Finding out that his death went unavenged had hurt.
Finding out that it hadn't even mattered as he had been replaced not even six months later hurt even more.
That hurt presented itself in a combination of fits of screams and crying sessions in the bathtub in his new apartment.
It was a miracle that he was able to convince Talia to not drop him off at the manor and to be so generous to pay his rent, at least for the first six months. But oh well, luck was something scarce, so he'd take it.
She had also given him a phone, a good one at that. It had a much larger screen than the one he had gotten from Bruce all those years ago. Though, he was still confused by the lack of a physical home button.
And apparently, Facebook launched this new thing called Facebook Marketplace. Safe to say, it was… weird. People sold all kinds of things. From couches beyond saving, to dishes and paintings that definitely contained lead, to beautiful pieces made of wood, destroyed by layers of layers of paint.
But here and there was something made by a local artist that didn't look half bad.
It started small, at first. He found a vase that would fit perfectly into the corner. Add a few flowers and the place would look so much livelier. And of course, you couldn't keep the walls empty. Soon, posters and paintings and collages adorned the place. He really could almost call it his own now.
So far, so good. The apartment looked better now and he was supporting the community! That had to count for something.
He really intended to stop after that. He really, really did. After all, he had all the necessary things and if this went any further, he would have to use the money that he was supposed to pay rent with.
But then he had seen a really nice clock made out of metal with the logo of Poison Idea in the background. He could not NOT buy it. That band was what got him through the tough days on the street.
And then he saw a copy of Wuthering Heights with a custom-made cover with which he absolutely fell in love with. When he looked at the creator's profile, he also found some other titles made with the same quality and attention to detail. It was a tough decision, but his book shelf was still so, so empty and he had already wanted to change that. What better opportunity than now?
There were some items that he truly didn't need, like that porcelain set, but he brushed it off as a little indulgence for all the things he had to endure that led to this exact moment.
So it really shouldn't have come as a surprise when he checked his finances at the end of the month, only to discover he only had money to pay for the next three and a half months of rent. Whoopsie.
A plan had to come. And finding one he did.
Painting couldn't be so hard, right?
Wrong. So, so wrong.
He didn't want to invest in material right away, which was a good call, because he was terrible at drawing, as it turns out, even at something as simple as a damn tree. How the hell was he able to get A's in art back in school?
So drawing was out of the question.
What wasn't any subject to complain about was his handwriting. Beautiful calligraphy graced his test sheets and a decision was made.
When he went to the store next time, he bought three frames, brushes, paint and paper rolls. And a duffel bag to keep all his equipment in.
Actually choosing which phrases he would write and frame was not easy. What would people hang on their walls? What kind of phrases were inspiring? Any book quotes that are universally loved? After all, "Live Love Laugh", "Home Sweet Home" and "Live Your Dream" were all already overused by the thousands of greedy corporations and people were probably tired of them. Right?
Right?
…
Within two hours, he put them up for sale.
As if people were actually that stupid…
…He sold each of them within the same hour for 50 bucks each.
Welp, apparently people were that stupid.
(No, he wasn't a hypocrite. Not on this, at least. He knew he had been one of those stupid people. More than once.)
That whole endeavor went on for a while and quite well, if he dared say so himself. It wasn't long before he had more money than he had started off with.
It was only for this reason that he allowed himself to buy the new spray can set they had in store. Plus, he had a few coupons, so it was a given that some extra cans of paint and canvases would also find their way into his basket.
So yeah, maybe his short obsession (read: addiction) actually taught him a lesson.
It was nice just putting the paint wherever he felt it looked best. Oddly relaxing the way that writing just didn't. And people still bought the stuff when it was finished! Not as much as he'd hoped, but he still walked away with a net positive.
Though, he still had no idea what to do with that one extra large canvas. Maybe something for a special occasion? Maybe something he'd keep or donate?
It didn't matter right now. His routine was calming. Not just him, but also his emotional turmoil.
Life was good for the moment.
————————————
"-and now we tune in to Gotham's story of today. The hero known as Robin saved Tim Drake, the son of the former Janet and Jack Drake, founders of Drake Industries, in a shocking turn of events. We have our reporter Frederick Ham at the Gotham Museum, where the incident took place. Frederick, what can you tell us-"
A click, a crash, a shatter. and the sound of batteries rolling across the floor filled the rising silence.
The anger, the rage, the wrath that had begun to drift away like a breeze in the wind, came back as an all-consuming hurricane.
Oh, so it's just Robin now? What happened to Batman AND Robin? Does the new kid even understand what Robin even stood for?!
Moreover, Bruce LETS him? The fledgling is old enough to leave its nest? Bruce really has enough trust in this guy to let him go off on his own?
