Timelord27: Thanks so much for commenting! Glad you're enjoying so far. =) As for how the revelation will affect them all going forward, there will actually be a few more chapters before returning to that scene, but I will hope they will be interesting in their own way. ;O

Anyhoo, Happy Mother's Day~ 3

All of my heroes sit up straight
They stare at the ground, they radiate
Me, I'm mumbling in the kitchen for the sun to pay up
Lonely is a ring on a cold coffee cup
I'm some sick hound, digging for bones
If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be alone

-Gregory Alan Isakov, "Second Chances"

Then.

"There, that should do. It doesn't seem like you have a concussion, so I don't think you need to go to the hospital. Still, let us know if you feel any lightheadedness."

Stephanie's mom, as it turned out, was a registered nurse at West Mercy General. As she kindly administered first aid to Tim's forehead, he was vaguely reminded of Alfred's aged but careful hands working magic on his wounds – albeit without the exasperated tone the butler often took with him, tutting as he admonished and applied gauze with gentle firmness, enveloping bandages like a snug cocoon. ("Honestly, Master Tim. Must you be so needlessly reckless? That goes for you too, Master Bruce. If I may be so bold, cleaning up after these kinds of messes was quite frankly not part of my initial job description.")

Meanwhile, Steph hovered, enthusiastically recounting the events of the evening – though in his own humble opinion she was embarrassingly embellishing his heroics somewhat. (…At least she conveniently left out the part where he almost beat a guy to death, much to his tremendous relief.)

"And then that dude pulled out a knife, but Tim just knocked him down like that- pow! It was awesome."

Tim felt his face growing hot from the amount of praise being heaped upon him – especially considering in the end he still had to have his butt saved (by a girl no less).

"…It was nothing, really."

She looked at him with eyes shining.

"Seriously, you were really cool back there. Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging.

"I just did what felt natural, I guess. Most of it was luck, really. Must've been the adrenaline."

A look of slight disappointment crossed her face.

"Yeah? Too bad, I was hoping maybe you could teach me those moves."

"I think we've all had enough excitement for one night," Mrs. Brown declared as she put a hand around her daughter's bouncing curls, kissing her brow. "I'm just glad you're all right, dear." She turned to Tim with an indebted expression. "I truly can't thank you enough. If there's anything else I can do…"

"Ah, you've already done more than enough, thanks. I'm just happy to have been able to help. …Anyway, I should probably get going now."

The older woman looked somewhat alarmed.

"Surely you don't intend to walk back home by yourself again at this hour? It's late; you've just been attacked by a bunch of hoodlums, and suffered a head injury on top. Why don't you just stay here for tonight?"

It was Tim's turn to balk at risky suggestion.

"N- no, I couldn't do that."

"Nonsense, it's the least I can do to repay you. Tomorrow's Saturday, you don't have classes to be at, right? So then there shouldn't be a problem."

There was a big problem (perhaps more than one, he thought as he glimpsed over at Stephanie, who seemed to be concealing an amused grin as she eagerly watched him squirm). But of course he couldn't say the real issue that was troubling him.

"I don't want to impose…"

"It's not an imposition," she insisted. "Now, is there someone I can contact to let them know you're safe and you'll be spending the night? A parent or guardian, perhaps?"

"Really, it's okay. I can just ask my brother to come pick me up…"

Speak of the devil, Tim's cell phone started to buzz. He fished it out to find there were four missed calls and seven unread messages from Dick. He must not have noticed it going off in all the commotion. Swallowing, he dragged the screen across to answer and raised the receiver to his ear:

"Hey."

"Finally. I was beginning to get worried sick. Where the hell are you?"

"I'm… at Stephanie's house."

There was a beat.

"…Wow, you work fast, huh? Way to go, you stud. You should've just told me that's what you were after."

"It's not like that," he hissed, trying hard not to look at either Stephanie or her mother – especially the latter. "You have to come and get me."

"Why? What happened?"

At this moment, Mrs. Brown interjected as she respectfully reached out.

"May I speak with him?"

