocent sitting there at his desk, a wee lamb, and Jason can't help but take advantage of it. He leans forward, just enough to seem threatening. "That's right. You're new here." He tuts, shaking his head. "Poor thing. I hope you can survive the hazing…"
"Hazing?" For a first-grade detective, Tim isn't very good at hiding his horror. Jason awards himself a mental pat on the back.
"He's just teasing, Tim," Dick spoils, shooting a glare at Jason. And then, naturally, Dick decides the prank deserves recompense, an idea flashing in the man's eyes—one he thinks is good but is actually awful in practice. "Hey, why don't you take him, Jay?"
That earns a wince.
"You know how the streets get tricky in that part of Downtown. He might get lost on his own."
The kid's new to Gotham—as much as he grew up here—so the comment isn't unfounded. But Dick should take him instead and stop pushing people into commitments they don't want to make.
Jason spends a moment mulling that last thought over.
Dick is a clever guy, and Jason's sure that's the angle he's working: trying to coerce Jason into spending more time with his partner.
He'd rather not. Their tense car rides are enough for him, thank you. But Dick has already cast the die, so Jason sighs. "Fine," he relents, not looking at Tim. "Meet me here tomorrow morning at seven, and do me a favor, will you? Don't be late."