Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim didn't want to be here, but here he stood, looking up at Gotham University's Psychology building. He was here as himself, as Timothy Drake, but not to learn.

Bruce had called it surveillance. Alfred had called it enrichment. Tim called it babysitting a probable war crime. 

His job was to keep an eye on Gotham University's newest "hire": a frequent Arkham resident whose resume includes both Ivy League graduate and multiple counts of chemical-based terrorism.

The Psychology building loomed like it regretted existing, red brick faded to a bruised brown, ivy clawing its way up the side like it was trying to hold the whole thing together.

Cracked concrete steps led to heavy double doors, one of which hung just slightly off its hinge, groaning when he pushed it open. There was a lingering smell of cigarettes, though it was to be expected. Gotham wasn't known for its clean air.

As he passed through the halls, Tim glanced out of the windows. They were streaked with grime and pigeon droppings, but as he reached the second floor, it did provide a better view of the students who sat smoking by the curb.

The classroom smelled like chalk dust and old books, with a faint undertone of something chemical that clung stubbornly to the corners. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, some flickering with that telltale dying stutter, as if even they weren’t entirely convinced the place was worth illuminating.

Desks were mismatched, some newer plastic, others older wood with carvings etched deep into their surfaces. Someone had scratched a crude bat symbol into the nearest one.

Tim took a seat at that one, simply because the irony was unmatched. Another had a gum graveyard spanning at least a few semesters. The floors were scuffed, tile yellowed with age and stained with mystery. A radiator rattled in the corner like it was trying to shake itself awake.

At the front of the room stood a massive, outdated chalkboard, a full wall of matte green smudged white with ghost scribbles of lectures past. Chalk sat in a warped wooden tray beneath it, broken in half, worn to nubs, or ground to powder. A diagram of a brain sat there, drawn perfectly and labeled with words that probably weren’t medically approved.

Sighing, he glanced around. There weren't many full seats, maybe ten or fifteen, spaced out or clustered in loose cliques. He wasn’t the only loner, which was a relief

The main desk up front was cluttered with papers, mugs, and a tower of obscenely old books.

Someone had drawn eyes on the clock, perhaps years ago, and it still somehow fit the room. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

Jonathan Crane didn't walk into the room so much as appear.

One moment the front of the classroom is empty. The next, he’s there: lean frame in a worn brown suit, carrying a leather satchel that looks like it survived a Victorian plague and a fire.

He didn't speak for a full thirty seconds. Just stared out at the seated students, eyes sharp and clinical behind his glasses. The silence stretched, someone coughed. A girl near the back dropped her pen.

Crane's smile was slight and deeply unsettling.
"Good, you're already uncomfortable"

No one laughed. He seemed pleased by that.

"I am Professor Crane. This is Advanced Fear and Behavioral Science. If you're here expecting a soft elective, transfer to Marketing. ...Though I can't recommend Mr. Levin"

He dropped the satchel onto the desk with a thud. A skull, possibly decorative, possibly not, fell out. He ignored it. So did the students.

Tim carefully kept his expression carefully neutral. He didn't know what he expected, exactly, but Tim hadn't expected this.

Crane didn't loom. Didn't sneer. Didn't even try to dominate the class like most ex-criminals would've. He just started talking. Calmly. Smoothly. Clearly enjoying himself.

“Fear–" The man said, "–is the most honest of emotions. You do not learn fear. It's baked into your bones. Every heartbeat, every tremble, every urge to flee: these are gifts from your ancestors. You exist because they ran faster"

He began pacing slowly, comfortably.

"You will not be punished for fear in this class. But you will be expected to understand it. In yourselves, in others, in systems. We fear fire. We fear hunger. We fear being seen. We fear being unseen"

He paused, gaze sweeping the room. It lingered on Tim for exactly one point five seconds longer than comfortable.

Tim didn't blink. Neither did Crane.

Then he moved on.

"In this course, you will write about your fears. Analyze them. Present them. Weaponize them, if you must. But first," He pulled a small wooden box from the satchel and setting it on the desk. "we will test your reaction times"

A girl in the front raises her hand timidly. "Um. Is this… graded?"

"No," Crane told her. "it's worse"

Tim watched as the man opened the box. Something clicked.

The lights flickered. A subtle hissing sound filled the air, like mist, but no visible gas was released. Just enough to raise everyone’s blood pressure. One student half-stood, looking at the door. Another clutched her chest. Tim tensed, instinctive, not performative.

Crane observed them all with quiet fascination.

"Congratulations" He announced once the air stilled. "You've passed the pre-test. That fear you felt? That’s the real syllabus"

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Then he crouched to collect the bone on the floor. He placed it on the desk and Tim couldn't tell if it was a coincidence or not if it was facing him.