Tim hesitated, then submissively surrendered the phone.

"Hello? This is Stephanie's mother. Am I speaking with Tim's brother?"

Tim could only listen helplessly to her half of the conversation as she described the circumstances in great detail, slouching defeated into the couch cushions.

"Yes, they're both okay, don't worry. Tim received a minor scrape to his scalp, but I've stopped the bleeding and given him some topical antibiotic treatment. He should be fine, I expect it to fully heal within a few weeks so long as he keeps the dressing on. I'd like to observe him overnight though for any signs of concussion, if that's all right."

After some more nodding back-and-forth, she handed him back the mobile.

"You did a good thing tonight. I'm proud of you, kid."

"Dick…"

"We'll talk more about it later. For now, just try to relax and enjoy, okay? Get some rest, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Dick, wait!"

"Have fun on your playdate~"

The other end hung up, and Tim glowered at the dead cellular in disgust. Gulping, he turned to the expectant two.

"He… gave permission for me to stay."

"Sweet," Steph chirped. "So long as you don't mind the sofa."

Her mother shot her a disapproving look.

"Kidding. We've got a spare mattress."

As Mrs. Brown packed away the medical kit, she asked:

"Are you kids hungry? You must be famished, after what you've been through. I can whip something up real quick."

Tim was about to politely protest, but Stephanie bounded up in keen agreement.

"Yeah, I'm starving."

"Dinner" then consisted of microwaved leftover chicken and mashed potatoes. Tim remained reticent during the meal as Stephanie prattled on next to him, thankfully dominating most of the discussion with random topics such as gymnastics and school and how lame their professor was, so he didn't have to deal with too many prying questions from the clearly curious parent in the room. He poked at the taters with his fork, honestly not having much appetite, but under both women's watchful eyes he forced himself to finish it all as a show of courtesy. As soon as he exhausted one pile though, his plump hostess happily served a second round of helpings onto his plate.

"Eat up, young man. You're all skin and bones. Honestly, what do they feed you at that school?"

Eventually he managed to convince that he'd had enough and couldn't possibly eat another bite. (Seriously, he was afraid he really would throw up if he did.) Afterwards, he volunteered to help do the dishes, but Stephanie's mother shook her head, adamantly declining the offer.

"Don't be silly, you're our guest. Although I do appreciate such good manners, your parents must have taught you well. Perhaps you could stand to learn a thing or two from him, young lady."

Stephanie stuck her tongue out in a semi-playful way, but obediently joined her summoner at the sink. Tim perceived her nudge the woman's sleeve and lean over to intimate something in her ear, casting a surreptitious squint back at him. While their voices were kept low, he was still well-versed enough in lip reading to make out what they were saying (though he likely could've figured from body language and context alone). In summary: Ix-nay on the arents-pay.

"Oh, I see," her mother hushed sympathetically. "I'm sorry. I hope I didn't offend him."

Tim exhaled, definitely regretting his decision to be persuaded into staying here. The last thing he wanted was to cause these hospitable folks any discomfort – as much as the other way around.

As Stephanie dried and sorted the silverware away into drawers, Mrs. Brown opened another cupboard and retrieved a long, flat box. As she returned back from the counter, Tim distinguished that it was an old-fashioned form of entertainment Alfred often used to try and interest him in, although he was always too antsy to bother sitting still long enough to learn the rules, instead scoffing and slithering off at the first opportunity to go play video games (or better yet, do some physical training exercises down in the cave).

"Friday nights are traditionally game nights at our house," she stated matter-of-factly. "You're welcome to join us if you like."

Stephanie rolled her eyes as she wiped her hands with a towel before placing it back on the rack. "Mom, I'm sure he doesn't want to spend time doing something as boring as play some dumb board game."

"No, it's all right." Tim could hardly believe he himself was saying this, but… "I- I'd like to give it a try."

So that was how he ended up playing Scrabble at the Browns' kitchen table. Fortunately the instructions were fairly simple to follow (at least it wasn't Clue, thank God). In fact he could've handily won had he taken full advantage of point availability at times, but purposefully stayed his hand, letting either of present company claim vocabular victory.

