Work Text:
“I think this one is yours..."
Tim blinks and lifts his head from the crook of his elbow when Delaney Danvers’ voice cuts through the haze of his less-than-subtle attempt to steal a few minutes of shuteye. He’d been up well past midnight the previous evening going over a cold case file Dick had slipped his way. Delaney grimaces as she leans across the aisle and slides a graded test onto Tim’s desk. Her voice is just a little too sympathetic when she murmurs, “I thought it was hard too.”
Naturally, Tim's eyes drift to the test on Delaney's desk, landing on the bright red ‘92’ a split-second before she coughs awkwardly and flips her test over. Tim looks down at the paper in front of him. The circled ‘65’ in the upper righthand corner stares back mockingly.
With a heavy sigh, Tim slides down in his seat, already thinking of what he's going to say when this grade makes it back to Bruce. It's not his first D of the semester, but it is his first in physics, and this early in the school year there isn’t much else in the gradebook to balance it out.
Mrs. Algiers—the teacher who is currently subbing for Mr. Colson—continues passing back tests, clearly not bothering to match the name to the student. The classroom is abuzz as students start shuffling papers around until they find their own. Slowly, Tim leafs through the test packet, eying each circled mistake until the pages seem to bleed red.
Despite Tim’s repeated assurances that he ‘totally has enough time to do both’ and all the casework he’s been helping with ‘definitely won’t interfere with his studies,’ it’s proving harder than anticipated to juggle his new lifestyle ever since classes started up again in late-August. All those hours spent dreaming up theories for cases haven’t left much time for filling out homework packets and drawing free body diagrams.
Another student—Ethan Langley, son of Eric Langley, the investment broker—starts coughing so suddenly and forcefully that the chatter in the room dims to a murmur and his classmates all turn towards the disruption. One of Ethan’s friends thumps him on the back hard enough that Tim winces, but when Ethan shakes him off and starts uncapping his water bottle, Tim turns his gaze back to the substitute.
It's at that moment that something catches his eye—or rather, someone. For the briefest of seconds as Tim turns his head, he thinks he catches a glimpse of his father crossing in front of the open door behind him.
He blinks. That... That’s not possible.
…Right?
"Take one, pass the rest," Mrs. Algiers says in a tone thick with boredom and resignation as she hands over the stack of packets for the next unit. Tim takes one from the top and twists around to hand the rest to the student behind him. Again, from the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees a flicker of his father in the hall.
Tim's heart thuds in his chest and he’s immediately shaking his head in denial. No. There's no way Jack would show up at the school again. Not after what happened the last time he tracked Tim down on campus—the police got involved for goodness sake! And even though he knows it can’t be possible, Tim stares blankly down at his study materials, thoughts spinning and pulse climbing steadily until he hears himself blurting out, "I need to use the bathroom!"
“Someone just took the pass,” Mrs. Algiers says, glancing down at her watch. “You’ll have to wait for—”
“It’s an emergency,” he interrupts. “I have to go right now.”
Soft snickers ripple throughout the classroom, but Tim is so desperate to prove himself wrong that he can't be bothered to feel the slightest embarrassment. The teacher eyes Tim over her narrow glasses for a moment before heaving out a sigh and motioning towards the door.
“Come straight back when you’re done.”
Tim bobs his head, nearly tripping over his own feet in his scramble out of his seat. He quickly weaves his way through the rows of desks before barreling out into the hall. His head swivels, eyes wide, as he glances from one end to the other.
If his father really is here in the school, then the office staff would have told him what classroom Tim was in. So… Jack would have waited out in the hall, right? Or, no… he would have been taken to a conference room. So why didn’t they pull Tim from class like the last time?
He makes his way to the pair of conference rooms down the hall and peers through the narrow vertical window on each door. They’re both empty.
An instant wave of relief washes over him, so much that he huffs out a half-laugh.
“I need more sleep…” he mutters to himself, pushing open the bathroom door.
Ever since Bruce started easing up on Tim’s cave restrictions over the summer, he’s been getting precious little rest. It’s not on purpose; he always intends to go up to bed at a reasonable hour, but he’ll get caught up combing through security footage on the Batcomputer, or double-checking some bit of minutiae on a case file, or practicing that one move Nightwing showed him on the mats, and then suddenly it’s three a.m. and he’s being startled back to the present by the roar of the Batmobile’s engine tearing through the tunnels. It’s all he can do to bolt upstairs and burrow under the covers before he finds himself face-to-face with the Bat himself.
(For all his training, Batman’s real signature move is that goddamn Disappointed Dad™ look he’s capable of leveling at his children.)
At least it’s a Friday and he can sleep in tomorrow. Well, sleep and catch up on the twelve or so missing assignments he’s managed to rack up between his classes, that is. And do some more self-defense training with Bruce and Jason; they’re working on hold breaks at the moment, which has been exciting. Maybe also look into that one weird mob case again, you know, the one with all the severed toes…
The sound of running water fills the silence of the restroom as Tim splashes cold droplets onto his face. He just needs to wake up, that’s all. It’s only third period—he’s allowed to still be a little groggy. Surely by lunch he’ll feel more alive.
"Hey there, champ."
Tim startles at the sound, sucking in a sharp breath. His eyes dart up to the mirror above the sink.
