Whumptober 8: Abandonment/Isolation, Tim Drake style....
Tim spends most of his time in his bedroom, and his bedroom is definitely the best place in the Drake house. It’s cavernous, with a ten-foot ceiling and pale green walls. He has light beige carpeting and enough room for a four-poster queen bed. His bedspread is one of his favorite things. It’s a perfectly scaled star map of the night sky, and sometimes he sits on the bed and runs his index finger over his favorite constellations (Libra and Carina) before he crawls under the covers to sleep. He has a walk-in closet full of suits, school uniforms, polos, khakis, and button downs, and a dresser full of t-shirts, jeans, and sweatshirts. In the very back of his closet he has a box where he keeps clothes he’s bought himself – mostly skater-punk style – that he wears into the city when he sneaks out by himself, which is almost every weekend now that his parents really only come home every few months. There’s a gaming area near the closet with a navy-blue beanbag and a gaming console for a small, black flat-screen television mounted on his wall. He has an oak roll-top desk in one corner, but he only uses it when he wants to draw or do homework with pen and paper, or when he wants to pretend to be a detective working on a case. He leans back in his chair and says, “No, Mr. Batman, I don’t think that’s what the evidence suggests,” and then goes on to solve the case.
He also has a regular desk, a blocky, modern one with a desktop computer sitting on it, and a small stack of computer programming and hardware-building how-to books next to the monitor. He pretends to be a detective sometimes, but he is, in reality, a computer nerd who’s getting better and savvier about it every day. He spends most of his afternoons at that desk after breezing through his fifth-grade homework and the extra ‘enhancement work’ his mother assigns him every so often. He works at the desk until the window grows dark and his stomach growls. He traipses down to the kitchen to fix a quick sandwich or some pasta, and then he heads back to his room to work on his programming some more or to play video games.
Tim loves his room. He can entirely forget about the empty, echoing house around him when he’s in his room.
But sometimes, especially the first few days after his parents leave for another trip, he slips out of his room when he finally gets tired enough to sleep and chooses one of the guest bedroom doors, opens it, and goes in. He pretends he hasn’t ever been in the room before (and they have enough guest rooms that he can avoid the same one for months) and he pokes around the room, muttering, ‘oh, this is nice!’ or ‘hmmm, why would they decorate like this?’. He stretches his arms and goes to the vanity mirror and talks to himself for a moment, “That was a very long day, wasn’t it? Yes. I think I’ll just turn in tonight. Maybe go sightseeing tomorrow. The trip has absolutely wiped me out.” He goes to the bed with the plain colored bedspread and climbs under the covers. When he wakes in the morning, he leaves the bed unmade and says to the mirror, “I’m going to go see what they’re offering for breakfast,” before heading down to the kitchen to go about his actual day. He returns to that room each night for a few nights, before he makes the bed carefully one morning and closes the door with a quiet, “Well, wasn’t that a nice few nights away,” and heads back to his own bedroom.
When he climbs in his bed again and runs his finger over the constellation on the bedspread, he says, “It’s good to be home again,” and he’ll last a month or two before getting the urge to go visit a different guest room for a night or two. . . just for a change of pace.
SO MANY TINY!TIM ASKS. So many. And, ah, I didn’t write any of these suggestions, so I’m sorry babes. But I feel this thing probably happened between the Bats finding Tim alone in his house all sick in Tiny!Tim and the Fever, and before the one where he admits he knows who they are in Tiny!Tim and the Secret. Like, B and J still think they’re keeping it from him, lol.
Just a note: I was really freaked out about this one and tbh, I was going to just wipe it out and try something different. A very cool babe, @ishouldprobablyworkoutmore gave me some terribly helpful perspective on what I originally had. @satire-please and @miss-choco-chips let me cry a little as per usual. I’m a little better now, so to all those Asks hoping for more Tiny!Tim, you can thank my babes for it :D
**
Mister Alfred is going to be real mad, little Timmy Drake thinks, dazed as he looks around, because the bus can’t make it to my house if the side is torn out.
The initial hit knocked the bus completely on the side, knocking him into the window where he hit his head pretty hard. For a few minutes after the screaming stopped and everything was still, he thought he might throw-up because it hurt. Finally righting himself, the pain in his head subsides as his heart starts pounding so so so fast, making it taste gross in the back of his mouth.
Someone is groaning close to him and someone else is crying. It smells like important things are burning.
Miss May, his first grade teacher, had already covered what to do in case of a villain attack at school. Mr. Mike, the bus driver, had shown them all the emergency exits, where the first-aid kit is, and how to use the extinguisher at the beginning of the year.