As he clacked tiles quietly onto the empty spaces, grooved wood feeling cool and smooth in his fingers, he snuck nervous peeks at his opponents across from him – particularly Steph's scrunched in concentration as she rearranged words on her rack – racking lexicon for all possible combinations. The elder Brown didn't seem to be paying much attention to the match either, watching both of them with an amiable smile. It made Tim supremely self-conscious as he lowered his head further.

This was… weird. Really weird. The whole situation was weird. …Weird, but nice.

Too nice.

A part of him couldn't help but feel like a mistake had been made somewhere. He didn't belong here, in this nice house and nice kitchen – cramped but cozy – with such nice people who were so gladly willing to share what little they had with him. Doing the kinds of normal things normal "families" typically did together. Something in him screamed he didn't deserve this, that it was all just a trick, an illusion – no matter how hard he tried to shut it up. He didn't even dare to blink, terrified that when he opened his eyes he'd be back in that suffocating room, with "Mommy" and "Daddy" looming over him…

He wanted to run away.

Steph's mom glanced at the wall clock after the game, which her offspring had won easily. ("Man, you guys weren't even trying, were you?" she pouted over hollow triumph upon calculating the disparate totals, oddly dissatisfied with overwhelming success.) Noting the time, their tuckered chaperone thus determined with a yawn they ought to start tucking in for the night.

"Steph sweetie, why don't you go set up the guest bed?" She bolstered Tim's shoulder as she stood up, again denying him to assist in clearing the table. "You two go on ahead. I'll clean up here, and find something else for you to change into."

They left whilst she started collecting tiles together, and Tim timidly trailed after Stephanie as she led back to the living room. She allowed him to lend a hand at least with rolling out the foldaway bed from the closet and spreading sheets over it.

"You and your mom seem to get along pretty well."

Tim murmured in a clumsy attempt to make small talk.

"Things haven't always been this way," she replied as she tugged at the corners. "We've had our share of differences and disagreements in the past. We're both working real hard to keep a close relationship now though. After all, you do what you can for family, right? In the end, we're all each other's got."

She halted, hand over her mouth as she realized she'd breached her own established rule on bringing up sensitive subject.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"It's okay." He'd raised the taboo topic himself after all. "I don't mind."

Steph hastily tried to steer the dialogue away anyway.

"Thanks, you know, for earlier. …Although I bet I probably could've taken them on by myself," she added with a half-humorous grin.

Tim scoffed mildly.

"Right. Sure."

"Hey, you saw me with those bricks," she sniffed in indignation. "I could've handled it."

He winced, recognizing that old catchphrase he himself used to boast whenever some other senior superhero had to swoop in to his rescue, especially back when he was just starting out as a newbie.

"Seriously though, thanks again for saving my butt back there. I owe you one."

"Same to you. I guess you could call it even?"

"Fair 'nuff. …You know, we make a pretty good team, don't we?"

"Y- yeah."

Their eyes met, connecting across the bedding – and Tim was the first to flush red and brusquely break contact, revolving away in panic when Stephanie's mother suddenly walked in with oh-so-impeccable timing.

"Oh my, am I interrupting something in here?"

"No, Ma," Stephanie drolled as she innocently fluffed the pillow.

"Hm…"

Mercifully, Mrs. Brown made no additional comment as she proffered Tim a pair of plain pajamas.

"These were my late husband's, so they might be a bit big on you. I hope you don't mind wearing them, though if it makes you uncomfortable…"

"You could always borrow some of my clothes," Stephanie piped up as she elbowed Tim with a wink, which only made him shrink violet more.

"N- no, this is fine."

"All right then. Bathroom's down the hall, there are extra toothbrushes under the sink. Let us know if you need anything else, we'll both be upstairs."

Stephanie waved to Tim as she merrily bid adieu.

"G'night! See you in the morning!"

This time, he at least made an effort to reciprocate the gesture.

"…Goodnight."

…

He couldn't sleep.