Jack Drake’s reflection stares back at him.
No.
Tim's heart thunders in his ears. The shock must register on his face because a muscle in his father’s jaw tenses before the man raises a brow and dips his chin, shooting Tim an expectant look in the mirror. He crosses his arms over his chest and nods pointedly toward the sink.
“You’re really not even going to look your old man in the eye?”
As if on auto-pilot, Tim straightens up and turns to face his father. Jack exhales audibly and gives a slight shake of his head, disappointment rolling off of him in waves.
“Dad,” Tim says, his throat going suddenly dry. “What are you— how are you—?”
“Funny,” Jack says, “I’d have thought it’d take longer for the child my wife and I gave life to and doted on and provided for for thirteen straight years to so completely write us off. But I suppose now that you’ve managed to weasel your way into an actual billionaire’s pocket, you can afford to replace us.”
“Wait, what?” Tim says, legitimately blindsided. It’s not that he hasn’t seen the rumors circulating the web about his adoption, but those are just the ravings of jealous losers online (which Bruce’s lawyers promptly shut down). Surely his own parents would know that this was never about money. “It wasn’t like that!”
“No?” Jack says, raising an eyebrow. “Because where we’re coming from, it looks exactly like that.”
“It wasn’t!” Tim insists. “I swear, I never meant for any of this to happen!”
“Oh, so we’re supposed to believe it was just a random coincidence that a few months after you started inviting yourself into the home of the wealthiest man in Gotham, you just happened to decide that the life your mother and I gave you wasn’t good enough?” His father’s words are bitter, flippant. “That the arrangement we set up—the very arrangement you once begged us for—suddenly counted as criminal neglect?”
A stab of guilt pierces Tim’s chest. It’s true that at nine years old, he himself had been the biggest advocate for getting to stay home alone. But that was on the heels of Ms. Clemmings—the only nanny he’d ever truly hated. Most of the people his parents hired to look after him were either nice or indifferent, but she was the only one he can remember being outright mean to him.
(For the record, he’d only meant to annoy her when he’d left his skateboard lying in the hall. He had no idea old people’s hips were that fragile.)
After two months of breathing in second-hand cigarette smoke and getting yelled at by a crotchety old lady for things as dumb as misplacing the remote or spilling his juice on the kitchen rug, the idea of finally having a little more freedom at home was downright intoxicating. His parents were hesitant at first, but little Timmy insisted that he could take care of himself while they were away.
Eventually they’d just given in.
“I…I was just a kid,” Tim says over the lump rising in the back of his throat. “I didn’t know what I needed back then.”
“Oh but now you think you do?” his father scoffs. “At least enough to get your mother and I investigated for child abuse.” He spits out the last word like it’s some big joke. “Tell me, son,” he says, “did you ever starve while we were away on business?”
Tim frowns. “Of course not, but—”
“Did you not have a roof over your head? Clean clothing? Access to a top-notch private education?”
“I did, it’s just—”
“So what was it then? Was it just that we didn’t take you on enough trips to Disney World? Didn’t coach your Little League games? Didn’t tuck you into bed every night while we were slaving away, running the very company that put food on our table?”
“That’s not it!” Tim protests.
“So then tell me what is!” Jack snaps. “What did we do that was so terrible, Timothy? What was so god-awful about the way you were raised that you felt the need to destroy our family?”
There are tears glistening in his father’s eyes, his face so full of hurt and betrayal and disgust that it makes Tim want to melt right through the floor drain.
“I—”
But the words stop there. Because his dad is right, isn’t he? Tim never really had it that bad.
“I- I’m sorry,” is all he manages to say. “I’m so sorry.”
Tim’s crying now—hot, shameful tears streaming down his cheeks. He did this. This is all his fault. Everything got so messed up, so blown out of proportion. He never meant for any of this.
Jack shakes his head slowly back and forth. “You just had to run off, crying to Bruce Wayne, didn’t you? Had to go telling him and his kids sob stories about how evil and abusive and neglectful your mother and I are. And for what? For having the audacity to believe that a thirteen-year-old young man, with all the money and resources he could possibly ask for right there at his fingertips, could be trusted to look after himself every once in a while? Because that was all we asked, wasn’t it? Keep your grades up, stay out of trouble, and behave yourself while we’re away. Was that really so hard?
“But I guess it must have been. Because why else would the Markovian embassy spend three days tracking us down on one of the biggest digs of our lives to tell us that our neighbor of all people somehow manipulated the courts into taking custody of our son?”
Every word from his dad hits like a punch in the gut. It’s everything Tim’s been trying to shove down for all these months, all the fear, all the guilt, all the insecurity, all being confirmed now in one fell swoop.
“All of this begs the question, Tim,” his father says calmly. “Did we drive that knife into your back? Or did you drive one into ours?”
“Eighty-five hundred!” Dick shouts at the TV, plunging another puffy orange Cheeto into the jar balanced on his chest and bringing it up to his mouth. A splotch of salsa drips down onto the collar of his t-shirt as the game show contestant on-screen bids $9001 on a new jacuzzi—outbidding the person before her by a single dollar.
“Aw, c’mon…” Dick groans into the empty living room. “That was my favorite shirt.”
