Chapter Text
Timothy Drake is doing his goddamn best.
He knows what he’s doing. He thinks he does, at least. Leaning into expectations is his specialty, after all. He’s been doing it since he was born, and he’ll be doing it for the rest of his life.
People love to do that. Place their expectations on him. His parents always had a very specific idea of the kind of child they wanted – if they even wanted a child at all – and if Tim didn’t fit then what use would they have for him?
Tim is very good at fitting a mold. Place one before him, and he’ll find a way to squeeze in. Twisting and turning and folding and bending until each and every part of himself is crammed inside.
Tim has forced himself inside many molds. How hard can one more be?
Bruce Wayne has an idea of a perfect Robin. That idea is, of course, based heavily on the two that have come before. Dick Grayson was the first – the model. The ideal. The one that Tim watched with stars in his eyes as he flipped his way through the Gotham skyline and quipped his way into the city’s heart – and Jason Todd the second – the successor. The angel. The one who took the children of Gotham under his cape and declared himself their protector and the one that Tim gathered oh so many photos of from under the cover of night – and the mold that Bruce wants Tim to cram himself into is a horrendous blend of the two.
Tim knows. Bruce’s training has focused heavily on acrobatics and gymnastics. Skills that Dick specialized in far more than Jason. Of course, Jason had them too. But his fighting style always leaned a bit more towards brawling than artful dodging. Tim would know. No one studied Robin’s fighting style more than him.
Bruce teaches Tim Dick’s fighting style but keeps calling Tim by Jason’s name.
It’s always awkward. It’s always uncomfortable. Bruce doesn’t even notice half the time, and the other half he always freezes up for a full minute before he apologizes. Tim always smiles and says that it’s okay.
He understands. Of course he understands. When Bruce goes looking for Robin, it’s not Tim that he’s looking for. He’s okay with that. He knows that. He’s an intruder in a house that will never belong to him, no matter how agonizingly he wants it to.
(Approval goes hand in hand with belonging. Maybe, Tim always thinks, if he can be good enough, strong enough, perfect enough, he’ll just barely manage to carve out a space for himself. No matter how tiny it is. Tim is very good at squeezing himself into molds that aren’t meant for him, after all.)
Tim’s presence causes a lot of fights.
He knows that it’s his fault. If Dick Grayson had just agreed to go back to being Robin, then everything would have been easier. Everything would have been better. Because Dick Grayson doesn’t need to carve a place for himself into the fabric of this house. Dick Grayson has belonged here since before Tim even started dreaming of it.
Things would be better that way. Things would be easier that way. Then Tim could have just stayed on the outside, where he belongs, and kept watching like the spectator he was always meant to be.
Things don’t always turn out for the best. No one knows that better than Tim.
He expected his presence to cause at least a few fights. He vaguely recalls the ways that Jason – in his time as Robin – had often seemed annoyed by the constant fighting between Batman and Nightwing. The two of them have had a… rocky relationship, ever since Dick first lost the mantle. Perhaps Tim knows more than he should. He had figured that Dick’s triumphant return to Robin could mend the fence and bring them back together, and, failing that, Dick would direct the hatred in Tim’s direction for his thievery as opposed to Bruce’s direction for facilitating it.
(It didn’t work out that way. Dick seems intent to make Tim feel welcome. Though it seems that Bruce and Dick’s relationship is currently in the midst of a tentative truce. They walk on eggshells around each other, but at least they aren’t fighting all the time.)
Edward Elric, on the other hand, is a wrench thrown into the machine Tim Drake thought he had perfectly oiled.
He had, of course, known about the magician on the Tricorner Docks, as well as his relationship with the Wayne family. How could he not? Nightwing and Jason’s Robin had paid extremely frequent visits to that one particular warehouse and Tim – obsessed little devil that he was – had decided that getting answers was worth the cost of smashing his camera on the pavement and hoping that the magician would be able to fix it.
(He made a habit, eventually, of doing so. Until he finally managed to shatter his camera the same night that Nightwing came to visit. Tim had looked in through one of the windows first. He just hadn’t expected to see them–)
(It turned out that Nightwing and the magician were a lot closer than Tim had thought. But he still hadn’t expected that they would be living together.)
