Chapter Text
It’s only his fourth week of work and Tim is already running late for at least the 15th time since he started. He had been halfway through his apartment’s door, comically large coffee in hand, when he realized he was not wearing appropriate work attire. He was, in fact, still in his Nightwing pajama pants and Gotham Academy shirt that he’d slept in all night. Well…not necessarily slept. Stupid sleep deprived brain. This is what he gets for staying up till 4 am the previous night hacking the police scanners for fun. Well, mostly for fun anyway. While he did enjoy hacking important government servers just to prove he could (and also to mess with the incompetent bigwigs, he’s only human okay), hacking the police servers was actually useful for his… nighttime hobby. Yeah, let’s call it that.
Anyway. Now it’s 8:47am and he’s supposed to be in the office at 9am for the board meeting at 9:30. And with Gotham traffic there’s no way he’s making it there before 9:10 at the earliest. He really should have bought an apartment closer to Drake Industries, rather than opting for a more central downtown Gotham location. But there’s not much to be done about that now as he races towards the subway. Public transportation is always risky in Gotham, what with the gas attacks, gang wars, and general abundance of crime, especially wearing the neon sign screaming ROB ME that is his fancy, tailored suit. But despite his upbringing in the vast estates of Bristol, Tim’s always felt more at home on the streets of Gotham. It may be grimy, revolting, and basically beyond saving, but it’s real and honest in all it’s crime-infested glory, and Tim’s always loved that about it.
By the time Tim is speed walking through Drake Industries’ opulent glass double doors, his coffee cup is basically drained dry and he’s feeling much more awake than just 20 minutes earlier. He has just enough time to take the elevator up to his office, throw his stuff on his desk, and briskly walk (read: run without looking like he’s running) to the conference room before the meeting starts. He gets to his seat at exactly 9:29, and despite the looks the crusty old board members are not-so-discreetly sending him, he feels accomplished. He’s so caught up in his feeling of success, that he almost forgets the whole reason he’s at the board meeting in the first place. Whatever, he’s sure it’ll be fine.
It is not, in fact, fine. Quite honestly, it’s an absolute shitshow. He can’t help but lament on it as he walks back to his office. Despite the plethora of other meetings he’s been to the past few weeks, he has yet to win over the board. He gets it. He really does. He’s a freshly graduated, 16-year-old CEO of a major international business. It’s barely legal for him to have a job at all, let alone as the leader of a company. The DI board members are only a few of many people currently doubting his qualifications (or lack thereof) to be in his position. He spends the entire meeting outlining his plan for DI’s yearly goals, then listening to old-white guys complain about every word he says, then defending his plans, then watching all of his methodical and logical evidence and reasoning be dismissed without further thought. In short, he’s frustrated. Even if they don’t trust his judgment, the fact that he is ultimately the CEO whether they like it or not should mean they at least pretend to respect and listen to his ideas. Obviously, he expects too much. He does that a lot.
In the weeks since his parent’s death, his take over as CEO, and basically a complete upheaval of life as he knows it, he’s been doing everything he can to gain the approval of the company, the press, and the general public. Easy, right? Not really. But Tim is nothing if not stubborn and determined to a fault. He is very intentionally pushing down any and all feelings he may have about his parents while simultaneously learning how to run a company on the fly and proving that he is a responsible, trustworthy adult. Honestly, he thinks he’s handling this well. Fuck Donald Hannaway, and Fred Bosnan, and the rest of their elitist merry gang of board members. Tim bets they’ve never been under this kind of pressure or would handle it half as well. He’s just about to reach the sanctuary of his office to lament despairingly in peace when—
“Mr. Drake!”
Damn it. Speak of the devil and all that. Tim plasters on his patent Gala Smile and turns around.
“Mr. Hannaway, hello,” Tim says with what he hopes is a believably polite tone in the face of Hannaway’s stupid, sneering smile. “Can I help you? I was just about to look over this quarter’s budget reports.” There. A polite but pointed dismissal. Janet Drake would be proud.
“Yes well, I wanted to speak with you about your parents’ will.”
Oh, here we go. It takes incredible strength not to sigh in exasperation.