With effort, he sets the salsa and chip bag aside and pushes himself up to a seated position on the sofa. The massive cast encasing his right leg from toe to mid-thigh is propped up on one of Alfred’s decorative pillows. He can’t quite reach the roll of paper towels on the floor, so he settles for tugging the shirt’s collar up to his mouth and sucking the salsa back off. He’s grateful that Bruce is at the courthouse today testifying in a patent infringement case between W.E. and a rival company, and Alfred’s on his weekly grocery run, as it leaves no one around to witness Dick hitting rock bottom.
A buzzer sounds and the host informs the contestants that they’ve all over-bid on the item. All bets are cleared and they begin again, guessing lower this time.
(Dick doesn’t know whether to be pleased or ashamed with himself when the actual price of the jacuzzi is revealed to be $8509.)
Dick’s been staying at the Manor just shy of three weeks now. His broken leg had required surgery to repair, and both Bruce and Alfred were insistent that he’d be better off recuperating at home. Dick had put up the standard amount of Independent Young Adult™ protest, but secretly, he was relieved.
His apartment in Bludhaven is a third-floor walk-up.
He’s spent a good chunk of his newfound free time going over cold case files, but with both Tim and Jason back in school and no gymnastics or college classes to occupy his time, daytime TV is about all that’s keeping Dick sane these days.
(Sane, of course, being a relative term.)
“Hell yes, Plinko!” he exclaims, pumping his fist in the air as the showgirls wheel out the oversized game board to the sound of raucous applause from the studio audience. Truly a classic.
The contestant has just earned her second chip when Dick’s phone buzzes with an incoming text. He fishes it out of the pocket of his sweatpants, dipping another Cheeto into the salsa jar as he does, then glances down at the screen.
He immediately sits up again.
URGENT:
This is an automated alert from Gotham Academy. We are currently experiencing a campus-wide incident deemed to potentially impair the health, cognition, and/or emotional regulation of our students and staff members. Parents and guardians should report to the south parking lot to retrieve your student(s) immediately.
At the time of pick-up, you must scan the attached QR code, identifying yourself as a designated emergency contact for the student(s) in question. No students will be released without verification of identity.
(To opt out of future GA emergency alerts, reply ‘STOP’ to unsubscribe. Standard messaging rates apply.)
Before he’s even reached the end of the text, Dick’s scrambling up off the couch. He grabs the crutches leaning against the side table, nearly knocking them to the ground in his haste to get them under his arms. He hasn’t had this much adrenaline flowing through his veins in weeks.
His phone rings.
It’s Alfred.
“Master Dick, I will remind you that you are NOT yet cleared to drive. Regardless of the nature of this emergency, under no circumstance are you to operate a motor vehicle. Furthermore—”
“Huh? What was that?” Dick says, the phone sandwiched between his ear and his shoulder as he hastily hops his way towards the backdoor. “I think something’s wrong with the connection, you’re breaking up, Alf!”
“—en route to the school as we speak, ETA eighteen minutes. Whatever is occurring, there is absolutely no call for—”
“Sorry Alfred, I really can’t hear you.” He grabs the first set of keys he finds hanging on the wall and slaps the garage door opener. The hinges creak as the motor kicks into gear. “I’m gonna have to call you back, okay?”
“RICHARD—”
Ending the call, Dick races across the garage before climbing into Bruce’s second favorite Audi.
Because his brothers need him.
And Dick can drive lefty.
It begins as it always does: palms sweating, shivers down his spine, echoes of the Ides of March…
(Okay, maybe not that.)
It actually begins with Marcie Danvers bursting into tears as she scrambles up onto her desk, shrieking something about how the walls and floor are crawling with spiders. Only, there are no spiders. And, even if there were, it doesn't explain Angela Sinclair desperately trying to open a window because ”the ship is going down!”
And then Jason’s phone lights up with a single text message from Tim:
My dad’s here
That's when Jason realizes what's happening.
Fucking fear toxin.
Between one rapid heartbeat and the next, the school has erupted into chaos.
“Rod, be a dear and grab my purse, won’t you? I’m gonna need my readers if they ever expect me to fill out all these forms...”
“Yes ma’am, I will,” Coach Rodney Miller replies amicably, retrieving his mother-in-law’s bag from beneath her chair. Despite having lived in Gotham almost twice as long as he ever lived in Arkansas, his true accent always comes out around his wife’s family.
Old habits, he supposes.
The two of them are sitting in the lobby of Luanne’s podiatrist’s office, waiting on a consult for her bunion surgery. His wife, Katherine, generally handles her mother’s medical appointments, but she’s in the courtroom today arguing some high-profile corporate mumbo-jumbo before the judge (something involving that billionaire Wayne fellow). She’s damn good at what she does, Rodney knows that much, even if he personally doesn’t understand a lick of it. Katherine doesn’t mind; she still doesn’t get the difference between a first down and a third down, and he’s been coaching football (and basketball, and floor hockey, and lacrosse, and the lesser-known table tennis club) going on thirty years now, so it all evens out.
Sometimes, Rodney thinks, the key to a healthy marriage is simply staying in your own lane.
