Chapter Text
Tim Drake never forgot.
Whether that was a gift or a curse depended entirely on the situation. There were some things he’d rather forget. A lot of things, actually, but it was a cross worth bearing for the sake of justice.
Crime scenes? A breeze. Hours, days, months after the incident occurred, he could revel in the gritty details of a scene with little trouble. How many steps it took to cross the room; the type of perfume Detective Montoya wore that evening; no detail was too small or insignificant. A lot of good came from it, so it couldn’t be all bad, right?
One might think he’d go insane with a brain crammed with arbitrary details, but Tim had perfected the art of compartmentalization. It was the only way to survive in this world. Every thought, fond memory, and debilitating trauma, tucked away in neat little boxes for him to reference at a moment’s notice.
And people thought he needed a therapist.
Pfft. Hypocrites.
Tim was fine.
Nothing to worry about.
…
Anyway.
With a memory like his, he remembered that day six years ago vividly.
Six years and twelve days, to be exact.
Bruce stood in his study, dressed in his usual combination of dour black on black. It was all very expensive and chic, but Tim wondered idly if the very concept of color intimidated the older man. A pop of blue or purple might make him look less... severe. He almost asked, but thought better of it when he noticed the serious cut of his mouth and the way his left eye twitched every third second. Something told him this wouldn’t be a pleasant chat.
This wasn’t the first time Tim received one of those looks. Nor would it be the last. He had a box tucked away in the far recesses of his mind dedicated to the unimpressed Bat glare. There were 2,736 instances over the last seven years, which sounded low given his penchant for getting under Bruce’s skin. This particular look marked 2,737.
Why was this useful information to keep?
No clue, but his mind decided Tim might need to wallow in Bruce’s disappointment one day and placed it carefully between the lingering scent of his mother’s perfume (bergamot and Turkish rose) and the timber of his father’s laugh.
His knee bounced as he sat in the plush armchair across from his desk, waiting for Bruce to speak. It was a usual interrogation tactic. Silence made the suspect (re: Tim) unsettled. As it picked away at their resolve, a suspect would fold and admit their crimes, but not Tim.
He refused.
There was nothing to confess. Timothy Jackson Drake had never done anything wrong in his life. Ever.
He wasn’t even sure why Bruce had called him here.
Tim stared back, undaunted by his flimsy attempts to break him.
Bruce sensed this. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his disquiet as he spoke, “I know you helped Jay with the Memorial Foundation.”
Oh.
Was that all?
Tim thought this was about something important.
“Your point?”
“Behind my back,” he added.
Ah. There it was.
Bruce liked to be in control and Tim, as usual, did something that put that in jeopardy. Still, the lecture seemed pointless.
Tim would go behind his back again if it meant doing the right thing, and helping Jason with the foundation seemed like the right thing to do at the time. What he chose to do with the scholarship after that didn’t affect him in the slightest. He merely made him aware of the opportunity. Tim tried to warn him that his plan was stupid, but did he listen?
No, no, he did not.
It wasn’t his fault that Jason was a dumbass in love.
He hoped Lucius would receive a similar lecture. He was an accomplice in this supposed crime of charitable passion. Lucius could have informed Bruce of the situation at any point, and he didn’t.
So, who was the real villain here?
Certainly not Tim.
He said nothing as Bruce crossed his arms. In the quiet that followed, he heard the grandfather clock tick in the hall. In a battle of wills, Tim had plenty to spare as he stared vacantly at the wall over his head. Twenty-six seconds passed before Bruce continued, “Since you like to pretend you have more power than you actually do with my affairs, I think it’s time you take a more active role with the Foundation.”
His knee stopped bouncing. “Huh?”
Was Bruce trying to… parent him?
Him.
Tim forced his expression to remain impassive despite the ice coating his veins. He’d gone to great lengths to avoid a situation like this. When one donned capes and masks to fight crime, he never imagined something as trivial as establishing a scholarship foundation would be his undoing.