Even though the last time he left the Boy Wonder alone, Robin died?
What did his death even mean when nothing changed?! The public probably doesn't know that Robin died. Bruce just took another kid, put him into a costume and even let him save some rich kid all by himself.
Of course it was someone from high society who got him on the news. Nobody cares about street children. It just makes them question if they are good people and nobody wants to believe that they are a bad person.
So better to just ignore them all together because they were doomed from the start and couldn't be saved anyway.
That's what any normal person would do.
————————————
Hours passed, but the anger was intoxicating him, fueling him, controlling him.
His earlier outburst wasn't without any cost. Because apparently, remotes weren't bouncy balls and could, in fact, break. But nothing a good amount of duct type couldn't fix, so it was all good at last.
He contemplated going out for a walk. However, that would mean he would probably have to see people. And because it was Gotham and already dark outside, it increased the chances of getting caught in some planned crime scheme.
Sure, he could easily free himself and walk away without a problem.
It was the other party he was "worried" about.
————————————
Maybe this was the special occasion for the extra large canvas, he thought, as he sat upside down from the couch, examining every little dot of the object in question, leaning on the wall across from him.
A vision formed in his mind. It wasn't a masterpiece; he wasn't even envisioning the end result, but the process. How he would apply each layer of paint, how it would feel to see the color run across the page, what patterns it would create.
He got out the duffel bag moments later.
————————————
There was something to art therapy after all. It's not something he'd consider personally; he'd hate it if someone would psychoanalyze him based on what he painted, but it was great for redirecting all the messy emotions.
But not only were his emotions a mess. It looked like an inkling from that Splatoon game had been massacred in his living room and the duffel bag had been dipped in its blood.
This was going to be a bitch cleaning up. Ugh.
With some luck, he could probably make some money out of it. At least just enough to get the cost back.
Like he had guessed, it wasn't a masterpiece. Some areas had too much going on, while others were lacking, but adding more color onto it would just make it clash even more. But hey, some people were really into that, weren't they?
He listed the painting without a price.
————————————
[ Alvin Draper: Hi, cool painting. Who's the artist if I may ask? ]
'What the fuck?' Were his exact thoughts as he looked at the time.
2:45 a.m.
What kind of person that stays up this late spends their time scrolling through Facebook Marketplace and texts people about paintings that took less than an hour to make? Besides him.
Okay, quick interruption right there: What was he going to respond?
[ Jay T.: It was me, I am the artist ]
No, that is an awful answer! Now he was going to have to wait another few hours or even days for another person who's interested-
[ Alvin Draper: Oh, neat! Is $450 enough for you? ]
Okay, where were the hidden cameras?
Yeah, definitely a troll. Or someone high. Or both.
Well, two could play the game.
[ Jay T.: 500 and I'll bring it over to you ]
Ha, that would shut them up real quick.
[ Alvin Draper: Deal. Give me a sec and I'll give you the address ]
Huh.
So, human traffickers have spread to Facebook Marketplace.
Good to know.
500 dollars for a trash painting made on a whim, accompanied by a lot of unprocessed feelings in just 20 minutes, pff, as if.
[ Alvin Draper: 1006 Mountain Drive. Bristol Township. Gotham. Need any directions? ]
Fuuuck.
That's right next to Wayne Manor, Wayne Manor being at 1007 Mountain Drive.
This had to be a prank because nobody from that fancy Crest Hill neighborhood would buy their paintings from local artists on fucking Facebook Marketplace. Especially not at almost 3 a.m. He only knew one billionaire who would be up this late.
He should have just gone with the 450 bucks.
Now, let's remember: Who were his neighbors while he lived with Bruce? One were the Addams, for sure; they always went crazy with Halloween decorations. Even when it wasn't Halloween.
And the other were… the… the Drakes…
A prank. No doubt.
The kid was held hostage and someone has nothing better to do than further ruining his day.
Except. Except, HE was the one to offer to bring it over. And it's not like you couldn't use a fake name online. Especially when you were in the public light to the amount people would hold you for ransom. It's just a smart thing to do so.
There were three options this could go:
It's a planned kidnapping.
It's a sick prank.
Tim Drake had a weird taste in art for a teenage boy.
He hoped it was three.
On the other hand, if it was a kidnapping, he'd have a higher chance of not getting detected by da- Bruce. Not getting detected by Bruce.
How to actually do that was the next problem. The cameras there were likely to be high resolution with all sorts of fancy functions. Bruce's did, of course.
Wait a minute- There was no way anybody would recognize him as Jason Todd. For one, Jason Todd was dead, for two, he had been more than a foot smaller and weighed much, much less compared to when he died.