It’s rare that Rodney ever takes a day off of work. He’s been head of Gotham Academy’s athletics program for over two decades, and he can’t think of a single thing he’d rather be doing to earn a living. Where else does a person get to inspire the next generation of young leaders, both on and off the field? To instill the values of teamwork and sportsmanship, of hard work and progress, of setting down those goddamn screens for forty-five minutes a day to feel the blood pumping through your veins as you dodge foam balls and whack rubber hockey pucks?
It’s nothing flashy, but it’s honest work.
But more than all that, Rodney Miller loves his kids. He loves the connections he gets to forge, the young minds he watches grow and mature, the generations he gets to see rotate through those gymnasium double doors. He loves joshing the freshmen in health class, cracking jokes with the upperclassmen in the locker rooms, passing out unsolicited prom proposal advice to seniors in study hall. He cares about his students, and after all these years on the job, he’d do just about anything for them.
Which is why, when the emergency alert comes through to Coach Miller’s cell just seconds after the nurse calls Luanne back for her appointment, he doesn’t hesitate.
“Rodney!” Luanne hollers after him as he hurriedly gathers his things. “Where in tarnation are you going?”
“My kids need me!” is all Coach Miller says, nearly toppling a potted fern as he blows past it out the door.
Jason takes in the chaos surrounding him.
Mr. Cross is racing between the doors at the front and rear of the classroom, locking them as he whisper-shouts for the students to take cover beneath the desks, to keep still, not to let the enemy hear them so much as breathe. The Vietnam veteran teacher's eyes are wide and frantic.
Yanking his shirt up over his nose and mouth, Jason digs through his backpack for the ultra-compact Wayne Tech respirator he keeps right alongside the travel first aid kit and pair of Epi-Pens for Tim’s fucking shrimp allergy (since god knows that kid can’t be trusted with his own self-preservation needs). He pulls it out and straps it to his face, grateful for the immediate hit of filtered air he’s able to draw in. With the amount of times he’s been dosed in the field and the intensive training Bruce has put him through, Jason’s built up more tolerance to Crane’s fucking pet project than most, but he’ll have to keep his head if he’s going to get to Tim.
Christ, he can only imagine what that kid’s seeing right now.
A pained shriek comes from somewhere to his left and he swivels around to find Olivia Benoit digging at the top of her hand with a pencil, tears streaming down her cheeks as she frantically shouts, “Oh my god, get it out, get it out!”
Jason jumps into action, making it to her side in three long strides before prying the pencil from her grip and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“I can see it!” she sobs frantically. “It’s still moving!”
“Don't look at it,” Jason says, his voice slightly muffled by the respirator, because rule one of fear toxin is that there’s no point trying to argue with its victims. What they’re seeing might not be real, but it is absolutely real to them. “Let's just get you to the nurse.”
He pulls Olivia after him in the direction of the door when a strangled choking sound catches his attention. Turning, he finds his old nemesis, Zachary Feldmore, near the front of the room on his hands and knees, clutching at the front of his shirt as he struggles to draw in breath.
Fuck, is the guy choking?
“Look at me,” Jason says urgently, shaking Olivia by the shoulders a bit as if that could clear the fog of chemicals from her mind. “Go straight to the parking lot, you hear me? Don't look at your hand. Put it in your pocket.” Olivia nods tearfully, eyes wide, and Jason gives her a gentle shove towards the door. Turning quickly, he races back for Zach, launching himself over one of the overturned desks before dropping to his knees next to the former junior class president.
“Hey! Zach, can you hear me?”
“Can’t— breathe!”
Jason helps the boy into a sitting position. He’s wheezing hard, lips tinged blue, and just as Jason’s wondering if he might have tried to swallow something, the new girl—who’s inexplicably got her own respirator strapped to her blonde head as she struggles to drag Angela back from the open third-floor window—shouts, “He’s got asthma!”
Fuck, that’s right. With a sharp nod of acknowledgment, Jason starts digging through Zachary's bag and blazer pockets until— aha!
Now, actually helping Zach with the inhaler is akin to trying to shove medication down an angry, wet cat’s throat, but with minimal swearing, Jason manages to get the device into the guy’s mouth. With each puff of the steroids, Zach’s wheezing improves marginally, but the terror never leaves his eyes.
“Can’t— breathe— I—” Zach chokes out between puffs.
“You are breathing, Zach,” Jason says, as calmly as he can, but the boy just keeps on gasping in panic. “You just need to slow it down a little.”
“No— I— I’m dying!”
“The medicine will help,” Jason assures, though at this point he’s 50-50 on whether Zach’s panic is triggering an asthma attack, or if the asthma attack is the hallucination. He’s also not sure it matters much because the whole ‘not breathing’ thing will get him either way. “Just keep taking deep breaths, you’re gonna be fine.”
But Zach is far from fine. Despite the medication and repeated reminders to ‘just breathe, dude!’ Zach’s hyperventilating only worsens. When the guy’s eyes start to roll up into his head, Jason swears, ripping off his own respirator and shoving it over Zach’s mouth and nose.
(If Crane wasn’t on Jason’s shit list before, he definitely is now.)
Cursing himself for not having brought a back-up (though to be fair, who the fuck could have predicted needing two respirators for trig class??), Jason manages to get Zach drawing in enough oxygen to haul him up, all the while trying to take the shallowest possible breaths of the contaminated air himself.
“Hey! New Girl!” he hollers at the blonde, who is in the process of manhandling Angela towards the door. “Take Zach with you! I need to go find my brother!”
