The Lone Ranger Never Had to Deal with Bruce Wayne - theskeptileptic - Batman (2024)

Chapter 1: Thursdays are for Plotting

Chapter Text

(Most beautiful cover art by: TheyReapWhatWeSow)

“Get a new hobby, kid.”

Tim makes the decision to fake his death on a Thursday. This is in no way, shape, or form a response to Robin’s flippant comment to him on Wednesday night. That would make him petty and childish, and Tim is whatever the opposite of all that is, thank you very much.

Robin just…showed him the light. Revealed to him a truth he had been furiously suppressing ever since his seventh birthday—he is better off on his own. Off the grid. Incognito. The Lone Ranger.

What was he thinking anyway? Running around town like some kind of child playing pretend paparazzi for heroes? He’s better than that, honestly.

Thank you, Robin, for pointing that out, actually.

Anyway, in the roulette of misery that is his life, he figures different past choices most likely would have led to different outcomes, and that’s why no one can fault him for the choice he’s about to make now.

(On nights he has trouble sleeping, he likes to play the game of odds and rationality—what if Janet had met Harvey Dent instead of Jack Drake at that Young Entrepreneurs of Gotham meeting thirteen years ago? What if Tim had been born to the Joker or Catwoman or god forbid, Brucie Wayne eleven years ago? What if he were a girl instead of a boy, if he were good instead of a trouble-maker, if he liked books instead of gruesome horror films? What if he were quieter or a better student or didn’t mind wearing suits or liked to sing instead of always feeling like his voice was sticky with thick, acidic lemon jello every time someone tried to speak to him? What if he had joined the circus a la Dick Grayson the first time his parents left him at home without supervision? What if he had fallen off that roof last week when he lost his footing instead of catching himself last minute on the ledge? It was all a game of possibilities that would never become probabilities because there doesn’t exist a world where Tim could be less…Tim. He is a neurotic trouble-making, chaos-attracting nerd whose survival instincts constantly war with practicality. He will disappoint his parents regardless of what he does. His Tim-ness will forever be in the way of being an adequate son or heir, so why even try?)

Sure, maybe if the Drakes were like The Brady Bunch or Leave it to Beaver, he would feel some semblance of guilt at making them think their only son is dead, but honestly? They all know how this will go.

Oh, Timothy was taken from us much too soon, yes, it is a tragedy, yes, please capture our good side when taking our picture at his grave for the Society Pages, why yes, we do accept donations in his honor, we’re terribly sad, which is why we will be naming a scholarship after him, what do you mean, our stocks have gone up, we didn’t think about that at all…

Honestly, they probably will be angry he didn’t think about doing this sooner.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter because Thursdays are days for plotting, and Tim knows that the key to any good cover-up (thank you, Law and Order) is having a good alibi, a simple story, and leaving no evidence. And Tim doesn’t want to leave his parents a mess, despite how tempting it might be to throw them under the metaphorical bus, so any plan that implicates their less-than-stellar parenting is a no-go. Tim’s trying for cool, mature solo agent, not moody, bratty kid who wants to see their comeuppance for criminal neglect.

He grabs a steno pad from the bottom of his dad’s desk and a cheap Bic pen that won’t be missed. He figures if anyone comes and investigates, he doesn’t want it to look like he’s run away, so he dives into the emergency cash box his parents forgot about two years ago and grabs enough money to buy a durable change of clothes, a space blanket, a first aid kit, and several MREs from the Army Supply store at the edge of Bristol. It’s owned by Ret. Col. Harry Binkley, and was featured in People Magazine under “Surprisingly Quaint Places Near Gotham”. Col. Binkley was so pleased by the extra publicity that he added a juice bar and a coffee corner and ever since, it has been Tim’s go-to after-school spot. He skateboards there every day and completes his homework, before leaving for Gotham around dinnertime. (The Col. thinks he’s going home to meet his parents for dinner—Tim doesn’t correct him.) Today, Tim has a different plan.

A bell chimes as Tim opens the door.

“Hey Private!” Col. Binkley’s gruff voice comes from under the cash register where he is fixing a broken telephone wire. “Help yourself to a cup, Drake. Just one. ”

Tim rolls his eyes, but grabs the styrofoam cups next to the fancy espresso machine. “Do you have any Zesti?”

“You know how I feel about that crap, kid. You’re lucky to get anything but water from me.”

“Are these cups smaller?”

“Yes. Don’t be a brat. Want my sandwich? My daughter made me extra.” The Col’s daughter always seems to make him extra whenever Tim comes around. Tim doesn’t question it. His stomach always seems to appreciate it.

“Sure. I have a camping trip coming up. I’m going to look around?” The Col. grunts in acknowledgement and Tim moves through the aisles with determination. Col. Binkley’s pretty cool and won’t ask a lot of questions about what he buys. He’s created emails to show his parents hired a live-in nanny for the time they’ve been gone and made that fake nanny look neglectful and deceitful so his parents will come out of this looking like naive socialites who just trusted the wrong person. Poor Timmy Drake, drowned in a lake, after a weekend of self-taught survival training gone wrong. He binged Survivor on Prime and thought he could reenact what he saw, but he didn’t wait thirty minutes before swimming. This is why eleven-year-olds can’t be trusted with their media intake. Tim sees his mother joining some sort of Mom’s Against CBS or something equally virtue signally to show the world how good of a parent she was. He hopes, when it’s all said and done, they appreciate how easy he’s making this for them.

As Tim is filling up the canvas backpack he found on a shelf with everything he needs for his fake camping-death trip (real cross-country-hitchhiking-to-Canada-and-living-there-for-the-rest -of-his-life adventure), he hears the bell chime again. He’s squatting by the MREs, trying to decide between Beef Taco and Chili with Beans when he hears a voice that instantly makes him cringe.

“Harold, my man, how are you doing today?” Mr. Wayne’s deep voice sounds friendly and fake and his laugh booms around Tim like a marching drum at a wake. Tim rolls his eyes and tries to crouch lower. Please don’t see me, please don’t see me.

“Timothy Drake. Wow. Is that you? You’ve grown like a weed, young man. Fancy seeing you here. It’s been a while.” It hasn’t. It has literally been less than a week ago when Mr. Wayne showed up randomly at his door, asking for his parents as if they both didn’t know that they had drunkenly told Mr. Wayne they'd be in Cambodia for eight months back at his gala in April.

The doorbell rang for the fifth time. It was eleven in the morning, and Tim had only just fallen asleep a couple hours ago after figuring out the right combination of painkiller and bandaids and Neosporin to make himself comfortable. His hands were shredded from almost falling off the roof last night, and he was smarting from the embarrassment of having to have Batman (!!!) bail him out. Whoever was ringing the doorbell like that was the worst kind of criminal, and if it wouldn’t get back to his parents somehow, he would have called the police and just let them deal with it.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Door Stranger most likely couldn’t hear him through the heavy antique wood, but Tim still preferred to narrate his day-to-day to stave off the loneliness. And if he used comic book narrator voices, no one was around to know.

He stood on his tiptoes to unlatch the highest lock (he was a short king, ok?), and blinked into the concerned eyes of his ditzy next-door neighbor.

“Ah, Timothy, right? Sorry to bother you this morning, chum. Just wanted to ask your dad a question.” Mr. Wayne was wearing a Prada tracksuit and holding a golf club. His Aston Martin Valour was parked neatly in their roundabout, and Tim could see a large iced-vanilla latte balancing in the passenger’s seat. He smiled in a way that screamed fake, and Tim just stared at him before closing the door in his face.

He allowed himself one sigh, cursed his life, and opened the door again, his own weird, fake smile mimicking the billionaire’s. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne. The door slipped.” He deadpanned.

“Understandable, chap.” Both of them kept smiling.

Mr. Wayne broke first, clearing his throat. “Anyway, I was on my way to the course, and I realized your father and I haven’t gotten a chance to really ‘hang’, as you kids say, and I had a late tee time, so I thought I’d invite him along.” Mr. Wayne’s teeth were bright and Tim wondered if he used some sort of diamond paste on them. He looked around Tim’s shoulder, as if he wanted to see inside the mansion better. Tim hadn’t turned on any of the lights on account of his sh*tty night, so the early fall haze that Bristol was so well known for didn’t do much for his visibility.

“I’m sorry, sir, you just missed him.” A pause.

“Well, that’s ok, son. Why don’t you get your mom and I’ll give her a message? I’m sure you’ve got things to do.” He looked at Tim vapidly, smile still firmly in place.

“I’m afraid she’s not here right now either. Shopping.” Tim gritted his teeth and went to close the door. Mr. Wayne’s huge ham hands (why were they so large?) stopped it before it slammed. He chuckled and Tim winced.

“Your nanny, then.” Tim wasn’t sure, but thought the question sounded more strained than Mr. Wayne’s usual flavor of airheadedness.

“She’s sleeping.”

“At eleven in the morning?”

“She has a thyroid problem. I’ll let them all know you stopped by.” Tim pushed the door closed but Mr. Wayne had somehow entered his foyer while he was speaking.

“I’ll write them a note. They can call me when they get back.” He inched closer towards Tim, who sidestepped him before he could ruffle his hair.

“Won’t your tee time be over by then, sir?” Tim walked back towards the front door and opened it again.

“Call me Bruce, chum. Call me Bruce.” He ignored the question and looked around at the artifacts and oil paintings displayed. Tim was not at all embarrassed by the layer of dust on some of the surfaces—Brucie Wayne wouldn’t notice Superman wearing a tutu if the man himself slapped him in the face, so there was no reason to think he’d notice the overall emptiness of Drake Manor. (Tim found it a lot easier to enter and exit the house from his window—he could avoid tripping the house alarm since his Dad had cheaped out and only armed the doors, and he could avoid the front and back door cameras during his nightly outings. His parents rarely called him for check-ins, but did seem to keep a close eye on those doors, if the multiple texts he’d receive from them every time a package was delivered was any indicator.)

“Mr. Wayne, I’ll let them know you were here but I was just about to—” Tim stopped when Mr. Wayne let out a huge exaggerated gasp. He was looking at Tim’s hands with a mix of horror and fascination—the bandages had soaked through, and some blood was dripping on the wood floor.

“Timothy, LAD, what happened ?” He reached for Tim, but Tim deftly moved around him, rolling his eyes.

“It’s no biggie, Mr. Wayne. I was skateboarding and fell. My mom got me bandaged super quickly,” which was obviously a lie, but it wasn’t like Bruce Wayne would know Batman was actually the one who fixed him up last night, “I just waited too long to change them. I’ll take care of that now and let my dad know you stopped by.”

“If you say so, Timmy, but I really don’t mind staying. Hey, have you had freshly squeezed juice from the Italian coast, my sons swear by it. Come by any time and try some?” Mr. Wayne kept up a stream of babble as Tim practically had to force him out of the house by walking him over to his car.

“Sure, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce, chum.”

Later, after Tim woke up from crashing on his mom’s Persian rug (“that’s $5000 a square foot, Timothy, it costs more than your entire body is worth, please be careful for god’s sake”), he grabbed his computer and sent an email from his dad’s dummy account:

to: [emailprotected]

subject: golf outing

from: [emailprotected]

Bruce,

My dear son Timothy told me I missed you today! I’m sorry, I was unavailable, I was getting surprise donuts for everyone. We took Timothy to the doctor—he said you were freaked out by his hands. Boys, am I right? Ha!! We’ll need to get together soon. Work is very worky lately so wait until I call you. Timothy is also very shy so no need to talk to him about anything! You can just email me here.

Sincerely,

Jack

Tim counts to five slowly, and stands up. “Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce, Timothy. Are those MREs you have there, buddy? Are you interested in prepping? My son Jason showed me a YouTube film on that last month. It was fascinating. I bought most of Harold’s stock, here, didn’t I, Col.?”

Col. Binkley smiles and walks over while Tim slowly backs away, keeping Mr. Wayne in his line of sight like he would a tiger or overeager puppy.

“That you did, Brucie. It was honestly good timing—especially fortuitous since my Marta was having all those tests last month and we kept having to close early. Poor Timmy here had to go somewhere else for his after-school activities, didn’t you son? She’s got a clean bill of health by the way.”

Tim slips to the other aisle while the men talk and quickly grabs supplies for the rest of his list. Unfortunately, Mr. Wayne’s doing an impression of a really annoying Whack-A-Mole, and comes back over to talk to him.

“So, Timothy, Harold here tells me you’re going on a camping trip? What fun, chum! Your dad taking you?”

And this? This is unfair. Because Law and Order, CSI, and GCPD’s own newly updated manual have all taught him that an alibi’s got to be airtight—he can’t tell Bruce Wayne that his parents are going on a trip that he’s going to be pretend-dying on. They would not appreciate that. And yeah, Gotham Police suck but someone would ask who last saw Tim Drake before he biffed it, and Bruce Wayne may be an idiot, but he’s been weirdly obsessive lately about butting into Tim’s life.

Tim’s on a schedule, darn it. Thursdays are for plotting and Friday he leaves, and he can’t have Brucie “I Call You Tube Videos Films” Wayne getting in the way of that.

“Actually, my parents are on a work trip.” Vague. True. “My nanny is staying with me this weekend.” Sell it, Tim. “We’re going camping tomorrow.”

“You and your…nanny are going camping this weekend?” Does he sound skeptical? That’s not weird, right? Tim briefly wonders if Alfred Pennyworth ever took Dick or Jason camping. Commit, Tim.

“Oh, of course she’s not going. She’s dropping me off. I’m meeting a friend. A friend’s family. We’re going camping together. Stuart. His name’s Stuart.” Shut up, now, idiot.

Mr. Wayne nods slowly like he’s thinking it over. He then smiles and claps his hands together, startling Tim. “Let’s see? You’re probably going to Cheesequake State Park, right?” Tim nods knowingly, like he is an expert in camping locations, and wasn’t just going to make his fake emails say “the woods.” Thank you, Mr. Wayne for filling out the details. “The boys and I love that spot, we go all the time. You’ll need some more things, here let me help.”

Tim struggles for balance as Mr. Wayne begins filling his backpack with “the greatest camping gear ever”: including a swiss army knife, two reusable canteens, a portable water filter, blankets, tons of antiseptic and bandages, MREs, matches, a flashlight, and, inexplicably, a whistle. He hands Tim a tent with stakes and leads him out the door, yelling “Thank you, put it on my tab, Harold,” to Col. Binkley.

They awkwardly stand in the parking lot.

“Well, see you later, Mr. Wayne.” His skateboard is under his arm and he resigns himself to walking back home two miles.

“Nonsense, Timothy, let me drive you.”

And Tim?

Tim agrees because Bruce Wayne singularly focused on something is weird and unnerving and he is ready to get home and get moving on his plan.

Mr. Wayne drops him off keeping a cheerful stream of small talk up during the ten-minute drive to Drake Manor. He helps Tim unload, raising his eyebrows but not saying anything at the unlit house.

“Have fun with your friend Stuart this weekend, Timothy. Camping, huh. What an exciting experience.” Tim nods, not trusting his foot to stay on the ground instead of making its way to his mouth, and closes the door behind him.

Phew.

He rushes around, putting last minute details on his plan. He empties the rest of the emergency cash into the front pocket of the Army backpack, and figures out how to tie the tent to the back of it like a roll so he can carry it on his back. He goes into his room and grabs his stash of memory cards, the picture of toddler him and Dick Grayson, his phone, and Stuart, his stuffed goose that he had hiding under his bed, because he’s no longer a baby, mother, he swears it.

Kissing his laptop goodbye, he puts the finishing touches on the planted emails, and sighs as he turns off his light. It’s about 2 AM on Friday morning. Tim prints off the Greyhound schedule, grabs the fake id and passport he had made last year, and hums “O Canada” under his breath.