None of it helps his shaky, stinging hands, and it’s hard to get to the front when fear is chasing him in the panicked scramble over the seats and broken glass since the bus is on it’s side in the middle of the street in downtown Gotham.
Some of the glass cuts into his knees and hands, but–but he can’t stop! He’s got to think like (Robin) Jay and get to supplies, put the fire out before it can get to the gas tank. If he doesn’t, the whole bus could explode, and all the kids are still on the bus, whimpering and scared. Even the older kids. None of them are moving, none of them know what to do.
So. So, he needs a plan!
He needs to put out the fire and get everyone off the bus!
His fingers scrabble with the latches, and he’s perched precariously with one foot on the big steering wheel and the other on the dashboard. The big storage space in the front of the bus, above the jagged windshield finally gives with a metal groan and Tim blinks tears out of his eyes, bites down on his lower lip, and tries, tries so hard, to stop shaking enough that he can get the fire extinguisher out without falling over Mr. Mike’s body sprawled on the steps below him.
He’s trying to concentrate, trying to think past the twisted metal of what used to be his ride, trying to think about Mister Alfred in the front seat of the big, shiny car with Jay souched in the back, picked up from big school already, just waiting for him since he goes to Wayne Manor on days when Mrs. Mac isn’t scheduled to come.
It’s been almost a year now since they’d found him sick and achy during a bad storm when Mrs. Mac couldn’t make it out. Since then, he’s been meeting a sleek car parked by the bus stop so he wouldn’t have to walk all the way home. On days Mrs. Mac wouldn’t be coming, it was a given he’d be eating dinner and doing his homework at Wayne Manor. Most times, he’d be directed to a room upstairs when it was late. Mr. Wayne would tell him he might as well stay the night, and let Alfred drop him off at the bus stop in the morning.
On the usual day, Jay and Alfred would talk to him about school during the ride, make him warm when he’s included in the conversation and questions are asked about his assignments. During dinner Mister Wayne (“Just Bruce is okay, Tim.” “Okay, Mr. Bruce.” “Well. That’s better than nothing.”) would be there coming back from his office with that scrunchy line between his eyebrows.
(Timmy thinks it’s really the Batman trying to get out. It might be silly, but he imagines it kind of like Sailor Moon. Mr. Bruce holds up his utility belt or a special Batarang, and then transforms into the Batman!)
Today, he isn’t going to meet that car to tell Jay and Alfred about school.
Instead, he’s going to use both hands to squeeze the difficult trigger on the fire extinguisher, get bopped by it before white foam coats the flames, and other kids are peeking over the seats at him and the smouldering fire.
Instead, he holds on to it desperately with both arms once the fire is out and makes himself think about how Batman sounds when he tells the bad guys to let the hostages go, give up or else. Thinking about Batman gives Timmy enough strength to turn on all those terrified expressions and grit his teeth before he opens his mouth to start yelling, yelling at the top of his lungs, for everyone to get out the emergency door in the back.
“Get out right now! Get out or else I’m gonna tell. I’m gonna tell all your moms and dads! And you’re going to be in so much trouble.”
That really does the trick and heads pop up immediately at the mention of trouble.
Little Timmy points at the only accessible exit, the big door at the back of the overturned bus since one emergency window is literally blocked by the street and the other is over their heads. The front entrance is blocked by Mr. Mike, so there’s no way they’re getting out there either. The only way to go is out the back, and he starts shoving kids that way while brandishing the fire extinguisher and yelling even more.
He struggles to get over the seats again, trying to push the bigger kids to the back, away from the ripped metal and broken glass. Once the bigger ones start moving, getting the younger ones up and over the seats, Timmy goes back to pull at Mr. Mike still lying halfway down the steps where he landed when the bazooka Two-Face was holding exploded into rush hour traffic.
Tim is really, really relieved Mr. Mike’s eyes are open this time, and the adult is struggling to stand up, eyes dazedly looking around for the other kids he’s in charge of seeing home safely.
Timmy grabs his hand when his legs seem kind of wobbly and walks him to the back of the broken bus, assuring the driver he’s already gotten most of the kids out the back because at least he was paying attention when they were going over emergency procedures. He’s sure Mr. Mike will be super proud when his head isn’t bleeding anymore.
The other kids are huddled around a Fire and Rescue Squad already on site, and Mr. Mike leans on him a little the whole time they cross the chaotic streets.