“Are you kidding me?” She looks incredulous, still struggling to pin Angela’s arms behind her back. “I can’t handle two of them! Angie nearly just turned herself into a pancake!”
“But she didn’t,” Jason says encouragingly, giving Zach a little shove in the girl’s direction. “You got this! I have full faith in you!”
He doesn’t stick around long enough to hear her shouts of protest. He needs to get out of here.
He needs to get to Tim.
Dick is both proud and not proud of how he manages to shave a seventeen-minute drive down to just over twelve as he blows through two stop signs before turning onto the school grounds. The security guard at the front gate does a double-take at the full leg cast propped up on the dashboard.
“Uhh—”
“Never run in flip-flops,” Dick says sagely, holding up his QR code to the scanner.
(Or get death-rolled in a sewer by Killer Croc, but that’s beside the point.)
The scanner beeps and he pulls on through.
The parking lot is a mess, swarming with police, ambulances, and Gotham Rapid Response workers in full riot gear popping up triage tents and guiding shrieking students and staff members over to them. This is clearly some kind of Rogue attack, and for a hysterical half-second Dick wonders if he should have shown up in a suit. Then he remembers his leg and why that’s not really an option at the moment.
(Stupid Croc.)
He throws the car into park in one of the few remaining spaces, already reaching behind him to wrestle his crutches out of the backseat.
“Grayson!” a familiar voice hollers. “Is that you?”
Dick swivels his head around, taking in the middle-aged man jumping out of his own car. “Coach Miller?” He glances over his shoulder back at the school. “What are you doing out here?”
“Took a personal day,” Miller explains. “I’m just here to help out. I figure they’re gonna need all the clear-headed staff they can get.”
“Do you know what happened?” Dick interrogates as the two hurry across the parking lot. “That text gave zero details.”
“See, that’s the thing. I got a message from my assistant coach on the drive over saying he witnessed our starting QB tear his ACL in a fight with a cougar just outside the cafeteria. And then a call came in from Cheryl at the front desk saying her crazy ex is chasing her around the office with a flamethrower, and that if he happens to roast her, to make sure Nancy doesn’t try to rearrange her flippin’ post-it notes.”
Dick’s heart drops. “So it’s fear gas.”
“Seems more likely than the alternatives,” Miller says gravely. “Though I wouldn’t put it past Nancy to take advantage of that particular situation. She’s been wanting to digitize that system for years.”
As the coach babbles on, Dick does his best to hop faster. He and Jason have plenty of experience with fear gas, but as far as he knows Tim’s never been exposed. He might not know all the little tricks yet—like how the edges of a hallucination are always a little fuzzy, or how sometimes people will have extra fingers, or the wrong number of buttons on their shirts, or less gray hair than when you last saw them. In the midst of sheer terror, it’s those little details that act as an anchor to reality.
They’re nearly to the tent when a commotion breaks out. Some guy—Dick hesitates to say ‘kid,’ because despite the school uniform he’s sporting, he looks at least twenty—locks gazes with a woman standing just behind the police barricades, his eyes wild with equal parts fear and rage.
Dick knows that look. This isn’t going to end well.
The coach sees it too. “GOLDSTEIN!” he bellows, at the exact same moment that Dick instinctively thrusts out a crutch to trip the man-child. He tumbles to the ground, roaring with fury. Miller immediately tackles him.
“Derrick!” the woman exclaims in shock. “Derrick, it’s me, darling! It’s your mother!”
“He’s not exactly— oof! In a clear state of— dammit Goldstein!— mind, ma’am!” Miller explains as he wrestles her son into a Half Nelson.
Dick’s gotta hand it to him; even after all these years, the coach has still got it.
Between Miller’s MMA background and a few well-placed crutch jabs from Dick, the two of them manage to keep Derrick from ripping his mother’s head off while he screams something about how she’s really his Other Mother because her eyes have been replaced by black buttons. They hold him there until one of the GRR crew takes notice and rushes over to inject Derrick with an antidote.
Then, just as Dick is straightening back up, he catches sight of them.
Jason is coming out of the school, one arm wrapped around Tim and his head ducked low. The younger boy is clearly crying, his whole body racking with sobs. Jason’s saying something to him, though Dick isn’t close enough to hear what.
“Jay!” Dick shouts, and his brother looks up, then instantly freezes, his eyes going wide. Dick freezes too, not wanting to frighten the boys any more than necessary, but it soon becomes clear that Jason isn’t looking at Dick; he’s looking past him.
Dick turns to follow his gaze.
Across the parking lot, a frazzled man with a slightly-crooked nose jumps out of a black BMW, one word on his lips:
“TIM!”
Having faithfully served the Wayne Family for decades, Alfred is accustomed to responding to all manner of emergencies—from overflowing washing machines, to catering services canceling the morning of a major event, to that one time the young Master Bruce accidentally swallowed a nickel. He’s run off reporters, performed minor surgeries, and stared down the barrel of a gun more times than he’d like to admit. His ability to keep a clear head in any crisis situation is one of his greatest strengths, if he does say so himself.
But even Alfred’s blood pressure spikes when he catches sight of the scene unfolding in the school carpark.