He knows, that the moment he closes his eyes, he'll see that whitewashed face staring back at him. Laughing, always laughing. Drenched in wet dripping blood, from his own clamped and clammy fist as it pounds, pulverizes. …Hear clear shot ringing out, the agonized shout as stone arrow pierces purple heart, decorating fallen soldier with red and yellow colored flag. Head and heart hammering. Hurting. Hating – himself.

Sometimes he'll remember it differently. The Joker, wrapped – trapped – in wire pythons, entangling himself within the coiled cords. He stretches out, slips, shrieks like a banshee as he accidentally yanks out lifeline on his own accord. Like karma itself removed rug and wind – whoopee cushion – from beneath him. And Tim can't tell whether it's his mind making up alternate experience – excuse – to exonerate his conscience. But there's something so sweetly gratifying about the way sparks fly like firework cannons and marionette body writhes in spiderweb's strings, and maybe that feeling frightens him even more, but either way it all comes back to that dead, dead smile…

He sat up and slowly slid to the edge of the comforter, huddling and hugging knees for comfort. After a minute, he stood up and staggered towards the bathroom, filling basin with water as he dunked his whole head in for the second time today. Holding breath and counting deliberately to 10. He lifted and splashed invigorating coldness a couple more times before dabbing dry. Trying his best not to be sick; scared shitless of his own damn shadow. Smothering terror in terrycloth, trembling more than terra firma ever did.

As he gazed at his grim reflection in the mirror, praying for gray ghost's silhouette to go away – resist the urge to punch and puncture glass, splinter and smash (his own) killer sneer leering back at him – his dull concentration gradually fell upon the latch to the side. A sense of sheer desperation overtook him as he curiously creaked open the medicine cabinet, anxiously seeking any sort of anodyne to ameliorate stress; preferably some kind of thought suppressant – if not full-on sedative. …This was wrong. So wrong. Stealing was wrong. Murder was wrong. But he couldn't control himself as he shakily picked up the nearest prescription bottle (ascertaining by lack of load it was likely nearly empty) and examined the label…

"Can I help you with something?"

Of all the stupid, idiotic, moronic, dumbass things he'd ever done in his entire life… Forgetting to close and lock the door no doubt qualified as a competitive runner-up.

He whirled around to find Mrs. Brown within the entryway, garbed in fuzzy green bathrobe and slippers, with stern arms severely crossed as she took in the immoral image of him standing there scarlet-handed. Looking almost more disappointed – crushed – than cross. …He'd be disappointed in himself too, if he invited someone into his home – nursed and fed and clothed – treated like a decent, worthy human being – and this was how they repaid him. He tried – too late – to hide the pill container behind his back, which he remorsefully recognized only made things look worse.

"I- I couldn't sleep. I just thought- I wasn't trying to-" He choked on rueful disgrace, dropping view and dignity to the floor. "…I'm sorry. If you want me to leave, I understand. Just please don't tell Stephanie or my brother about this."

He said that, but there were even bigger ramifications at stake. Was she going to call the police? That meant Barbara would be there – oh God, how to explain. Would she even believe him? She'd have to cover for him again – would she even be willing this time?

As he cowered and kowtowed, imploring before interrogator, her wrinkled countenance softened slightly at the mention of her daughter's name. His repentance did sound deeply genuine. …And perhaps all too familiar.

She released respiration, unlocking limbs and insinuating in pockets instead.

"…You seem like a nice boy. One who's made a mistake but both acknowledged and apologized for it. I'd hate to have to send you away and break Steph's heart. She certainly seems rather fond of you after all." She gave him a gauging scan, scathing yet searching for signs of redemption. "…Whatever your intentions are towards her, you saved her life tonight. For that I'm forever grateful."

Still refusing to accept her regard, he shook his head.

"I only… did what anyone else would do. It was just fortunate I happened to be there at the right time…"

He flinched as she tentatively tapped an encouraging clap on his shoulder, still shuddering in dread at dominant touch.