He has a few hours to rest before skating over to the bus station. Tim figures if he leaves after 8, all nosy neighbors will be at school and work and there won’t be any witnesses to the direction he heads. Satisfied with his plan, he lays down on his mother’s Persian rug one last time and falls asleep.

from Tim’s iPhone:

hey mom, hope you’re doing well. i love you.

(read)

there’s been a package on the porch for over forty minutes, timothy. we’re not animals. pick it up.

(read)

from Tim’s iPhone:

dad, i saw a documentary on egyptian burial practices last night. thinking of you guys! love you!

(unread)

from: [emailprotected]

to: [emailprotected]

Mr. and Mrs. Drake,

You’ve asked for daily updates. Your son is a pleasure. You are perfect parents. He has lots of friends. He’s going camping this weekend. I will be really responsible like you hired me to and take care of him. Nothing will happen to him.

Sincerely,

The Nanny

Chapter 2: Fridays are for Adventuring

Chapter Text

Tim wakes up at 7:30 with a crick in his neck and something he’s never felt before. He doesn’t put a name to it until he triple-checks that his automatic emails are still scheduled to run and he’s downed the half a liter of Zesti he forgot about in the fridge. It’s a warm feeling in the middle of his stomach, like tomato soup or hot chocolate. It’s hope.

Fridays are days for adventuring, and Tim owes Robin a huge thank-you for giving him the push he needed. He can feel it in his bones—this was the right call. Honestly. He should have fake-killed himself years ago. He’d be, like, King of Canada or something by now.

Tim brushes his teeth (his toothbrush! He knew he forgot to pack something!) and laces up the new hiking boots Mr. Wayne excitedly threw on top of his bag yesterday (“They’re ergonomic, Sport!”). It’s 8:15 and the Greyhound station he’s leaving from is on the other side of Gotham. It’s the one that his internet research has said is most likely to not be held up in Rogue plots or downtown nonsense, and it’s only a few hours away by skateboard. (If he rides on the highway for a bit. It’s illegal, but it’s close enough to the City that everyone driving understands the rules of “snitches get stitches.”)

At 8:45, Tim takes one last look at his house, salutes it with his middle finger (off camera, because “leave no evidence” means pretending he’s late for school and not like he’s leaving his life as he knows it forever), and heads down his long, rocky driveway. This is perfect timing—suburbia is nosy, but most rich moms are playing tennis or Starbucks-ing, most house staff are grocery shopping, and most dads are at work. All the kids in the area started school at 7:45, and the mailman doesn’t come until 10. Tim’s neighborhood is the obnoxious type of rich anyway, where there are only five or so mansions on the mile long stretch uphill, Wayne’s being at the very top and Drake manor being to its left but hidden by a tree-lined drive. The mini-mansions below the five larger ones are more squished together (“It’s positively revolting, Timothy, I would kill myself and then the rest of you if your dad moved us to one of those.”) and if Tim skates straight down Maple Street, he’ll reach the entrance to the highway leading straight into Gotham. There’s a Bat Burger on the corner that he’s planning on grabbing a large coffee from before hopping on the exchange.

Tim hums to himself as he checks his gear one last time. He decides not to buckle his helmet, because that’s just dorky, and realizes he forgot his pads. He shrugs, unwilling to make the trek back up his driveway, and decides he’ll just be super careful.

A musical horn startles him out of putting his board down on the street, and when he looks up, he wonders if maybe killing himself for real should have been on the table instead.

Mr. Wayne is behind the wheel of one of the largest, most ostentatious RVs Tim has ever seen. It’s a King Aire, 45-foot motorhome, that he apparently has customized to play the Gilligan’s Island theme song everytime he honks. He’s wearing a sailor’s hat for some reason and smiling like a lunatic at Tim. The huge vehicle is taking up most of the road, and Tim can’t see a safe way to skateboard around it, so he resigns himself to walking closer to the driver’s side window as Mr. Wayne gestures for him to come over.

“Timothy! Wo-ow, bud, look at you! Mr. Anthony Hawk. Although I think he wore some more gear than that. You know I shredded a bit back in my day—I probably have some knee and elbow pads that might fit you. Anyway, like the ride? You mentioned camping yesterday and I just couldn’t help myself, you know?” Mr. Wayne is incredibly unconcerned about being stopped in the middle of the road, and Tim nods, like he supports whatever whims this weird middle-aged man comes up with. He needs Mr. Wayne to leave, like, yesterday—his bus doesn’t depart until 3, but sometimes the highway can be clogged with acid-spitting frogs from Gotham East’s Waste Management facilities, and he wants to give himself plenty of time.

“…such a good idea. I just got back from dropping Jason off at school, but my Dickie’s picking him up early, so we’ll leave around 3 and you can ride with us.”

Tim tunes back in here, rather violently as he begins coughing. “W-what? Sir?”

Mr. Wayne hands him a cough drop (how’d he have that available so quickly?) and grins like a Cheshire cat. “Bruce, Timothy. I said, I thought camping sounded like a good idea so the boys and I are going too. Since we’re all heading to the same place, I emailed your nanny and let her know I’d take you to meet your friend Stuart today and she wouldn’t have to worry about it. Good thing I caught you then, isn’t it kiddo? I guess our wires got crossed.”

“You…what…” Tim clears his throat while Mr. Wayne waits patiently, “Y-you emailed my nanny?”

Something Tim couldn’t name sparkled in Mr. Wayne’s eyes. He nodded and when he spoke, it sounded amused, though nothing about what he said sounded funny to Tim, “Yeppers peppers! She sent me an email last week and I hung onto the address just in case I needed it and lucky for us, I did, because could you just imagine if we had missed each other this morning?”

Tim groans internally. sh*take mushrooms! Poop, dang it, he did send Mr. Wayne an email from his “nanny’s” account but didn’t think he, of all people, would pay attention. He was just tying up loose ends from that stupid morning when Mr. Wayne started sniffing around his house like a bored drug dog.

And really? What kind of adult just assumes a kid’s caretaker is fine with changed plans without getting some confirmation email back? If it were anyone besides Mr. Wayne, Tim would think he had some sort of ulterior motive or was being sneaky about something. Unfortunately for Tim and his horrible luck, he’s just got a Ken doll for a neighbor. A very perky, very well-intentioned Ken doll

“Oh. Well, she didn’t tell me…but you don’t have to do that...” Tim kind of lets his voice trail off because he doesn’t know how to get out of whatever Mr. Wayne is expecting here, and he can’t let the Waynes drive him camping. He just can’t.

There are so many things wrong with that scenario: the campsite is nowhere near the Greyhound station, the “friend” he’s meeting is really his stuffed duck that’s already safe in his backpack, and he’s got an email scheduled to send in about 48 hours that will be announcing his death. He can’t be with the Waynes when that happens. And, sure, Mr. Wayne would be a cinch to get away from, but unfortunately, his two sons are a bit brighter. He’s only met them both a handful of times, but Jason always asks a million really invasive questions and Dick is just like his dad—weirdly good at showing up in places Tim doesn’t want him to be.

The Annual Wayne Foundation Spring Gala was Tim’s nemesis in robin’s egg blue form, and if Tim ever became a superhero, he would make it his life’s mission to fight Capitalism one stuffy party at a time. Tim was dressed in a Calvin Klein blue suit with a pinstripe pink tie. His mom tied it like a noose around his neck, and his hands kept drifting to loosen it when his parents weren’t looking. His arm throbbed from the way his dad had manhandled him into the car earlier that night (“Jesus Christ, Timothy, get your head out of the clouds and move!”) and even though it had only been thirty minutes, Tim was capital-D done with it. He watched from the corner of the room as both his parents tossed back their third drinks for the night, and entertained himself by counting how many old women left lipstick stains on their wine glasses and napkins. Apparently, none of the Bristol or Gotham Elite had heard of lip primer.

As Tim ate his fifth cheddar ball, a voice interrupted his counting.

“It’s like watching a bunch of dancing monkeys, isn’t it?”

Tim dropped his sixth cheddar ball with a squeak. Jason Wayne smirked back at him and leaned against the wall. The high schooler always had an air of coolness that Tim wished he could emulate, and he would secretly practice a lot of Jason’s poses from the magazine covers the Waynes were featured in.

“So, my main man Timmy Drake, I haven’t seen you since the Valentine’s Day Ball,” they both shuddered in memory, “solve any mysteries lately?” (Tim had embarrassingly told Jason of his theory that the Falcones were funding an illegal fondue smuggling business—Gotham’s civil government had banned soft cheeses after a Condiment King plot went awry—and unlike his parents, Jason was fascinated.)

“Well, you know that Greeting Card store on 56th street?” Jason nodded. “It’s really a front for the Mad Hatter’s new headquarters.”

“How’d you figure that one out, Timbers?” Jason looked alarmed. This was why Tim loved talking to Jason—he was so expressive.

“I went in to get my mom a birthday card and I woke up two days later in front of the zoo! It was a trip! I barely remember any of it, except for a whole week after I would bark like a dog every time I saw a fire hydrant, it was CRAZY. I sent Batman an email about it, did you know Batman set up an email just for me? I couldn’t believe it when he emailed me back, look, I have it on my phone,” Tim reached to get it out, but before he could hand it to Jason, he felt a hand on his shoulder and nails digging into his neck.

“Excuse me, Mister Wayne, I need to borrow my son for a moment. I hope you don’t mind.” Tim’s mom was staring at him like he was something smelly on the bottom of her shoe, and his stomach dropped to his feet. Jason’s eyes narrowed, but nodded sharply, and Janet swept Tim into the Waynes’ foyer.

“What in the world do you think you were doing?” His mom hissed and Tim refrained from wiping away the spittle that landed on his eyebrow.

“Mom, I swear he was just asking me a question.”

“What have I said, Timothy, about embarrassing us in front of our peers? No one—least of all Bruce Wayne’s son—wants to hear about that weird, childish obsession you have with Batman. Is it too much to ask that you behave yourself for a few hours?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I swear, you are becoming worse every year. I cannot wait to get out of here.” His mom tossed back her drink and handed Tim the empty glass. As she walked away without turning back, Tim felt his eyes get hot. A hand on his shoulder made Tim jump, and when he turned, he found himself looking up into the sympathetic face of Richard Grayson-Wayne. Sympathetic because apparently, he was an awful eavesdropping eavesdropper.

“Alright there, Tim?” Tim nodded, “Jason told me she grabbed you away from the conversation you two were having. She’s kind of intense isn’t she?” Dick’s sent him a searching look, but Tim smiled and shrugged. It wouldn’t look good to be talking to another Wayne right after his mom reprimanded him for the first. Dick had always been nice to him at these things, but they never really talked much. Tim preferred to hide in corners and in bathrooms at most galas.

“She’s ok.” Tim said softly.

“Are you?” Dick matched his tone, but Tim had kind of had it with adults. Even the nice, college-aged ones like Dick. Tim imitated the look he saw Mr. Wayne toss his parents several times over the night, and grinned vapidly. In his most mature and unaffected voice he said, “Of course. It’s nothing. Sometimes I forget things. She was just reminding me.”

And whatever Dick had to say to that was lost to the empty foyer, as Tim walked back to the ballroom.

Tim coughs again trying to figure out how to stop Mr. Wayne from whatever misunderstanding is going on, but the man has already turned off the ignition (still in the middle of the street!) and opened his door. He jumps out of the RV with more enthusiasm than Tim has ever had in his short eleven years, and grabs the backpack off of his back, while ushering him to the passenger’s side. “Whoa, this is heavy, kiddo. Where were you heading this early anyway? I figured you would be at school until this afternoon.” Technically, Tim is at school. That’s what the attendance records say anyway. In reality, he goes about once a week to put in an appearance, rotating different classes, and dropping off his homework. His teachers think he’s in a homeschool-hybrid situation thanks to some records management on his part, and it really frees up his days. Well, it did. It doesn’t matter now that he’s going to be fake-dead and in Canada, but it was a clever system.

Mr. Wayne doesn’t wait for an answer, or maybe he forgets he asked a question, because by the time he buckles Tim in, hops back into the driver’s seat, and figures out how to maneuver the RV up the hill and into his manor’s drive, the man is singing Jimmy Buffet’s Pina Colada song under his breath. Tim’s secretly grateful for the reprieve that allows him to get his breathing back on track and quickly adjust his plans.

“You can leave your stuff in the camper, bud, it’ll be safe. Dickie and Jason should be here right after lunch. Come in and say hi to Alfred, you remember Alfred, right, Timothy?”

Mr. Wayne helps Tim down from the huge RV’s seat (and no, Tim does not lean into his arms a little bit like some weird kind of hug), and walks him to the front door. Mr. Pennyworth is standing at the door with a ladle in his hand and an exasperated look at the monstrosity parked in the drive.

“Really, Master Bruce?” He raises his eyebrow, and Tim could swear that Mr. Wayne blushes.

“It had to be done, Al.” He says jovially, and ushers Tim in with a wave. Mr. Pennyworth rolls his eyes and then sticks out his hand to Tim. “Master Timothy, it is quite a pleasure to have you join us today. Master Bruce tells me you’ll be camping with them this weekend?” Tim shakes his hand and goes to correct the misunderstanding, but Mr. Pennyworth’s back is already to him. He gestures for him to follow. “I am putting the finishing touches on some snacks to send with you boys, maybe you can help me out? Tell me a bit about yourself while I pack them up. Bruce Thomas Wayne, if you even think about touching that chocolate before it sets, so help me.”

Mr. Wayne’s voice floats ahead from where Tim thinks is the kitchen, “Sorry, Al.”

Tim walks behind Mr. Pennyworth, who smacks Mr. Wayne’s hand away from the chocolate-drizzled strawberries on the counter. “Now, I’ve made you both a lunch, before Masters Richard and Jason get home, so please sit down and eat it.” He gestures at the grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato bisque in bowls at the kitchen nook.

Tim resigns himself to awkward small talk as he thinks about how to salvage this day. He asks Mr. Pennyworth where the restroom is (“Oh, just call me Alfred, my boy,”) and locks the door behind him. He grabs his phone and furiously types up an email. He’ll just tell Mr. Wayne that his friend can’t make it camping. Then maybe they’ll just go on their own and Tim can leave Bristol later tonight. It’s not like they’ll want to take him with them, or anything.

from: [emailprotected]

to: [emailprotected]

Mr. Wayne,

Timothy told me you stopped by earlier today. I am sorry I didn’t get to talk with you. My thyroid was acting up and I was sleeping. Timothy is a good kid. I can make sure he’s safe skateboarding so there is no need to worry. Have a good day!

Sincerely,

The Nanny

from: [emailprotected]

to: [emailprotected]

The Nanny,

Thank you for your email last week. Timothy is most definitely a good kid. One of the best. I saw him at the Army Supply Store this afternoon and he mentioned you would be taking him to Cheesequake State Park to meet a friend this weekend? My boys and I are heading that way, so why don’t we save you a trip. We’ll make sure Timothy is taken care of. If you need anything at all, for any reason, please call me at this number: 908*878*0078. This is my cell phone and I answer it at all hours, no matter what. Nothing is too small or too much of a bother to pick up for. Anything that you need, Timothy’s Nanny, please call.

Sincerely,

Bruce Wayne

to: [emailprotected]

from: [emailprotected]

Tim,

This is your best friend Stuart. I know I said we could meet you for camping this weekend, but I can’t make it. Maybe we can go another weekend. Sorry! Bye.

Sincerely,

Stuart Fowl

Chapter 3: Fridays are also for Lying

Chapter Text

They want to take him with them.

Tim knows, he just knows, that any time you’re behind enemy lines, the enemy always has the advantage. Apparently, the rules stay the same when you’re behind dorky billionaire neighbor lines too.