He hadn’t expected that, upon becoming Robin, Edward Elric would become such a huge part of his life.
Tim knows what Bruce expects of him. Even if the words never actually manage to make it past his lips, Bruce is a lot easier to read than most seem to give him credit for. Perhaps Tim has just managed to get past the façade. The Bruce Wayne that most of Gotham knows is not the Bruce Wayne that prowls the halls of his manor.
Dick’s expectations are similarly easy to grasp. He, too, refuses to put them into words. Perhaps Dick and Bruce are more similar than either would care to admit. Tim knows that Dick looks at him and sees a ghost. He knows that Dick is carrying the burden just as heavily as Bruce. The Dick Grayson that most citizens picture is not the one that greets Tim with a somber smile and a gentle ruffle of his hair.
Edward Elric, on the other hand, is an enigma. One that Tim simply cannot puzzle out.
He avoids Bruce like the plague, despite how much time he and Dick have been spending at the manor lately. Edward will not spend more than five minutes in Bruce’s presence. The one time Tim saw the two of them actually talking, it ended with Edward storming out, flinging curses and insults over his shoulder as Bruce stood in completely stunned silence, not even bothering to defend himself.
It made Tim’s chest feel tight. He doesn’t like that feeling. He mentions it to Dick, and is told that he’s doing his damndest to make sure that the two of them aren’t left alone too often.
Tim had, before all of this, thought that Edward liked him.
Maybe not liked. At least was fond of. Edward had a way of looking at him that made Tim feel… warm? Safe? Comfortable? Even if he was there under false pretenses, it didn’t make that feeling go away. Like that warehouse was, oddly enough, the one place that Tim didn’t have to cram himself into a mold that didn’t quite fit.
That’s different now. Edward avoids him just like he avoids Bruce. And, when the two of them are in the same room for longer than the requisite five minutes Edward seems to give even Bruce, Edward just pretends that Tim isn’t even there.
It’s fine.
Tim understands. He knows. He deserves it. Of course he does. He stole Jason’s place. His mantle. His costume. His life. He’s wearing the skin of a dead boy and pretending that it’s his own. How could he expect everyone to just accept that?
(Edward overheard Bruce accidentally calling Tim Jason one time. One. Dick had to quite literally drag Edward out of the room before things got physical. Again.)
There’s a shrine in the Batcave. Jason’s suit stands erected in eternal, peaceful glory. A monument to all that Robin is. To all that he should be.
A Good Soldier
(Another mold that Tim will have to bend and break himself into.)
(What does it even mean to be a good soldier?)
Tim has an extensive collection of pictures.
Most of them are meant for his personal collection. He’s had his camera since he was five years old, and has been taking pictures of Batman and Robin since he was seven.
(His camera. The one thing that he had asked for. Begged for. His mother hadn’t wanted to give it to him. Her perfect son wasn’t a photographer. Tim had, in beautiful desperation, carved into the edge of her mold for him. Making just enough room for this one allowance. Convincing her that he needed it. That she would get her perfect son, if she just gave him this one thing.)
(His parents weren’t home, anyway. What should they care what he does in their absence? His father had finally relented and presented him the camera for a nearly forgotten birthday, making him promise that it wouldn’t impact the grades that shaped their perfect child.)
He has his favorites. The photos that he goes back to over and over and over again. He’s never shown them to anyone. He’s never been able to show them to anyone.
He can, now. That’s nice. Dick always has something nice to say about Tim’s photography skills. Tim does his best not to show him photos of Jason. He saw Dick’s reaction last time, and he would rather not make his idol cry ever again.
Bruce is far more gruff in his praise, but he too offers it. Tim avoids showing him pictures of Jason, too. Bruce can’t even look the monument in the cave in the eye without losing his voice. Tim couldn’t bear the thought of Bruce’s expression after seeing a picture.
Alfred is a steady middle ground. Tim tried to show him a picture of Jason’s Robin era, thinking that Alfred would be the most stable person in the house. The most willing to revisit the past. Tim had thought it was a good idea, until he saw even Alfred getting misty-eyed over a picture of Jason Todd, barely two months into his tenure as Robin, excitedly grinning as he celebrated pulling off a mid-air backflip.