"Fear. My favorite biological betrayal"

Crane stepped over to the chalkboard, picking up one of the pieces on the ledge. He tapped the center of the diagram.

"Let me introduce you to the drama queen of your brain: the amygdala. Two little almond-shaped clusters buried deep in your temporal lobe. Small? Yes. Insignificant? Never. These are the sentinels at your brain's gates. The moment a threat so much as breathes in your direction, the amygdala sounds the alarm before you even think to scream"

The man began to pace, fidgeting with the piece of chalk. Perhaps to keep himself grounded.

"See, your prefrontal cortex, the rational, thinking part, would love to have a say in your reaction. But it's too slow. Evolution prioritized reaction over reasoning. You don't want to ponder the nature of the tiger in the grass, you want to run"

Crane froze, then clapped his hands together loudly. A girl in the front row flinched.

"Fight. Flight. Freeze. The holy trinity of fear responses. Brought to you by thousands of years of 'don't die today' survival instincts. Your hypothalamus kicks into gear, floods you with adrenaline, and suddenly your heart's racing, pupils are dilated, and digestion? Not today. That sandwich can wait"

The man leaned in closer, making eye contact with that girl for a moment. She tensed.

"Fun fact: freezing isn't cowardice. It’s camouflage. Many animals freeze to avoid detection. Humans too. Ever felt paralyzed during a panic attack? That’s not failure, it's ancient programming"

Crane returned to the chalkboard.

"This is the theatre. The amygdala pulls the strings, the hippocampus provides context, and your body becomes the stage for one of nature's oldest plays: survival.

"Fear isn't weakness. It's data. A message from your ancestors that says, 'We made it. We're still here. Now don't mess this up.' It's a beautiful thing"

Tim let out a quiet breath. So far, he was just an eccentric professor. Questionable, perhaps, but it was engaging.

Crane continued to lecture with the same cadence someone might use to read a lullaby, if the lullaby was about adrenaline, noradrenaline, and the evolutionary purpose of fear.

He didn't shout. Rarely even make eye contact, which somehow makes it worse. He just… talked. Calmly. Confidently. Like he'd been doing this his whole life and never once got thrown out of a window by Batman.

Which, to his credit, wasn't often.

When the bell rang, an old-fashioned one with a mechanical shrill, Crane nodded.

"I'm not big on meaningless homework" He said as everyone began to pack their items. "So write down the moment you first understood fear. "Not your first memory of it. Your first understanding. There is a difference"

Tim waited a few seconds before getting up, not because he was stunned, but because his body hasn’t decided how to move yet. It was the sort of mental lag he only got after near-death experiences.

Which is a reaction he shouldn't have had, but it was likely his subconscious trying to process the fact that this guy was Scarecrow.

As he left the lecture hall, he heard someone whisper behind him.

"What the hell just happened?"

He echoed the sentiment perfectly.

Outside the building, it was peaceful. Too peaceful. He wasn't used to stillness without the looming threat of something about to explode.

And yet… he kind of liked it?

No one was bleeding. No one was shouting. His phone hadn't vibrated with a mission alert in two hours. The schedule taped inside his borrowed dorm-room closet had boxes to check and books to read and structure.

Structure he didn’t have to build himself.

He breathed in the breeze, felt the sun on his face, and had the unfamiliar, quietly terrifying realization that, for the first time in months, he didn't hate where he was.

Tim shrugged it away, though, as he followed the sidewalk towards the closest coffee shop.

Chapter Text

Tim liked quiet classes.

Drawing Foundations was supposed to be one of those. Just an easy elective to fill a requirement and a pocket of time where he could go unnoticed. It was meant to be forgettable. Something to take in the background while monitoring a terrorist-turned-professor with a chalk addiction.

But the moment he stepped into the art studio, he knew he’d miscalculated.

The room was chaos in physical form. Tall windows let in pale light that made the dust motes dance over half-covered canvases. The air smelled faintly of paint, graphite, and citrus cleaner. A Bluetooth speaker in the corner played soft jazz, and every surface seemed to be covered in sketchbooks, coffee cups, and someone’s attempt at origami.

Tim hesitated by the doorway, scanning for the emptiest table. That’s when a voice cut through the noise.

"You!"

He turned, and his gaze landed on a girl perched sideways on a stool in the middle of the room. She was small, maybe five feet at most, but the energy radiating off her could have powered half the city grid. Her curls bounced wildly when she pointed straight at him, teal-dyed tips catching the light.