Automatic gunfire rips through the daytime scramble of screaming civilians, fire and rescue trying to put out flames and pry people out of their cars, trying to contain the madness.
Two-Face is standing up out of the sunroof of his getaway car, Tommy gun going off in rapid bursts while he laughs and laughs and laughs.
“It’s a good day for a trip to downtown! Love ya, Gotham!”
And someone... someone has to do something!
(Maybe be can follow and-and try to keep them from getting away until Bruce and Jay– no, Batman and Robin–can get here!)
He still has the fire extinguisher held tightly in one arm while he slips his hand out of Mr. Mike’s when the paramedics grab the injured bus driver and herd the other kids inside Gotham Water Works to get the civilians away from the rampaging villain, standard protocol really.
But Timmy is so small, and he can fit in some of the best places. He can dart to the side and hide in the right ways so nobody even sees him.
It’s easy to slip away from the group, leaving the fire extinguisher in his place to scramble up the pipe drain to the fire escape where he can see better.
He still has his backpack, so he has pepper spray, his homework, and something he might have accidentally taken from one of the crime scenes in Gotham when he was out on his own.
(Jay never has to know it’s one of Robin’s. None of them ever have to know he figured it out.)
He huffs as he climbs up the fire escape with shaky arms and sweaty hands, his knees trembly and his belly fluttering. He thinks about just reaching up to grab the next rung, to keep stepping up, tries to keep his mind on the next step up instead of getting scared at how high he’s climbing. He thinks about how Robin had to have been scared his first time on the rooftops too, how scared Batman must have been back when he’d first started out.
It’s the strength he imagines they must have had to overcome their fears and still leap out into the night, how terrified they must have been against some of the worst criminals the first time, how they didn’t ever stop when people were in danger. It’s really their strength that gets him up to the first floor on wobbly legs. It’s their strength that makes him breathe, keeps him from running away when people on the street could be in trouble.
He runs across to look down over the other side, watches as the madman laughs more and fires his guns in the air, screaming at Gotham because “here’s your downtown beautification!”
Timmy gasps for breath, ducks down when he hears the soft metallic pings all around him.
In the alley next to where Two-Face’s goons are moving toward Gotham Bank & Trust, going to scare the patrons and get the room ready for the big boss’s dramatic entrance, the little boy flings his backpack off and digs around inside.
The bottom has a little lose thread, something he’d noticed keeps the two pieces of canvas sewn together. Once it started unravelling, he could fit his finger into a nice little pocket he’d made–
–for the thing he’s going to need if he’s going to try keeping Two-Face from getting away until Batman and Robin come to their rescue. Dangerous-looking and heavy, the Batarang is heavy in his hand when it’s folded closed.
In his own room, after Mrs. Mac left for the night and he was all by himself, he’d flip it around, flip it open, pretend he was standing by Batman and Robin, fighting the good fight with them! The plastic black mask from last year’s Zorro costume and the blanket off his bed tied around his neck, all of it made him feel real.
But this...this is more real than that, more important.
He needs to help them, he needs to stop the bad guy from getting away to hurt more people. He needs to–
(be a hero)
–have a plan.
Luckily, the cheap mask is in the hidden pocket along with the Batarang, but putting it on out here with one of the Rogue Gallery’s fearsome bad guys right below him makes it so much more important than when he was playing at being a hero in his room. The mask is more than plastic and string, more than playing.
He feels taller, stronger, like he can do what he needs to do, like he’s wearing a cape and gloves and gauntlets. Like he’s standing between the people of Gotham and those Tommy guns.
(I have to keep Two-Face from getting away. Just until Batman and Robin can get here. I have to be brave, I have to do this!)
His jaw clenches tight, and little Timmy Drake puts his backpack back on quickly, slides the Batarang in the back of his jeans so it’s easy to reach, and throws himself on the ladder going back down to street level.
He drops the last two or so feet and manages not to fall too hard or draw attention to himself, keeps his eye on the car that has screeched to a halt right by bank. Two-Face has stopped shooting, is reloading the Tommy gun while he steps out of the car, and looks like he’s about to make a grand entrance.
With his heart beating in his throat, wishing he hadn’t lost his cellphone when the bus was hit, Timmy peeks around the wall of the alleyway, watches everyone pile out of the car and move to the front doors. His mouth is dry, his knees are a little wobbly still, but it’s going to be okay.
Batman and Robin have to be on the way.
**
Two-Face’s goons throw the door to the bank open wide for him, and all of them walk inside.