He doesn’t even bother showing any of them to Edward. Edward can’t even look at him without getting that same expression on his face. Tim doesn’t want to give him even more reason to resent his very existence.
Tim keeps those photos to himself. His own memento. He wonders if Jason would like them – be happy that they existed – but quickly shuts that thought down. Tim, no matter how many nights he spent following them across the Gotham rooftops, did not know Jason Todd as anything other than an idol. He doesn’t have the right to wonder what he would have wanted. He doesn’t have the right to wonder what he would like.
(He doesn’t have the right to stand in his place anyway. He can’t take any more than that.)
Tim does what he does best and tucks himself into the corner. Makes himself hard to notice. Seen but not heard, and barely even seen. He’s wearing the Robin costume. There’s no need to weigh any heavier on everyone’s minds. He can take care of himself. He’s been doing it since he was a kid.
Alfred keeps checking on him. Bruce asks him if he needs anything. Dick stops by almost every other day, with Ed joining him more often than not, and Tim doesn’t know what to do with all this attention.
He freezes up sometimes. Doesn’t know what to say. What to do. Who is he, to take up this kind of space in someone else’s home? He doesn’t even really live here. Sure, he’s staying here… pretty much all the time.
His parents are out of the country for the millionth time this year alone, and as soon as Bruce found out he insisted that Tim stay with him instead of alone in Drake Manor. Bruce didn’t seem to understand it, when Tim told him he would be fine. Because Tim would be fine. Tim has been fine. And–
“Where’re your parents, kid?”
Tim blinks. He’s sitting in the library, flipping through one of Bruce Wayne’s old photo albums.
Edward seems to prefer the library to almost any other room in the manor. Edward and Bruce have yet to stop going for each other’s throats – mostly Edward going for Bruce’s throat, but same difference – and camping in the library is the best way for Edward to avoid him.
“Um,” Tim blinks. He glances down at the photo album. Pictures of Bruce Wayne stare back at him. “On a dig. Why?”
“A dig,” Edward repeats, raising an eyebrow. His arms are crossed over his chest. He’s wearing those gloves again. The dark red hoodie that goes all the way to his wrists, a pair of white gloves, jeans that go to his ankles, and a pair of heavy black boots. Even with the heater blasting and a plethora of blankets available, Edward insists on covering all the way up. “What’s that mean?”
“They’re archeologists.” Tim shrugs. Ed raises an eyebrow. “They’re on a dig.”
“When’d they leave?” Ed asks, taking a seat on the couch across from Tim’s armchair.
“Uh…a couple months ago?” Tim blinks. He didn’t think Ed would care. “Why..?”
“‘Cause,” Ed shrugs. “You’re always here when we come over. Thought you might be another adoption case.”
“...no,” Tim shakes his head. “They’re just… gone for a while. They’ll come back soon.”
“Mmmm,” Ed glances at him before turning his attention to the book Tim hadn’t noticed he was holding. A historical-seeming novel that Tim has never heard of, though he wouldn’t be surprised if there was a copy in the Drake Manor library, too.
The silence is deafening. Tim tries in vain to regain his focus but can’t seem to find it. His eyes keep wandering towards Edward, his odd style, and his slightly rumpled appearance. His golden hair is tied back into a braid. There are slight bags beneath his golden eyes. He looks… fine. Tired, but otherwise okay.
“Your parents,” Edward breaks the silence without even looking up from his book. “What’re they like?”
“Huh?” Tim blinks. That’s… not the question he was expecting. “What do you mean?”
“What kind’ve parents are they?” Edward clarifies, finally looking up from his book. “You don’t seem all that broken up about them being gone for so long.”
“They’re fine, I guess,” Tim shrugs. “They don’t like… hit me or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It wasn’t,” Edward frowns. “But it is now. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“They don’t hit me,” Tim repeats. It’s the truth. Outside of a couple literal slaps on the wrist when he was younger and had yet to perfect the mold he was meant to squeeze inside of, his parents haven’t hit him.
“Okay.” Edward nods. “Then what’s the problem?”
“There isn’t one,” Tim states and stubbornly looks down at the photo album in his lap. Trying to signal that the conversation is over and he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.