"You’ve got Back Row Energy" She declared, looking like she was making a public service announcement. "Come sit here! You look like a sad Victorian orphan"

Several heads turned. Tim considered pretending she wasn’t talking to him. He also considered walking right back out the door. Instead, he muttered something under his breath and walked over.

"I'm Anika Rivera" She said as soon as he sat down, holding out a paint-stained hand. "But everyone calls me Nix. 'Cept this one professor who insists on full names. I call 'er ‘Capitalism.’ We have an understanding"

"…Tim" He muttered after a pause. He didn’t shake her hand. She fist-bumped his shoulder anyway, leaving a faint streak of charcoal.

"Cool. You draw?"

"Not really"

"Perfect. Less competition"

The class began before he could get a migraine, thankfully. The instructor, Juno Marquette, looked like a sleepless-looking grad student with gauged ears and a voice like a late-night radio host. Juno talked about “drawing with emotion” and “embracing the mess” while pacing in slow, lazy circles around the room.

Everyone else seemed unfazed as Juno talked, but Tim just felt exhausted. The professor's voice was far too soothing.

"You’re going to mess up. A lot. You’re going to think it’s finished, and I’m going to tell you it’s not. You’re going to draw a hand that looks like a bundle of sausages, and you’re going to show it to me with hope in your eyes. Don’t do that"

Nix started sketching a skeleton having tea with a giant moth. He just watched, eyes tracking the graphite as he listened. It was mesmerizing, the way she barely seemed to stop and think.

"Today's about getting conformable. Don’t look too hard at the page. Don’t ask questions. Just go with the flow"

Tim’s hand hovered over his paper for a moment before he began drawing clean, precise lines. Architectural shapes, measured angles, nothing risky.

Nix glanced over. "No 'ffense but you draw like an engineer"

He didn’t look up. "That’s an odd thing to say to someone you just met"

"Yeah, pro'ly" She sat back, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "I’s cool, though. Very ‘I’ve never made eye contact with joy,’ but cool"

Tim kept working. Her moth’s wings now had detailed, abstract patterns. Her skeleton was holding a teacup that read World’s Best Corpse. He sketched out the Gotham skyline from his favorite perspective: Wayne Enterprise's rooftop.

Nix tapped her pencil against her sketchbook, then pointed at his drawing like she’d just found a clue in a murder mystery. "Okay, hol' up. This's too precise. Ain't no way you're actually in engineering?"

He shook his head, erasing a line so faint it might as well have been imaginary. "Psychology"

"...Good thing I'm not known for my psychic abilities"

Tim gave her a flat look. "What’s your major then, if you’re not a psychic?"

"Art History" Nix said proudly, shading the moth’s antennae. "I look at dead people’s paintings and talk about them until someone gives me a degree"

"That sounds... way less cool than they advertise"

"Same as psychology" She winked. "We’re both frauds. Yours just comes with a couch"

He didn't have the heart to tell her that he wasn't actually going into psychology. That it was just paper, that he had a way better career.

That he worked with the Justice League. With Batman.

Halfway through the class period, she disappeared under the table and reemerged with a sticker sheet. Without asking, she peeled off a glittery cartoon bat, complete with fangs, blood drip, and star-shaped eyes, and slapped it onto the corner of his sketchbook.

"There," She said. "now you got flavor"

Tim looked at the sticker, not missing the irony of that being the one chosen. Then at her. "You’re not normal"

"Thanks! Neither 're you. We’ll get along great!"

He didn’t argue, which seemed to satisfy her.

When Juno circled back to their table, he stopped at Tim’s page, eyebrow raised. "Precise. Structured. Terrifyingly clean for a warmup sketch. You ever try letting go a little?"

"I like control" Tim said simply.

"Mnhm. You’re gonna hate the first assignment"

The assignment turned out to be “draw what haunts you.” Nix lit up immediately. Tim stared at the table like it had insulted him.

"You got something in mind, don’t'cha?" She asked, tilting her head. He didn’t answer, just grimaced. She grinned and went back to her skeleton with a hum.

By the end of class, Tim had a half-finished sketch of an empty warehouse. He wasn’t sure when he’d decided to start it. Nix had finished her tea party scene, adding a ghost dog under the table “because every good party needs a dog.”

As they packed up, she asked, "You got Crane, right? The Fear Guy?"

Tim hesitated. "…Yeah"

"Cool. I heard a rumor he got fired once"

"…Really?"

"Yep. Somethin’ about hypnotizing students into doing interpretive dance. Not sure. People say all kinds of crap here. Heard he's hot, is'at true?"

"I guess so"

He honestly shouldn't have expected anyone to know about him being Scarecrow. It was Gotham, but still... Somehow identities were well kept.

