Chapter Text
Tim has a routine, okay? And after five bloody months on Gotham's unforgiving streets, he better.
He goes to Tasty's Donuts first thing in the morning, though Gothamites know it as "Taz's," because of how long the "T" and "Y" were burnt out after the last rogue attack. He goes there at ass o'clock, as Toad would say (his sometimes friend who "lives" a couple streets over). 3:35, after they've dumped yesterday's product and it's still got some warmth to it. He goes dumpster diving with his black bag that he'd scavenged from the free pile at the last back-to-school drive they'd held for Crime Alley's kids. He mostly looks for cake donuts, because they save the longest, and he MOSTLY pulls from the top of the pile. He tries to have that done in under 5 minutes, because he really really doesn't want to attract attention. He shoves just as many donuts in his inner pockets as he does his backpack. And he ALWAYS eats one while he's there, because god knows what will happen after he leaves the dumpster.
He's been jumped more than a couple of times, and it SUCKS.
So much.
Therefore, he eats as he scavenges, because waste not, want not and all that bull(shit).
He has trouble making his brain say the curse words, even though he hears them more often than the not-curse words.
After his morning date with Taz's, he runs to the corner store that Mr Garcia runs. Mr Garcia and he have an understanding. Tim will alert him to any upcoming rogue attacks, and in return, Mr Garcia lets him use his bathroom, the one that says "Customers OnLy." Sometimes, Mr Garcia gives him old bananas that he's about to toss. Before coming out here, Tim would have turned his nose up at the bananas, too black or brown to sell, but vitamin c is vitamin c, and he can tell when he's not getting enough, and THAT sucks too.
"Buenos dias," Mr Garcia greets him at 4:13 that morning.
It's cold as balls this morning (another Toad-ism) and Tim is glad to be inside, even if it's just for a bit.
He waves and grabs the key that Mr Garcia is handing to him through the reinforced bars over the cash register and scampers off toward the toilet.
Mr Garcia doesn't speak English, and he doesn't speak Spanish (he doesn't speak anything out loud at all, but that's so beside the point). When he has to communicate, he pulls out one of his ubiquitous pens (pens are free EVERYWHERE, seems like, but the cheaper ones do seem to like to explode), and writes it down on one of his scrap pieces of paper that he has shoved everywhere (bags aren't the only good kinds of insulation, and if he really wants to be honest with himself--which he rarely does--then, he'd rather have paper next to his skin than plastic grocery bags).
He spends somewhere between five and thirty minutes in the bathroom, trying to convince his stomach that he's really okay and that it's okay to treat him like a human being; sometimes he argues the point with himself pretty well, sometimes he does not. This morning, it's a good one, and he's out in under ten. He pushes up the sleeves of his slightly oversized coat and scrubs himself down in the sink, and then does the same to his neck and head. He's due to shave his head again, he thinks, peering up at himself through his bangs. He HATES long hair so much, but it does keep him warm, so that's something, he guesses. He dries his hair with paper towels and then shoves his hat back down on his head, the strings underneath his chin knotted forever. He doesn't do knots, probably won't ever be able to do them, as he doesn't have a lot of faith in his continued longevity, so meh.
The honest part of his brain--the part that he doesn't like to hear much from nowadays--is disturbed by these morbid thoughts, but he doesn't spend much thought on it.
While he's in the bathroom, he pulls a couple of his empty water bottles from his sleeves and fills them up with warm water, before shoving them back down in his coat and doing the same with the ones in his jeans. It makes him look a little bulkier, and keeps him warm, so that's nice. The back of his brain whispers to him about one use plastics and carcinogens, but he doesn't have the means to care, so he doesn't. He just hopes that should he ever get off the streets, that his actions here won't lead to a long drawn out death.
Mr Garcia has a couple of overly ripe bananas and a slighty mushy apple waiting for him when he gets back out, and he takes them with a signed, "Thank you" that Mr Garcia may or may not understand. He understands the spirit of the thing at least, and he grins back at him, double jowls quivering as he natters back to him in Spanish. Tim picks up maybe one out of every ten words, which is better than it used to be. He's not certain, but he thinks that Mr Garcia is telling him to be careful, and he nods and scoops the donated food up, putting part of it inside in his coat and part in his backpack.
"Be . . . good boy," Mr Garcia says with a smile as he's leaving.