Hannaway continues obliviously. “I’m sure this has been a great adjustment for you, and I would hate to make this tough time even harder—” Tim barely resists an eye roll at the insincerity “—but the board and I are simply concerned about the future of the company. When your parents gave you inheritance of Drake Industries in their will, I seriously doubt they knew the circumstances in which it would occur. A 16-year-old as a CEO is—”
“Mr. Hannaway, as I’ve already discussed with you and the rest of the board, my lawyers have looked over everything, and unless I resign, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future.” Suck that, Donald.
Tim struggles not to laugh at Hannaway’s constipated expression. “Won’t you at least consider temporarily handing control over to someone with more experience until you are older? You could start with a lower-level job and work up to management.”
Tim begrudgingly sees the logic in this. He really does. But he also knows himself. Knows his capabilities, his strengths and weaknesses. And he knows he can do this. He might not enjoy it, never really saw himself working in an office worrying about stocks and PR, but he knows he can do good with this. Knows most other people would see this as an opportunity to get rich, instead of a way to make a difference. This may not be what little Tim had in mind when he dreamed of superheroes and detectives, solving crime and saving the world. But Tim has learned to stop hoping for things to turn out the ways he wants them to, and to make the best with what he has. So screw everything, Tim is going to make the best of this.
“Thank you, Mr. Hannaway, really. I appreciate your dedication to the company,” Tim surprises himself by almost meaning it. “But I am confident in my ability to help Drake Industries succeed. And that’s what I’m going to do.”
And with that, Tim turns around, walks into his office, and leaves freaking Donald and the rest of his worries behind. He needs some more coffee before he even thinks about opening his computer.
When Tim was 3, his parents took him to the circus. There, he met a boy. Richard Grayson. A bubbly, talented, kindhearted boy, who gave Tim his first real hug, and told him he’d do a special trick just for Tim. Tim watched him do the trick (a quadruple somersault!) from the stands with his mom and dad, watched in awe as the Flying Graysons soared across the sky, and then he watched the boy’s parents fall from an fatal height. He saw the tears and horror on the boy’s face as they hit the ground. And then one of Tim’s best memories turned into a nightmare that haunted his dreams till he was 7.
When Tim was 9, his parents left for a 3-month dig, and for the first time in his life Tim didn’t have a nanny to stay with him. The first night on his own, Tim turned on the TV and turned the volume up as loud as he could stand it, desperate for the empty manor to feel a little less lonely. As he sat on the living room floor eating microwaveable mac and cheese (his mom would skin him alive if he stained the white couch), he saw a shot from Gotham’s news station of Batman and Robin fighting Poison Ivy in the park. Specifically, he saw Robin do a quadruple somersault off a building and land a solid kick right in Ivy’s face. Tim had been dreaming of that exact move for years now, knew only one person in America could do that flip, and that person just so happened to be living in Gotham. Once Tim figured out Dick Grayson was Gotham’s one and only Robin, the rest of the pieces fell into place. It was actually so obvious in hindsight, Tim wondered how Batman and Robin’s identity was was one of the best kept secrets in the world.
When Tim was 10, his parents bought him a camera for his birthday. Technically, they were in Nepal on a dig, and the package came in September not July, but Tim was ecstatic anyway. He had been obsessing over every news reel, story, and grainy photo of Batman and Robin he could get his hands on. And now, he could finally get some pictures of his own. Tim packed a backpack full of water, snacks, bandaids, and pepper spray, put on the darkest, most inconspicuous clothes he had, grabbed his camera and set out into the cold Gotham night. That night, he took his first picture of Batman and Robin: an action shot of Batman punching Penguin, dark cape billowing out behind him, while Robin knocked out a goon’s teeth with a flying kick as the moon illuminated his bright grin. Being this close to the action, to his heroes, made Tim feel important. He felt more alive than he could ever remember feeling before.