They left the room together, Nix walking backwards to keep talking at him. "So, here’s the deal: you’re sittin' with me next time. I’ve decided you’re adoptable. Don’t make it weird"

"I wasn’t planning to" Tim said dryly.

"Good. Oh, and keep the bat sticker. It’ll ward off boring energy"

Tim rolled his eyes but didn’t peel it off. Even when the corner started to curl, he pressed it back down.

By the time they reached the building’s exit, she’d already moved on to describing the “most Gotham” coffee shop she knew, where the espresso machine hissed like a threat and the scones were possibly weaponized. Tim caught himself listening.

It wasn’t quiet, like he’d wanted. But he didn’t mind as much as he thought he would.

Chapter Text

Tim was getting used to the fact that Crane’s lectures always started with some kind of visual prop.

Today, it was a rat.

Plastic, thankfully, but still unsettling enough when Crane walked in holding it by the tail like a trophy. He didn’t say good morning, just crossed the room with deliberate steps and set the thing down on the desk with a light thunk.

"Let’s talk about how your brain got tricked into being afraid of balloons"

He held the rat up again, rotating it so it caught the light in its beady plastic eyes. "This is Little Albert’s legacy. Or his curse, depending on your ethics"

The clicker in his other hand lit up a slide behind him: CLASSICAL CONDITIONING in bold white on black.

The projector was so old that Tim found himself surprised such a model was still in use.

"Back in the 1920s," Crane began, pacing like he was telling a ghost story, "a man named John B. Watson decided to traumatize a baby in the name of science. Truly the golden age of unchecked psychology"

The rat hit the desk again. Thud! Several students jumped. Crane smiled faintly.

"He paired a loud, horrifying noise, think banging metal pipes, with a white rat. Over and over. And what happened? That sweet little baby learned to fear the rat. But it didn’t stop there. He started to fear anything white and fluffy, rabbits, dogs, Santa’s beard, because the brain is desperately eager to find patterns"

Crane tapped both index fingers against his temple. "This is classical conditioning. You take a neutral stimulus, the rat, and pair it with something biologically unpleasant, a loud noise, and suddenly, the neutral thing is terrifying"

He began to move again, slow and precise, letting his words settle into the air like dust. "And this, my dear students, is where phobias are born. Not always through grand trauma. Sometimes, it’s subtle. Your body learns to fear something through repetition. A dog growled at you once as a child? That single pairing might have been enough. Or worse: your brain filled in the blanks without your permission"

His voice dropped lower, forcing everyone to lean in. "Fear can be learned in a heartbeat. And it can live there for a lifetime"

Click. Next slide: a spider, a clown, a plane.

"Phobias" Crane continued, "are emotional hijackings. A harmless thing gets tied to a real fear response. And your amygdala doesn’t ask questions, it just throws the switch"

Pause. A slow grin. "So if you’re afraid of snakes, clowns, or commitment, blame Pavlov. ...And maybe your parents"

The ripple of laughter through the room was hesitant but genuine. Tim didn’t join in. He was busy watching the way Crane scanned the crowd like he was cataloguing every heartbeat.

Crane then set down the clicker and pulled a small stack of index cards from his satchel.

"Now, I want you to write down your greatest fear. One sentence. No names. This will be anonymous. Don’t overthink it. The fear that first comes to mind is usually the truest"

Pencils scratched. Chairs creaked. A few students exchanged nervous looks.

Tim stared at his blank card. His first instinct was to write something fake, something vague like “snakes” or “falling” that wouldn’t give anything away. But his pen hovered, unmoving, and before he could stop himself, he wrote his answer.

Losing control.

He stared at it for a beat too long, then dropped the card into the box Crane passed around.

Ten minutes later, the cards sat in a stack on Crane’s desk. He shuffled them like a deck of playing cards.

"Let’s see what we’ve got"

He read a few aloud. "Being buried alive. Sharks. Never being good enough. The Joker. Failure. Dying alone. Needles"

A pause. His eyes flicked down to the next card.

"Losing control"

The air seemed to still. Crane smiled, small, knowing.

"Honesty is rare in this society" He said. "Most people disguise vulnerability with metaphor. But fear is always honest. Those that were in Park Row three months ago would be well aware of this"

Tim’s pulse kicked. His jaw clenched. Crane moved on without lingering, but Tim couldn’t shake the sensation that those sharp blue eyes had landed on him a fraction longer than anyone else.

The rest of the lecture slid into detailed breakdowns of conditioning charts, case studies, the mechanics of how one fear could bleed into another until an entire category of harmless things became dangerous in the mind’s theater.