He looks up, surprised at the English and nods again, and then he's out the door, eyes watering and surprised at his own emotions. He pinches the skin under his sleeve to keep from crying and runs down the dark road to the nearest alley, turning quickly and keeping to the shadows as he goes. He passes by a yowling cat, two very drunk and passed out men, and several boarded up doorways before he reaches an old fire escape, and jumps at it, grabbing the bottom most rung on his first try and shimmying upwards, his arms burning with the effort. He makes it to the roof, and then, panting, climbs across the rickety boards that someone laid between the two buildings.
Older kids are big enough to jump the space between, but he doesn't think he wants to risk breaking his neck right now, especially when it's flurrying and stupidly cold for early December. He climbs down an air conditioning unit, and shimmies between a series of haphazardly set chimneys, and then he's running again, too cold for caution.
He reaches another fire escape and climbs down it carefully, stopping halfway down the building and lifting the window beside it slowly, keeping it from creaking.
This is one of Selina Kyle's safehouses, and though he's pretty sure she knows he exists, he also doesn't want to make her angry by being excessively annoying.
He climbs through and heads for the front door, blinking and slightly blinded by the hallway light. The building isn't exactly warm, but it's warmer than outside, so that's something. He heads for the stairs, going down and down until he's in the basement, which is officially closed for water damage.
Ducking under a pile of broken boards, he shuffles forward in the dark and tries to keep from sneezing at the heavy scent of mold that surrounds him. He comes out of his tunnel a few feet later into a tiny room lit by a single candle.
"Who's there?" A voice calls out.
"Hmm?" He grunts, flapping anxiously in the dark.
"Mouse, that you?" Toad says, sticking his head out of the sheet covering the far wall.
He waves, and Toad squints and beckons him back.
"Come on, I got some sammiches from the shelter."
Toad has sandwiches AND milk, which is only slightly frozen, and Tim slides in behind him to the back room, which is slightly more well lit, a small fire burning in a metal drum in the middle of the room doing a lot for the temperature.
Toad is an older boy he'd met during his disastrous stay in foster care, and they are still quasi-friends. When Toad left, he'd rescued Tim, and though they don't live together, they have something of a bond. Tim would wager that Toad is a teenager, but a very young one, while he himself is still a rather scrawny 8 year old, though he's nearly 8 and a half, so that's something, he guesses.
Toad reads on a first grade level and doesn't sign much, but he's picked up a few things from Tim, and between that and Toad's uncanny ability to read body language, something that Tim is somewhat jealous of (though he HAS gotten better), they have a relationship that mostly works.
Except.
Except when Toad is drinking, which thankfully doesn't seem to be today.
Toad shoves an egg and sausage sandwich in his hands and a couple of semi-frozen milk cartons at him. In turn, Tim offers him the bananas, since he still has a literal apple up his sleeve, and Toad grabs them from him before he has a chance to even blink. Toad LOVES fruit. He'd give him the apple too, but he doesn't want to, and maybe that makes him a bad friend, but he doesn't even LIKE bananas, and he doesn't get that many other options, since bananas seem to be ubiquitous across the free handouts that shelters offer.
Toad natters at him for half an hour straight before falling silent. They eat their sandwiches, and Tim enjoys his milk, something he doesn't get a lot of, and then suddenly Toad is quiet and staring at him with an intensity that he doesn't like.
"Maroni's lookin' for lookouts again," is what Toad says after an uncomfortable silence.
Tim gestures at him as if to say, "So?"
"Bet they'd take you," Toad grunts, picking up the detritus from their sandwiches only to ball it up and chunk it in the fire.
It changes the color of the flames for a minute and Tim wonders for a minute at which chemicals they must be breathing in. He ignores himself. AGAIN.
He shakes his head in the negative. Toad, who's still watching him, just grunts.
"They'll pay you," Toad adds after a minute of watching.
So what.
He pulls out a piece of paper and writes out in large block letters, "D O N T C A R E."
"Yeah, yeah, but in the dead of winter, you're gonna," Toad replies after painstakingly reading Tim's message.
Tim shrugs. He might be dead by then, so what does it matter?
Toad grunts but doesn't pursue it.
"You gonna go to the library when it opens?"
The library opens at 9.
Tim nods. He doesn't know what time it is, but it's too soon to go outside. Of course, on the days that Toad isn't safe to be around, he finds places to be, but today is a safe day.
He thinks.
