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Tim Drake has always been one to have to learn his lessons the hard way.
Maybe there’s some alternate universe, somewhere far off in the multiversal ether, where that’s not the case. A beautiful world where, when five-year-old Tim’s nanny told him not to touch the hot stove, he refrained. Where, at age seven, when his mother told him not to slide down the bannister at full speed, he nodded politely and took the stairs like a sensible child.
Maybe that Tim grew up to be an accountant. Or a botanist. Something safe. Something where "freshly dug grave" is not on the list of regular life experiences.
Unfortunately, this is not that Tim.
This Tim did burn his finger. This Tim did break his wrist. This Tim is currently laying flat on his back in a muddy, six-foot-deep hole in Gotham Cemetery at the oh-so-bright hour of 3:00 AM.
This, however, is not Tim’s fault.
He had absolutely no way of knowing that the ground would just... give out like that. In his defense, the mound of dirt next to the headstone looked pretty compact. Very walkable. Extremely structurally sound.
Spoiler alert: it was not.
Tim had been mid-monologue (whispering into his tape recorder like all good detectives do) when he’d taken one fateful step too far to the left and promptly vanished like a ghost, which is not at all ironic given his current circumstances.
Now he’s got mud in places he doesn’t want to think about, his flashlight is somewhere near his left knee (hopefully intact), and he’s pretty sure he pulled something in his back during the fall. Which is not ideal, because he’s twelve, not eighty.
Also, the cemetery gates are locked. His phone battery is dead. And even if Tim doesn’t make it home by morning, no one is going to notice.
No one is going to notice because Tim Drake Doesn't have a home.
His parents are gone. Murdered in the kind of way Gotham’s headlines splatter across every newsstand—a mugging gone wrong, they said. A warning. A curse. Left Tim alone to survive in the city’s shadows, scraping by in Crime Alley—the neighborhood that had swallowed up so many before him.
There’s no Mrs. Mac dropping off groceries, no bi-weekly phone calls from his parents, and while his name is still listed on the school roster, he hasn’t been inside a classroom in months.
In other words, Tim is royally screwed.
He lies there for a moment, just soaking in what even is his life and feeling the damp Earth as it sinks chillingly into his bones. It's somewhere between breathing in the geosmin stench of earth and brainstorming a way to wipe his hard drives remotely before his inevitable demise, that he hears a large branch snapping in the distance.
That’s– not good.
There’s only so many things in Gotham that are not only awake at this time of night, but also big enough to make a sound like that.
Really, there’s only 3 possible options it could plausibly be in order of most to least ideal:
A rabid raccoon that drank the city’s water.
The Grim Reaper finally coming to collect
Or 3, and most definitely the worst possible scenario.
Batman.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, it seems Tim is going to find out what that sound was sooner rather than later. The sound is definitely getting closer to his hideout.
Speaking of which, the longer Tim lays in his hole, the more he’s beginning to appreciate it, become fond of it even. It truly has all the features one could want in a gravesite: plenty of earthworm friends to keep him company, a decent sized rock to rest his head on, and walls that haven’t caved in on him, yet. What more could a guy ask for?
Tim is totally, 100% okay with staying in this hole and does not need whatever is making that noise to intrude on his new humble abode. It can kindly go find its own hole away from home, and leave him alone to his.
Tim's thoughts are interrupted as just then, from up above, a figure lands beside the grave, clearly illuminated by the moon’s shimmering opal hue.
Tim blinks, heart dropping into his stomach.
The colors red, green, and black are the first things he noticeable about the individual. Followed quickly by a shiny utility belt and golden ‘R’ resting upon the individual’s chest.
Robin. Also known as Batman’s partner, and where Robin goes, the Bat usually follows. Dear lord, of course it was the third option.
He leans over the edge of the hole and takes full stock of Tim in all of his muddy glory, a bewildered look upon his face.
“...The hell?” Robin says.
Tim, still laying flat on his back, gapes up at his hero in all of his muddy glory, “You’re Robin.”
Robin, still openly gaping, deadpans, “You’re nine.”
“I’m almost thirteen–”
“Why are you in a grave?”
Tim sits up, throat thick with indignation, “I slipped.”
Robin's deadpan persists. This might require an actual explanation, Tim supposes. The problem here lies in the fact that even if Robin did believe in his excellent stellar detective skills, there’s no way he would approve of his working hours and office space.
Time to improvise.
“I was looking for ghosts.”
Robin folds his arms beneath his chest, voice low and unimpressed, “Looking for ghosts?”