Tim found himself taking actual notes. Not just the casual, cover-maintaining scribbles he’d started the semester with, but real ones, written with focus, not pretense.

By the time Crane dismissed the class, the page in front of him was full.

He didn’t know if that was a win or a loss, but... Perhaps Crane was finally putting himself to good use.

Chapter Text

If Tim had known Deviance & Social Control would involve a group project within the first three classes, he would have switched electives on principle.

It wasn’t the work, he could handle the research. It wasn’t even the topic. No, it was the civilians. Civilians didn’t know how to plan. Civilians procrastinated. Civilians looked at a week-long deadline and decided the best time to start was the night before.

Which was how he ended up sitting in the library at 10:17 p.m. with a laptop, a growing headache, and a group that had only two people physically present.

One of them was Mason.

Tim had noticed him before, tall, dark hair, grayscale hoodies, headphones around his neck like a permanent accessory. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel hostile, just… economical. Mason had spoken only a handful words in class. Tonight, he’d said seven.

"We should start with the case study"

Now he was staring at his laptop, typing with methodical precision. Tim caught a glimpse of the document: bullet points, clean formatting, no typos. Efficient.

"Where’s our third?" Tim asked, partly because it felt polite and partly because he didn't want to track down a classmate.

"Flaked" Mason said without looking up. "Said she’ll email her part"

Tim resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "...Right"

Perhaps Bruce would understand if he dropped out. No, he'd have to understand. At least one son attempted university, right? That should be enough.

Anything to get out of group projects.

They worked in silence for a while, the low hum of library printers filling the space. Mason sipped something that smelled faintly like oat milk and cinnamon. Tim nursed a black coffee, mostly for the caffeine.

By 11:40, they’d made enough progress that Mason leaned back in his chair and yawned. "Break?"

Tim glanced at the clock. His brain supplied the list of things he should be doing: sleeping, patrolling, reviewing case files. But instead he said "Sure"

The library was nearly empty by the time they packed up. Mason said his dorm was nearby and they could finish there.

Tim didn’t usually follow near-strangers home, but something about Mason’s even, unbothered tone made it feel… fine.

Well that and the fact that he'd already methodically stalked all of his classmates. Just in case. With his luck, one would decide to be evil before the semester ended.

The dorm was small but neat, walls lined with bookshelves and a stack of horror DVDs in the corner. A worn, clearly third-hand couch faced the TV. Mason dropped his bag, toed off his shoes, and flicked on a lamp.

"You like horror?" He asked.

Tim shrugged. "Sure"

"Cool. We’ll watch one while we work"

The film ended up being less terrifying than it was bizarre. Something early-2000s, low budget, with questionable CGI and a plot that didn’t survive logical thought. Mason supplied running commentary in the same deadpan he’d used in class. Tim found himself… relaxing.

By the time the credits rolled, the project was done. Mason saved the file, set his laptop aside, and queued up another movie without asking. Tim didn’t protest.

Somewhere in the middle of the second film, the combination of warm lamplight, soft couch cushions, and the steady background noise of a safe apartment caught up with him. His eyes drifted shut.

When he woke, the room was dark except for the glow of the TV. A blanket was draped over him. Mason was still there, half-reclined at the other end of the couch, scrolling his phone.

"Hey" Mason said quietly.

Tim shot up, trying to shake off the fog. "How long–"

"Barely a couple hours. You looked like you needed it" Mason’s tone was matter-of-fact, no pity.

Tim froze for a second longer than he meant to. Safe. That was the word his brain supplied. Safe in a civilian apartment with someone who wasn’t family, wasn’t a teammate, wasn’t waiting for him to gear up and go back into the dark.

It felt… wrong. But in a way he didn’t hate.

"Thanks" He said, and meant it.

Mason just nodded and turned back to the movie, muttering about loyalty and how it was "nice to have a responsible friend for once." Tim couldn’t tell if that was directed at him or himself.

Chapter Text

Tim was starting to get used to the rhythm of Crane’s class. There was always a prop, always a dramatic pause before the first word, and always that same feeling by the end, like Crane had peeled something out of your head and was holding it up to the light just to see the shape.

Today, the prop was a mirror.

Crane walked in without a word, carrying it under one arm. He set it down on the front desk so it faced the class. The glass caught the overhead lights, throwing a pale glare across the front row.

"Today’s fear," He began, "doesn’t chase you through the woods. It doesn’t lunge out of shadows" He tapped the mirror. "No, this one whispers"

He leaned on the desk, voice softer than Tim was used to. "It says: Don’t say that. They’ll hate you"

The room was still.