It’s the chance he needs to sneak out of the alley to the getaway car, fighting down the panic and bitter taste of bile in the back of his mouth.
The soft sigh when he flips open the Batarang gives him courage, reminds him that he can do this. He has to do this.
Crouching down, he uses both hands to drive the Batarang into the back tire as hard as he can, grunting with the effort to get it through to puncture.
The scratches in his palms hurt because he’s gripping the Batarang so hard, but he’s helping Batman and Robin, so it’ll all be okay.
For good measure he moves to the front and does the same, straining with the effort, eyes watery because his hands hurt more now, but he makes himself sniffle softly and blink rapidly while the air hisses out.
He flips the Batarang closed and turns to run back to his alley before the bad guys come out and catch him. He thinks he’s home free, the car is disabled, and there’s no one out on the street to get shot at.
He did it!
Timmy gets one foot out to run, grinning below the mask and his heart pounding in his chest, happy that he actually helped.
...until a hand snatches his backpack and pulls him right off his feet, dangling him from an angry grip.
“Why you little!”
His heart slams against his rib cage, breath choking him for an important second.
Caught!
“Lemme go!” while he kicks his feet uselessly, throws his arms out, trying to get down, get away before Two-Face comes out of that bank.
“D’ ya have any idea what he’s gonna do ta ya when he sees this?” The angry adult yells in his face. The small boy gasps at the sour smell of the masked man’s breath, hands rough and bruising, shaking him hard, snapping his head back on his fragile neck. “He’s gonna make an example outta ya, kid.”
The mask on his face almost falls off with the shaking, and fear leaps into his mouth again, coppery for real because he’s bitten his tongue.
His legs are wobbly when the goon pretty much drops him back to the ground, shoves him around the car with a hand on the back of his neck, holding him there for the terrifying gangster about to come out of the bank they’ve robbed and see what’s done to their getaway car.
The sneer on the good half of the villain’s face is terrifying, but Timmy forces his legs to hold him up, even with the other thug’s hand on the back of his neck pushing him down.
“Looks like we got us a hero, boys. Another fucking mask.”
A masked goon to the gangster’s right hand, steps up, gun pointed at the sky. His eyes shift from Two-Face to the kid, a bag of money in his other hand.
“Looks like he’s just a kid, boss. They recruiting from kindergarten now?”
Timmy presses his lips together to keep from snapping back because he’s in first grade you jerk! Instead, he has to make them underestimate him, not make them mad enough to hurt him or use him as a hostage when Batman and Robin appear.
The sharp lapels on Two-Face’s suit are crisp and clean over the holster Tim can see underneath when the villain leans down to put them face-to-face, the distorted eye somehow still seeing him, staring him down, looking at him like he isn’t even wearing a mask.
“I’ve got to tell you, squirt, mask isn’t a good look for you. That is just going to get you in trouble.” A finger pokes into his chest to emphasize the point, and he can’t recoil from the touch because the other goon behind him grips the back of his neck harder in warning.
Even if his mouth dry, the little boy still sucks in a deep breath, still tries to be strong, keep everyone busy until the heroes get here without getting himself deeper into hot water. “Y-you’re stealing! And-and people need their money! They might lose their houses if you take it!”
The laugh is twisted and wrong, making his knees shake, and his instincts screaming at him to runrunrun!
But he can’t, the hand on the back of his neck is holding him in place, and he’s surrounded.
“Kid...you need to learn how the world really works,” and the villain straightens up, mouth twisting up in a grotesque half smile. A hand disappears in his pocket, comes out with–
–the coin.
Tim’s eyes are drawn to the metal slipping over Two-Face’s fingers, the movement hypnotic in the middle of a deserted Gotham street.
(Please, please, please hurry. Please hurry.)
But he’s not tossing the coin yet, so-so it could still be okay!
“You look around this city, and what do you see? All those criminals locked up? For what, a few weeks? And then they’re out, playing the same old game. Just like us,” and the coin pauses between two fingers. “And the regular people, just like you and your precious little family, are scurrying like cockroaches between bombs and muggings and toxic gas, trying to make it through another day.”
Two-Face is getting angrier and meaner, his snarling lip and shark-like smile, the coin balanced precariously between his fingers.
“And all of it? All of it is just about chance, kid.”
Timmy swallows when expert fingers nudge the coin flat on top of the thumb, and his stomach abruptly drops.
“It’s 50/50 all around. Whether the next bomb gets you, the next prison break, the next car crash, the next robbery. It’s all a matter of chance.”