His parents not being home was a sore spot when he was younger, but he’s come to recognize it for the boon that it actually is. The freedom that comes with the complete absence of adults at home is something Tim wouldn’t trade away, even if it got him the loving, adoring parents that a younger version of him had so desperately wanted.
(Maybe. Probably.)
“When’s the last time they were home?” Edward asks. Tim feels his eye twitch in irritation.
“Four months ago,” Tim answers simply. Nevermind the fact that they were only home for three days before they left on another dig. Edward doesn’t need to know that.
“And they left you with Bruce?” Edward raises an eyebrow.
“Bruce offered to let me stay with him,” Tim states. It isn’t entirely wrong. Bruce offered a month later. After Tim became Robin. When Bruce actually made the effort to try and contact the Drakes to come up with some kind of cover for Tim coming over so often, despite Tim’s insistence that it wasn’t necessary.
“Hm,” Edward hums. He slides a bookmark in to mark his page, closes the cover, and sets his book to the side. “Tim.”
“What?”
“I’m not as stupid as I look, y’know,” Edward tilts his head slightly. “You used to come to my warehouse. You know how many Bristol kids did that?”
“Not a clue,” Tim lies.
“Three of them,” Edward holds up three fingers. “You were one. Jason and Dick were the others.”
“Hm,” Tim hums, stubbornly refusing to offer a proper response.
“If you’re worried about me telling Bruce, you know I won’t,” Edward leans back, lounging against the couch. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck about that bastard’s opinion. And I really don’t have anyone else to tell, y’know?”
“You could tell Dick,” Tim stubbornly points out.
“I won’t tell Dick either,” Edward rolls his eyes. “Even if I did, do you really think Dick would tell Bruce?”
Maybe, Tim thinks, stubbornly. Dick’s idea of normal must be different from Tim’s.
“Everything’s fine,” Tim insists. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Y’know, if you’re gonna be one’ve these masked vigilante weirdos, you’ve really gotta get better at lying,” Edward tilts his head slightly. Tim furrows his brow and narrows his eyes. Either Edward doesn’t read the signal or he ignores it. Either option is equally infuriating.
“How about this,” Edward starts, holding up his hands in mock-surrender. “I’m real bad at talking about myself. Hell, I’ve barely told Dick anything about myself. You tell me one thing about your parents, and I’ll tell you one thing about mine.” Edward furrows his brow slightly. Just enough to be noticeable. “Equivalent exchange, and all that.”
“Why should I care about your parents?” Tim asks in a likely pointless attempt to mask his curiosity. Of course Tim wants to know about Edward’s past. Even Bruce doesn’t know anything about Edward’s past. Dick definietly does, but Dick would never tell him. Dick wouldn’t break Edward’s trust like that.
“C’mon,” Ed grins. “You know you’re curious. That old bastard’s been looking into me for years now, and he hasn’t found shit, yeah? Might as well take the chance to learn somethin’ that’ll give you one over on ‘im.”
Tim frowns. Annoying, that Ed has gotten such a read on him in so few meetings. Tim would say that he’s many things. Stubborn and slippery and insistent and determined and curious. He fidgets slightly in place and glares at the fancy carpet. It’s almost exactly the same as the library in Drake Manor, just with a different color.
(His mother would hate this color.)
“Deal,” Tim finally says. “Though I dunno about this equivalent exchange stuff.”
Ed grins like this was his plan all along.
Tim feels like he’s been tricked.
(He didn’t account for this.)
Tim doesn’t learn much in the way of tangible information. He doesn’t learn the name of the town that Edward grew up in. He doesn’t learn the names of his parents. He doesn’t learn the name of his home country or where that touch of an accent comes from or why his eyes are such a unique shade of gold. He learns just about nothing that Bruce would find useful. He learns nothing that Dick probably doesn’t already know.
He learns that Edward Elric and Timothy Drake just might have more in common than he thought.
He learns that Ed’s father left when he was too young to really remember him. He learns that Ed’s mother died when he was eight years old. He learns that Ed was all alone in a house far too big for far too long, and shoved himself into a mold that didn’t quite fit him before he was tall enough to even reach the tops of the counters.