"We are biologically wired for connection" Crane continued, pacing once, slow and deliberate. "Your ancestors didn’t survive alone in the tundra, they huddled. They shared food. They protected each other. Rejection wasn’t just a bummer, it was a death sentence"

He stopped sharply and faced them. "So when you feel shame? When you feel that hot, unbearable burn after being laughed at, ignored, or left behind? That’s your limbic system screaming ‘We’re about to get kicked from the tribe’"

He moved to the chalkboard and drew a stickman caveman being shoved out of a campfire circle. A few students chuckled at the artistic skill.

Or lack thereof. It was... charming.

"Shame is not just emotion" Crane said, moving again. "It’s a survival mechanism. It tells you to adjust, to mask, to conform, to stay acceptable"

He lowered his voice, scanning the class. "But here’s the tragedy: in the effort to belong… you may start to disappear. Piece by piece. Until all that’s left is the version you think they’ll tolerate"

He picked up the mirror again and held it toward the rows of students. Tim caught his own reflection for a split second before Crane shifted it to someone else.

"This is the mask of belonging. You wear it to be loved. But you lose the parts of yourself that needed love in the first place"

Crane set the mirror down and clicked on the projector. It showed a brain scan lit up in bright red.

“Rejection activates the anterior cingulate cortex, the same region involved in physical pain. Your brain doesn’t know the difference between a breakup and a broken bone"

A pause.

"That’s why we’ll do anything: lie, perform, self-abandon, just to avoid it. Because evolution says rejection equals danger.

"But your fear of rejection doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you were built to survive. The challenge now… is choosing which tribe is actually worth that survival"

It wasn't directed at him, but Tim found himself pondering the second side of Crane's words. Choosing which tribe. He'd done that, he'd practically forced his way into the Bats. And he was thriving with them. With his tribe.

But he was also thriving here. Far from Red Robin, far from fights and missions and danger.

And that realization left him conflicted.

Crane paused, taking a breath. Perhaps from talking so much, but Tim had sat through enough of his lectures to notice the finer details. It was a steadying breath, one that meant this was more ...personal.

"Now, everything I’ve said so far assumes your brain is wired normally. That rejection hurts. That shame burns. That belonging matters. But what happens… when it doesn’t?"

He clicked to a new slide: the words ‘Atypical Fear/Empathy Processing’ in stark white.

"In individuals with strong psychopathic or sociopathic traits, the circuitry is different. The emotional response to rejection, shame, even social exclusion, it’s muted. Or gone entirely.

"The amygdala is often less reactive. The anterior cingulate cortex doesn’t light up the same way when facing social pain. Which means they don’t feel that gut-punch of ‘I might lose my tribe.’ They may see rejection as an obstacle to navigate, not a wound to heal"

He began to pace again, voice level but distant in a way made a couple students shift slightly. This topic was likely unexpected for the average civilian student.

"This isn't just movie-villain stuff. Not all people with those traits are dangerous. But without the emotional cost of rejection, social rules become optional. Belonging isn’t a need, it’s a strategy. A mask to wear when it serves a goal, not because connection is inherently rewarding"

Crane clicked to a picture of two masks side-by-side: one labeled “Protective Mask,” the other “Instrumental Mask.”

"For most of you," He said. "the mask of belonging exists to protect vulnerability. For someone with these traits, the mask may exist solely to manipulate access, be it money, influence, power. And if that mask slips? There’s no shame to pull them back in line.

"In evolutionary terms, they are the outliers. Immune to the sting of exile, but also, ironically, often masters of fitting in when they choose to"

He paused again, turning to look over the class.

"So when we talk about shame and rejection shaping human behavior, do remember: there’s a percentage of people walking around who feel those forces as whispers, not shouts. And when the rest of us are bound by the invisible thread of belonging… they’re free to cut it"

Crane smirked as his fingers tapped the frame of the mirror, leaving a chalk outline behind. "And I, of course, am more than willing to provide data on that experience. Some do become criminals, but the vast majority blend in without ever being noticed"

Tim would've scoffed at the irony of Scarecrow saying that, but this felt too raw to laugh.

So as the class came to a close and packed up, Tim caught himself thinking about what had just happened, a whole room of people witnessing a vulnerability with no one twisting it into a weapon. No one using it to win.

It wasn’t how Gotham worked. It wasn’t how either of their worlds worked. Fear, in his life, had always been currency or leverage. Here, in this cramped lecture hall with mismatched desks, it was… just a thing Crane put on the table. Something open, something so simple yet inexplicably complex and raw.

He didn’t know if he trusted the openness quite yet, but it made him want to keep coming back.