Here’s how it goes:

Tim leaves the bathroom with a new plan: tell Mr. Wayne Stuart couldn’t make it, grab his backpack out of the TyrannosauR-V (as he’s dubbed it in his head), and wait til the Waynes leave for their camping trip. He has a headlamp he can wear while skating to the Greyhound station, and he figures he’ll just take the late night one.

All he has to do is thank Mr. Pennyworth for the food (he’s not an animal, no matter what his mom says) and distract Mr. Wayne with something shiny. The guy’s like a seal with ADHD. It should be easy. Steeling himself with the same fortitude typically reserved for his parents’ homecoming, Tim walks back into the kitchen.

Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth are bent over Mr. Wayne’s phone, looking at something together, but both heads snap to attention as soon as Tim clears his throat.

“Mr. Pennyworth, the food was lovely, sir, thank you. I probably should get going though.” He nods his head towards his own phone and attempts to look sheepish, “My best friend emailed me. Stuart, I mean. Stuart emailed me and really unfortunately can’t make it this weekend so he postponed.” Quit babbling, Tim. “I’m really bummed, but I’ll be ok. My nanny and I can play catch or something this weekend instead. Anyway, I’ll get out of your way, so, um, yeah…” Nailed it.

Or not.

Mr. Wayne’s laugh booms through the kitchen. Both Mr. Pennyworth and Tim wince. And Tim must be the bright red ball in this seal-with-ADHD situation because Mr. Wayne shakes his head like he’s heard a funny joke and gestures for Tim to sit and eat his soup. “Timothy, chum, you are an absolute blast to have around, buddy. Of course, you can still come with us this weekend. The more the merrier, I always say. Don’t I always say that, Al?”

“Indubitably, sir.” Mr. Pennyworth’s voice is drier than that one time Tim tried to cook himself turkey on Thanksgiving last year and ended up having to throw the pan in the manor’s swimming pool before it burned down his parents’ kitchen.

“Oh, well, I wasn’t, I mean, I didn’t, you don’t have to…” Tim is ushered back to his seat by a butler with a raised eyebrow and his billionaire man-child neighbor bouncing on his heels in excitement.

“The boys will be tickled pink to have you join us, Timothy, I’ll just email your nanny the change of plans so she has it and everyone can be on the same page. It’s good to have these things in writing, you know, in case of emergency. I’m sorry Stuart won’t be joining us but we’ll make this weekend a regular adventure, bud, I promise. Oh,” and here, Mr. Wayne puts his hands together as if just remembering something, “I’m going to grab another fishing pole and put it in the S.S. Minnow. That’s what I named the RV.” He stands up and rushes out of the kitchen, calling back, “Perfect name for it don’t you think?”

Tim looks at Mr. Pennyworth helplessly, who smiles softly and pats his hand. “Chin up, Master Timothy. I dare say the best kind of days are the ones unexpected. Now then. That soup won’t eat itself and I know for a fact that you’ll need all your energy to keep up with this brood.”

Mr. Pennyworth leaves him to his ever spiraling thoughts as he bustles around the kitchen, filling baskets and containers with snacks for this weekend. The largest bag of marshmallows Tim has ever seen is leaning against the corner. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons is playing softly over the radio by the stove and Tim slowly—quietly—allows himself (1) free freakout.

There’s something else stirring in his gut that Tim doesn’t understand. It’s not annoyance at his impolite and invasive neighbor, like he thinks it should be. Mr. Wayne has been nothing but a rather large and loud rock in his shoe lately, but strangely, whenever Tim thinks about it, he just wants to cry. The last time he felt like this was after almost falling off the roof last week—it’s a heady combination of longing and jealousy but he’s not sure for what.

The problem with Gotham’s gargoyles was they didn’t always hold up to pressure. On older buildings, they crumbled at the slightest provocation, which was why the caped heroes using them to grapple would always check them with Batarangs before attaching anything to them.

On slow nights, when Tim couldn’t find enough action to photograph, he’d travel around to different gargoyles looking for missing Batgear. Every now and then, he’d find a spare Batarang—each one he added to his collection felt like some kind of achievement. Once, he found one of Robin’s gloves just sitting on one of Tim’s most visited rooftops. Tim couldn’t stop smiling for days.

It was 3 AM and Tim was about to head home when something sparkled in the moonlight on top of the Old Gotham Bank building. He climbed the fire escape ladder up five stories and made sure he was keeping his eyes on the rungs above instead of below. A year of doing this still hadn’t cured him of that sick swoop of fear he felt every time he looked down, and he had only just trained himself out of throwing up off buildings. On one memorable night, he threw up right on top of The Penguin, which led to the fastest arrest and re-capture of an Arkham escapee ever—the man was freaking out even as Batman led him away and Robin couldn’t stop laughing. Tim really wanted to take credit for that one, but he was feeling pretty poorly, and it was only two days later that he realized it wasn’t vertigo, but an awful flu that put him down for three whole weeks.

He ascended the fire escape and found himself on top of the Old Gotham Bank—a Batarang sat in the middle of one of the stone gargoyle’s laps and Tim was excited because it looked like Batman’s newest version. He confidently grabbed it, but his foot slipped out from under him and he found himself hanging onto the ledge where the gargoyle used to be. Sharp, jagged stone cut into his hands, and he whimpered as he felt himself slip further down.

Just as he was about to fall, he felt a strong hand grip his wrist. He looked up and Batman’s dark cowled face stared back at him.

“Up you go.”

Tim’s whole body shuddered with relief as he slumped into Batman on top of the roof.

“T-t-t-tha-a-n-n-k y-o-o-u…” Tim’s teeth wouldn’t stop chattering.

“Tim. Breathe. There you go. In. Out.” Batman gently blew the worst of the gravel and dirt off of his hands. “Hn. This is going to burn. There’s nothing wrong with crying if you need to.”

“I’m…I’m okay.”

See Also

Khloe Kardashian's ex Tristan Thompson calls her his 'best friend'Kuzu Vote Show Wish Sabrina Lloyd Hits Song Japanese Culture Clarence Park Bike Path Walk Bowling JJ Abraham's Birthday Mass Feast Of Fun With Bob Changes Letter Puts Extra Clothes Shows Paper Song Italy Deleted Category Pages The Alpha Baa Baa TwinkleThe Pen Pal from within the High WallsNHS anaesthetist who took indecent photos of children is jailed

Batman just grunted and poured some water on them. Tim bit back a scream when he then swiped a soft cotton pad with alcohol over his palms. “Bravery doesn’t mean never asking for help, Tim. What are you doing out this late? You promised after last time. I thought we had a deal.”

They did have a deal. Batman discovered him in person for the first time several months ago. He was running from a Scarecrow attack and Batman had found him curled up behind a dumpster outside of Robinson Park. He coaxed him out patiently and sat with him until the antidote worked. Tim refused to give Batman his name, so Batman gave him a business card with an email address and told him that next time he wanted to investigate something, to run it by him first so they didn’t get in each other’s way.

Of course, Tim was so excited that he accidentally emailed Batman from his own email account, but the next time they saw each other, Batman didn’t scold him for revealing his identity, he just said, “Thanks, Tim,” and nodded real cool-like.

They were like twin figures crossing in the night, until he sent that stupid email about The Mad Hatter and Batman showed up at his house back in May, making him promise not to go out by himself. Tim maybe perhaps indicated that he could take his nanny next time, and Batman nodded seriously, and made him pinky swear it.

So yeah, he was breaking a pinky swear by being on the roof, but it had been practically five months since that interaction, and Batman hadn’t caught him yet.

“Sorry.”

“Hn.” Batman picked him up and swung him to the alley where the Batmobile was idling. “Here, it’s late and you’re a long way from home, partner. Hop in and I’ll drive you.”

Batman did drive him and then practically tucked him in. He grunted most of the time, especially when Tim explained they needed to sneak in through his window to avoid the cameras.

“We can be loud though, there’s no one here.”

“Tim, what do you do when you need someone at home?”

Tim was proud to explain this to his hero, especially since Batman had been so, so cool so far. “I don’t need anyone at home. I’ve got a credit card and I know how to cook.”

“What about emergencies?”

“I have your email!”

“Sometimes I can’t answer that right away. Do you have neighbors you can call if you need something?”

Tim laughed so hard he snorted the chocolate milk Batman had made him out of nose. “My neighbor is Bruce Wayne, Batman. Bruce. Wayne. Could you imagine calling that guy for help?”

The next day just proved his point, honestly, when Mr. Wayne inexplicably showed up asking about golf and nannies and his parents.

He stirs his soup and makes the oyster crackers chase each other. At a pointed throat clearing from Mr. Pennyworth, he takes another bite.

“Master Timothy, do you have a preference for what kind of chocolate you like in your s’mores?” At Tim’s blank look, Mr. Pennyworth explains, “Master Richard, for instance, prefers a combination of Reese’s peanut butter cups and,” he swallows like he’s trying not to say a bad word, “gummy worms. Master Jason likes the typical fare of a Hershey’s milk chocolate bar. Master Bruce prefers a dark chocolate bar with mint.”

“Oh.” Tim shrugs. He doesn’t have time to think about camping food, he needs to figure out what to do. “I don’t know. I’ve never had s’mores before.”

“TIMBO!! It’s a tragedy!! DICKFACE!!! Timberly’s never had s’mores before!!” Tim almost falls off his chair as Jason bursts into the kitchen like he’s conducting a band. He’s still in his Gotham Academy uniform and he’s grabbed a popcorn ball cooling on the stove, dodging a swat from Mr. Pennyworth’s wooden spoon and sitting across from Tim. Dick walks in behind him, smirking and giving Mr. Pennyworth a quick hug before taking the chair next to Tim.

“A tragedy? Say it isn’t so.”

Jason scowls and takes a large bite of popcorn ball. Tim can barely understand what he says next.

“Uhyessh. Unrachedy. Juss ‘ike akeshepeare.” Jason’s swallows and smiles while Dick rolls his eyes.

“Timmy, it’s good to see you buddy. I haven’t seen you since April.” Dick knocks Tim’s shoulder with his and Tim tries really hard not to squeak.

“Timberlina is too busy skating around town like a bad ass…tronaut to have time for your old butt.” Jason peeks around Tim, probably to see if Mr. Pennyworth caught his almost-swear word. Dick gasps in faux offense.

“I am not old, Jason. You know, you’re getting up there yourself, Mr. Almost Sixteen Year Old.”

“Next week.” Tim blurts out. Tim doesn’t think sometimes and that’s why he really shouldn’t talk to people. He blushes when both Jason and Dick look at him. “Um. Your birthday. It’s next week. I—I read it in, um,” gosh, kill him dead right now please this is so embarrassing, “Teen Vogue. Col. Binkley was trying to attract more people to his juice bar and started carrying magazines and asked what I thought and I had to read it to tell him, I don't go around reading Teen Vogue, ok, shutting up now.” Jason grins at Tim with all his teeth and lets out a loud laugh.

“Yes, Timber! Teen Vogue! I told Dickie here that my article would be way more popular than his. I bet you haven’t even read his, have you, kid? Suck it Dick!” Tim, in fact, did read Dick Grayson’s Teen Vogue article when it came out. He also laminated it and stuck it in the same folder with the picture of him and Dick. You would not be able to pry that information from Tim if you were Batman himself.

Tim ducks his head and smiles to himself. As much as he really needs to get out of there, he’s secretly nerding out. The Wayne brothers are just so cool. Totally the opposite of their dad.

Speak of the devil, Tim, and he appears. Mr. Wayne literally pirouettes in and kisses Jason and Dick messily on their heads. “My boys! My boys! How did I get so lucky, huh?”

Jason pulls away, protesting very loudly, but his ears are red and he looks like he’s trying not to laugh. Dick stands up and dances around the room with Mr. Wayne as they both fawn over each other. It’s utterly ridiculous and Tim’s stomach is doing that weird swooping thing again that he can’t figure out.

“Jace, please go change and get your bag. Dickie, can you help me check the oil and gas levels before we leave? Doing good, there, Timothy? We’ll head out in about ten minutes. I already sent your nanny an email and let her know we’d be responsible for you this weekend.” Mr. Wayne says this as if it doesn’t completely derail all of Tim’s plans. He could go into the account and delete the email, but the fact of the matter is now the Waynes are one hundred percent going to be suspected if Tim goes “drowning” this weekend. Tim almost groans out loud—fake dying shouldn’t be this hard.

Mr. Pennyworth ropes him into packing up all the food and bringing it out to the TyrannosauR-V. (When Tim shyly shares this nickname with Jason, the older boy cackles and tells Mr. Wayne that Tim is the only person in charge of naming things in the future. Tim can’t imagine what else Mr. Wayne is buying that needs naming, but Dick furiously agrees.)

About thirty minutes later, and a couple of false starts (“Da-ad, you don’t need to take a whole backdrop and spotlight for pictures.” “But the park never has the right lighting!”), the Wayne boys plus Tim are on the road. Tim longingly looks out the RV window as they drive by Drake Manor, and as he sinks into the ridiculously comfy reclining sofa in the back of the camper, he tries to figure out what to do.

“Ok, kiddos, Wayne road trip rules apply: pass the playlist around and add up to five songs. Keep ‘em clean, boys.” Mr. Wayne gives his phone to Dick who walks it back to Jason and Tim. Tim, who listens to True Crime podcasts and the occasional New Scientific update show out of Metropolis, defers his turn to Jason.

They settle in, and Jason hands Tim a Switch controller for Mario Kart.

“So, Timbo, we haven’t talked in awhile. Got any tips lately? Follow any bats? Take any pictures?” Jason waggles his eyebrows, but pauses the game when he realizes Tim isn’t responding with his typical energy.

Tim picks at some invisible lint on the couch and tries to sound unbothered. He thinks he succeeds. “Oh, that. Yeah, I’m kind of over that. It was kind of a stupid kid hobby anyway. I’ve moved on.”

Jason gasps. “What? Stupid kid hobby? Who told you that? I’ll fight them.”

“Jason.” Mr. Wayne sounds amused from up front. He’s singing along to Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean and Dick is acting out the choreography.

“What? I will! No one tells Timbert that he’s uncool on my watch. Who was it, bud?”

“It was Robin.” Tim mumbles. “It’s not a big deal or anything.”

The RV is quiet. MJ slides in with a “this kid is not my son” and Jason, weirdly, looks gutted.

“Oh.”

from: [emailprotected]

to: [emailprotected]

Mr. and Mrs. Drake,

Everything is fine here. You are perfect parents and really care about your son which is why you hired me to take care of him. Unfortunately, my thyroid began acting up so I sent Timothy ahead to camp in the woods (Cheesequake State Park) this weekend as he asked me to. I’ll check in with you later.

Sincerely,

The Nanny

(scheduled email written 12 hours ago provided by schedly.com, a free Gotham app. to have your emails sent without this message, subscribe for a small monthly fee of 9.99)

from: [emailprotected]

to: [emailprotected]

The Nanny,

Timothy informed me that he would not be meeting up with his friend Stuart this weekend. What’s Stuart’s loss is the Wayne Family’s gain. We’ve asked Timothy to join us this weekend and are looking forward to spending this time together. Remember, if you need anything at all, text or call me at 908*878*0078. In the meantime, I, Bruce Wayne, take full responsibility of Timothy and his well-being this entire weekend. Have a good weekend and take care of that thyroid.

Sincerely,

Bruce Wayne

from: [emailprotected]

to: [emailprotected]

Dear Batman,

I wanted to thank you for everything you have done for me and Gotham. I really, really, really appreciated it. It made me feel good when you made me that chocolate milk and took care of my hands and saved me from the Fear Toxin and talked to me about The Mad Hatter. Unfortunately, I will no longer be able to provide you with ground support or give any more information to you. I am moving to Canada tomorrow. Tell Robin hi for me. If you see Nightwing, tell him hi too. His costume is really cool.