A few weeks before Tim turned 11, a new Robin showed up. It’s not like Batman gave a press release or anything, but anyone who cared to pay attention could notice easily. Bruce Wayne had just announced he was taking in a young boy named Jason Todd, only a couple months after Dick Grayson moved out of the manor. Considering what he knew about the Waynes, Tim was pretty confident he knew not only who the new Robin was, but also who the new vigilante named Nightwing from Bludhaven was. Tim continued to follow and photograph Batman and the second Robin, eventually learning that the new Robin was freaking awesome! He was strong and smart, and was obviously passionate about the people he was helping. Especially those in Crime Alley. Tim figured the least he could do was help him out a little. He started moving away from the Bats patrol routes, going to the places that wouldn’t be covered that night and taking pictures of muggings, robberies, drug deals, and any suspicious behavior he found. He set up an anonymous email account, encrypted and untraceable of course, and sent any photos he thought would be helpful to the GCPD at the end of the night. He also started packing more snacks and water bottles to give to the street kids he saw. Which turned out to be a great thing for all of them. Tim would give them food and water and occasionally extra clothes when he grew out them, and some of the older kids would give him the word on the street about deals and rogues for him to give to the police. Tim might even say he made some friends, but he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself.
By the time Tim was 13, his anonymous emails to the GCPD had become a reliable tip line to the police. After a few of his photos had helped GCPD and the Bats arrest several suppliers and drug runners of a local gang, Tim received an email with Commissioner Gordon’s personal phone number. Well actually, the anonymous rookie detective who was definitely not a secret middle schooler got the Commissioner’s number. Anyway, Tim had perfected his system, knew the ins and outs of Gotham’s streets, kept tabs on all major players in Gotham’s criminal underground, and had become a trusted ally of Commissioner Gordon and therefore indirectly an ally of the Bats. So, in short, Tim was living the life.
And then Tim was 14 and being sent to boarding school because his parents had caught him sneaking in through his window at 3 in the morning after a night running around the streets of Gotham the one weekend out of the year they were actually home. Then he was 15, all alone at some fancy private school in Maine, taking on every class he could, on track to graduating early, doing everything he could to try to dull the physical ache of missing Gotham and her protectors. And then he was a 16-year-old with a high school diploma, with parents who were too busy to come to his graduation. And when he finally got back to Gotham, to his home, he barely had enough time to revel in the strange comfort of breathing in the smoggy, polluted air before he got the phone call.
It wasn’t the police, or the hospital, or emergency services who called him. Funnily enough, it was his parents’ secretary who broke the news. His parents' plane had gone down over the Atlantic. No survivors. Tim didn’t really have time to process that his only living family members were dead before he was having to plan a funeral, and talk to lawyers about wills, and fend off CPP. But if there was one thing he was good at, it was being prepared. Tim pulled the long-forgotten files from his computer, the fake birth certificate, drivers license, and fabricated phone messages. In minutes, Uncle Eddie was born as Tim’s estranged uncle and saving grace from Gotham’s foster care system. In no time, Tim was living in his own cozy apartment instead of an empty mausoleum, with a job that gave him direction and distraction if not joy. And between all the changes and struggles, Tim didn’t really have time to process his complicated feelings around his parents and their death. Even after, when everything calmed down, processing his emotions was basically in the “Let’s Deal with this Never” portion of his priority list.
So. That brings Tim to now: crouching on a Gotham rooftop at midnight after a long day of looking over spreadsheets and hearing the words “return on investments” enough to make him want to cry. Since returning to Gotham, Tim hasn’t had a chance to pick his photography hobby back up. He figures tonight’s as good a night as any. He could use the distraction anyway. He’s got comms connected to police scanners and radios, his phone ready and prepped to report straight to GCPD, and his old camera, a familiar, comforting weight around his neck. He can’t risk showing his face to the street kids now that his likeness is plastered in every Gotham newspaper, but he’s got bags of snacks and water to drop off at the places he knows they like to hang out in. He knows there’s a new Robin running around since the last time he was here, along with several newer vigilantes he has yet to meet, and he’s desperate to catch up on what he’s missed.
“We’ve got a 10-31, in pursuit. Requesting additional backup. Headed east on Duncan Avenue towards Gotham General,” comes a scratchy voice in his ear.
Tim stands up, looks out over the skyline towards the flashing lights and sirens, and grins. Not his Gala Smile, but his real one. The crooked one that shows all his teeth and his left dimple. The one his parents criticized for being off-putting and ill-fitting of a proper Drake. The one that only comes out when he feels free, alive.
Tim sets off towards the sound of crime. He’s got a job to do. His worries can wait till the morning. For now, he’s missed this.