“The friendly kind of course.” Tim supplies helpfully.
“At three in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“In a cemetery”
“Why, where else would I go to find them?”
Robin huffs, obviously getting tired of this game. “Alright, kid. You got me. What’s your name?”
Now that? That might be a problem. He can’t exactly tell him who he actually is — that’d invite questions he’s not ready to answer. There’s only one name he can think of that shouldn’t raise any suspicions.
“...Jason.” Tim replies after just a beat too long.
“Got a last name to go with that, mud boy?” Robin asks, cocking a brow.
“Todd. Well, Wayne now I suppose.”
Robin stares, giving Tim a once-over, a gleam of thinly veiled amusement resting on his face. Why does it feel like I’ve misstepped here, even more so than into the six-foot-deep hole Tim pondered as he waited to see where this way was going.
“Alright, Jason Wayne,” Robin said with a smirk, “Let’s get you out of this pit, before you start growing roots.”
Tim grinned weakly, standing up and dusting himself off, “Not a fan? I was just thinking it’d be the perfect place to start a family someday.”
“Not the worst place in Gotham for that, I’d reckon.”
After unceremoniously yanking Tim out of his hole of despair, Robin helps guide Tim over to the previously locked gates and out of the cemetery. This night has been a complete and utter failure, Tim thought to himself depressingly. This night was supposed to have been an opportunity for Tim to follow up on a couple of leads in conjunction to a case he had been working on.
Tim had picked up a suspicious pattern in the Gotham Gazette’s obituaries and cemetery records that had been posted online. There had been an unusual spike in the nighttime burials over the past several weeks, especially in Gotham’s Cemetery's older, more neglected section of plots. Some of the graves and obituaries had even been registered to individuals who had no other public record.
No family. No jobs. No schooling. No proof that they had ever even existed.
It was this that spurred Tim into thinking that perhaps the gravesites were being utilized for another purpose, a dump site.
It made perfect sense. Freshly applied soil in a cemetery? No one would blink twice at it. And when it came time to access the supplies? Anyone who might stumble upon them would just assume it's a new plot being dug.
All Tim needed now was to find proof of it happening.
Thus, Tim stumbled into Gotham’s Cemetery at three in the morning with one flashlight, a tape recorder, and a dream.
A dream that was very quickly cut short as he fell victim to his earthworm paradise.
“Let’s get you home, Jason. I’m sure Mr. Wayne must be worried sick about you.” Robin said casually — far too casually, actually for someone who just supposedly found a billionaire’s newly adopted son wandering a graveyard at midnight.
Tim froze. Crap. This was — not good. Was Robin onto him? Did he somehow know he was lying? Even still, Tim was not backing down in the slightest. His name is Jason Todd and there’s nothing anyone can do to prove otherwise. Other than, try looking into his story just a little bit at all in the slightest. That might cause some problems.
“Yeah, the old man’s a worrier, alright.” Tim says, summoning all the swagger he can muster.
Robin didn’t respond. He just started walking.
Tim followed, trying very hard to look like he belonged on this side of the law, like he was just some harmless heir who had wandered off into a hole for fun. His sneakers squelched with every step.
"So," Robin said, voice light but clearly probing, "how long’ve you been a Wayne?"
Tim hesitated. He hadn't planned that far ahead. “Uh. A while.”
“A while,” Robin repeated, glancing sideways at him. “Right. That’s… super specific.”
Tim cleared his throat. “We’re still working out the legal stuff.”
“Sure,” Robin said. “That’s totally how adoption works.”
There’s a brief pause as Robin opens his mouth, closes it, and starts again.
“So, what were you actually doing out here, kid? You know its not safe to be out like this on your own at night.”
Figuring he was out of his limits at this point, Tim offers to finally tell the truth.
“I was tracing this lead. There’s been all these obituaries and cemetery records being published for people who don’t actually exist. My guess was that they were using it as a sort of system for trading illegal goods.” Tim said, suddenly feeling a little shy.
It was one thing to come up with these theories, but it was completely different to actually share them with anyone, let alone Robin. Robin, as in the partner to the literal World’s Greatest Detective.
They walked in silence for a few moments. The night was cold, and the streets were slick with fog. Tim’s teeth started to chatter, partly from the chill, partly from nerves.
He’d expected to be yelled at. Maybe arrested. Definitely escorted back to the cemetery gates and told to go home. What he hadn't expected was Robin to so easily buy his lie (or at least pretend to.)
Because now came the real problem.
Robin wasn't just letting him go.
Robin was taking him home.