Amidst the chaos, Tim is sitting on a concrete parking block, his arms wrapped around his legs and forehead dropped to his knees. Jason is seated beside him, one arm curled protectively around the younger boy’s shaking shoulders. Tim is crying, but Jason’s eyes are hollow, staring off into the distance.
Making his way towards the children is a very distraught-looking Jack Drake.
“Don't come any closer,” Dick orders. He’s standing ten meters in front of the boys, balanced on one leg with a single crutch lifted in a defensive position. “You need to leave. Now.”
A man on a mission, Alfred picks up the pace.
“What? No, I was asked to come pick him up,” Jack says, clearly confused. “I got a text.” He holds up his mobile and sure enough, the man received a QR code identical to the one on Alfred's own device.
“Then you got it by mistake,” Dick grounds out. “Because his family is handling it.”
“He's my kid!”
“Not according to the judge, he’s not.”
Jack's expression darkens. He takes a step forward, only to immediately be blocked by another man. It takes a split second for Alfred to place him as Dick’s former basketball coach.
“Now Jack, let’s take it easy here. This is just a little misunderstanding,” the coach says, in much the same tone one might use to soothe a wild animal. He’s holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Our system automatically sends out a message to everyone on the emergency contact list. It must not have been updated after the adoption, that’s all. We’ll get this cleared up with Cheryl just as soon as she stops hallucinating ax murderers, alright pal?”
“I’m not here to get it cleared up,” Jack snaps at him. “I’m here for Timothy. He needs me!”
As if on cue, Tim’s head shoots up. He’s still a good ways away, but not so far that they can’t make out his panicked cries.
“I’m sorry! I never meant for—” The boy gasps out a breath. Jason grips his hand tightly, continuing to stare straight ahead. “It was never supposed to be— Dad, I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me!”
Jack looks as though someone’s just struck him. “Of…Of course I don’t hate you,” he stammers. His voice cracks. “You’re my son.”
“I’m sorry, Dad!” Tim sobs, his eyes glassy with toxin. “I’m so sorry I ruined everything! Please, please don’t hate me!”
“Tim…” Jack’s face pales. “I could never hate you, champ.”
“Please!”
Dick’s face hardens, but before he can start shouting at Jack, Alfred steps between them.
“That’s quite enough,” he says firmly. “Mr. Drake, I understand there seems to have been some miscommunication here, but I can assure you that we are more than capable of seeing to Master Tim’s needs. I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if you took your leave now.”
“But…” Jack’s eyes flit between the Waynes, the coach, and his terrified child sitting huddled on the ground. “But I got a text. I left home the very second I saw it. I just wanted to help.”
Dick scoffs as though he doesn’t believe a word of it, but Alfred sees something he doesn’t in the businessman’s eyes.
He looks lost.
“Please. He’s my son.” Jack’s words come out broken. “You have to understand. He’s… he’s my son.”
With a quiet sigh, the coach moves to set a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Jack…”
“I just thought that maybe this could be my chance,” Jack goes on. “To show him that regardless of any mistakes we may have made, that—” His last words are barely a whisper, “That we’ll always love him.”
Dick is seething and Alfred takes a very, very deep breath.
“Master Dick,” he says evenly, his eyes never leaving Jack’s, “Would you please see to it that your brothers receive treatment? Mr. Drake and I need to have a word.”
It’s clear that Dick is not happy about being excluded from this particular conversation, but one glance back at the boys behind them and he deflates with a sigh.
“Come on, kid,” the coach says, placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder to steer him away. “The triage tents should be over there…”
Once they’re out of earshot, Alfred addresses the man in front of him.
“Mr. Drake—”
“Jack,” the man corrects, voice hollow, the fight having all but run out of him. “My son lives in your home now, Alfred. I think we’re past formalities.”
“Jack, then,” Alfred concedes. “Why now? Why, after all these months of hardly any contact, have you suddenly decided to reinsert yourself in Timothy’s life?”
“Because he needed me,” Jack says simply.
Alfred can’t help himself from asking, “And this is a new development?”
“Yes. Or, I mean no! It’s just–” Jack looks flustered. “Well it isn’t every day that a rogue villain terrorizes your kid’s school, is it?”
“No,” Alfred says, “but it is every day that you’ve been his father. All throughout Timothy’s foster placement with us, the State granted you and your wife supervised visitation twice a month—which if I am recalling correctly, you only took advantage of twice.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “Alfred, come on. Those visits were a joke and you know it. A social worker was sitting there the entire time, monitoring every word that came out of our mouths. She even said we should steer clear of any ‘difficult topics’—as if every topic isn’t difficult when the government is trying to take your child away from you!”
“...And so you concluded that not seeing him at all would be preferable?”
Jack frowns. “No, that’s not…” he trails off, then shakes his head firmly. “That wasn’t our intention. Not at all.”
“No?” Alfred lifts an eyebrow. “Then exactly what was your intention?”
Jack shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “We were just giving him space.”
“Space,” Alfred says flatly.
Jack bristles. “Look, you have no idea what we were going through back then. Our company, the stocks, the tabloids… hell, we lost three major contracts that first week alone! We were barely keeping ourselves afloat.”
“So you did as you’ve always done,” Alfred says simply. “You prioritized your own interests over those of your son.”