“But I’m not a—”
“You’re not a child,” Bruce finished for him. Tim bit the inside of his cheek as he sank back in his chair with a petulant huff. “You’ve made that abundantly clear, so it’s time we start treating you like an adult. I spoke with Lucius—”
Traitor.
“—and we both agree that a day job would do you some good. No more combing through Wayne files under the cover of night. You’ve been lurking in the shadows for too long—”
That was rich coming from him.
“—Monday, you’ll join the board at Wayne Foundation. I’ve already put you on the slate, and I doubt you’ll find any resistance when it comes time for our board members to cast their vote.”
Only Bruce could turn charity work into a punishment.
But Tim?
Oh, Tim was just spiteful enough to smile and thank him for the opportunity.
On Monday morning, when he settled among the rest of the board, he made a conscious choice to leverage this situation in his favor. His task? Identify which organizations deserved their time and money.
That meant joining volunteer boards, building relationships with other donors and fellow philanthropists, and serving as the face of the Wayne family in Bruce’s stead. Of Bruce’s children, whether they were adopted or not, Tim was the best suited for the role. This work was just another mask, another task to complete.
Like all things in his life, Tim decided which non-profits to support based on a curated list of criteria, namely, whether the people and industries involved benefited him personally. He was nothing, if not an opportunist.
Some might call him heartless for choosing organizations that way, but that was the nature of charity work. His motivations had little to do with the mission of the non-profit and everything to do with the people. He was still doing good, in his own roundabout way, but why would he waste energy and resources on organizations he didn’t find useful?
No one would.
Any person who said otherwise was a liar.
Which led him to this moment, six years and twelve days later.
Tim peered over the edge of his sunglasses as he sped down the street toward southern Midtown. Wisps of smoky light bled between the gaps in the high rises as the sun rose. Gotham rarely saw a clear day, but as the sunrise illuminated an overcast sky, Tim couldn’t help but find it ethereal.
Traffic was light, meaning there was no one to slow him down. He just pulled Janet, his Toyota Supra, from storage after a long winter. Her sleek red shell graduated to a deep plum around the back tires. He relished the purr of her engine through the cracked window as he hit the gas.
Was it obnoxious?
Yeah.
Did he care?
Nah.
As he whipped around the corner, he reached for the open can of Zesti in his cupholder, pulling the stitches spanning the length of his side taut. With a flinch, his hand dropped back to his lap as he waited for the burn to subside.
He may have made them too tight, but he tried to ignore the pain. Damian normally patched him up after patrol, but the kid was knee deep in organic chemistry and labs ahead of his freshman-year finals, spending more days at the university library than he did at home. Tim didn’t have the time to wait around for him to get back and decided to do it himself. He tended to his own wounds long before Damian entered the picture, and he could do it again.
His display lit up with an incoming call from Duke. Tim anticipated the conversation to come and rolled his windows before he answered. “Hey.”
“You’re worse than the stray cats outside my apartment.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Alright.”
“No, seriously. I can overlook a dead mouse or two because the cats are cute. Whatever this shit is—not cute, man.” With the windows closed, Tim could hear the distinct whistle of the wind on his end. He was outside, probably a dozen or so stories off the ground if he had to guess. “Tell me you have a fucking lead, because if I wake up to more pictures of dead bodies on my phone, I’m killing Zerigath at our next session.”
“Don’t worry. The photos are encrypted.”
“That’s so not the concern here.”
Tim licked his teeth. “If I had a lead, you wouldn’t have woken up to the pictures. If I had a lead, we’d already have someone in custody.”
Duke sighed. “Alright, fair. What’ve you got so far?”
“It’s in the case file I left at the cave.”
Two dead bodies.
In the last month.
Zero leads.
Those odds weren’t great. Murders weren’t uncommon in this city, but these were notable Gothamites with influence and connections. Tim grew up around them as the son of Janet Drake and again, as the adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Despite their best efforts to keep the details under wraps, Tim fully expected last night’s murder to be the front-page story by this evening. Gossip moved fast, but Vicki Vale moved faster.