Edward Elric talks about all of this with a flippant casualty that sets Tim’s teeth on edge. The thing that Tim holds closest to his chest like a secret he must guard with his very life slips past Ed’s lips like it doesn’t even matter. His teacher took care of him for a bit, he says. Before that, the old lady down the road would check in when she could, and invite them over for meals.
Us, he says. Instead of me. Asking who is us gets a pause and a frown and an admission that Ed, on top of everything else, also had a little brother to take care of.
When asked where is he now, Ed frowns a little deeper and says home. He refuses to elaborate when asked where home is. He’s trying to look annoyed, but even Tim can see the discomfort. The desire to avoid. Tim decides to leave the topic alone for now.
When asked what his teacher was like, Ed barks a laugh and details a curriculum of beatings and sparring matches that often left him battered and bruised before being dragged back inside for dinner. His teacher had a husband, he explains. Mr. Sig, Ed calls him. Someone who–
“–taught me everything that my bastard old man prolly should’ve,” Ed glares to the side. “I mean… everything that an eight year old needs to know. Like the puberty talk, and the sex talk, and all’ve that stuff.” Ed blinks in realization. “Wait, you’ve gotten the talk, right?”
“Yes,” Tim says, mortified at the thought of getting the talk from Edward of all people. Anyone in this manor, actually. He can’t imagine the awkwardness of Bruce trying to give the talk. Alfred may be acceptable, but Tim doesn’t even want to consider how he would choose to explain it. The closest to someone normal might be Dick, but even then… having his hero explain sex to him? No thank you.
“Good,” Ed nods. “Anyway, he taught me howta tie a tie, and promised he’d teach me howta shave, but we didn’t really get there,” Ed shrugs. “Someone else ended up handling that.”
“Hm,” Tim hums. “Who?”
“My boss,” Ed leans his head all the way back to stare at the ceiling. He swallows. The silence hangs tangibly in the air for a moment too long. “Look, Tim. This whole Robin thing–”
“I know what I’m doing,” Tim cuts him off, sounding determined.
“I don’t doubt that,” Ed sighs, clasping his hands together in front of him. “But I just– Just listen to me, okay? Would you? When I was–” Ed swallows again. “When I was your age. Fuck, younger than you are now. I was twelve, when I enlisted, and I thought I knew what I was doing too,” Ed hesitates again. He sighs through his nose.
“Hell, logically, I knew what I was doing. Like, I knew in words that I was selling my soul and my body to a machine that couldn’t give less of a fuck about me and what I wanted, but twelve year olds don’t know shit. I was a desperate kid, and they were more than willing to take advantage of that,” Ed runs a hand through his hair.
“I was prolly lucky, that they… that the Colonel was the one put in charge’ve me. God knows what I’d’ve had to do if it was Grand or Archer or some other sick fuck…” Ed says that last bit mostly to himself. “Anyway. ‘S Not the point. It’s that…” Ed swallows. “Whatever you wanna get out of this, whatever you need out of this, it’s… it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
That’s… a lot. A lot of information, and a lot of emotions, and Tim isn’t sure how to piece all of that together into a message. Ed is opening up to him. Ed is opening up to him? Even Bruce doesn’t know shit about Ed and where he came from and how he got here and– That’s a lot of names. Three of them. Colonel. Grand. Archer. Who are those people? Colonel is a title and–
“Tim,” Ed snaps him out of his spiraling train of thought. “Are you listening?”
“Yeah,” Tim answers. “Yeah, um–”
“Look,” Ed sighs, and shakes his head. “Kids like you… shouldn’t be involved in this kind’ve bullshit. But I know… I know from experience that I’m not gonna be able to talk you out’ve it. So just… know that I’ll be here. Yeah? Dick and I will both be here, if you ever need us.”
Tim blinks. His throat feels… heavy. He isn’t sure what to say. He just stares at Ed for a long moment, before he finally musters up the awareness to offer nothing more than a quiet nod.
“Anyway, it’s your turn now,” Ed swerves the conversation in another direction. “I answered your questions, now you’re gonna answer mine.”
Fair’s fair, Tim guesses. Even if the idea of telling anyone – especially someone here – the truth about his life makes Tim’s skin crawl. The mold is cracking. He can’t keep himself inside if someone tries to pull it apart.