The coin trembles in Timmy’s peripheral, and he’s holding on to the folded Batarang tucked into his sleeve so hard his hand is starting to hurt.
(He doesn’t want to use it. He doesn’t want to shove it in Two-Face’s knee to give himself enough time to run. He won’t have to use it because Batman and Robin are going to save him.)
But Two-Face is half smiling again, reaching in his jacket for the gun in his holster, ignoring the scream of sirens in the air. One of his henchmen utter a soft, desperate “boss?” that’s met with a quirked brow before the thug goes silent again.
“So, I’m going to give you a chance, kiddo, and I’m going to be real fair about it, see?” The half smile is anything but nice, is scary enough to make his knees weak again because he really doesn’t believe that.
“I’m going to flip this coin.”
And the scratched side glints in the sun between the gangster’s fingers.
“If it lands on heads, then I’m going to shoot you in the head, clean and quick. You won’t even feel it. But if it lands on tails, then I’m going to shoot you in the stomach. And that, kid, is gonna hurt real bad. You’re going to die slow and painful.”
The manic grin widens as Two-Face drops the bag of money and reaches into his two-tone jacket to pull the handgun out of the holster, the barrel long and shiny as it emerges.
Timmy’s eyes go wide when the barrel is levelled with his forehead, feels the sob trapped somewhere in chest, feels his hands shaking with the Batarang in his sleeve, feels his eyes get wet behind the mask.
“Good luck,” is from the thug still holding him.
But Timmy doesn’t hear it, can only hope he’s strong enough, fast enough to flip the Batarang out and stab Two-Face in the hand or thigh, can only hope he’s brave enough to save himself.
He can only hope Batman and Robin will get there in time.
His pulse beats in the back of his mouth when the resounding ting is the coin being flipped up in the air.
They’re going to save the city. They’re going to save me.
Because he believes in them.
He believes.
Little Timmy Drake, clenches the Batarang, hiding behind his mask, squinches his eyes closed, bites down on his lip–
–and he believes.
It’s a breath, a gasp, a moment when the coin is knocked out of the air in mid-flip by a Batarang with a crazy arc and a whole lot of practice.
Timmy hears Two-Face yelling in rage that the coin was knocked off course, but all of it is drowned out as vigilantes leap down from the sky like avenging angels in a rare, daytime appearance.
The Batman lands it right next to the villain and thug holding a little boy in the mask while Robin unfailingly rolls behind the line of thugs and takes most of the out with sheer momentum.
The other two get taken out with a combination of punches and kicks, making Timmy’s mouth drop open in sheer awe.
The Batman doesn’t even look at the thug holding him. One second the Dark Knight lands it, the next his arm is just somehow extended and the man that was holding Timmy is suddenly laying on the ground against the getaway car with his eyes lolling in the back of his head.
The sudden lack of support makes little Timmy fall down on his butt, legs still quivery with fear, watching with wide eyes as the frightening vigilante raises a gauntleted forearm, the spikes on it gleaming dangerously.
“Causing trouble again, Harvey?” Darkly growled low, the form in the Batsuit just as imposing, just as terrifying in person as in some of his blurry pictures against the dark Gotham night.
Subtle but pointed, the vigilante puts himself in front of the little boy that has slumped to the ground, a flip of the cape hides him from sight, gives him a moment to shake, and make sure his mask is still in place.
The villain’s laugh is terrifying, in the same way he said shoot you in the head without even pausing.
“You know us, Bats. We like to stay front and center!”
He loses the banter while the other thugs go down and the fight between Batman and Two-Face starts with the gun knocked away in the first sweeping backhand. He doesn’t notice when Robin leaps up on the trunk of the getaway car because he’s trying to gasp in a shaky breaths, watching the Batman move on the offense, punches emphasized with meaty sounds as they land on the villain’s face.
Robin is in front of him so fast, grabbing him up in both arms like a baby, and sprinting away from the scene to duck them back in the alley to be away from the ensuing fight.
“Kid, kid,” shakes him because even with the tunic and boots, the mask and utility belt, he knows. “Ya hurt? Two-Face rough ya up?”
Robin is putting him down in the alley, quickly checking him for injuries, winces at the cuts on his palms from the broken glass and sharp metal on his overturned bus. Still in Timmy’s other hand is the folded Batarang, and Timmy doesn’t need to see the raised eyebrow obscured by the mask to know it’s there.
“I-I needed it. The Batarang. The tires– I...I couldn’t let them get away until you got here.” And now that the gun isn’t pointed at his head, his eyes get hot and wet, his lower lip trembling at the fear and adrenaline still coursing through him.