Their first victim, Simeon Campbell, wound up stuffed in a wicker basket and set on fire. It reeked of foul play, not that they had any leads. Last night’s victim, Ewan Lloyd, was found hacked to pieces and left to stew in wine.
Brutal, but hardly the worst crime scene he’d encountered over the years. Vale could quote him on that. He had a shelf in his mind dedicated to gruesome murders, and these didn’t even crack his top ten.
One could argue the cases were unrelated, but he didn’t want to write off the possibility just yet. They were too distinct to ignore, but the motivation behind them eluded him. A vital piece to the puzzle, just outside his grasp. That irritated him more than he cared to admit.
“So, what you’re telling me is that we have nothing?”
“Yep,” Tim said, popping the ‘p’.
“You’re taking this surprisingly well.”
“Would you suggest I take it poorly?”
Duke snorted. “I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you fly off the handle, and things have been a little slow around here. Well, besides the bodies, ya know?”
“Perks of the day shift, I guess. If only the rest of us could be that lucky.” He shifted in his seat again, trying to find a comfortable position with the stitches still tugging at his side. “I had a two-for-one last night. First the murder, then Killer Croc decided to flood the Midtown line.”
“No shit?”
“I’ll be smelling raw sewage on my uniform for months.” Tim reached for his Zesti as he turned into the parking garage—
—just as someone stepped in front of his car.
His tires squealed as he slammed on the brakes. He dove across the seat to catch his drink before it spilled all over Janet’s suede interior. He just got her detailed.
Bad move, he realized a second too late.
As he slammed the can in its holder, he felt the searing heat of a torn stitch. Or several.
“God, fu—” He bit off his swear as he fell back with tears in his eyes.
“You good?”
“Just peachy,” Tim managed through gritted teeth, “I almost hit a—”
When he opened his eyes, the pedestrian had vanished. Tim sat there, ears ringing in the aftermath as he sat with an uncomfortable question.
Had there been a pedestrian at all, or were his eyes playing tricks on him?
Tim didn’t usually hallucinate—not these days, at least. He caught a quick power nap that morning and slept a remarkable two hours before his patrol the night before. As far as self-care went, he was killing it.
“Uh, never mind. It was nothing.”
“Didn’t sound like nothing.” He caught his dubious tone, and Tim couldn’t blame him. That answer was far from convincing.
“Yeah,” Tim insisted, “Is that all you needed from me?”
“I guess so. It seems like the investigation is still in the early stages, so I’ll leave you to do your thing oh-great-detective. If anything comes up, just let me know.” Duke buzzed his lips thoughtfully. “Are you at RAP this morning?”
RAP, for Rise Against Poverty, a local chapter of a national charity that gave money and resources to youth living in underserved communities, the Narrows in this case, though Tim had been working to open another chapter in Park Row.
Was the name stupid?
Totally, but they did good, so Tim could look past the unfortunate name for the sake of the children.
It also gave him a direct link to several philanthropists who operated in southern Midtown, so two birds, one stone.
“Bright and early as usual,” he deadpanned.
He wasn’t a morning person, but the world catered to people who were. It’s how he ended up at board meetings at ungodly hours like this one. Morning people were the real villains in his humble opinion. All of them.
“Perfect. If you see Izzy, can you tell her I’ll meet her after work and take her to dinner?”
“Will do.”
“Thanks. Stay outta trouble.”
The call disconnected as he pulled (carefully) into the parking garage. He parked in an empty stall, the burn on his side stealing the air from his lungs as he spun the wheel. It would be smarter to head back before it became a real problem, but he hated to see effort go to waste over a few torn stitches, even if Tim was actively bleeding.
What to do, what to do?
It shouldn’t take this long to decide, but going home meant enduring a lecture from Damian on the proper stitching techniques…
He sat with that realization for a moment.
Yeah, no, he didn’t want to deal with that right now.
The bandage would probably hold up until the meeting ended. He could cancel the rest on his calendar and head home afterwards. With a decision made, Tim downed the rest of his Zesti and exited the car. As he headed toward RAP, the mask of Timothy Drake-Wayne fitted easily into place.