Because the man was Scarecrow, a bioterrorist, but he was also Jonathan Crane, Tim's psychology professor.

And that was really messing with his head.

Chapter Text

PHIL 241: Ethics and Moral Philosophy had seemed harmless enough on paper. Tim figured he could coast through readings about Kant and hypothetical trolley cars, answer a few discussion questions, and call it a win.

He mostly took it because someone in the Batfam had to ask “what’s the moral cost of punching a guy dressed like a moth?” and who better than him?

Wouldn't be Jason, that's for sure.

Then Professor Elias Vey handed out the semester’s first debate topics.

"Is vigilantism morally justifiable in modern society?"

Easy, Tim thought. He could do that in his sleep. He could write it blindfolded, in the middle of a rooftop chase, upside down.

Which was, of course, why the universe had decided to put him on the against team.

When Vey read the sides aloud, Nix, seated two rows over, shot him a grin like she’d just been handed front-row seats to a gladiator match. Tim stared back, expression carefully neutral, and started calculating just how badly he could tank without destroying his GPA.

Except… he couldn’t.

Because once the paper was in front of him, once his brain started turning over counterpoints, the words wouldn’t stop coming. He didn’t just have arguments. He had a thesis, case studies, precedent from international law, and a disturbingly effective rhetorical hook involving an out-of-context Batman quote.

It was treason. Well-constructed, footnoted treason.

By the time debate day rolled around, Tim’s notecards were crammed with tight bullet points. He’d even color-coded them, not because he needed to, but because the sheer absurdity of out-preparing for his own ideological defeat demanded some kind of outlet.

The class arranged the desks into two facing rows. The “for” side looked relaxed, a little smug. Tim’s side was a mixed bag of anxious fidgeting and thin smiles.

The main reason? Gotham had many vigilantes. Being stuck on the “against” side was treason, plain and simple. No one wanted to go against the Bats.

Especially Tim, who was a Bat.

Vey clapped once. "Opening statements. Against side, you’re up"

Tim stood, slid his notes onto the podium, and started talking.

It was almost frightening, how easily the words came.

"Vigilantism" He began, "operates outside the social contract. It assumes the authority to interpret, enforce, and punish without democratic oversight. No matter how noble the intent, it replaces accountable institutions with unilateral power"

He kept his tone measured, calm. Professorial, even. The same he used when filling in for Bruce during Wayne Enterprise's quarterly meetings.

Something Alfred had banned him from doing upon joining Gotham U. Something along the lines of Bruce "needing to do his own job."

"History teaches us that good intentions are fragile. Today’s self-styled protector can be tomorrow’s unchecked tyrant. The danger is not just in who wields the mask, but in the precedent it sets: that justice belongs to those who can take it by force"

A few heads nodded, unintentionally crushing him. Why did the universe hate him so much? He should beg go Crane to gas Professor Vey for this.

He pivoted to crime statistics, to examples from other countries where community watch groups had slipped into armed militias. He quoted philosophers he’d actually read. He dissected the idea of “ends justifying means” until the phrase looked naked and embarrassed on the page.

And then, because some masochistic part of him wanted to make sure the knife twisted cleanly, he closed with the worst-best point.

"If the rule of law can be suspended when it’s inconvenient, then it’s not law. It’s preference. And the only thing separating a hero from a criminal in that world… is branding"

Silence.

Then, to his horror, a ripple of applause. It swelled until half the class was on their feet. Even the “for” side looked impressed, or at least unsettled.

Tim sat down quickly, pretending to shuffle his notes.

The debate continued, but it was hard to focus. His arguments were being picked apart, sure, but he’d landed enough punches to keep the momentum. And that was the problem.

He’d been too good. Too convincing. And part of him hated how much of it he agreed with.

Because buried under the academic language and the carefully constructed hypotheticals was a truth he rarely let himself look at head-on: Gotham’s entire system was a balancing act on the edge of that same precipice. A city built on the assumption that the law wasn’t enough, and that someone in a mask had to be.

But what if it wasn’t enough either?

What if he wasn’t?

He kept his face smooth as the debate wrapped up, as Vey congratulated both sides on “a performance worthy of a conference stage.” Nix gave him a look as she caught up with him to grab lunch. Something halfway between impressed and suspicious.

Tim ignored the incoming spiral he was blind to have, simply sticking out his tongue in response.

He’d won the argument. Lost his peace of mind.

And for some reason, that felt exactly like a grade-A in Ethics.

Chapter Text

Tim didn’t usually space out in Crane’s class. It was the one lecture where his brain stayed sharp without caffeine, where every strange pause or overdramatic prop pulled him forward instead of letting him drift.