Thank you again.

Sincerely,

Your Partner (Tim Drake)

Chapter 4: Friday Nights are for Camping

Chapter Text

Jason is in a weird mood for the rest of the drive, hovering over Tim like he’s breakable or something and sulk-eating M&Ms by the fistful. At one point, Dick whispers something sharply to him, but Tim can’t hear what he says over Mr. Wayne belting out “Every Breath You Take” by The Police.

Tim, uncomfortable with whatever it is going on, pretends to read a book that Jason hands to him in the middle of his strange freak out (“I saw it in the bookstore and thought about you, Timbo.”). He doesn’t absorb much of Reynie Muldoon’s story, though, since he’s really trying hard to come up with a new plan.

The thing is he can’t just let one tiny setback stop him. That would be pathetic. Gosh. If Batman knew he just…stopped all his plans because Brucie Wayne was too dumb to take a hint, he’d be so disappointed.

Besides, mama raised no quitter. (Technically, Tim’s mama didn’t raise him at all. He did have a nanny for about five years, then a live-in housekeeper for about two, and then a weird housekeeper/babysitter hybrid for half a year, but ever since he was a solid 8, Tim’s been a solo act. Tim remembers asking when he turned nine if he was finally old enough to accompany his parents on their excursions. It’s the only time he’s seen them laugh sans alcohol, and the smiles they gave as they told him he was a “riot, son, honestly,” fueled him for weeks.)

Tim wonders if he’s going about this the wrong way. Honestly, the Waynes can just tell the truth: Oh, yes, Mr. Officer, we did take our neighbor camping but he was a handful and we turned our backs for one minute, and he was gone. Please, when you take my picture, make sure to get my good side. This is probably really uncharitable towards Mr. Wayne, though, because the guy’s been nothing but kind to Tim. The thing is, Bruce Wayne would literally treat a potato like this—he’s known around town for giving fistfuls of money to anyone who asks. There’s a legendary tale among locals about the time Mr. Wayne wandered into this lady’s wedding, thinking it was a free cake tasting. He eats the cake, accidentally interrupts the ceremony, and totally trips and falls and beans the groom in the head. Later, it came out that the groom was cheating on the bride with one of Mr. Wayne’s employees. He paid for the woman’s college education, recouped all the money she spent on the wedding, fired the cheating employee, and bought a house for the woman’s ailing mother. All on a whim! Of course he would invite Tim camping with them—he doesn’t say no to anything.

This is fine, this is a plan. Tim will just adjust the emails when he gets to Canada. Honestly, Cheesequake State Park is super close to New York and New York is kinda close to Maine and Maine is next-door neighbors with Canada, so the Waynes are helping him out, really. They’re getting him closer to his goal.

“Timmy, whatcha thinking about so hard? You’re gonna hurt your brain.” Dick ruffles Tim’s hair and joins him on the couch. Jason is sitting up at the front of the RV with Mr. Wayne and they’re talking in low voices.

“Nothing.” Tim always feels so small next to Dick—he’s the kind of son his parents would have loved: successful, charismatic, brilliant, athletic. Tim grew up watching Dick at parties charm all the men and women—his parents included—and in his dreams, he always imagined what it would be like to have a brother like Dick. He went through a very embarrassing stage when he was six where he’d pretend Stuart was Dick and he’d tell his stuffed duck about all of his problems and Stuart-as-Dick would respond with circus-related advice. Life under the big top, Timmy, is fine as long as you can clown around. It made more sense in his head.

“Well, you know if you did have a problem, you can talk to me about it. I’m very good at helping people figure things out.” He’d have to be with a dad like Bruce Wayne, Tim thinks. That guy probably needs all the help he can get. Dick stretches out on the couch and gestures to the window. Trees are getting thicker the longer they’re away from Gotham—Mr. Wayne said they were an hour away about thirty minutes ago. “Have you ever been camping before, Timmy, or is this your first time?”

Tim got locked out of his house last year when he talked back to his dad. He slept in the shed where the riding lawn mower was kept and covered himself with old paint tarps. He pretended he was going on a grand adventure somewhere in Africa and had to hide away from bandits until sunrise. Tim doubts that’s the kind of camping Dick is asking about.

“No, this is my first time.” Tim wonders if he is cursed to be awkward for the rest of his life. Honestly, this is why the Canada plan is flawless. He can be a new person. A better person. Maybe he’ll call himself Chase. That sounds like the name of a cool, independent guy.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t meet up with your friend this weekend. Where’d you meet him?”

“The mall.” Tim got him from a claw machine at Dave and Buster’s when he was four. His nanny had forgotten him and he spent six hours sitting by the fountain in the middle of the promenade, diving for quarters to get the one stuffed duck dressed like Batman. His parents let him keep it if he promised not to tell anyone what happened.

“Cool cool cool. How’s school going? You go to Bristol Elementary, right? 5th grade? Bruce sent me there for 4th-6th before I went to Gotham Academy. Hey, is Old Lady Gray still the secretary there?”

“Old Lady” Gray is the reason Tim got away with his hybrid-“homeschooling” plot—he loves Old Lady Gray just for that alone. He nods vigorously. “Oh yeah. Did she smell like—“

“French onion soup?” Dick completes with a laugh. “Absolutely.”

Tim shyly continues, “I’m actually in 6th grade, but I’m doing some dual-enrollment courses too. My parents want me to graduate at sixteen.”

Dick raises an eyebrow and whistles lowly. “Wowzers, Timbo. That’s impressive. Why the rush, bud?”

Emancipation.

His parents actually told him they’d prefer it at fourteen, but if they couldn’t find a judge to bribe to sign off on it, they’d have to do it above board. Being graduated early was a good first step. (Canada ended up being a better first step, so suck that Jack and Janet. Five years early, too!)

“Oh, just business stuff. I’m sure you know how it is.” Tim gestures to Mr. Wayne who is now singing “Welcome to the Black Parade” at Jason, who looks like he’s trying not to smile.

Dick frowns, though, and shakes his head. “Nah, B has always been pretty chill about school. He wants us to do our best, of course, but told us not to rush being a kid.”

“Pretty easy to say when he acts like a kid to begin with.” Tim is surprised at how snarky that actually sounded. He wonders if there’s a reason for the hot, sick feeling marinating in his body. Again, if he had to put a name on it, it would be jealousy, but that just makes no sense to him.

Dick doesn’t look offended, thank Superman, just thoughtful. “I mean, B can be silly sometimes, but when it comes down to it, he’ll have your back. You just got to get to know him better. We’re neighbors, Timmy, and we barely see each other. Maybe after this weekend, we can plan on something more regular. What do you think of that?”

Tim thinks he would have loved that a year ago. Tim thinks there’s no way he can take Dick up on it now. Not after what happened Wednesday. Not after faking his death hopefully tomorrow.

Wednesday started out normal enough. His hands had finally healed to the point they didn’t hurt every time he picked something up, and he had emailed Batman another promise not to go out alone. (What Batman didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—Tim was currently investigating a tri-fold plot he had overheard whereupon the Riddler, Scarecrow, and the Joker were planning to infiltrate local fro-yo establishments and create an army of mind-controlled children to rise up and defeat Batman. Batman’s known soft spot for kids and Nightwing’s known lactose-intolerance and Robin’s known avoidance of the Joker, made this a devastatingly dangerous scheme. Tim has everything he needed to put the final nail in the coffin and send all his information to Batman—he just needed evidence in the form of a yogurt sample. To get that, he had to go to Gotham without Batman seeing him.)

He woke up fairly optimistic, until he sat down with his computer at the breakfast table. Eating a spoonful of marshmallow fluff and peanut butter, he scanned his email and read what his dad had sent him overnight.

to: [emailprotected]

from: [emailprotected]

Timothy,

Your school contacted your mother and I after a “concerned party” asked after your well-being. Apparently, this individual saw you wandering around town like some sort of vagrant when you should have been in class. I don’t know what the hell you are doing over there and I don’t particularly care, but if you embarrass us like that again, our deal will be off and you’ll be in military school faster than you can blink.

You are a disgrace. Get yourself together.

Jack Drake,

CEO Drake Industries

Tim felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had been so careful. Then, for reasons unknown, this past week everything felt like it was falling apart. HIs dorky neighbor coming and checking on him, Batman telling him not to go out by himself—even Col. Binkley was getting weirdly hover-y for some reason. He and his parents had a deal (signed a contract and everything) that he could live by himself if he behaved himself (i.e. stayed out of the way so his parents could forget they had a kid). If he stepped out of line, they would send him to South Union Preparatory Academy, a well-known military school for “troubled” boys. Dateline did an expose on it several years ago, but some creative funding and legal loopholes ensured it was still up and running. Tim was terrified. He had hacked into their records—last year alone, ten boys went missing. It was an effective threat, and Jack used it every time he was frustrated with Tim.

Closing his laptop with a sigh, Tim banged his head two times on the counter. Then he got dressed. The thing was, he just had to solve this case—maybe he could figure out what he’d do about his dad later. Gotham kids were in trouble now and this was the only thing Tim was good for.

Six hours later, Tim was cursing Gotham, Gotham kids, frozen yogurt, the Joker, the Riddler, Scarecrow, Batman, and himself all in that order. His hair was dripping in chocolate swirl and Batman was quietly talking to the Commissioner outside. Tim’s nose was bloody and Robin, who was still shaking from his interaction with the Joker, practically threw his camera at him.

“Get a new hobby, kid.”

“Robin.”

Batman called him over and Robin held up a finger in Tim’s face.

“Stay. There.”

Tim was gone and on a bus home in thirty seconds flat.

“We’re here, boys!” Mr. Wayne saves Tim from having to answer Dick. He’s surprised Mr. Wayne found a big enough campsite to park the monstrosity of a vehicle they were in, but where there’s a will, there’s a way, he guesses.

Dick grabs the hiking packs, and Jason grabs the coolers, and Mr. Wayne carries the tents. Tim has his backpack and is carrying the fishing pole Mr. Wayne thrust into his hand. Like they’re walking some Parisian fashion show runway, the Wayne boys and Mr. Wayne lead the way down the trail, Tim following, feeling awkward and ugly and entirely out of his element.

It’s about 5:30, and the setting sun is casting red streaks through the sky.

“Let’s get our tents set up and the fire pit started. Alfie packed hotdogs and we have chips and carrots and s'mores for dessert. Tomorrow, we’ll go fishing for our lunch!” Mr. Wayne practically squeals, scaring some birds from the tree branches above.

“So, Timberlina,” Jason calls over his back, “know any good scary stories for the campfire?”

“Um, maybe.” Tim knows tons. He lives for horror. He wants a tattoo of George Romero’s “Night of the Living Dead” on his back when he gets older. He wonders if that’s too nerdy to say to Jason.

Ah, fudge. He’ll do it. He’s not seeing these guys after tomorrow anyway. It’s not like they’ll make fun of him to his face.

Tim clears his throat, as Mr. Wayne waves them over to their campsite. Dick throws down the packs and they get to working on building the tents. Jason is waiting patiently for Tim to talk, having noticed he was about to say something.

“My, um, favorite genre is horror. Like old horror movies. And video games and comics, but I…um…really like the movies.” Jason is nodding and listening like Tim is saying something really important. It’s unnerving but also makes Tim blush a little. “I know it’s not, um, normal, but ever since I was really little, it was really comforting to me.”

Jason scoffs. “Normal? Sheesh, who said we have to be normal? It’s vastly overrated, you know, Timbo. I think that’s very, very cool. Did you know Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein after telling ghost stories with her friends? You’re in good company, bud.”

“Did you know Boris Karloff played Frankenstein’s monster in the 1931 movie? They made him walk under a veil from makeup to the set in order not scare all the secretaries in the movie studios. Which, now that I think about it, is kind of a really sexist thing to say, but it was 1931, and maybe people didn’t know about that back then. It took 3 ½ hours to put on his makeup and 2 hours to take it off. After the movie came out, studios received tons of letters from people offering to be the monster’s friend because they felt bad for him. I don’t know if they felt bad for Boris Karloff himself, or if Boris Karloff played it so well they thought the monster was real, but later, he said it was the most moving and humbling experience of his life.” Tim takes a breath, and then realizes, with no small amount of horror, that Jason, Dick, and Mr. Wayne have all stopped to listen to him. They’re all smiling, Dick with his eyebrows raised, Jason with something kind of triumphant in his eyes, and Mr. Wayne in a much softer way than Tim had ever seen from him before.

“Oh, gosh. I’m so, so sorry. I know I talk too much. It’s so annoying, god, I’m so sorry.” Tim apologizes and tries to remember what his mom and dad have said about being a good guest. He straightens his back (he was slouching like a slob) and smiles at his hosts who are now frowning. “How can I help?”

Mr. Wayne shakes his head minutely at Jason who looks like he’s about to say something, and says jovially, “What a sweet offer, Timothy, but the boys got it. It’s almost dark, so would you like to help me look for materials for our campfire?”

“Sure.” Tim’s happy to escape the awkward situation, and Mr. Wayne seems like the kind of guy who will need an eye kept on him at all times or he’ll fall into a ditch and die.

“So, the type of tree determines what kind of wood you get for a fire. Maple trees, for example, give wood that makes your fire burn a long time and really hot. Birch will burn quickly but it makes a really happy fire. There’s mostly pine trees here. That’s good, because we can use the pine needles for tinder. Then we need to collect small branches for the kindling. I cheated with the wood and brought my own. I love cherry wood because it’ll make any fish we catch taste so good.” Mr. Wayne talks to Tim as they walk around the trees. Tim can hear Jason and Dick bickering from the campsite.

“I’ve never been fishing before.” Tim says. He bends down and collects several pine needles.

“There you go, grab some more of those, good job, kiddo. That’s ok. Jason thinks it’s boring. Dickie can do it for about five minutes before he starts singing and scares the fish. I like it because it gives me time to think about things. If I have a challenge at work or if I’m trying to make a really important decision, it always seems to come easier after a few hours of fishing.” Tim’s surprised because Mr. Wayne doesn’t seem like the kind of person who thought about things. He always struck him as a go-and-do-right-away type of person.

“That seems nice.” Tim says softly.

“Yeah? Do you have any place you like to go to think about important decisions?” Mr. Wayne is methodically gathering sticks to the left of Tim.

“Gargoyles.” Mr. Wayne hums interestedly, so Tim continues. “I, I like sitting on by the gargoyles on top of Gotham’s buildings. Your building is actually my favorite.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“You have this one gargoyle that has a stone hat and his arms are crossed and he’s easy to climb into. From his lap, when you look out, you can see all of Gotham. It’s especially beautiful during Christmas when everyone puts up lights.”

“Yes, I love Christmas lights. Seems like it might get icy or slippery at that time, though. And cold.” Mr. Wayne’s manner is mild and calm. He is still gathering sticks and not looking at Tim at all. This makes it easy for Tim to talk, and he laughs a little bit.

“Oh yeah. One time I swear I almost fell right off—I hadn’t bought new boots in a long time so the ones I were wearing were a little small and the tread was all shredded—it was like I was wearing ice skates. But that gargoyle’s right by your building’s heater vent and it’s so warm and cozy. It’s the perfect place to spend Christmas Eve.”

“Not with your family?”

Tim snorts and a few pine needles float down to the ground. “Yeah right.”

“Yeah right...” Mr. Wayne repeats under his breath. He then straightens up from the crouch he was in with an arm full of sticks. “Okay, buckaroo, this looks great. Let’s get this back to the boys before we get lost out here.”

Tim and Mr. Wayne enter back into the campsite. Jason and Dick have set up two large tents (“Timbo, you and I can take that one and dickhe*d and B can have the other”), and are sword-fighting with marshmallows on sticks.