"Oughta take a nap, then," Toad says, not looking at him.
Their conversation isn't over, but it's tabled for the moment. Toad is looking at him like he's realized once again how little Tim is.
"C'mere," Toad says, throwing an arm over Tim's shoulders.
Tim flinches, not used to good touch, but lets himself be pulled in next to the larger boy and cuddled. He slowly relaxes against him, belly full and mostly happy. He's warm enough and full, and he mostly trusts Toad, so he lets himself relax a little and drift. It's kinda nice.
--
He drifts for a couple of hours, not quite asleep, but not really awake. It's not until he sees faint light coming in over the edge of the only window that he manages to jerk himself really awake, pulling away from Toad as he does.
"C'mon Mouse, five more minutes," Toad grumbles, looking younger in his half-sleep.
He shakes his head and grabs his bag. He's got half a granola bar in it, and an apple up his sleeve, and several packs of individually wrapped saltines crackers spread out across both locations. He'll get a new jar of peanut butter soon, and that'll be even better, but until he does, he'll make do. Plus, half a dozen stale cake donuts that he'll eat on for the rest of the day.
Speaking of which, he pulls one from his pocket, one wrapped in a plastic bag and puts it in Toad's lap. It's chocolate with sprinkles, Toad's second favorite after fruit.
"For me?"
Tim nods, earnest and careful.
"Thanks, Mouse," Toad says, looking stupidly young and making Tim's heart clench on nothing. "See you tomorrow?"
Tim nods, standing up and inching toward the doorway. Toad's drinking makes his moods a little mercurial and sometimes the other boy can be snippy about Tim leaving. But, his luck holds, and he's out the door and down through the tunnel before Toad can say anything to change that.
Then he's off to the library, not going back the same way, but continuing on down the fire escape to the road below and then walking north until he reaches the corner, and turning so the newly risen sun is right in his eyes. He walks for nearly 40 minutes, trapped somewhere between cold and slightly sweaty, until he reaches the Gotham Public library.
Sometimes he sleeps here, also in the basement. On those days, he'll climb through an access window that is slightly too small, fighting with himself against the ever constant fear of getting stuck. He's got a nest he's built between boxes and he has access to a toilet, so the set-up is kind of ideal, but he doesn't like to do something too often, because routines seem to ultimately lead to disaster, despite the fact that he tries to keep to the same morning routine. It's a balancing act between doing what he needs, and navigating between the dangers of the world around him.
He paces outside the library until it opens, keeping just below the stairwell and out of the reach of the north wind, glaring at adults who get too close and mentally telling himself that he's doing nothing wrong when people who look like they care come within reach.
At nine sharp, the library opens and he scurries in with the other crowd of people, some obviously homeless, others not so much.
He veers for the front desk, wondering if Barbara Gordon (Batgirl!!) is working, and when he sees her, he grins and makes a beeline for her.
"Mouse!" She greets with a smile.
He waves shyly.
"How's my favorite genius?"
He blushes, and fights the urge to flap.
"You keeping safe out there?" She asks, eyes sharper than he'd prefer.
She doesn't know that he's homeless, but she suspects. It makes him anxious, but at the same time, he doesn't think she'll throw him to the wolves. She's Batgirl and she knows how the system is.
Probably.
He nods when he realizes she's still waiting for an answer.
"Better be," she tells him. "I don't want you going missing, you hear me?"
He looks up at her, startled.
'What do you mean?' he signs, before he can decide against it.
"Just strange things," she says. "People going missing that I see all the time, that's all. Don't worry about it. Could be the season. People leaving for warmer temps and all."
He looks at her, small and shy and vaguely concerned. He really wants to ask about Batman but his survival acumen makes him hesitate.
'I'm gonna go read,' is what he says instead, heading for the non-fiction section.
"Hey, Mouse," Barbara says then, smile lighting up her face, "I got you something."
He cocks his head, not needing his words for the moment.
She hands over a brown paper bag and he grabs it, pulling it close before looking around to see if anyone's looking before reaching inside. He pulls out the top item and finds it's a Batman hoodie!!! He jumps and flaps silently, secretly delighted, before looking in the bag and finding something else that makes him just as happy.
NUTELLA!!
It's been SO long since he's had Nutella, and before he knows it, his eyes are watering in a threatening way, and he grabbing his stuff and signing, 'thank you' over his shoulder before hoofing it the other direction, to the stacks, into his nook.