When Robin just blinks down at him, he expects the Batarang to get taken away and maybe a quick, stern lecture about stealing.
But Robin just shakes his head a little and a crooked smile cuts across his face, a low chuckle when he replies, “I might know something about that. All right, stay here. I’ll come getcha after he’s down fer the count. Looks like Batman needs Robin right about now,” and the Boy Wonder salutes him with two fingers (like a hero) and takes off out of the alley to rejoin the fight.
Once he feels like he can stand without falling over, little Timmy peeks from around the corner, his heart pounding as he watches the way they work together, the way Robin uses Batman’s back to propel him into giving Two-Face an amazingly effective punch! Right to the distorted side of his face!
And when Two-Face picks up the Tommy gun again to try for another shot, Robin is the one throwing a Batarang to knock the gun away, back-to-back with the Batman while smoke pellets hit the ground at the feet of the thugs trying to get back up.
Batman doesn’t waste a second, turning with Robin to face the gangster again and deliver a vicious uppercut with a follow-up punch to the solar plexus. At the same time, Robin jumps up, both feet knocking two thugs out colder than the pellets.
(Batman needs Robin…)
It’s so amazing to watch, his mouth dropping open in wonder as the Caped Crusaders move like water and wind, in perfect sync, ducking and dodging around one another like they’ve always worked together, like they’re a team, and it makes his chest feel tight, so tight, but not in a bad way when things are terrifying and there’s nowhere safe–
(except for Wayne Manor)
–when living in Gotham is always, always so dangerous. But watching them, biting down on his lip, he forgets about how much his hands hurt, how scared he’d been when Two-Face was going to shoot him. He gets to be relieved enough for his knees to wobble, for his eyes to get hot and spill over just a little.
The crime fighters effortlessly put Two-Face and his goons down on the ground just as the GCPD’s mobile unit hit the scene to surround the perimeter.
Little Timmy pulls the mask off, wiping at his wet eyes as Commissioner Gordon approaches the downed villain and victorious vigilantes first, flanked by his team who are already fanning out to start rounding up the bad guys.
Robin glances over, looking for him, and Timmy shrinks back a little when Robin goes still. The Boy Wonder straightens up and subtly tugs on the side of Batman’s cape.
The cowl turns, and then follows Robin’s line of sight to the little boy standing in the alley that had been in the middle of the fray, that could have been seriously hurt by Two-Face...
Batman doesn’t make even a tic but a gloved hand squeezes Robin’s wrist as he turns back to Gordon to finish the details, fast and efficient.
(Faster than he had before he’d seen Tim Drake in the mouth of the alley, realized their favorite neighbor had been facing down on of Gotham’s worst criminals. It’s their little Tim and no way can he explain to Jim, the police, or anyone else why Batman would be carrying a small boy with him to fly through Gotham. He’d need his daytime identity. Fast.)
Before Timmy can try to scramble back up the fire escape, two uniformed police officers stumble upon him and immediately start yelling for medics.
Uh-oh.
The bang is grapples firing and the Dynamic Duo taking to the rooftops, leaving Gotham’s finest to clean up the mess and latch on to the young boy in the alley, pulling him toward the emergency crews setting up just outside the perimeter.
(He’s feeling a little woozy, his legs only half-working, so maybe...maybe it’s a good idea to see the paramedics after all.)
And even with all the yelling and scrambling movement, Timmy is a little dazed, watching Batman and Robin take to the rooftops, his heart in his wet eyes.
The detectives that get him to an ambulance are nice, and so is the medic that looks at the scratches, some with glass that needs to come out.
The burn cream hurts, like really hurts, and now that Batman and Robin are gone, he can let himself flinch a little. When she asks, he tells her the bus number a few streets over and how he’s glad everyone made it out okay. He just happened to get lost when everyone scrambled from it before it, you know, blew up or something.
He knows she’s not going to ask too many questions when she smiles gently down at him and bandages his hands. So, instead of asking to call a parent or guardian, she can drop him off to the Fire and Rescue Squad, and maybe he can slip away to catch a ride home without anyone asking being the wiser–
–which fails pretty epically when a disheveled Bruce Wayne comes straight at him through the crowd, Jason right on his heels.
(Mr. Bruce’s waist is lumpy under his shirt. He must not have taken off the utility belt.)
“Tim!” Mr. Bruce pushes to one side of the gurney he’s sitting on, and Jay pushes to the other, a hand just suddenly on the wrist the EMT isn’t wrapping up. But it’s nice when the hand is heavy on his shoulder instead of the back of his neck, pulling him against a broad chest.