Mr. Wayne (“Seriously, Timothy, please call me Bruce,”) shows Tim how to start a campfire and before long, they find themselves eating hot dogs and chips. Jason shows Tim how to make the perfect roasted marshmallow and Dick shows Tim how to burn them (“They taste better that way, Timmy,” “No, Dickforbrains is being stupid. You’ll give yourself cancer. DON’T EAT THAT TIMBO.”). After their fill of hot dogs and marshmallows and chocolate, they sit around the fire and Jason goads Tim into telling a story. Mr. Wayne has changed into silk pajamas and is wearing a fur sleep mask on his head like a headband, and Dick is sneakily taking pictures of him on his phone and snickering.

Jason hands Tim a flashlight and Tim smiles,

“Submitted for the approval of The Midnight Society, I call this story, Terror at Fro-Yo Mountain …”

Tim falls asleep after midnight to Jason’s snores and Mr. Wayne sitting by the campfire, strumming his guitar and softly singing Billy Joel’s Vienna.

from: [emailprotected]

to: [emailprotected]

Mr. and Mrs. Drake,

Timothy made it safe and sound to the campsite. My thyroid is hurting and I’m feeling kind of tired so I told him I would be out of contact for a little bit. It’s ok because he’s assured me he’s seen Survivor and knows how to take care of himself.

Sincerely,

The Nanny

(scheduled email written 17 hours ago provided by schedly.com, a free Gotham app. to have your emails sent without this message, subscribe for a small monthly fee of 9.99)

From: [emailprotected]

To: [emailprotected]

Mr. Drake,

As per my lawyers’ last correspondence, you have yet to respond to their request for proof of the long-term arrangements you have made for Tim. I am more than happy to keep this “out of the system” as you so professionally requested last week, but I am a fairly forgetful man. Sometimes I just don’t remember what I was or wasn’t supposed to say. Attached to this email are the documents you will need to sign to quietly transfer custody over to me—if you would like to return from your amateur treasure-hunting to take me to court over this, instead, I will be more than happy to engage. I have an interview scheduled with Vicky Vale next Tuesday, so it will have to be after that.

It’s a shame we couldn’t talk about this over the golf course, neighbor. I’m sure it would have been a very enlightening conversation.

Bruce Wayne

CEO Wayne Enterprises

Chapter 5: Saturdays are for Dying

Chapter Text

Tim wakes briefly in the middle of the night to sharp voices outside his tent. It sounds like Mr. Wayne and Dick, but all Tim can make out is snippets of phrases: “...tell him…” and “...not yet…” and he’s pretty sure “...lawyers...adoption….” Tim has no idea why Mr. Wayne would get into an argument with his adult son at 3 AM on a weekend camping trip. Before falling back to sleep, he really hopes it’s not another exotic pet situation.

Mr. Wayne dominated the news cycle a few years ago after trying to keep a crocodile in his bathtub. No one ever saw it before the GCPD made him get rid of it, but he had the most gnarly bites on his arm. He tried to say it was from falling on a rock climbing adventure in Colorado, but Vicky Vale overheard Jason say something about “that freaking killer croc” at one of Mr. Wayne’s galas, and the press went wild. Mr. Wayne had to donate $1.5 million to the Zoo and Conservation Foundation of Gotham, and appear in two public service announcements about the dangers of keeping wildlife as pets.

Tim falls back asleep quickly as Jason rolls over and practically smushes against his side. Jason is much warmer than Stuart has ever been, and Tim tries not to let out a contented sigh. He quickly forgets about whatever Dick and Mr. Wayne got going on and falls back asleep.

Birds are chirping and a warm light is illuminating the tent the next time Tim wakes up. Jason has already left, so Tim digs through his backpack to change clothes. He takes a quick inventory of everything he has, checking that Stuart is still stuffed at the bottom of his bag, and zips it back up.

Today is the day, and Tim needs to figure a lot of things out before the sun goes down. The Waynes parked the TyrannosauR-V in a parking lot at the front of the trailhead—and he saw several other campers and one huge tour bus that said “Mayflower Land Touring”. There was also a city bus stop at the front of the park entrance, near the general store where Mr. Wayne picked up several camping supplies when they first entered.

The problem, Tim thinks, is finding a way to ditch the Waynes, get on a bus, and disappear without them finding him. They need to think he drowned or got eaten by a bear or something. Tim’s just a little worried that with as weird as Mr. Wayne’s been, he won’t just let him walk away. He checks his phone and makes sure his emails are still running. Batman apparently sent him an email overnight, responding to his goodbye, but before Tim can read it, Jason zips open the tent and yanks him out.

“TIMBERLINA! You’re awake! dickhe*d made us bacon buddies! Buddy, if you haven’t had bacon buddies, you are in for a treat!”

Tim sputters out a no before he stumbles over to the campfire. Whatever Mr. Wayne and Dick had going on last night must have been resolved because Mr. Wayne is leaning over Dick’s shoulder watching him cook like it’s the most fascinating and special thing in the world and Dick is smiling. Tim once made an epic sandwich out of crackers, sugar, cinnamon, butter, and turkey (he had forgotten to put in the weekly grocery order and his parents only allowed him access to it on Saturdays: “Timothy, please, you’re not a goat or a glutton, and you don’t need to be ordering food all the time like one,” so his pantry was getting pretty low) and he wonders briefly if Mr. Wayne had seen it, if he would have been as proud as he was with Dick. Tim then calls himself an idiot because, honestly? That’s like Hannibal Lecter kinds of weird, pretending that Mr. Wayne is like some kind of dad to him or something. Mr. Wayne is his neighbor—he couldn’t care less what a strange kid made for dinner one night.

“Timmy, good morning! How’d you sleep?” Dick waves around the cast iron skillet he’s holding over the fire and Jason yelps as grease splatters close to his shoe.

‘Watch it, Dick! God!”

“Sorry, little wing.” Tim’s eyebrows raise at the weird nickname but no one seems to clock it. Dick smiles apologetically and gestures at the camping chair next to him for Tim to sit down. He shows him the pan. “Alfred made them for me when I was a kid. They’re called Bacon Butties in England, but I misunderstood and called them Bacon Buddies. I’ve changed the recipe over the years. Just take bacon and make it real crispy–then put it on your bread, I’ve buttered it. I like BBQ sauce on mine, Jason puts ketchup on his, and Alfie and B are purists with HP sauce. I brought everything so you can try it.” Dick hands Tim a plate with the largest bacon sandwich he’s ever seen in his life.

Mr. Wayne chuckles and takes the pan from Dick to fry up some bacon for himself and Jason. He ruffles Tim’s hair on his way around the campfire.

“So, chums, today is supposed to be a gorgeous day until about 5 or so. A storm is going to blow in tonight, so I think we need to sleep in the Minnow,” Jason shouts TyrranosauR-V!, “tonight and then we can head home tomorrow. What do you want to do?”

“Hike!” “S’mores!” Both Dick and Jason speak over each other while Mr. Wayne continues, “I was thinking we could fish for a few hours,” Jason groans and Dick rolls his eyes, “but, if you boys don’t want to, we don’t have to.” He makes his eyes wide and puts his hands together like he’s begging. Tim tries to hide a smile. Mr. Wayne winks at him.

“C’monnnnnnnnn, B. No one wants to spend hours just sitting quietly on a rickety ass,” language, son, “rickety-butt little boat.” Jason talks with his mouth full, bacon flying everywhere. Dick scrunches his nose in disgust but nods. “You won’t even let me SING. It’s a tragedy.”

“Ok, if you’re sure?” Mr. Wayne begins, but Tim clears his throat.

“I…I wouldn’t mind fishing if you wanted to go.” He offers it like a question and keeps looking at his plate. Everyone’s quiet for a second, and then Mr. Wayne practically squeals. “YES, Timothy, I knew you were smart,” and that makes Tim blush, “Ok, boys, you do your thing and Timothy and I will go fishing.” He looks at Jason and Dick severely, “You can put everything in the RV, but you can NOT drive it around. We don’t want a repeat of Groundhog Day last year.” The three shudder in unison. He gestures at Tim’s plate, which he was nibbling due to his stomach doing flip-flops. “Eat up, lad, you need your energy.” Tim surreptitiously takes the ketchup bottle and puts it in his backpack. He's considering pouring it over his shirt to make it look like he's been eaten by the local wildlife.

Tim feels like an absolute heel, but running away from Brucie Wayne will be so much easier than Jason and Dick. He would feel bad about tricking him into it, but his main email goes out tonight, and he needs to be making his way to Canada to match up with the timing. It will be a lot harder to back date everything, especially since he’ll be busy figuring out where to live. (Tim realizes, with a stab of panic that he quickly pushes down, that he hasn’t thought past the “get to Canada” part, and kind-of, sort-of hopes that the “get-mauled-by-a-bear” or “drown-dramatically” part happens for real because he may be just a little overwhelmed right now.)

Tim finishes half of his bacon buddy and Mr. Wayne hands him his fishing pole.

“The lake is just a half a mile up this trailhead. There’s a tackle shop and boat rental we can use. If you want, you can leave your bag with the boys. They’ll take care of it and that way you won’t have to carry a lot.”

“Oh, no, that’s ok. I’d like to carry it please.” Tim panics internally, but Mr. Wayne just nods as if it’s perfectly normal to want to take a huge hiking backpack into a fishing excursion.

“Sure thing, sport.” He jumps up and kisses Dick and Jason on their heads. “I mean it boys, stay out of trouble.”

“Aye aye, Skipper.” Dick salutes Mr. Wayne and Jason falls over laughing.

Tim and Mr. Wayne start walking down the trail, passing a wooden sign marked, “Lake this way.”

“So, you’ve never been fishing before, right, Timothy?” Tim shakes his head and Mr. Wayne hums. “I never went until I was about your age either. Alfie actually took me for my first time.”

“You never went with your dad?” Crap. Shoot. That was such an insensitive thing to say. Abort. What idiot asks the most famous orphan in the world about his parents? “Never mind, I’m sorry.”

“For what, kiddo? I like when you ask me questions. They’re good questions, bud. No, my father wasn’t the outdoors kind of person. He liked libraries and operas.”

“Yeah…my dad doesn’t like the outdoors that much either.”

“But he’s an archaeologist, right?”

“Oh that outdoors stuff he likes. You know, grown up things. He doesn’t like the outdoors like camping or fishing or skateboarding or parks or fairs or baseball games or those kinds of things. Says they’re filled with the unwashed masses and a good example of why governments should help natural selection along, whatever that means.”

Mr. Wayne looks over at Tim consideringly. “What do you think?”

“Oh. Um. I…I’ve been having a lot of fun, Mr. Wayne.” He really has. He’s going to miss this, he thinks.

Mr. Wayne smiles, “Call me Bruce, Timothy. Ok, up through here should be the tackle and boat shop I was talking about. Ah, yes. Here we go.” Mr. Wayne holds out a hand to help Tim over a really big root in the middle of the trail. In front of them is a small boat shop with a dock next to it. An old wooden sign that says ACKLE and BAI in large letters hangs above the dock. The Ts are missing. “Let’s go in and get set up.”

A bell rings on the door as Tim and Mr. Wayne walk into the shop. It’s deserted and extremely packed—some items are caked in dust and Tim is pretty sure he sees mouse droppings in the corner. Mr. Wayne has a hundred watt smile and waves to the old man at the counter.

“GOOD SIR, Hello, we’d like to rent one of your small motorboats and get some bait. I was in the Maldives last June, and they had the most delectable choice of gold-flaked worms. I swear the fish I caught were so much bigger. You don’t happen to have some here, do you, my good man?” Tim rolls his eyes to himself, but something about Mr. Wayne’s typical song-and-dance doesn’t annoy him today as much as it usually does. It could be the warm feeling bubbling in his gut as Mr. Wayne guides him around the shop with a hand on his back.

“Bruce Thomas Wayne, I don’t care how rich you are, how many times have I told ya that ya can’t put gold flakes on yer bait? C’mere you menace.” The man grabs a wooden cane leaning against the cash register and stands up slowly. Mr. Wayne gingerly pats him on the back as they hug, and Tim steps back when the old man pierces him with a look.

“And who is this one, Junior? One of yer boys?” Tim’s about to correct him, but Mr. Wayne nods and smiles.

“Yeah, Freddy, he’s mine. This is Timothy. Timothy, this is Fred Holt. He’s owned this store since I was a kid.”

“Before you were even born, Junior. Tell that father of yours to get his British patootie here soon, before I croak.” Tim chokes on a laugh, and Mr. Holt slaps a tacklebox on the counter. “Everything you boys need. Try to come in early, they're predicting a squall. Here’s the key to the red Exhilarator out back. She’s ready to go when ya are. Have fun, boys.”

Mr. Wayne walks Tim down the dock and they get all their gear in the back seat of the small motorboat.

“The sound will scare the fish, but when we get in the right place, we can eat a snack and wait a little bit before putting our lines in.”

Mr. Wayne helps Tim into his life jacket (“Here, let me zip it up, sport, like I always say, safety’s cool.”) and then into the front passenger seat. Mr. Wayne jumps into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. They take a short, bouncy ride to the center of the lake and then Mr. Wayne turns everything off. There are only a few clouds overhead. Mr. Wayne leans over and begins putting something on Tim’s face.

“SPF 150. I’ve set an alarm to remind us to reapply in two hours, but if you want some before that, just let me know, ok, kiddo?” Tim nods, scrunching his face up. He’s never worn sunscreen before and it is making his eyes water a little bit.

The combination of the sun and the bobbing and the quiet have Tim struggling to keep his head from laying on his bulky life jacket and closing his eyes. Mr. Wayne is messing with the tacklebox and counting the bait and types of bait. He notices Tim’s sleepiness and waves a hand. “Go ahead, we probably won’t be ready for about twenty minutes. This is the best place to nap. I’ll keep watch.”

Tim drifts.

He wakes up to the swish of a fishing pole and the sound of water lapping the side of the boat. Mr. Wayne smiles at him.

“I took the liberty of putting the bait on your lure. If you’re ready, bud, here’s how you can cast.”

Tim follows Mr. Wayne’s instructions easily and after a couple of false starts (Tim accidentally catches his hook in Mr. Wayne’s hat), he gets his fishing pole set up. He and Mr. Wayne are sitting side-by-side, and Tim feels utterly and completely relaxed. It’s the first time in a really long time his brain feels quiet and Tim sighs contentedly.

“This is nice.”

“Yeah, kiddo? I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I’m glad you’re with me today. Dick and Jason are missing out.”

“They really are.” Tim feels so relaxed he’s not even watching what he’s saying. “I don’t understand, if I had a dad like you, I’d never want to spend time apart.”

“Thanks, bud. That means a lot. Anyone would be lucky to have a kid like you.”

Tim snorts loudly. “Yeah, right, Mr. Wayne. Why would they? My dad can’t wait to get away from me.” Tim says the rest under his breath, “If I had a kid like me, I’d want to get away too, I guess.”

Mr. Wayne looks like he’s about to respond, but his fishing pole starts to pull.

“Timothy.” Mr. Wayne hisses excitedly. “Watch this. Oh, she’s going to be a big one, I can tell. Watch me, Timothy, watch how I do it.”

Tim wishes he has his camera for what happens next. Mr. Wayne reels in the line and stands with one foot on the edge of the boat trying to keep everything steady. It’s about ten minutes of reeling and unreeling and moving with the fishing pole, but eventually, he flicks the pole forward, then backward and a huge, slippery thing smacks him in the face.

Tim cracks up. He literally can’t stop laughing. It’s so improper, but he snorts through his nose. Mr. Wayne’s making sputtering sounds and the fish is flopping in the boat so hard it flops right back into the water. This sends Tim into another fit of giggles. His stomach hurts from laughing so badly, his shoulders are shaking, and eventually, he hears Mr. Wayne laughing too.