"Don't sell yourself short. What you did was very brave. …I see a lot of things in my line of work, especially in this city. You prevented her from becoming another statistic. I don't know what I would've done if I lost my precious baby girl. I almost did once before, I'm not about to let that ever happen again."

Her eyes flicked subtly towards the weight of sobering secret in his clasp, and he surmised from the shameful sorrow echoed in them that perhaps she wasn't only speaking in the literal. Discerning his grip tauten, she placed her other paw over his clenched knuckles, tenderly prying cylinder away from them.

"Why don't we put this back now, hm?"

She began to restore the low strength painkiller substitutes to the shelf – a crutch for overcoming her own past narcotic addiction she hadn't had to rely on in ages, having successfully kicked habit to the curb with combined counseling and dedicated support from her daughter. It had been a long, arduous road to recovery, but over many months of struggle she'd managed to mostly taper off detox medication, only keeping in case of intense relapse cravings or emergency post-acute withdrawal symptoms. A small, constant reassurance in the back of her brain, that at least (temporary) respite was always there. …Upon second thought though, she removed the few remaining tablets and did what she herself should have done a long time ago, per proper disposal recommendation (or rather regulation): Flushed them straight down the toilet.

"Come, let's talk more in the kitchen."

He meekly obeyed, tailing with tail between his legs. She bade him sit, and he slumped into the stool, stooping like a naughty child sent to the principal's office as she put a pot of water on the stove. She remained with her back to him in silence for a minute, monitoring for the first evidence of boiling so she could switch off the heat and transfer kettle right before it began to whistle, cautiously avoiding any racket loud enough to wake the other individual upstairs.

"Tea, hon?" she inquired as the poured the liquid into two cups with (cheap) store-bought bags of herbs and leaves inside. "I find it always helps me relax and get to sleep, especially after I've been working many night shifts in a row."

Tea. That was something else Alfred oft used to offer him, although at the time he vastly preferred the kinds of sugary soft drinks the elderly caretaker complained would surely rot his teeth someday. He eyed the mug half-suspiciously as she stirred and handed it to him, almost as if postulating there were poison in it. Gingerly, he took a calming sip of balmy ginger and lemon balm, savoring a hint of spicy cinnamon.

"…It's good," he admitted in response to her anticipation.

She beamed faintly, before carrying on with frank concern.

"I imagine it must have been tough, growing up without a consistent, complete set of parental figures to guide and provide for you. I don't mean to presume anything about your life or reasons for such behavior, but I'm guessing you've had to learn to handle many things on your own the hard way. …My daughter almost went through that. She's practically had to raise herself since she was a kid. I can only thank God – and her amazing will – that she turned out as wonderful as she did. She's a strong survivor. Stubborn as a mule too, as I'm sure you've seen. I'm so proud of her you wouldn't believe."

She paused, sight sinking into her own drink.

"I confess I haven't always been a model mother, been there for her when she needed me. …I might've even been where you are once, or at least in a similar place. It isn't easy, I know. But, there is a better way. If you allow for those people who love you most to help. Your brother, for one. He seems to care about you quite a lot. He told me to call him right away if any… 'complications' came up."

Tim groaned inwardly. So Dick didn't trust him after all. He probably even foresaw something like this occurring.

"You know, when the earthquake hit Gotham, I thought to myself, 'this is the really the end'. I wouldn't get to tell Stephanie how much I loved her, how much she means to me, how much she's helped me maintain hope. I made a decision then to change. I wanted to – really turn my life around – if not for myself, then for her. Parents are supposed to take care of their children, after all – be the fully responsible ones. …Though we're not exactly perfect beings either. No one is. We all make our mistakes – sometimes sacrifices that cost us nearly all we have. …Even if in doing so for others' sakes, we end up hurting them as well."

She rose, resting a hand once again on his shoulder.

"But, that's the importance of forgiveness. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you have to appreciate the people you have in your life, while you still have the chance. Warts and all. Everyone deserves a second chance. I'm grateful to the Lord every day that my girl gave me one."

She patted peaceably.

"We can keep this between us for now. I hope you make the right decision when you confront Dick tomorrow though. In the meantime, try to get some sleep, son. You are still welcome to stay, if you wish."