(He can almost feel the yellow oval against his cheek)
“Tim! Alfred said your bus was attacked! I’m so glad I found you–”
“We, B,” Jason reminds him idly, looking down at Timmy with the exact same smile–
(Really is my Robin, Timmy thinks now that he can relax a little, thinks it’s funny how Batman and Robin are going to save him again.)
“Of course, Jay, we found you!”
“It’s...it’s okay,” he says lamely, one hand already worrying at the hem of Mr. Bruce’s wrinkled jacket, relaxing in the strong hold, trying to hide the fact he’s tearing up because now his hand and arms hurt. “Everyone got out, and Mr. Mike is going to be okay and Two-Face is going to Arkham and–”
“What’s ‘bout ya, Timmers?” Jay interrupts, staring down the EMT winding a final bandage around Tim’s hand, “lookit! Ya got hurt, didn’t ya? B, we gotta get ‘im home, you feel me? Looks like our guy needs some cookies n’ milk n’ a movie ta calm ‘im down.”
“We absolutely will, Jay. Alfred will be so relieved.” And Mr. Bruce’s hand in his hair is making him so sleepy, the nails scratching gently along his scalp so nice. “On the way home, you can call Dick, let him know what happened and Tim is okay.”
That makes Timmy smile because Dick likes to cuddle him, and he won’t even mind if he’s laying on his hurt arm because Dick’s cuddles are the best.
“Mr. Wayne,” one of the EMTs begins hesitantly, “this boy–”
“Is our neighbor. He’s staying with us while his parents are out of the country.” Mr. Bruce doesn’t miss a beat, already sliding an arm under Timmy’s knees. “We’re responsible for him.”
“Okay, well, here’s some extra bandages for his hands. All of his vitals are good and he’s not exhibiting signs of shock or further distress. Keep an eye on him anyway, just in case.”
“We certainly will. Thank-you for taking care of him,” and Bruce doesn’t hesitate to lift, pull Timmy against a broad, powerful chest while he’s talking, letting the little boy rest limply against him. Jay snags his backpack where he’d stashed his mask and Batarang, wondering if both would be gone by the time they got to the Manor.
It’s a credit as to how awful Mr. Bruce is playing Brucie Wayne because he avoids the media instead of acting like he’s silly, another way of hiding the Batman away.
Jay paces beside them as they cut through a back alley to get out of the war zone caused by Two-Face’s impromptu bank visit.
With the gentle swaying and immeasurable strength holding him, Tim sinks further down into Mr. Bruce’s strength, not really hearing the low talk between them as they walk.
The Rolls is there between one blink and the next, Mr. Alfred ruffling his hair as he opens the back door.
“He got a little banged up in the scuffle today, Alfred. I think he’s more than deserved dessert.”
“You say that based merely for injuries sake, Master Bruce. I shall be the judge after we see how Master Timothy did on his spelling homework.”
“Ssorry, Mr. Alfred,” the little boy slurs, eyes-half mast, “the bus was late.”
Jay laughs a little and lays a warm palm on Timmy’s forehead, “Yeah, yeah. S’okay, Timmers. Long as yer in one piece, I’d say it’s been a good day.”
“Not mad?” But his eyes are fluttering closed already, and his little chest lifts in a sigh.
“At you, dear boy? Never,” and Mr. Alfred opens the back door with a small smile and fond eyes. Mr. Bruce is easy when he chuckles low and ducks down into the Rolls with Tim on his lap and Jay nudged up against his side.
The car moves slowly through the wrecked part of the city until they’re on the highway, heading to Wayne Manor, and the motion of the car lulls him closer and closer to sleep. His hands resting palm up on his legs, and Mr. Bruce a mass of strength around him.
“S’all good,Timmy,” and even though he’s starting to drift, he still hears Jay mutter, “don’t cha take on anymore baddies. Gonna gimmie a heart attack, you feel me?”
B’s voice is soft when he murmurs back, “what was he doing there?”
“Takin’ out Harv’s tires if ya can believe it.”
“Somehow, I’m not really surprised.” Is less Mr. Bruce and more Batman.
“Ya know, B. It’s been a year. Maybe it’s time ta–”
“No. I mean, not yet, Jay. The longer he doesn’t know, the easier it will be to keep him safe.”
“Pfft. Whatevah ya say, Boss. Eventually, I ain’t gonna fit in the shorts no more. Then who’s gonna watch yer ass?”