“Well, partner, that didn’t go quite as I planned it.”

Tim freezes.

“BATMAN. Whoa. Are you ok?” Tim ran over to the man caked in Poison Ivy’s Truth pollen. It was a bright teal color which was how Tim was able to tell it was not her Cuddle pollen (crimson) or her Itching pollen (indigo). Tim was very grateful she took his suggestion for color-coding her pollen based on effects. She probably still felt bad about that one time he got trapped in her lifesize Venus flytrap for six hours. She didn’t find him until the next morning when she was watering her garden.

“Tim! My man! What’s hanging? Besides me, of course.” Uh oh. Batman on truth pollen was not a good combination. Tim pressed Batman’s panic button and hoped Nightwing or Robin would get to him soon.

“Don’t worry, Batman, I got you.” Batman smiled, which looked very, very unnerving. Tim shuddered. “Of course you do, Tim. You’re the best. The absolute best. Anyone would be lucky to know you.”

“Ok, take my hand…oof…there you go. Batman, what happened?’

“Tim, what time is it? You are out way too late. Babies have to sleep for twelve hours, at least, that’s what Agent A told me. You know, Tim, maybe you need to come home with me so I can make sure you get some sleep.”

“Batman, pay attention. I just pushed your panic button. What were you trying to do?” Batman fell to the ground and patted the concrete next to him, gesturing for Tim to sit. Tim pressed the panic button again.

“Poison Ivy shouldn’t play with plants around children. Don’t you agree, Tim? We should tell her. Together. We should tell her together.” Tim covered his mouth so it didn’t seem like he was laughing at Batman. Batman tried to stand up and somehow ended up upside down in a dumpster. Nightwing had to fish him out while Robin took pictures. As Nightwing buckled him in the Batmobile he gave a peace sign to Tim.

“Well partner, that didn’t go quite as I planned it. Go to bed, little baby child.”

Realization slams into Tim with all the force of The Flash running into a wall.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. There’s no way. Tim wonders what his face is doing, but Mr. Wayne doesn’t notice as he tosses his line back in, still chuckling to himself. Tim feels like his skin is peeling off of him, his blood is thrumming against his veins, and he wills himself to breathe and act normal. There is no way in heckydarn, it’s impossible, isn’t it? Tim’s actually going crazy to even consider it, Mr. Wayne is an absolute idiot, he’s so stupid, surely, surely it was a coincidence. Batman and Mr. Wayne are both from Gotham, surely they’d have some of the same speech patterns, it’s just science and crap.

But if…if he’s right?

Oh. My. God.

If he’s right, that means. That means.

Even Jason? Dick?

Jesus Christ Jiminy Cricket Taylor Swift Dracula Freddy Kreuger!No. A tsunami wave of shame floods Tim’s whole insides. God, if he’s right, then it’s all been an act. Everything. And he fell for it like some dumb kid. What, is Tim some sort of project to them? A joke? Do they have some sort of superhero charity quota to fill? Take the socially awkward neighbor kid camping because his parents don’t watch him. Tim has told Batman so much. Gosh, he’s told Jason so much. Robin? No. UGH. And he was such a crybaby on the way to the campsite, Jason probably thinks he’s pathetic. bOhOo. rObIn tOlD mE tO gEt a nEw hObBy aNd nOw i aM sAd. Grow up, Tim.

He thought they were partners. Did Batman—Mr. Wayne—even care? Was he just placating him? Tim wishes he would have read the email Batman sent him for clues before coming out here. Mr. Wayne is whistling softly, and Tim shivers from the breeze that has blown in (and the way his brain is moving a hundred miles an hour).

“Cold, chum? It looks like the storm might be blowing in sooner than we thought. Here, take my jacket,” and Mr. Wayne drapes his Gotham Knights bomber jacket over Tim’s shoulders. It swamps him. Tim feels numb.

“Are you ok, kiddo? You look a little pale, are you feeling seasick? Want to wrap up?” Mr. Wayne frets over Tim, hovers over him like a freaking bat, like a traitor, like a jerkface liar McLiar, and Tim promptly leans over the side of the boat and throws up.

“Timothy! Oh no. Here, let it out. That’s right, bud, there you go.” Mr. Wayne engages the motor and ferries them back to the dock. He hands Tim a piece of gum and keeps rubbing his back and Tim absolutely loathes himself for how he leans into it. It’s fake, it’s all fake, he knows it is, and like a needy, stupid kid, he even feels himself tearing up because of how good it feels.

Get it together, man. Sure, you just found out your dumb, helium-headed neighbor is the freaking Batman, and he’s tricking you for some stupid reason, but you’re Timothy Jackson Drake, heir to, well, heir to nothing in a few hours, but still. Tim’s smart. Sure, it would be easier if he were running away from Brucie “I Think Gold Flaked Worms Are Good Fishing Bait” Wayne, but he can run from Batman, too. He has tons of experience running from Batman.

What a stupid idiot dummy he is.

“I…I need to go to the bathroom.” Tim stutters out, surprised he can even manage words right now. Mr. Wayne nods, and points him to the building with the stalls. “Here, want me to hold onto your backpack?”

“NO. Uh. I mean, no. I’ve got it. Thank, thank you, Mr. Wayne.” Tim backs out of Mr. Wayne’s reach.

“Call me Bruce, Timothy. I’ll be inside returning the boat rental. Come get me when you’re done. We may need to hustle to get back to the boys before the heavens open up and drench us. I’ll buy you a Zesti and some crackers to settle your stomach. Don’t worry if you’re not feeling well enough to walk back. I’ll give you a piggyback, ok, sport?” Mr. Wayne gives a soft look to Tim, who nods quickly and heads towards the building labeled “Men.”

Tim waits five minutes inside a stall that smells like sewage, fish, and dirt. He changes his shirt and wads up the one he was wearing in his hands. Mr. Wayne’s jacket is warm and smells like sandalwood and cinnamon. Tim decides that it serves Mr. Wayne right to lose it, and makes the executive decision to keep it. He can afford a new one. The big jerk.

Ok, what to do? Bear mauling or drowning? Now that he knows he’s dealing with Batman, he can’t rely on tricking outright—just slowing him down. What would take Mr. Wayne longer to investigate? A potential drowning or a grisly devouring? Mr. Wayne would probably know that the ketchup was ketchup—Batman’s been around enough blood that he could probably spot the difference immediately. So that plan’s out.

In the end, Tim keeps it simple.

He sacrifices his shoe and the shirt and makes it look like he tripped and fell off the dock. Luckily, no one is around because of the big, black clouds and he can still see Mr. Wayne talking to the Fred in the tackle/boat shop through the window. He puts his shoe on the end of the dock, sticking the shoelace in between a crack in the wood. Then he bunches up the shirt and throws it into the water. It is floating above moss, and caught on a piece of driftwood. Hopefully, that will buy him several hours when Mr. Wayne comes looking for him. They’ll have to check the dock, and maybe, send in divers to see if his body is there.

A crack of thunder startles Tim, and he looks back at the shop. Mr. Wayne is waving a Zesti around and still talking to the old man. Tim counts to five, nods to himself, and starts running back on the trail they took to get to the lake. Rocks and sticks are poking his feet and he tries to hop part of the way with the one shoe he has. Finally, he just takes that shoe off since it was making him lopsided and slowing him down. He leaves it on the trail, under a hastily gathered pile of leaves. He sucks in a breath and runs the rest of the way, stumbling down the trail. Rain starts to hit him on the head at a trickle and then, finally, a downpour, making the trail muddy and slippery.

Tim falls several times, since his backpack is so heavy and awkward as well, and by the time he makes it past the campsite and to the large parking lot filled with trailers and campers and cars and that one tour bus, his jeans are ripped and he has several scrapes on his arms and face.

The TyrranosauR-V is lit up. Tim can see Dick and Jason wrestling over the Switch controller, and for a second, thinks about what would happen if he just…knocked on the door. It’s dark and rainy and the lightning and thunder keep making Tim jump—he’s shivering and hesitates for a second. But then Dick has his phone out and hits Jason in the head while he goes to answer it. A moment passes with Dick holding it to his ear. Both of them stiffen, Dick gesturing to Jason as they both put on raincoats, and Tim realizes he can’t. He’s too embarrassed. He has a good plan. In Canada, he’s going to be Chase, and no one will trick him or ignore him or think he’s a dumb kid who can’t do anything right. He doesn’t need the Waynes or Batman and Robin and Nightwing, he’s got Stuart and he’s got himself. Stuart’s never let him down. Stuart’s never pretended to be his friend for a case.

He turns and weaves through the cars and campers, and ends up in front of the huge tour bus. Mayflower Land Touring is being boarded right now by about sixty adults and children, all speaking French. It’s chaos, because the storm is ramping up and everyone is pushing to get on. Someone says something to Tim, who joins the back of the line, but Tim, whose only experience with French was the French restaurant his parents left him at when he was eight, just shrugs. The college-aged, totally wasted tour guide who is counting the roster at the front does a double take when Tim gets close to him, no doubt shocked by his messy appearance.

Since Tim has seen Home Alone 2, he knows exactly what to do here. His backpack comes flying off his back as he apologizes and says he has his ticket somewhere. It hits the tour guide in the face and all his papers fall into the mud. Tim is apologizing over and over again. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, I was supposed to meet my mom earlier, I’m late, I think she just boarded.”

“Kid, just go.” The guy says exasperatedly. “We’re going to be late.” He begins muttering to himself, “I can’t believe I had to take over for Greg, the idiot decided to break his leg now?, I got things to do Greg, I just can’t take over tours when they’re halfway through or crap like this happens.” Tim smiles and boards the bus, finding an empty row by the bathrooms, where people’s overflow luggage is sitting. A little girl around the age of four is sitting directly in front of him, playing on her IPad. She turns around and waves, her pigtails bouncing with her. “ Bonjour qui êtes-vous?” She says, and he nods.

“Do you know where we’re going?” He whispers–the woman who is sitting next to her is sleeping with an eyemask on. The girl starts chattering, but Tim has no idea what she’s saying. Finally, the lights are dimmed, and the bus begins to move. A bell chimes and the drop down movie screens at each row begin to play a video:

Thank you for riding with Mayflower Land Tours. At Mayflower, we are committed to providing you with an excellent, safe, and unique vacation throughout the northern United States. New Jersey’s Cheesequake Park was our last stop, and we hope you enjoyed all the local flora and fauna that the US has to offer. Now sit back and relax for our six-and-a half hour drive back home to Montreal.”

The video plays again, this time in French, and for the first time in a while, Tim breathes a sigh of relief for things finally going his way. Tim grabs Stuart out of his backpack and checks his phone. He types out some messages to his parents and sends several unknown callers to voicemail. He ignores the flood of text messages he’s started to get, and instead turns his phone all the way off. He curls up, wrapping Mr. Wayne’s coat tighter, and falls asleep to the rain pounding on the window.

To: [emailprotected]

From: [emailprotected]

Tim,

I am very sorry to hear this. You have been such a good partner, and I know Robin and Nightwing will be equally disappointed to hear this news. What precipitated this decision? If you are in any kind of trouble, I can guarantee I have the resources to help. Nothing is so bad that it can't be fixed with a little problem-solving. If you decide to stay, let me know and we can meet up to figure it out. If you manage to leave still, stay in touch. Send me your address right away and I will send you a League communicator that you can use to reach me any time.

It has been an absolute honor working with you,

Batman

From: [emailprotected]

To: [emailprotected]

Mr. and Mrs. Drake,

I am so sorry, but I lost touch with Timothy overnight. I went to investigate like a good nanny would, and unfortunately, I found evidence that he probably drowned in the lake. There was a sandwich wrapper next to the shoreline, so he must have gone swimming without waiting. He got overconfident watching all those Survivors. I don’t want to get in trouble so I’m going to disappear now. I am sorry for your loss. I know you will be devastated because you loved him so much. You are amazing parents and just made a mistake trusting someone with so many thyroid issues.

Sincerely,

The Nanny

(scheduled email written 25 hours ago provided by schedly.com, a free Gotham app. to have your emails sent without this message, subscribe for a small monthly fee of 9.99)

From Tim’s iphone:

Timothy, why have there been two packages left sitting on the porch for the past day? You need to bring them inside.

(read)

Timothy, do not ignore me.

(read)

User name: [emailprotected]

Password: momanddad1

User name: [emailprotected]

Password: thenanny1

If the police ask, I went ahead and wrote all the emails you’ll need. Go ahead and delete this text message, mom. I love you and hope you have a good life. Sincerely, Timothy.

(read)

(mom is typing)

(mom is typing)

(mom is typing)

(this number is no longer in service)

From Tim’s iphone:

User name: [emailprotected]

Password: momanddad1

User name: [emailprotected]

Password: thenanny1

If the police ask, I went ahead and wrote all the emails you’ll need. Go ahead and delete this text message, dad. I love you and hope you have a good life. Sincerely, Timothy.

(unread)

From unknown number (908*878*0078):

Tim, this is Bruce Wayne.

(read)

Where are you?

(read)

Are you ok?

(read)

Can you just respond and let me know you are safe?

(read)

I won’t be mad.

(read)

Call me or text me.

(read)

You can also email me.

(read)

Tim, we’ve called the police, but I would like to know you are safe. Can you call me back?

(read)

Tim, I will have my phone on at all times. It will never be too late to call me. I will never be too busy for you.

(unread)

Tim, I’m giving Dick and Jason your number.

(unread)

If you don’t want to answer for me, please answer them.

(unread)

Please call me back, sweetheart.

(unread)

It’s really important we know you are ok.

(unread)

From unknown number (908*878*0079):

Timmy, are you ok?

(read)

Dad gave me your number.

(unread)

This is Dick.

(unread)

We are worried about you.

(unread)

Call me back, ok?

(unread)

From unknown number (908*878*0080):

TIMANTHA TIMERY TIMBO DRAKE GET YOUR BUTT BACK HERE NOW.

(read)

this is Jason.

(unread)

where r u?

(unread)

seriously, dude, u need to pick up.

(unread)

did your phone die? are u ok?

(unread)

call me back. please. i won’t tell the others, i just need to know you’re safe.

(unread)

Voice message from 908*878*0078:

Tim..I mean, Timothy…sport…this is Bruce Wayne. Your phone is going straight to voicemail, so I’m hoping the battery died. When you get this, call me back. I’m not mad, kiddo, I’m worried. Did something happen earlier today? We can fix it, whatever it is. I need to know you are safe, send me a text or call me as soon as possible. You asked why someone would be lucky to have a kid like you? Because you are an amazing kid who makes the world brighter. You are smart and kind and funny and my family is better off with you in it. Timothy, whatever is going on, whatever you are feeling, let’s talk about it together. I hope you know that you have us in your corner. Everything will be alright. I promise.

Chapter 6: Sundays are for Going Home

Chapter Text

Tim woke up in his bed. It was still dark outside—rain pelted the window and he could hear coyotes howling from the tree-line behind the house. A knocking from a tree branch on his window sounded like the ticking sound of an old clock. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and got out of bed. He was dressed in Robin’s uniform, which was weird, especially because it practically swamped him. The green shorts went past his knees and the cape trailed the floor like the train on a British monarch’s wedding dress. An eerie green light glowed from under the crack below his door, and his breaths became shallower as he approached.

Tim slowly opened his door and found himself facing an impossibly long hallway, filled with green fog. He began walking for hours, minutes, seconds, immediately, forever, until he found another door. Tentatively, he opened it and stepped inside.

He was in his dining room (the formal one that he was usually forbidden from entering upon threat of “not being able to sit for the rest of your teen years, Timothy Jackson”). The room was bathed in candlelight, and Tim saw several figures seated at the table. They turned to look at him when he entered.