Tim is used to lying.
Keeping his parents’ secrets for them is just part of the role that he’s been playing for as long as he can remember. Just because one of those secrets happens to be just how rarely their son actually sees them doesn’t mean that Tim needs to adjust to account for it. It’s just another secret.
(It’s just another expectation.)
He isn’t sure what it is, this time. Perhaps it’s the proposition that Ed opened the discussion with. (Equivalent exchange. How ridiculous is that? As though anyone gets any kind of equivalent exchange in Gotham City.) Perhaps it’s the honesty with which Ed approached the answers to Tim’s questions. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that, despite Tim’s repeated trickery, despite how much he took advantage of Edward’s good nature and willing to help just about any kid that came to him for it, Edward still seems willing to hear him out.
(Perhaps it’s the part of him, deep down, that desperately, hopelessly, aches for the approval of everyone around him. Everyone from Bruce Wayne to Dick Grayson to Alfred Pennyworth to Edward Elric.)
Who knows. Tim doesn’t.
For the first time in a long time, when asked about his parents, Tim Drake tells the truth.
He isn’t sure what it is. Maybe he knows that Ed will figure him out, even if he lies. Maybe he’s just feeling vulnerable. Maybe he wants to see the look on Ed’s face when he finally realizes just how capable Tim actually is. How long he’s been on his own. How hard he’s been working for so long, and how much his parents trust him to take care of himself on his own. Maybe he knows that Ed will understand.
(Alone since he was eight years old. At least he had a brother. Tim never had that. Tim always wanted a brother.)
(Tim always wanted a brother. Older or younger. Just… someone to help him fill the silence.)
“Tim,”
Edward breaks his train of thought. Tim blinks. Ed was on the couch a minute ago. When did he get up? Tim blinks again. When did Ed kneel down in front of him? And why–
Ed’s right hand is holding Tim’s left. Gently squeezing. Tim blinks again. That feels weird. He’s never told anyone about his parents before. He knew better than that. He knows that Ed isn’t going to call child services or anything – there was a reason so many kids in Park Row trusted him – but that doesn’t mean it was easy to just dig up all the stuff he’s been keeping hidden for so long, and–
“Tim,” Ed repeats, his voice is quiet. “Look at me.”
Tim looks up. Ed looks… worried. His golden eyes are slightly narrowed, and his eyebrows are furrowed, and Tim thinks he must have done something wrong. Said something wrong. Ed already hates him, doesn’t he? Tim just made it worse. He must have–
“I don’t hate you, Tim,” Ed cuts him off. Tim doesn’t remember saying anything like that. “I’m… Look. I’m sorry if I made you think that. I’m sorry if it came off that way. I don’t hate you, Tim. I don’t hate you even a little bit.” Ed gently squeezes his hand. It’s… grounding. Why does Tim feel so floaty?
“I prolly scared you, huh?” Ed chuckles. “Punchin’ Bruce like that. It wasn’t ‘cause of you. None of this is ‘cause of you. I’m sorry for all’ve that. I’m…” Ed pauses, pursing his lips. “I’m not always the best at keeping my emotions in check. I’m pissed as hell, but not at you. ‘S not your fault. You were…” Ed pauses. Swallows.
“You were just doing what you thought was right,” Ed finishes, and squeezes Tim’s hand again. “And I’m the last person who gets to be mad at you for that.”
“...I’m sorry,” Tim says. He isn’t even sure what he’s apologizing for.
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, kiddo,” Ed says, gently poking his cheek. Tim blinks. He… doesn’t think anyone’s ever done that before. He remembers seeing Ed do it to Jason, once.
“...you wish I wasn’t here.”
“I don’t wish you weren’t here,” Ed says.
“You wish Jason were here instead.”
Ed tenses. Tim was right.
“I wish Jason were still here,” Ed confirms. His expression drops. His eyes look tired. Tim remembers them looking lighter than that, the last time Tim went to visit him in the warehouse. “Can you blame me?”
“No,” Tim shakes his head. “I wish I could–”
“Don’t even say that,” Ed cuts him off. “Don’t.” Ed shakes his head. “The dead don’t come back to life, Tim. No matter how much we wish for it. Just–” Ed clenches his teeth. Tim said something wrong. He definitely said something wrong.