“No!” Jack shakes his head. “No, absolutely not. We did all of that for Tim. That company is his legacy. That’s his future right there!”
“Meanwhile,” Alfred says, “this is his present.”
Jack’s face screws up. He opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, but the protest dies before it ever leaves his throat.
Finally, he just says, “Well I came today, didn’t I?”
“One grand gesture cannot alleviate over a decade’s worth of harm.”
“Then what can?” Jack pleads. “Just tell me what it is and I’ll do it.”
“Consistency,” Alfred says firmly. “Effort. Showing up, over and over again. That is how you build a real relationship.”
“I don’t see Wayne here,” Jack points out with a touch of bitterness.
“Master Bruce is testifying in court today, I’m afraid,” Alfred says, knowing that Judge Gallagher is a stickler for proper courtroom procedures and requires all personal electronic devices to be switched off prior to the start of session. “But he has set up a robust support system of fallbacks and safety nets for his children’s care in his absence. That is the difference, sir.”
Jack looks haunted. “His mother and I… we never meant to hurt him, I swear.”
“Intention is irrelevant. That boy is currently hallucinating his greatest fears, at least one of which clearly involves you.”
“That’s why I need to see him!” Jack insists. “If I can just talk to him, I’m sure I can explain.”
“Timothy is in no state of mind for that type of discussion,” Alfred tells him firmly. “I will not allow you to jeopardize his safety and emotional well-being simply to assuage your own guilt. If you care about your child half as much as you claim to, you’ll respect that.”
“When can I see him then?” Jack asks. “Tomorrow?”
“Fear gas can take up to a week to fully clear from one’s system.”
“Well, I’m only in town until Sunday,” Jack says, frowning. “Then we’ll be in Beijing for a few weeks, and after that his mother and I are going on a dig in Malta. The service there tends to be spotty…”
And therein lies the problem, doesn’t it? Alfred thinks bitterly.
“I mean, I’ll make time for him of course,” Jack adds quickly. “I just can’t be sure exactly when that will be. Why, just the time zone difference alone makes for quite a challenge—I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Alfred says mildly. “Just as I am sure that you understand that the choices you make impact your relationship with your son.”
Jack waves a hand dismissively. “Tim understands. He’s always been good about things like that.”
“Indeed, he’s had to be,” Alfred says curtly. “Good day, Mr. Drake.”
And with that, Alfred turns on his heel and heads back towards the triage tents.
It isn’t until the court recesses for lunch that Bruce checks his phone and learns of that morning’s attack on Gotham Academy.
Within five minutes, he’s in the car, screeching back towards Bristol.
(It still takes far too long, if you ask him.)
By the time he makes it back to the Manor, his children are sitting huddled in the family room. From the kitchen doorway, he can see Tim wrapped up in blankets, shaking with the kind of tremors that only fear toxin withdrawal can produce. Dick sits beside him on the sofa with his broken leg propped up on the coffee table atop several pillows. Tim is burrowed into his side, tear tracks glistening on his cheeks while Jason sits a cushion over, staring straight ahead at the TV with a haunted look in his eyes.
“How are they doing?” Bruce asks quietly.
“About as to be expected,” Alfred answers with a small sigh. He’s standing at the stove, ladling homemade cocoa into mugs. He fills each one only half of the way before adding a splash of cold milk on top. They’ve learned the hard way over the years that shaking hands and hot beverages don’t mix well. “Master Jason has been uncharacteristically stoic, given the circumstances, but Master Tim has had a few more episodes since we made it back, despite the antidotes.”
“The first time is always the roughest,” Bruce says grimly, and Alfred hums a little.
“Dick told me that Jack showed up.”
“He did,” Alfred confirms, his nose wrinkling at the memory.
“And…what did he want?”
Alfred thinks for a long moment. “Absolution.”
“Hn.”
(Well. He certainly won’t get that from Bruce.)
Alfred loads all of the mugs onto a tray, which Bruce carries into the family room. Dick and Tim each take a mug, but Jason declines with a shake of his head, then gets to his feet and leaves without so much as a word. Bruce is about to go after him, but Dick locks eyes with Bruce and shakes his head wordlessly, already setting his mug back down on the end table and reaching for his crutches.
“You’re sure?” Bruce murmurs in Dick’s ear when he stands up, acutely aware of how a fear-gassed Jason tends to be a loose cannon.
“Yeah, I got him,” Dick murmurs back, sticking the crutches under his arms. “Besides, I’ve had to pee for like two hours straight. It’s about time someone tagged me out.”
With a slight chuckle, Bruce plants a kiss on his eldest’s forehead. “You’re a good brother, you know that?”
“Oh, I am very aware,” Dick says as he hobbles off towards the bathroom.
Carefully, Bruce takes his spot on the sofa, leaving about a cushion between himself and Tim so as not to crowd the boy. Tim looks more upset than scared at the moment, but the last thing Bruce wants to do is trigger another episode.
He needn’t have worried; Tim immediately scoots closer. Bruce wraps an arm around his shoulders, closing the gap between them.
With Scarecrow still in Arkham and no demands coming forward, GCPD has only theories for what might have motivated such an attack on a school in broad daylight. There is some evidence to suggest that the toxin was initially released from one of the unused labs on the third floor, then spread through the ventilation system to the rest of the building. It’s plausible that it could have even been an accident—some lackey of Crane’s with a side hustle as a substitute teacher taking advantage of the chemicals in the school’s lockup to try out a new concoction. Batman will know more tonight.