His parents were sitting to the left—his mom was dressed like Scarecrow and his dad was wearing makeup like the Joker. Mr. Wayne sat across from them. He was dressed as The Skipper from Gilligan’s Island. Dick and Jason were sitting next to him—Jason had a #1 Tim Fan shirt, complete with foam finger, and Dick was wearing his Flying Grayson’s leotard and eating a bacon sandwich larger than his head. He waved when Tim met his eyes.

At the head of the table, a giant stuffed goose wearing a Batman cowl and cape banged a gavel on his plate three times. In a gravelly voice that sounded exactly like Batman’s he said, “The trial of Timantha Timmers Timmy Drake is now in session. Timothy, you have been charged with being a bad son. The consequences are death by bear. How do you plead?”

“I’m, um…”

His parents interrupted with screeches that sounded like howler monkeys. They banged on the table. “Kill him, eat him, put him in a hole and forget about him forever!” Dick threw a piece of bacon in the air and said, “Look, Timmy! It flips, just like me! You can tell me anything buddy! Look at what I can do!” Jason was cheering on the sidelines something that sounded like “Tim, Tim, he’s our guy! Tim, Tim, it’s all a lie!”

Mr. Wayne raised his hand and Stuart gestured to him. Tim was in a cage and a bear was pouring ketchup all over him, while licking his lips.

“It’s okay, Sport! Here’s a helmet, buddy, you got to be safe when being eaten by bears. Want to go home now, son?”

Mr. Wayne’s face morphed into his dad’s. He had his hand around his arm and was squeezing really hard. They were in the bathroom—fishing poles were in the tub and Mr. Fred was sprinkling gold flakes on gummy worms while Mr. Pennyworth was gagging. His dad was dunking his head in the toilet. “I said clean. Does this look clean to you? Useless. Always useless. What’s the point of you?”

Mr. Wayne was flying in air on a T-Rex. “C’mon, Timothy, we’ve got to go partner.”

Partner…

Partner…

Partner…

Tim wakes up as the bus hits a large bump—the spare luggage he’s surrounded himself with to look less “stowaway-chic” and more “quirky background character” falls to the floor and in the aisle, while the girl in front of him squeals loudly. The bus stops at a skid, and an announcement plays overhead.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, it looks like our front tire has blown out. Please hang tight.” It repeats in French, and Tim holds back a frustrated sigh. He zips Stuart back in the backpack, his hands still shaking from his dream. His turned off phone innocently stares at him from the front pocket where he had tossed it before napping—it’s really, really dumb to keep it, but something is stopping Tim from throwing it out the window. Nostalgia? A childish belief that as long as it’s there, he’ll have a friend in his corner? If his parents taught him anything it was to never depend on anyone but himself.

Especially not dumb tricky neighbors who dress up like nocturnal mammals and play pretend with children for their own amusem*nt. Ok. Maybe Tim’s not quite being mature and cool about this yet. Maybe Tim’s not quite ready to explore it. Maybe Tim needs to lock it in a box and sink it to the bottom of Gotham Harbor like his mom threatened to do to him when he kept asking her for a cat last summer.

But.

Tim likes solving puzzles. Tim just can’t figure out the answer to this one—why would this weird family invest so much time on him, caped and now, uncaped, without pulling the trigger on whatever plan they cooked up? Surely they had a goal. Why did Mr. Wayne even bother taking him fishing—that wasn’t an efficient use of his time if he was trying to get information from Tim. It’s just too overwhelming to think about honestly, best left unsolved probably, the world is better with mysteries and Tim doesn’t have any more brain space to parse through the motivations of eccentric billionaires and their insanely cool kids. Besides. It’s a Gotham-raised Tim problem—not a Canadian-migrated Chase problem. Chase doesn’t have problems. Chase is problem-less. Chase is mature. Chase is the Lone Ranger. Chase doesn’t think about Mr. Wayne and his hand on his back and how utterly embarrassing it is to miss it even though Mr. Wayne is a big old butt face.

“Excuse me?”

Chase is in trouble.

Tim looks up innocently at the same tour guide who let him on the bus back at the campsite. He has a cell phone to his ear and a furrowed brow. Furrowed brows have never been a good omen for Tim, but Tim is Chase now, so maybe he has better luck.

“I think I have your dad on the phone? You look like the kid he’s describing. You Timothy?”

Nope. Chase has bad luck too.

For a very brief second, Tim thinks bus tour guy is talking about Jack Drake and his insides do this complicated transformation from organ to terrified congealed jelly but then he wises up. Jack Drake just got an email saying he no longer has a son. He’s probably doing a dance with his mom in the middle of their dig site. No, there’s only one person who would be able to track him down via some random tour guide’s cell phone. And that guy is definitely not his dad.

Tim shakes his head, but instead of being a bro, the tour guy is a narc who pops his phone on speaker.

“Um, sir, you’re on speaker, and I—“

Mr. Wayne’s voice sounds tinny and crackly, as if he’s talking through an old fashioned tin can.

“Timothy, are you there, buddy? Can you tell me you’re okay? I have your shoes, stay there kiddo, we’re coming to—“

And that’s quite enough of that. Tim grabs the phone out of tour dude’s hand and hangs up. Dude just stares at Tim and Tim stares back and it’s starting to get awkward until Tim registers what Mr. Wayne was saying.

“Yeah, so, I’m gonna go.” Tim takes his backpack and wears it in front of him like a pregnant woman, bumping the tour guy out of the way and into a row of seats across from them. The rest of the people on the bus are either sleeping or watching tv or playing on their phones, so Tim continues to make his way up front.

Tour guy calls out for him to stop “kid, I can’t get in trouble this job is paying for college” but Tim keeps moving. The bus driver isn’t in his seat, but instead outside looking at the blown tire. Tim hits the lever that opens the door and climbs down, ignoring the questioning stare from the driver. He readjusts his backpack so it’s on his back, hikes up Mr. Wayne’s jacket, and ignores the feeling of mud squishing through his socks. The rain is now a drizzle, but feels sleet-adjacent, and Tim is shivering. The cloud cover makes it difficult for Tim to see the moon, but he’s pretty sure the tour guy’s phone said it was 9 PM before he rudely hung it up.

The bus is sitting on the side of a fairly busy highway, next to a sign that reads “Welcome to Albany”. If Tim remembers his geography, he’s pretty sure the Hudson river follows this highway and if he follows the river, it will eventually take him to Canada. Tim is now about fifty feet from the bus. Looking back, he sees the tour guy talking with the bus driver, gesturing towards Tim. Tim decides it’s time to pick up the pace a bit. The problem is the cars on the side of the road are not like Gotham cars and no one in New York understands the “snitches get stitches” policy. They’re all slowing down to look at Tim and he’s pretty sure a few are on their phones. See this is the problem when you share a border with New Jersey—you start to think you’re somehow better than them. Stupid New Yorkers. They just have no respect for the rules. Stupid Metropolis wannabes.

Tim is weighing the pros and cons of throwing up a thumb for hitchhiking versus a middle finger for telling them all to leave him alone, but he’s saved from having to make a decision when an old Ford pickup truck in the right lane uses its blinker and pulls over next to Tim.

The passenger window rolls down and the largest man Tim’s ever seen in his entire life—larger than Mr. Wayne—waves him over from the driver’s seat. His muscles are pulsing under his purple and pink flannel shirt and he waves awkwardly. Tim eyes him warily.

“Hey! Are you ok? Need a ride?”

Tim weighs his options. The tour guy must have convinced the bus driver of something, because Tim can see him walking towards him. A cop car has pulled over by the bus with its lights flashing, and Tim really has no choice but to take his chances with truck-stranger-on-steroids.

“Yes please.”

Flannel-shirt wanna-be Hulk leans over to unlock the door and Tim climbs in. The truck, despite how old it looks, is blowing warm air from its heaters and the radio is playing Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues softly. Tim puts his backpack on the floor and the man waits for him to buckle before putting his blinker back on and merging into traffic.

It’s quiet for a moment—Tim shivering practically stops as the heater keeps blowing.

“So, what’s your name and where are you heading?” The man’s surprisingly soft voice has a country twang—he’s paying very careful attention to his driving, going at least 5 miles below the speed limit.

“Chase. Canada.” Tim’s not in the mood for small talk and really hopes he’s communicating that well by curling up in his seat and looking out the window. “Um. Thanks for the ride.”

“Sure thing, kid.” The man awkwardly taps his fingers on the steering wheel. His phone is dinging with text alerts, but he quickly turns it upside down so Tim can’t see the previews. Tim doesn’t really care, though. He finds himself not caring about much at the moment. He wonders if the truck stranger, farmer-who-looks-like-a-muscly-house, is going to kill him. Is it a kidnapping if he willingly got in the truck? Should he be worried? The guy is humming to Dolly Parton’s Coat of Many Colors so he doesn’t think so. He shrugs to himself and allows his mind to wander.

A little while later, truck guy is pulling off at an exit. There’s a 24-hour diner at the edge of the off-ramp, and Tim looks at him curiously when he pulls into the parking lot.

“Um. I’m hungry?” Tim wonders why he’s asking it like a question, but honestly, the dude’s been awkwardly quiet and timid the whole time. He’s kind of like a nerdy Arnold Schwarzenegger. Tim nods and follows him inside, socks squishing and trailing mud behind him.

They grab a booth at the back of the diner and a waitress comes to take their order. Tim says he doesn’t have any money, but truck guy waves him away and says it’s his pleasure. Tim orders a sweet potato pie and chocolate milk. Truck guy orders a bacon burger with fries and a co*ke.

Tim remembers his manners. “Um, what’s your name?” He blushes because he didn’t ask sooner. He’s just made it awkward but truck-Hulk doesn’t seem to care. He just smiles.

“Clark. Clark Kent.” He says it like James Bond and Tim holds back from rolling his eyes.

“So…what’s in Canada?” The waitress brings Tim’s pie and chocolate milk as Mr. Kent eats a fry off his plate. He waves at his food and says, “Help yourself, by the way.” Which is weird, since the guy said he was hungry. Tim dips a fry in his chocolate milk and shrugs. Mr. Kent is texting under the table, but also looking at Tim very intently. It’s pretty uncomfortable, but once Tim starts eating, he doesn’t care too much.

“I’m moving.” Tim says it through a mouth full of fries. “Where are you going?”

Mr. Kent nods seriously. “I…ah…I’m a reporter. I’m doing a story on families and I, too, am heading to Canada.” He sounds full of crap, by the way, but Tim still doesn’t care. The bell chimes indicating another customer. Mr. Kent clears his throat.

“I…um…I called a friend to come join us. I hope you don’t mind.”

Tim looks up and stills. Mr. Wayne is standing in the door, looking as disheveled as he’s ever seen him. When he spots Tim and Mr. Kent (Mr. Can’t Keep My Nose Out of People’s Business Boy Scout Farmer Traitor) he rushes over.

Mr. Kent looks at Tim pityingly which is a real joke because he’s the guy wearing the dorky glasses and flannel shirt. He should have taken his chances just walking the highway.

Mr. Kent leans across the table and says in a low voice, “Give him a chance. He’s been really worried.”

Tim growls at Mr. Kent who looks genuinely startled. He pushes his sweet potato pie onto the ground, itching to make a mess, itching to destroy something, itching to declare “I am nuisance and you can’t stop me because you’re not the boss of me”, but before he can get up out of the booth, Mr. Wayne holds his hands up like he’s surrendering. His face is grave and serious and he approaches Tim with none of his typical pomp or charm, but enough like Batman, that it makes Tim hesitate.

That hesitation apparently gives Mr. Wayne permission to slide into the bench opposite of Tim’s. Mr. Kent excuses himself quietly with a quick pat on Mr. Wayne’s back and Tim feels entirely, utterly drained.

He feels exhausted. His feet are cold. He has that weird tingly feeling in his body that he always gets right before a really bad flu. His stomach feels like it’s dropping to the floor 50 mph over and over again and his neck feels clammy.

He doesn’t know what to do or say.

So, he blows bubbles in his chocolate milk and refuses to look up.

It’s silent for a long time.

Tim realizes that someone must have cleared the diner of its staff and patrons, because not even the kitchen is making a sound. There’s soft music playing overhead and the quiet hum of electricity. If Mr. Wayne is waiting for Tim to speak, he might as well be waiting forever, because Tim won’t do it. Get used to disappointment, Batman, serves you right.

“I stole Alfred’s car when I was fifteen and drove it to California.” Mr. Wayne clears his throat and starts folding the paper menu in front of him. “The kids at school were horrible. They cared about things I didn’t, I thought they were stupid, they made fun of me for being rich, for being an orphan, for being different. I was obsessed with cadavers and cold cases and mysteries, but also Big Foot.”

Tim snorts despite himself. Mr. Wayne chuckles, and keeps folding. “I know, right? I was surprisingly intense about it. I read all the books and newspaper articles I could on it. I had this huge paper map of America tacked up in my room—I’d color code push pins based on probable sightings. One day after another really terrible day at school, I started fighting with Alfie about something. I don’t even remember what it was. I was horrible, calling him all sorts of names, telling him he wasn’t my father and he was just hired help and he could stick his advice somewhere the sun doesn’t shine. It was one of the worst fights we ever had. He kept his temper through most of it, but after a particularly cutting remark, he said to me in the quietest voice I had ever heard from him, “Grow up, Bruce.” Just Bruce. Not Master Bruce, not Master Wayne. Not darling or ducky or chum or sport or any of the several nicknames I was used to being called. I was devastated, but instead of apologizing, I just screamed at him to leave. That night, I packed a bag, my map, waited until he fell asleep, and stole his prized Lincoln Continental. I drove all night and the next day, until I reached Yosemite.” Mr. Wayne stops his story here to put the finishing touches on the complicated origami dragon he’s made. He slides it across the table towards Tim, and then picks up another paper menu.

Tim looks up from the dragon. Mr. Wayne’s not looking at Tim, but the paper in front of him, so Tim braves it. “What—what happened next?”

“I got to Yosemite and had no idea what I wanted to do next. I just knew I wanted to get away. But once I got there, everything still hit me. Nothing got better—it was just as bad but now in a new location. Without my.” Mr. Wayne clears his throat like something is caught in it, “Without my dad. So I slept in the car and then turned around. When I got back, five days after leaving, Alfred was gone. I thought for sure I had run him off. I remember sinking down to the ground and just feeling absolutely dejected. The next thing I knew, his arms were around me. He had just gotten back from the police station to file a missing persons report. He told me in the most serious voice I had ever heard from him to never scare him again. That nothing—nothing was so bad that you can’t come to family about it. That running away may feel good at the time, but it only makes things worse in the long run. It took me a long time to properly learn that lesson, kiddo.” Mr. Wayne hands him a paper heart. “I. I don’t want you to follow my example. Timothy, when I saw your shoe on that dock, and had no idea where you went or if you were ok, I was so, so scared. Just as scared as I would have been if it had been my Dickie or Jaybird. I’m so glad you are here and I found you.”

Mr. Wayne is so earnest that Tim feels a wave of shame. He stuffs it down because honestly? Honestly, this is not his fault.

He did everything he was supposed to.

He tried to make it easier on his parents.

He didn’t ask the Waynes to get involved.

Tim goes for the kill, just ready for it to be over and for him to find a bus or bush or place to sleep for a moment and then continue on north. He narrows his eyes and points at Mr. Wayne.

“I know you’re Batman.”

Mr. Wayne’s eyebrows raise and he whistles lowly. “Yeah, bud? How did you figure that out?” Tim’s surprised he’s not denying it, so he spits it out, his words tripping over themselves to make it out of his mouth.

“Fishing. You, you said…you called me partner.”

Mr. Wayne nods slowly. “That’s extremely clever of you. You are so smart, kiddo.” He smiles and Tim. Tim is confused.