As she departed, Tim tiptoed after to the adjoining den again. At the margin of his periphery, he thought he caught a whisk of lavender socks vanishing behind the railing overhead (overheard?), as Mrs. Brown started up the stairwell, still holding hot beverage in hand.

"Goodnight, dear."

He declined onto the bed again, swirling his own steaming drink. Thinking.

At length, he polished off the last drop and endeavored to lay back, contemplating the ceiling. Trying to sustain steady breathing and blank skull, clutching blankets close. Blinking back tiredness – and maybe some tears of reprieve.

…He must have drifted off at some point, because all of a sudden he finds himself back in the aftermath of the quake. Roaming the demolished streets, stench of blood and bodies buried underneath destruction – devastation – all around him. Moaning hands extend out, corpses clamoring, crawling towards him.

"Help us, Robin. Save us. Please."

They latch onto his leg, and he vibrates them off, breaking into a run. Shoes slapping slick against asphalt, wet from recent rain. Rankness percolating through his soles, seeping into the very core of his soul. Petrichor turned putrid. Petrifying. Blocking his ears to drown out the din of wails and sirens, death and decay and despair in every direction.

He sees a kid, crying, crouched in front of a falling structure. Form framed by sunset, outline inflamed in ruby and gold. Blazing glory. Electrical lines crackling as they splinter and snap like stars above, one by one.

Someone has to save him. He was all alone. Where were his parents? Where was anybody? Why the hell was no one there to help him? Why was no one saving him?

He reacts, moves, dives – just in time – as the world comes crashing down around him. When he looks down at the bundle in his hands though, there's just a tattered cape. He cradles, caresses it; turning it over from bright side to black, like the tarps used to shroud rotting carcasses.

He blinks as the cloth unravels, flag unfurling. Overflows and spills. He sees Annie instead, lying limp against his aching breast with deceased doll eyes, blooming wild and wide like a glass rose. She's wilting, withering – melting in his arms. He tries to gather her up, reassemble the chipped fragments, but there's nothing he can do to prevent. Preserve. Protect. He can't save her. …He can't save anyone, let alone himself.

The wading clay compresses, clinches his wrists – claiming what's left of his consciousness. Rising up to his neck. Choking, enclosing in earthen prison as the sun blots out and it all goes completely dark, so dark. He beats against cavern walls and yells frantically at the top of his lungs, but no one can hear him.

A glow shines through. Too bright, too blinding. Lamps burn in his retinas, stinging spots. The only source of natural light is a round checkerboard window – patterned squares within tic-tac-toe circle – painted directly above him, staring out into space, at the bold sky where he couldn't fly. He was grounded, wings clipped by a cackling madman as he and his colorful coconspirator – hooting cuckoos in cahoots – tighten belts, belting laughter.

But it's okay. Because he's been here before. Hands bound behind his back, glaring down Pukeface and his goons and their guns in defiance. Cheekily retorting a remark on his aggressor's "charming good looks" when his cheek was harshly struck. He was no coward, not like his dad. Besides- he didn't know it then like he does now, but Batman would come and save him. …Any minute now, his guardian angel would bust in through that curtain and kick Joker's butt. And then he'd be sorry, for messing with Tim Drake. Robin. The Dynamic Duo. A perfect pair of eternal partners, best buds. Forever friends – family. For one would surely never rest until the other was found. They'd lay down their lives for each other. Batman would never let him down – not like his old man.

"I'm not afraid of you."

After all, in their line of work, deathtraps were no big deal. Even Joker with a camera was nothing new. They'd both been captured once, strung up in chains like sitting ducks as the clown battered up a series of spiked cannonballs. Instructing his "kids" – an "all-star team" – to set up a camcorder to record their demise. For posterity.

"You don't really think you're going to pull this off, do you?"

"Yeah, I mean- considering your batting average."