“...the dead don’t come back to life,” Ed repeats, more to himself than to Tim. “Jason is gone,” Ed continues. “And if he can’t… if he can’t be here, then I’m glad that you are.” He gently squeezes Tim’s hand again. “Okay?”
Tim nods his head. His eyes sting with tears, and he squeezes Ed’s (odd-feeling) right hand back.
“...okay.”
Tim goes searching through his private collection.
There are hundreds of photos taken over Jason’s three years as Robin. Side by side with Batman. Side by side with Nightwing. On his own, looming over the city. Helping children and adults and pounding thugs into the concrete. Some are blurry and some are crisp and some are so terrible that Tim had, at the moment, considered deleting them.
Now, Tim is grateful that he didn’t. No matter how bad they might look, each and every photo of Jason’s Robin is too precious to discard. Another memory that they’ll never get back.
Tim isn’t sure, at first, exactly what he’s looking for. He thinks that a million photos probably wouldn’t be enough, and then he thinks that none of them are good enough, and he finally settles on finding the right one. There has to be one.
There’s photos of Jason beaming brighter than the sun. Scowling into the darkness. Mid-argument with Bruce over something or other. Tim would never know what they were fighting about. Just that they were fighting and it was always interesting to capture a photo of the dynamic duo fighting amongst themselves. Tim remembers thinking that he could have sold those photos, if he really wanted to. He remembers laughing at the thought.
There are photos of Jason and Dick sitting side by side in costume. The moon just barely bright enough to see by, as the two of them goof around on the rooftops. A photo of Dick using his fingers to convince a group of thugs that the Big Bad Bat is looming over them while Jason snickers beside him. Jason wearing Dick’s coat, as Nightwing lands face-first into a car behind him. Nightwing laughing, as Jason fails to pull off one of his signature flips.
Tim saves those for later. Maybe Dick will want them, when it gets a little easier to look.
There aren’t many photos of Jason with Edward. Why would there be? The two of them weren’t usually seen outside of that warehouse together, and Tim couldn’t exactly sneak in through the front door to take pictures of them. The rare photos he does have are almost universally blurry and smudged. Taken in the quick moments when the door was open and Ed was beckoning Jason inside.
Except for one.
Tim doesn’t know what was different about that night. The two of them had climbed up to the roof of the warehouse. Tim remembers seeing them from across the street, standing atop the roof of a nearby apartment building.
The two of them were eating batburger. The takeout bag set between them as they ate their burgers. Jason was waving his free hand emphatically while Ed laughed at whatever story he was telling. Both of them were smiling. The both of them looked happy.
That’s the one, Tim decides, and prints it out.
He cuts the edges and gets an empty frame from Alfred, who seems to have a surplus of them. He hesitates to present it. His hands feel like they’re buzzing, holding the frame behind his back. Ed is reading in the library. Ed is almost always reading in the library. It seems to be his favorite strategy for avoiding Bruce.
“Need something, kid?” Ed asks.
Tim holds out the photo.
It takes a moment. Ed sets his book to the side and reaches out with his right hand – still gloved. His hands are always gloved – and takes the frame gingerly. He looks confused, at first, until he registers what the photo is of and it seems to click. His eyes widen. His lips part.
“Where did you get this?” Ed asks. His voice is an eerie combination of steady and on the verge of collapse.
“I took it,” Tim shrugs slightly. “When… uh. Before.”
“You–” Ed swallows. “You took it?” His voice cracks. Just slightly.
“Yeah. Uh. With my camera.” Tim rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “I, uh. Didn’t have a lot of pictures with both of you. That’s probably the best one. So… yeah. I figured… you should have it.”
Ed stares at the picture for a while longer. His hands start to tremble – the left more than the right – and his eyes start to water and– no. Nope. That’s not what Tim meant to do–
“...thanks, Tim.” Ed wipes at his eyes with his left hand before he can start actually crying. That’s a relief. Tim doesn’t think he could have handled that. “Really. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“...yeah,” Tim nods. His hands are starting to tremble, too. “...no problem.”
Tim feels a little better now.
(Maybe, just maybe,)
(There’s someone he doesn’t have to fit a mold for.)