“You’re not mad that I know?”

Mr. Wayne scoffs. “I’m proud of you.” He says it kind of fiercely, loudly. It reverberates in the diner. Tim’s lost the plot he thinks, but Mr. Wayne repeats himself. “I’m so, so proud of you. Of everything you do. Ever since I met that brave kid behind a dumpster six months ago, he’s just been wowing me ever since. Is that why you ran away after fishing? Because you realized I was Batman?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I…I had a plan.” Tim ended weakly.

“Hn.” That was a Batman hum. Mr. Wayne took out his phone. “That’s the problem when partners plan separately. I had one too. I should have run mine by you before this.”

Tim feels like he’s tricking Mr. Wayne into being nice. Especially since he’s so mad at him still. He steels his courage and looks him in the eye. “I’m not a project. Or a case. I don’t appreciate being used, Mr. Wayne. If you don’t let me go, I’ll. I’ll tell someone.” He’s proud he doesn’t stutter or waver. He does look down and pick the skin around his fingernails. A fit of coughing kind of ruins the effect, but overall, Tim thinks it’s pretty intimidating.

Mr. Wayne looks concerned and serious and vaguely sad. He clears his throat. “Timothy. Do you remember the first time we met? Really met? Not as Batman and Tim, his informant and partner, but as Bruce and Timothy?”

Tim’s first hug ever (that he could remember) was from Dick Grayson-Wayne. The picture was memorialized by a polaroid: four-year-old Tim holding cotton candy while sitting awkwardly on Dick’s lap. It was at Gotham Memorial’s Annual Charity Banquet—the theme was Carnival, and Dick, 13 years-old and full of that Dickie Wayne charm, volunteered to do an acrobatic demonstration for ticketholders. Tim’s parents were out of town at the time, but sent his nanny instructions to attend with Tim and get a picture for the newspaper. It was so out of character, that several years later, Tim researched why they would be thinking of him when his whole life it was always “out of sight, out of mind.” Apparently, Drake Industries was facing several scandals, including some more salacious ones about his parents. There was a nasty rumor that the Drakes killed their son for the insurance money since no one had ever seen Tim after he was born—this was their way of addressing those without having to actually spend time with him. From what Tim could find out via magazine articles and newspapers, his parents spent most of that summer leaning heavily on good press, giving interviews and sending pictures his nanny took of moments he had no memory of. He did remember the hug, though. After sitting on his lap, Dick took his hand and led him away from the camera. He knelt down and said, “You look like you could use a hug? Want one?” Tim nodded shyly. He begged his nanny for the polaroid and slept with it under his pillow up until a few days ago.

The first time Tim met Mr. Wayne—one-on-one, not introduced by his parents at a party or gala briefly, but on his own—was just as memorable, but he never thought Mr. Wayne would remember. It was a year and a half ago, when he was nine, close to ten. It was after the Great Turkey Disaster and he was still enamored with the freedom of being left alone in an empty house for such long periods of time. His parents had started leaving him alone at 8, so he had a year and a half under his belt and was feeling his oats. (Which is a weird phrase, Tim admits, but he heard it on Law and Order one night and it stuck.)

He read a book about spelunking and decided to explore the cave system he found the previous week at the edge of his parents’ property. It lined up with the Waynes’, but they were hardly ever seen past social events, and Tim was pretty sure Mr. Wayne was off on his annual winter Caribbean cruise.

Tim took his skateboard helmet, his longest jump rope, and his flashlight and gingerly made his way down the slanted hill, moving the smaller rocks that were stacked up at the entrance, and squeezed himself through a smallish crack. He spent an hour exploring, crawling deeper and deeper, making sure his jump rope was tied to big rocks before he descended. At one point, however, he slipped on either some water or bat guano and face planted. He was totally fine, but his ankle throbbed and when he tried to get back up, he fell again. He sprawled out on the ground and wondered if the bats would eat his body or if his parents would ever find his bones. About twenty minutes later, he heard humming and saw a flashlight. Mr. Wayne, dressed in the silliest outfit ever, complete with headlamp and a yellow-striped tracksuit came walking from the opposite end of where Tim was climbing. Tim called out, and Mr. Wayne startled. “Oh my stars, I had no clue anyone was here. I was practicing for Gotham’s Ametuer Caving Expedition. What is a child doing here? Are you entering too? That seems quite dangerous, chap.” At the time, Tim wondered if Mr. Wayne was tipsy. The guy had so many accidents doing extreme sports, he had to have been inebriated at least half of the time. Tim smiled and introduced himself and Mr. Wayne took him back home, keeping up chatter the whole time.

Mr. Wayne waits for Tim’s response. He nods sharply.

“There you were, lying on the ground, with what was at least a twisted ankle, and you stuck out your hand like you were conducting a business meeting. ‘Mr. Wayne, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m your neighbor, Timothy Drake, and I think I might need your help.’ You let me pick you up, and guided me back to your house with so much confidence and formality. You told me you snuck out while your nanny was sleeping, that you appreciated my assistance, and promised me you would go to the doctor. You were clearly lying, but you were so calm and in control. Almost like it was second nature. Do you remember what you said to me?”

Tim shakes his head mulishly at the description. He thought he had nailed the deception and is a little peeved Mr. Wayne saw through it.

“When I asked if you would be okay, you looked me in the eye and said, ‘Mr. Wayne, I’m always ok. Don’t worry about me.’ Kiddo, ever since that day, I’ve been worried about you. You are incredibly smart. You are resilient and resourceful. You are kind and you are brave and you are clever and you are funny and you are. a. kid. “ He punctuates the last part. “You are a child, Timothy. You deserve the world, but you definitely deserve someone looking out for you. You deserve someone worrying about you. You deserve to be scared sometimes and frustrated and you deserve to act out and feel safe enough to feel like things are out of your control. You deserve to trust an adult with handling those ‘too big’ things. Sweetheart, you have been carrying so much for so long and done an amazing job at it, but you don’t have to.” Mr. Wayne stands up suddenly and comes over to Tim’s side of the booth. He kneels down and gently takes Tim’s hands, which have been picked raw. He tilts his chin to look at him.

“Listen. If you really want to go to Canada, I’ll take you myself. We’ll load up the RV and spend the week. But don’t you think it’s time to stop running?” Tim sniffs. Mr. Wayne shows him an email he sent to his lawyers. It’s dated the same night he almost fell off the roof. Tim doesn’t understand all the words but he understands enough. He looks at Mr. Wayne with wide eyes.

“Dickie, Jason, Alfie, and I would be honored to have you in our family, bud. I’ve been talking with my lawyers for the past few months. I should have just told you, but I guess I wanted you to get to know us first. To like us. As the Waynes, not as Batman and Robin and Nightwing. I panicked when Batman got that email about you moving. Alfie and Dick both told me to handle it differently, but I’m stubborn.” He looks at Tim slyly. “I guess you know a thing or two about that. Your parents are absolutely wrong about you, chum. You are important. You are important to us and we want you around as long as you’ll have us.”

Big, fat tears roll down Tim’s cheeks. He is crying, but trying not to, and desperately working on staying quiet. Mr. Wayne gestures for Tim to scoot over, and sits next to him, arm open, and allows him to lean on his chest. Tim sobs and Mr. Wayne just rubs his back.

After about ten minutes, Tim starts to calm down and his breaths come out at a more normal speed. Mr. Wayne dips a napkin in Tim’s water glass and dabs his eyes for him.

“You scare us, Tim. That’s why Jason said that to you at the frozen yogurt shop. That was too close of a call, and I think you are old enough to understand that. I worry about how much danger you put yourself in without thinking. Or maybe with too much thinking. Like getting in the car with a stranger. If it hadn't been Clark, if I hadn’t known what was happening, you could have been seriously hurt. I’m worried you don’t value yourself like you should and you take risks that will one day take your life. And I’m worried that you don’t care.”

Tim shrugged and just walked his dragon origami back and forth on the table. Mr. Wayne nodded to himself and seemed to shake off whatever he was thinking. “Ok. We’ll work on it. We’d like you to live with us, Tim, if you’re willing. Canada is lovely this time of year, but it would be awfully lonely for us.”

Thursdays are for planning, but Tim’s been planning on his own for quite awhile. He wonders what it would be like to have someone else help him. A partner. A dad. Tim looks at the clock on the diner wall. It’s just past midnight.

Sundays are for home.

Apparently.

Tim gives a small nod and whispers, “Ok.”

Mr. Wayne smiles real big. His eyes are bright and glossy. “Okay?” Tim nods again and Mr. Wayne knocks shoulders with him. “Okay. Good. Great. Terrific.” He gestures to the door. “What do you say we head out, then, champ? There are some really anxious brothers in the RV who are itching to see you.”

Tim slides out of the booth and steps over the pie. Mr. Kent is standing like a soldier outside in front of the diner’s door. The old cook and waitress are smoking at the edge of the parking lot. Tim looks up at Mr. Kent as they pass.

“I’m sorry I threw a pie at you.”

Mr. Kent smiles. “No problem.”

Tim narrows his eyes. “You’re not just a reporter, are you? You’re Superman.”

Mr. Kent looks guilty. “Um, yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

Tim shrugs. “Same.” He sticks out his hand and Mr. Kent shakes it, looking amused.

“See you around, kid.” Tim waves and Mr. Wayne gives Mr. Kent a hug. He hears him whisper, really gruffly, “Thank you.” Mr. Kent claps him on the back and heads back into the diner. Probably to clean up Tim’s mess. Tim would be embarrassed, but he’s just really tired.

“Let’s go home, Timothy.

“Ok, Mr. Wayne.”

“Call me Bruce.” Mr. Wayne holds his hands loosely at his side. It’s an invitation.

“Alright…Bruce.” Tim waits a beat. He grabs Mr. Wa—Bruce’s hand. There’s a small squeeze and then they walk back to the TyrranosauR-V . Jason and Dick have their faces plastered against the window. Jason’s giving a thumbs-up and Dick is dancing.

Tim smiles secretly to himself. His voice is quiet, but Bruce hears it anyway. “You can call me Tim.”

“Ok, Tim.” Bruce says. He smiles secretly to himself as well.

They open the door and Dick wraps Tim up in the warmest blanket ever while Jason picks him up and twirls him around.

And the next week, when Tim is down for the count with the worst flu in the world, he’s surrounded by family.

From Tim’s iphone:

(unknown number)

Timothy, tell your “new father”, that idiot Bruce Wayne to drop this silly little lawsuit. It’s obviously a smear campaign and your real father and I will not stand for it. You are an ungrateful brat and no one with any sense will believe the things he’s saying about us in the press.

(read)

(tim is typing)

(tim is typing)

(tim is typing)

(this number is no longer in service)

From: [emailprotected]

To: [emailprotected] , [emailprotected]

CC: [emailprotected] , [emailprotected] , [emailprotected]

Subject: Cease and Desist (Again)

Mr. and Mrs. Drake,

I have attached the most recent attempts you’ve made to communicate with my son despite repeated warnings by the courts issued to you these past months. As per our agreement and the conditions set forth by GCPD, the state of New Jersey, and the multiple orders of protection each of my family members have against you concerning past behavior, I will tolerate your actions no further. I am leaving this in the capable hands of the press and law and I can guarantee that the next time you try this, you will wish you were only dealing with me.

Buce Wayne

CEO Wayne Enterprises

From Tim’s Android:

(best brother in the world!):

Timmy! I’m coming back home this weekend for your birthday! Are you ready to PAR-TAY? Party Hardy. Party like it’s 1999.

(read)

(best brother in the universe!):

jesus dickface, could you be more of a nerd? timmers and I have everything ready, right timantha? chili dogs and the zoo and the science museum then that lame party B has planned

(read)

(Bruce Wayne):

Who says it’s lame? It’s Gilligan’s Island themed. Everyone likes islands. How did you get your name changed on here?

(read)

(best brother in the universe!):

EWWWWWWWWWWWW. Who let you in this chat?

(read)

(tim):

Islands are ok. I am excited. :)

(read)

(best brother in the universe! liked this text)

(best brother in the world! liked this text)

(Butt-face McButtface liked this text)

(Butt-Face McButtface):

Jason, did you change my name? How do I get this off…

(read)

To: [emailprotected]

From: [emailprotected]

Subject: Grand Opening of Skatepark

Hey Trouble,

Thank you and your family for coming out last weekend to help paint. I am looking forward to the grand opening of the skatepark next door to the shop. It was very nice of your father to ask the Wayne Foundation to sponsor its building and maintenance. I wanted to let you know that thanks to your very convincing email, the Organization for At-Risk Youth of Northern New Jersey agreed to provide the vending machines. But I made them promise to put healthy snacks in there. No Zesti, mister!

Col. Binkley

From [emailprotected]

To: [emailprotected]

Subject: thank you

Dear Mr. Fred,

Thank you for coming to my 12th birthday party last Saturday. I’ve never had one before and I really appreciated your gift. Bruce was wondering if you could set aside a time for me and Alfie to come on the weekend of the 21st? I’ll make sure he doesn’t bring his own bait.

Sincerely,

Tim Wayne

From: [emailprotected]

To: [emailprotected]

Good afternoon—

My grandson has a well loved stuffed goose dressed like Batman (product #4567 on your website) that has unfortunately been sucked up in a misguided attempt to vacuum under his bed. I was unaware of its existence and it is imperative for me to find a replacement cowl as it is now unretrievable. I’ve patched the rest of him up, but I’d appreciate an order of ten (10) spares just in case of another unfortunate mishap.

Thank you and good day,

Alfred Pennyworth

To: [emailprotected]

From: counselingservices @gothamacademy.org

Mr. Wayne,

I know this is a habit we are trying to break him of and he has accommodations, but we need you to come pick Tim up. He was skipping fifth period again to unionize the lunch staff. While we appreciate his ingenuity, we are hoping for a more productive use of his time. If, perhaps, he’s not enjoying his elective, he can switch. We have availability in Debate, Film Studies, and Home Economics. Business Finance may be too advanced since he’s already skipped ahead two grades, and I am worried he only picked it to please you. He mentioned making himself “useful” at our last session. Can you come early to talk about it and maybe adjust his plan?

Thank you,

Rebecca Walls, LCSW

Gotham Academy School Counselor

7th-8th Grade

To: [emailprotected]

From: [emailprotected]

Mr. Wayne,

Please disregard my last email. Timothy is doing wonderfully and is very adjusted. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Ms. Walls, LSCW

Gotham Academy School Counselor

7th-8th Grade

To : [emailprotected]

From: [emailprotected]

Hey sweetheart,

Let’s talk when I get home.

Sincerely,

Bruce

to: [emailprotected]

from: [emailprotected]

good afternoon,

i am writing after reading an articul about you and your family in People magazine. i would like to learn more as i am espeshully interested in this qwote:

“The Waynes are really nice. They even bought me a cat.”

what is it like to have a cat? my mother says they are filthy creaturs but they look soft

i hope you can respon this email. i may not email back for a long tim

i have to walk very far to get to a place to send this email

sincerely,

d.a.g.

p.s. i am 7. how old r u? people said you were thirteen but i do not know if it was akurate. i found it in the trash.

p.s.s.s. i think mr. wayne mite be my father. is he a good one?

( This email was sent from the Kathmandu Valley Public Library. Free computer access provided by Google and Google Translate. )

Voice message from Timmy:

“Hi…uh…B..Bruce. I’m really sorry. I think I might be in trouble. I was…um *sounds of gunshots* wondering if you could…um…come pick, pick us up? I think I’m in Pakistan somewhere. We…um…me and another boy…*unintelligible* pen pal of sorts?…*sounds of people yelling in Arabic*...I can explain it later. I’m really, really sorry, Dad. Please get here soon.”