A car crushes next to him. He cringes, but remains unfazed as Joker readies the catapult again, aiming precisely at his two targets. Robin can't let Batman see him sweat, be ruffled by small stuff like this. Robins weren't scared of anything. He's done his part by making a quippy pun that would make Nightwing proud, now it was up to the Dark Knight himself to do his stuff.

"A little fear is a good thing."

Even as the doomed projectiles launch, he keeps his cool. Composure. Courage. …It's okay, because Batman was right beside him. He'd think of something. He always does. Or maybe his new plug-powered pal would come charging dramatically to their aid in the bare nick of time, putting on flashy static show. There was always someone he could count on. Close comrades, brothers-and-sisters-in-arms – some no older than he was. In fact he looked forward to further team-ups with yet another promising young hero, show a more rudimentary rookie the ropes sometime. Shoot the breeze and hoops and grapples instead of guns, share in electrifying thrill. …Electricity was nothing to fear.

"I'm not… afraid."

He repeats the phrase, a little more muted, less sure of himself this time.

Joker simply smiles as he adjusts the dial.

"You will be, my boy."

…The lever goes down.

He screams.

…

Tim bolted upright, breathing heavily. It took a minute for him to comprehend his surroundings, attuning to unaccustomed accommodations. As he recalled where he was, who he was and what he was doing here, he drew knees in close to his chest, descending perspiring temple onto them. Soaked in adrenal secretions – submerged secrets – sticking to the layers as he rocked consolingly. Rapidly whispering verifiable facts to himself, reaffirming identity. Reality.

"My name is Timothy Jackson Drake. I'm a freshman in college. A normal kid – person – with a normal life. Currently I'm a guest at someone's home. There's nothing to be afraid of. No one can harm me here."

He reiterated the mantra several times, reminding until rationality was fully swayed. Swaying back and forth.

As he settled down enough to cease metronomic movement, his resuming senses sharpened, picking up on a singed scent coming from the kitchen. …No mistake, it smelled like something was burning.

Leaping to his feet, he hurried to the open doorway, which was exuding smoke – whereupon he stumbled upon a scene of Stephanie and her mother arguing over a cast iron griddle as beeping began to blare above them.

"Mooom, you left the waffle iron on too long again."

"Sorry, sweetheart."

Stephanie sighed as she scratched at her bird's-nest hair, having apparently yet to tame tangles by brushing bedhead. As Mrs. Brown rushed to scrape and salvage what she could, Steph hopped up on a chair to disarm the alarm. Still elevated after hushing detector, she detected the spectator's peering peepers, warily watching from just beyond the bend of the doorframe –on the outside looking in. Like a little lost child, displaced waif – wavering and waffling on whether to enter. She grinned, announcing presence for him.

"Oh hey, good morning. Sorry for the noise. Did we wake you?"

He startled at abrupt address, shaking his head.

"Um, morning."

"You want some waffles?" She jumped down to join her mom as she self-consciously served the scorched bread. "They're a bit burnt though."

Tim's lids batted, taking in the battered buttermilk spread. Memory meanders, wandering back – to waking up in his dad's tiny, trash-filled apartment, picking his way over broken beer bottles and crowded cans to the vacant table, where sometimes he'd find a scribbled note from his father stating he was off working another job for Two-Face and – if he were lucky – maybe some money to buy rations. More often than not there was nothing though, no rhyme or reason or explanation to disappearance. And he'd have to pour himself a bowl of cold cereal, or – if there weren't any supplies left in stock and no cold cash allotted either – he'd have to forage for – filch food himself. Failing begging or burglary, in starving times he'd resort to even further filthy tactics by diving into dumpster bins, fighting desperately with rats and stray dogs and cats for every last scrap…

"…Hey, are you all right? It doesn't still hurt anywhere, does it?"

He snapped out of stupor upon fretful inquiry.

"Huh? No, why do you ask?"

Stephanie and her mother exchanged uneasy looks.

"Then… How come you're crying?"

"Eh?"

He hadn't been aware of it, but there was water welling at the verge of his blurred vision, swimming with sentiment as what felt like a dam deep within started to crack, rupturing emotion. Repressed reverie surging to the surface.