As in to Wayne Manor.
As in the actual home of Jason Todd, the actual kid Tim was pretending to be.
Tim glanced up at the older boy, trying to gauge whether he was being lured into some sort of trap. But Robin looked… weirdly unbothered. If anything, he actually looked amused.
“Y’know,” Robin said as they reached the edge of the cemetery and rounded a corner toward a narrow alleyway, “for someone who lives in a mansion, you have terrible shoes.”
Tim blinked. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“They’re held together with duct tape.”
“That’s in style you know? All the rage these days.” Tim said feeling strangely attacked.
Tim loved his shoes. They were his favorite pair. I mean sure they were his only pair, but why should that make them any less his favorite?
“Sure. So are the holes in your hoodie?”
“It’’s vintage,” Tim shot back, indignant.
Robin snorted. “It’s definitely something.”
“Aren’t heroes supposed to be a little nicer than this?”
“Yeah, to actual victims, not to little children pretending to be in Supernatural.”
“I’ll have you know that the Winchester brothers would be lucky to have me” Tim sniped glaring at the teenage hero.
They walked a little further before Robin finally pulled out a small comm and muttered something Tim couldn’t hear. A few minutes of walking later, a sleek, shiny black black motorcycle became visible expertly hidden in the shadows beside the graveyard.
Tim stared at it like it might bite him.
Robin opened the back door and gestured for him to get on the back. “C’mon, mud boy.”
Tim hesitated. “Wait. This… this is actually going to Wayne Manor?”
“Yup.”
“Is that… legal?”
Robin raised a brow. “What, going home?”
Right. Right. Because he was Jason Wayne. Because Wayne Manor is his house.
Tim swallowed hard and climbed on, immediately sinking into the plush leather seats, trying very hard not to look utterly out of place. He tugged his hoodie tighter around himself, instinctively trying to hide the fact that the zipper didn’t work and the sleeves were fraying.
Robin slid on next to him. “So. Hypothetically.”
“Uh huh.”
“If you weren’t Jason Todd,” Robin said casually, “and I found you sneaking around a smuggling ring in the middle of the night using a dead guy’s grave as your home base, what do you think I should do with you?”
Tim stared at him.
“Hypothetically, of course, right?”
Robin nodded. “Hypothetically.”
“…I’d probably want you to let me explain before calling the cops.”
Robin turned to look at him fully, the city lights flickering over his domino mask.
“…I’m not gonna call the cops.”
Tim’s shoulders dropped a little, but Robin wasn’t finished.
“I am gonna take you to Alfred,” he added, “and let him decide if you get food before or after he hoses you off with the garden sprayer.”
“Alfred?”
“Let’s get you home, Kid.”
…
By the time the car rolled up to the gates of Wayne Manor, Tim had successfully convinced himself he could maybe pull this thing off. Just long enough to eat something warm, take a shower, and figure out a way to sneak out before anyone caught on.
It’d be fine.
He’d seen the inside of Wayne Manor before back when he was a young child and his parents still allowed him to tag along with them to events. As he got older, they stopped allowing him the last couple years before their deaths, but still the memories persist. Back then the place always seemed so huge, but then again so does everything when you, yourself, are small.
Now, sitting in the actual driveway as the gates rolled shut behind them, Tim still felt very small. And very dirty. And very aware that he was about to walk into one of the most heavily secured private residences in Gotham while pretending to be the kid who already lived there.
Robin didn’t say much as they entered the front hall. The massive double doors creaked shut behind them, and Tim's already wrecked shoes left muddy prints on marble floors worth more than anything he owned.
“Master Jason?” a smooth english voice cascaded from down the hall.
Tim’s breath stuttered.
A tall man in a waistcoat appeared in the doorway, eyebrow already arched, eyes sweeping over the two boys with a level of judgment very few could muster still while maintaining approachable.
Alfred Pennyworth.
Robin grinned. “Hey, Alfie. Found your wayward heir crawling out of a grave.”
Alfred raised the other eyebrow. “I see.”
Tim opened his mouth. Closed it again. Was there any universe where he could talk his way out of this?
Alfred stepped forward, took one look at Tim’s mud-caked clothes, and sighed utterly resigned to his fate.
“Very well,” he said. “Shower. Now. I’ll prepare something hot and horrifyingly nutritious. Thank you, Robin, for bringing the young master home.”
“My pleasure, Mr Pennyworth.” Robin clapped a hand on Tim’s back backing up to leave. “Told you. Hose if you’re lucky.”