“That’s not happening anytime soon. For the moment, we try to keep him away from escaped members of the Rogue Gallery.”
“I believe that is the most sound plan, Master Bruce.”
“Thank-you, Alfred. Maybe we can order some pizza for him tonight. What do you think?”
“Aw, c’mon, Alf! We gotta injured bird here.”
“Well. As much as I detest such ready-made slop, I supposed I shall allow it this time. As our young charge certainly deserves a reward for aiding Batman and Robin.”
The soft shifting is Mr. Bruce laughing and as he drifts off, Timmy smiles to himself again.
i just created a whole group of elementary school friends for kid dick (it was supposed to be a 5k os at first but i think this fic is gonna be really long...) and i looove the dynamics i set up
The young girl who stood inside her High School's Martial Arts club was anything but the image that came to mind when one thought of a Martial artist. She barely stood at 4'9'', and her body was lithe and willowy rather than the strong, solid muscular individuals that dominated the martial arts scene. Still, she wore a well-fitted Gi with the sleeves cut off and a black belt wrapped around her waist, displaying the high level of skill that she possessed. She stood directly in front of a man much larger than herself, who was giving her a death glare for telling him that not only was he horrible at Martial Arts, but that he smelled like a wet dog.
Carrie placed her left fist in her right palm and bowed, never taking her eyes off of her opponent as he stood across from her on the mat. A confident smirk graced her face as she did so, countered by the angry scowl that marred the large brute's face as he shifted into a traditional Karate stance. The young girl, over a foot shorter and much smaller than the large man that she was facing off against, turned her body so that she was facing the man sideways, her feet spread apart and planted in a solid manner. Her left hand and foot led, with her left hand motioning for him in the universal "bring it on" way, and her right arm was tucked in close to her side with her hand closed into a fist.
"Are both fighters ready?" the officiater of the match asked, though he was simply the Hamilton High School Martial Arts Club's Captain, a sixth-level black belt in Tae Kwon Do. Carrie Kelly, the vice-captain, nodded in assent at the same time that the ugly brute that she had managed to piss off did, prompting him to raise one hand. "Begin!" he shouted as he brought the hand down and leaped back away from the combatants.
The larger man let out a war cry and ran forward, thrusting a frying pan-sized palm directly at the spot that Carrie's head occupied... only a single second before it reached her. Within that second she had weaved around the strike and was now inside his reach, giving him a gigantic smile as his face transformed into a look of terror as he realized that he had played into her hands. She curled both hands into a fist with her middle and index knuckles slightly extended before striking his arm in three places with unbelievable speed and precision. The brute's arm went totally limp as the pressure points she struck deadened the appendage, right before she grabbed his arm at his elbow and armpit and used his momentum to toss him over her shoulder.
The brutish individual slammed onto his back and immediately rolled to his feet, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side as he regarded the girl who had just done what many thought impossible. Carrie stuck out her tongue in a petulant taunt that enraged him, causing him to run at her regardless of his dead arm. She smiled and tossed herself straight backwards when he attempted a roundhouse kick, landing on her shoulder-blades as he was thrown off-balance once more by his huge movements.
The small girl grinned at him again as she coiled up her body and placed her palms on the mat behind her head before kicking out as hard as she could directly at his exposed side, as he was using his left arm for a counter-balance. Her heels dug into his ribs with enough force to send him stumbling away, barely catching himself in time to see her spring back to her feet and come running at him for the first time since the match began. He spun with a backhand aimed at her face, though his injury caused his movements to be just slow enough for her to duck under it before coming up and bringing both of her hands to slap directly on his ears.
The brutish man let out a howl of pain as the sudden increase in pressure strained his sensitive inner ear, causing a small rupture in one of his eardrums that let blood flow out of his ear. Carrie ignored this as she crouched down and performed a sweeping kick, knocking the man's feet out from under him due to his off-balance stance. As soon as he hit the mat she mounted his chest, knees on both of his shoulders as she struck down at his trachea with enough force to crush it completely before stopping just short of it.
"Yield, dog-breath," she said sweetly, still giving him the cocky grin that had graced her face at the beginning of the match. His eyes bugged out at her as his mind tried to come to terms with the fact that this small girl had just absolutely dominated him. It was utterly incomprehensible, but there it was, and he had no choice but to raise his hands above his head in surrender.
"Winner, Carrie Kelly!" the captain shouted just as Carrie felt a small breeze coming from the doorway, prompting her to look up and see the young man who was standing there.