For now, however, Bruce is needed at home.
The bed shifts, waking Dick from his already restless sleep. He turns his head and eyes the clock with a groan: 2:18. The figure beside him freezes and Dick rolls onto his side, facing—
“...Jay?”
After talking with Bruce earlier, Dick had tracked Jason to one of the lesser used dens, but the boy had shut down any attempts at conversation until Dick finally just let him be.
Apparently, Jason’s had enough of that now.
“You okay?” Dick murmurs, but Jason just shakes his head, so Dick scooches over in the bed to make more room. Jason hesitates—long enough that Dick starts wondering if he might bolt after all—but finally climbs up onto the bed, stretching out on his back. Dick pulls the blankets up over him.
For a long time, the two brothers just lie there, Dick waiting for him to say anything. The silence stretches so long that Dick actually starts to drift off again before it’s broken by a voice so small it’s barely a whisper:
“Do you think the capacity for murder is something you’re born with?”
Well now Dick is wide awake. He blinks the sleep from his eyes and shifts onto his back, shoulder to shoulder with his little brother. Dick takes a deep, steadying breath. “Where is this coming from? What happened today?”
Again, Dick is met with silence. But this time, instead of letting the silence settle between them and letting sleep lure him in, Dick tips his head to the side so that he’s taking in Jason’s profile when he says again, more softly, “Jason, what did you see today?”
Jason looks almost pained. His brows knit together and his breath comes out in a stutter as he says, “I just… You know, my dad—he wasn’t a great guy.” There’s another pause and Dick tries to wait him out, but it stretches on until finally Dick rolls onto his side, facing Jason.
“Are we about to have a nature vs nurture discussion?” Dick asks, his tone almost playful as if he can lighten the darkness that clings to Jason’s mind. “Because it’s been a while since I sat through abnormal psych, but–”
“I think I want to murder someone,” Jason says in a rush, cutting Dick off as if he wasn’t even listening. “I think… I think maybe it’s in my blood. And, I just… What if I’m capable of that? We already know I’m capable of violence as Robin, so–”
“Jason,” Dick says, placing a heavy hand on Jason’s chest, his own heart aching at the desperation in Jason’s voice. “That’s not how that works. What happened to you today?”
Dick watches Jason’s throat bob as the kid swallows thickly, eyes fluttering shut as he exhales a shaky breath. It’s unnerving to see Jason so unnerved. He doesn’t remove his hand from Jason’s chest and Jason doesn’t push the comforting hand away, which speaks volumes. After another moment of deafening silence, Jason quietly says, “I saw something today that scared me. But it wasn’t it that scared me, just… what it might mean for me?”
Jason brings his hands up to rub at his eyes and Dick can only imagine how exhausted he must be after the day he’s had. While he’s not sure what Jason saw under the influence of the toxin, it must have been really awful to have him so shaken up. Jason has been weirdly quiet and reserved all day, rebuffing any attempts at comfort and only giving the bare minimum acknowledgment.
Now, it appears Dick is on deck and he’s not about to blow this. Jason’s being purposefully vague and Dick doesn’t want to press, but he can’t help if he doesn’t understand. “Are you saying you’re afraid you might turn out like your dad?”
“Yeah. Or, no I–” Jason murmurs, sounding frustrated and defeated as he continues to scrub at his eyes. Dick’s brows furrow with confusion as he tries to rapidly piece together a puzzle in his mind. “I think I might be worse.”
“I don’t understand,” Dick finally confesses.
Jason suddenly flops onto his side, facing Dick head on and now Dick can see the toll this has taken on his brother. He looks exhausted, but more than that he looks scared. Jason shakes his head but whispers as if he’s speaking a sin as he adds, “I… I saw Jack Drake. Arguing in the parking lot with Alfred… And I just can’t figure out why. I’m not afraid of that asshole—not even a little bit—so why would I have hallucinated him of all people? It doesn’t make any sense. Unless… Unless I’m not scared of him, exactly, but of…. of what I might do to him?”
Jason takes a deep breath. “I think I must be scared I’m gonna kill him.”
The absolute misery and defeat in Jason’s tone pulls at Dick’s heartstrings, but Jason’s words are the piece of the puzzle he’s been missing. While there’s quite a bit to unpack in Jason’s self-reflection, there’s at least one thing Dick can assure the kid of.
“Jason,” Dick says gently. “Jack was at the school today. He got the same text we all did and he showed up for Tim, but Alfred cut him off before he could get too close. It wasn’t a hallucination.”
Jason just stares at Dick with furrowed brows as if trying to process this information. “The fuck are you saying?”
“I’m saying," Dick says, looking him dead in the eyes, “Jack was there.”
“What?” Jason shoots up in bed, the fear in his eyes instantly replaced with righteous indignation. “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you telling me that ass clown actually had the nerve to show his face on campus again?!”
“Jay–” Dick starts to say, but Jason is already flinging the covers off, halfway out of bed. Dick grabs the hem of his t-shirt. “Where are you going?”
Jason twists free of his grip, storming out of the bedroom. “To fucking kill him, that’s where!”
“JASON NO–”