With that and a two-fingered salute, Robin was closing the door to the manor behind him. Thus, leaving Tim with just Alfred.
“Now, while I don’t fully understand what is happening here, what is apparent is that you, young sir, are in desperate need of some suds. The rest, however, can wait,” Alfred said, as prim and poised as ever.
“Come along now, lad.”
Tim let himself be steered down the hall, part mortified, part in awe.
This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go.
But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel invisible.
…
By the time Alfred placed a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and a mug of hot cocoa in front of him, Tim had mostly stopped shaking. He’d showered, borrowed a pair of sweatpants that barely fit, and been quietly directed to the kitchen like it was the most normal thing in the world. Almost like strange kids showed up in the middle of the night pretending to be someone else all the time.
He sat stiffly at the long table, unsure what to do with his hands, his eyes, or his life. But the cocoa smelled good, the toast was buttered all the way to the edges, and Alfred hadn’t asked any questions yet. That had to count for something.
He was halfway through the eggs when Bruce Wayne walked in.
Tim froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.
Since after his shower the elephant in the room had yet to be addressed. The elephant being identity theft and Tim being the idiot to bring the elephant into the much too tiny space.
Bruce’s eyes scanned the room like he already knew everything that had happened. Which, knowing him, he probably did.
“Alfred,” Bruce said, calm but direct, “do we have a policy on impersonation?”
Jason was lounging in one of the kitchen chairs, arms crossed behind his head, looking very pleased with himself. “Not unless he starts opening credit cards under my name.”
Bruce gave him a look. Then turned to Tim, gaze unreadable.
“You’re not Jason.”
Tim swallowed. “I know.”
Jason let out a soft snort, but didn’t say anything else.
Alfred stepped in before the silence could grow too long. “He was in the cemetery. Mud-soaked, underfed, and pretending to be someone he thought no one would recognize.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Except someone did.”
Tim lowered his gaze. “Didn’t think anyone would believe me. Just needed to get somewhere safe.”
There was a long pause.
“You hungry?” Bruce asked.
“I already ate,” Tim said, though his fork was still in his hand.
Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So, what’s your real name?”
Tim didn’t answer right away. He took a sip of cocoa, like it would shield him from the question. Eventually, he muttered, “Tim.”
“Just Tim?” Jason asked.
“For now,” Tim replied. “If that’s okay.”
Bruce didn’t press. He just nodded, slowly, and sat at the head of the table.
Jason stretched. “Robin dropped him off a couple hours ago. Said Tim here was sharp. He wasn’t just some kid wandering around for fun. He was tracking something — graveyard smuggling, I think? Had notes. Was doing some real detective work.”
Alfred tilted his head. “Smuggling?”
Tim nodded reluctantly, there was no point in hiding any of it now. “I noticed a pattern in the cemetery records. People buried without any digital trail. No family. No past. Figured someone was using the graves for drops — drugs, probably. Or weapons.”
Bruce watched him with a look that was almost impressed. “And you followed that lead alone. At night.”
Tim hesitated. “Didn’t really have anyone to go with…Sir.”
That quieted the room.
Jason looked down at the table. Alfred busied himself at the stove. Bruce didn’t look away from Tim.
“And your family?” Bruce asked gently.
Tim’s jaw clenched. “Gone.”
Alfred turned back, voice soft. “For how long?”
Tim didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The holes in his sweatshirt had told part of the story, and the duct tape on his shoes had told the rest.
Jason broke the tension with a low whistle, though the expression on his face portrayed one of deep understanding. “The Alley, huh? No Disney World, ain't it?”
Tim nodded once, eyes still fixed on his plate.
“Well, that settles that,” Jason leaned back in his chair. “Orphan? With Black hair and blue eyes? You never stood a chance, kid.”
Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but his voice lost its edge. “You’re not in trouble here, Tim. We just want to make sure that you’re safe.”
Tim looked up, wary. “Then what happens now?”
“You stay,” Alfred said simply, placing a fresh mug of cocoa in front of him. “You get a warm bed. A change of clothes. And then we talk, when you're ready.”
Tim stared at the mug.
Jason grinned. “Congrats, man. Stole my identity and got adopted in the process.”
Tim let out a small, almost-laugh. “I’m not trying to get adopted.”
“Too bad,” Jason said, reaching for a piece of toast. “It’s kind of a theme around here.”
Tim glanced between them, then back at the cocoa. His shoulders dropped slightly.
“…Thanks,” he said, so quietly it was almost lost in the steam.
Bruce nodded once.
“You’re welcome.”