"Ah, this is, um…" He swiftly swiped at his ducts with the bases of his palms, sniffling into loose sleeves. God, this was so humiliating. "It's nothing."

The streams wouldn't stop though. He remembers. Sitting outside on the patio with Alfred and Dick as Bruce beamed proudly over a large, towering plate of pancakes he'd spent all morning trying to make, looking utterly ridiculous in his chef's hat and apron ensemble (and for once his muddled psyche doesn't relate to Joker sporting a similar getup), smock smeared with flour and batter stains (to match the many battle scars gained the night before). Himself and Dick giggling as they mimed furtive gagging motions to each other across the table, Alfred striving his best to retain a straight poker face as he politely asked to pass the syrup, later proposing that perhaps Master Bruce best leave the cooking to him from now on. Barbara would stop by in the afternoon once she made sure her dad was okay after his ordeal, and Tim would tell her all about the breakfast from hell whilst Dick sought to soothe a still moping Bruce's bruised ego by making some joke about Eggo and Jemima he couldn't recollect exactly, but it made Babs roll her eyes as she looked at all of them like they were crazy, before bursting out laughing. And he's laughing now too between sobs, not because it's funny – but because it's been so damn long since he felt anything quite like this, and he wonders if it's really okay for him to be this happy – so much that it hurts and he can't breathe and has to brace himself by grasping the back of a chair, gasping for air. The rills rolls faster down his cheeks, turning to waterfall ribbons of tears as laughter leaks from his lungs in tumbling tidal waves; loosen and knot round his stomach again, wound tight like a tourniquet. Snowballing into a boulder at the bottom of his gut, before flaring, inflating and bubbling back up like a balloon, groundswell erupting at the seams. A liberating display of long-lost passion via paradoxical paroxysms, pure and puerile; almost intoxicating in its ignominy.

Stephanie surveyed these strange proceedings with growing apprehension.

"Maybe we really should take you to a hospital…"

"No," Tim hiccupped, stabilizing himself. "I'm okay. Really."

"…Are you sure?"

"Yeah." He inhaled, and smiled. To be honest, he felt a lot better right now than he had in years. "…I was just reminded of something, sorry."

Mrs. Brown serenely sat down.

"…Well then, if that's settled. Shall we eat?"

"Yes," Tim appreciatively concurred. "Please."

Steph shrugged as she followed cue to forget oddity in favor of food, falling back into regular morning routine – up-tempo rhythm – as she chattered cheerfully between charred mouthfuls – an acquired taste she'd learned to build tolerance to by slathering in syrup. Sitting next to their less immune visitor, she watched as he took one delicate bite, snorting in amusement as he tried to cover up coughing. Teasingly, she pushed a significantly seared portion of the platter onto him while her mortified mother speared her evil eye.

Yet, he graciously took the blackened batch in stride and – to both their astonishment – managed to wolf it all down. In an even more astounding turn of events, not only had his appetite increased, but so had his level of contribution to conversation, energetic speech expanded in stark contrast to before (although still light by her incomparable lively standards). Basking in current companionship as he casually complimented on baking skills. And although they all subsequently share a chuckle – even the chef at her sheepish expense – like it's intended as a jest; he really, truly, sincerely means it, from the bottom of his own blemished, broken heart that had itself been burned – branded – so many times before, but now felt like it was finally beginning to heal – if just a little bit. Like it had found some measure of peace at last, a place where he could maybe start to mend, pick up the shattered pieces and start again. …Like there was hope for a second chance.

…Because even though they're brown and extra crispy and kinda rough around the edges, and taste a little like rubber charcoal – they're by far the best goddamn waffles he ever had in his entire life.

I'm running from nothing, no thoughts in my mind
Oh my heart was all black, but I saw something shine
Thought that part was yours, but it might just be mine
I could share it with you, if you gave me the time
I'm all bloody knuckles, longing for home
If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be alone

Another cookie to whoever gets all the references in this chapter. ;O (Also, I have no idea what's going on in the comics currently, but YJ #5 was all kinds of adorbs. =3=b)