Putting the hood from his hoodie over his head would do the trick for sure.
Now that that was out of the way too, he was kind of getting excited to finally meet the kid who lived next door all those years ago. All he really knew was that he didn't go to Gotham Academy, but to some kind of boarding school.
Maybe he wouldn't be so bad if he was that kind of person who was up at 2.45 a.m., scrolling through Facebook Marketplace.
—————————————
On second thought, maybe he should have changed to a hoodie that wasn't crimson red. Just maybe. Would have helped with blending in more and drawing attention away from him.
But eh, he was already in Crest Hill and driving all the way back would just make him more suspicious. Looking at all these houses, mansions, reminded him of the first time he stepped into one. Overnight, he had become a protagonist in a classic Rags to Riches storyline.
The outlines and massive free space on the properties still felt as if they had been copied from a storybook.
The Drake mansion wasn't asbig as Wayne manor, but still huge. A lot more modern, with noticeable renovations over the years too. Oddly enough, it reminded him of a museum.
As he made his way over to the front door, he could see light emitting from the foyer and a room on the second floor. He might've been worried that it was a prank after all and the light was just on because the police were there, but as he got further and further, he could safely confirm that no visitor's vehicle was in eyesight.
He braced himself before ringing. Here goes nothing.
A boy with ruffled-up hair and loose clothes greeted him.
Huh.
For someone who just got held hostage today, he seemed awkwardly fine. Was this a regular occurrence? Hopefully not, that would suck.
"Delivery of one giant painting for one Alvin Draper," he said with enthusiasm that only a theater kid could produce at this time of day. Well, night.
The boy's mouth hung slightly open and his eyes widened a bit at the use of the fake name. A second later, a look of "I am in so much shit" crossed over his face.
"Sure, Alvin Draper, that's me," his lips formed a straight line, "I'm not Tim Drake, by the way. He's, he'smy cousin. We just look oddly similar."
"Sure you are," he responded. "Tell you what, I'll keep shut as long as you don't tell anyone that Jay is not my actual name. It's just a nickname. Oh, plus the 500 dollars, of course."
"Of course," Alvin-Not-Tim said as he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. Whether it was over Jason's attitude or for being angry at himself, he couldn't tell, but he found that he did not particularly care.
Alvin reached over to a small table and handed him a bundle of bills.
They exchanged their goods and Jason began to count.
"So, are you a fan of local artists or do you just like abstract art?" he asked, not looking up.
"I was just scrolling, I saw it and thought, 'That artist must be a hot mess and have all sorts of emotional problems going on'", he gave as a way too nonchalant response.
"And you thought 'Hah, relatable!' Or did you think 'Oh, this is great for when I need a quick laugh'", he chuckled. "Insult my art all you want, but you are the one paying for it."
"You are the one bringing it over at 3.30 a.m."
"3.25 a.m., I value being punctual, thank you very much. Besides, you made me the offer at 2.45 a.m." Jason had reached $400.
"At least I have the excuse of getting held for ransom today." The smirk was audible.
His curiosity finally got the better of him. He held his head straight after counting the last few bills and put the bundle into his jacket pocket. "What is up with that anyway? You seem way too chill about it."
The boy's eyes got a distinct sparkle, a smirk made its appearance while he began crossing his arms, taking a much bolder stance. "It's Gotham. Besides, I've been doing martial arts for almost as long as I can walk. What I mean is, I am pretty damn good at it."
His own facade broke at that. Ohh, this guy was good.
"I hope you get to give your next about-to-be kidnapper a pretty good kick." He couldn't hold his laugh back any longer. How much he missed this, feeling so free of worries as the sound escaped his mouth.
Still laughing, he made his way backwards down the steps. "I'll be on my way then. Good night, Tim."
Only when he was several feet away did he get a response.
"Good night, Jason."
A door being pulled close followed before he could do as much as turn his head around.
Jason stood there as the shock settled in. However, sooner than later, his senses and rational thinking kicked back in and informed him that it wasn't that hard to make a connection between Jay and Jason.
The smile was still there as he drove off into the night.
————————————
Tim didn't wait to see his reaction, instead opting to close the door right after he said it.
It wasn't hard to figure out who the guy behind "Jay T." was. After he opened the guy's profile to do a background check, it couldn't be any less obvious. If Jason made an effort to keep his reappearance a secret, he wasn't really good at it.
For one, his birthday was set to August 16th and his bio consisted of a single Elizabeth Bennet quote. For another, he still used his old account from before he died.
The absurdity of the situation caught up to him as he looked at the painting with outstretched arms. The painting made by his dead predecessor.
Tim couldn't wait for when their fates would inevitably cross paths again.