But his mind was still trapped in Ethics 241, running laps around his own arguments. The words he’d spoken against vigilantism were clean, convincing, and airtight. They echoed in his mind, drowning out all of his professors’ lectures afterwards.

He wrote notes anyway. The pen moved. The bullet points stacked. But nothing really sank in, so he didn't have high hopes for Crane's class

Tim slid into the chair, the faint scrape of wood on tile echoing in the quiet room. With a small sigh, he set his Psych notebook on the desk, uncapped his pen, and stared toward the front. He loved Crane's lectures, but...

He wished he could disappear for a week to work out his thoughts.

The thunderstorm outside turned the tall windows into flickering panels of deep gray, each flash of lightning briefly bleaching the room in ghostly white.

The steady drum of rain on the glass made the hum of the fluorescent lights feel sharper, almost intrusive, as their cold, artificial glare pressed against every desk and textbook. Shadows stretched and twitched across the walls with each burst of light, giving the lecture hall an oddly restless atmosphere.

Then the room went dark. He blinked, automatically searching for danger.

Bam!

The sound slammed against his ears, loud enough to make him flinch in his seat. Somewhere in the dark, Crane’s voice emerged, low and echoing.

"Did your heart just jump? Good"

Fluorescents hummed to life overhead. Crane stood at the front with a grin just shy of feral delight.

"That… is horror. And we love it"

He began to pace, animated and sharp, every word hooked to a gesture.

"Let’s be clear: no one’s dragging you into a theater to watch someone get possessed by a demon or hunted by a masked stranger. You bought the ticket. You chose it. The question is: why?"

Crane moved to the chalkboard and wrote ‘Adrenaline + Distance = Entertainment’. As usual, his handwriting was elegant and clean.

"First: biology. Horror gives us fear in a controlled environment. Your amygdala screams ‘danger’ but your prefrontal cortex reminds you ‘we’re safe’. But that tension? That rush? It’s a chemical cocktail of dopamine, adrenaline, and relief. You get to flirt with death without dying.

"Second: storytelling. Humans have always told terrifying stories. Monsters in the dark, gods of vengeance, ghosts of betrayal. Horror is how we gave shape to our fears. How we warned each other. How we made sense of the chaos"

Crane’s finger shot out, aimed like a loaded crossbow at the front row. One student flinched, making Crane smile.

"Don’t believe me? What is Medusa if not a symbol of violated trauma? What is Frankenstein’s creature if not the fear of progress without ethics? What is Michael Myers if not pure, shapeless dread; evil without reason?"

He leaned forward, automatically taking notes as Crane's voice dropped lower, pausing to make room for the thunder

"And then we come to catharsis"

‘Through fear, we purge it’ was then written in the chalkboard. Tim copied it down without thought.

"Aristotle coined this for tragedy, but horror does it too. You walk into the theater tense, anxious, haunted. But when you scream, when you flinch, you’re releasing. You face the darkness and leave it behind. At least… for a little while"

There was a beat of stillness, a breath, a pause. The room quieted enough for him to hear the sound of the wind driving the rain in sharp bursts, pelting the windows with rush like thrown gravel. The windows shuddered faintly under the wind-driven droplets.

"And sometimes? It’s not about the monster at all. It’s about seeing someone survive it. Watching someone fight back. Watching someone win. And in that moment… we believe maybe we can too"

Crane stepped back, voice rising one last time as lightning washed the classroom in a momentary, clinical brightness, making every notebook page glow like an X-ray.

"So go ahead. Turn off the lights. Press play on that cursed VHS tape. Open the forbidden book. The fear you feel? That’s not weakness. That’s your humanity, burning bright in the dark"

Chairs scraped, backpacks rustled, and Tim could only stare at his paper. It wasn't anywhere near the usual neat notes. He closed his notebook and sighed.

Tucking the notebook into his bag and tossing his pen in randomly, he stood, searching through for his umbrella as he stepped through the rows of desks.

He made for the door, hoping to get some air before the spiral in his head clawed its way back to the surface.

"Mr. Drake. A word"

He stopped, breath catching as thunder rumbled again. Crane was leaning on the front most desk, watching him the way one might watch a chess opponent who’d just made a curious move.

"Yes?" Tim answered.

"You weren’t present today"

He frowned, gesturing towards his unofficial seat. "I was literally sitting right there"

"Your body was. Your mind wasn’t" Crane said, almost idly, before waving an arm towards the chalkboard. "What comparison did I give between Frankenstein’s creature and modern fears?"

Tim’s mouth opened. Then closed. He scanned the writings on the board, searching for clues that weren't there. "…It was about…"

The answer didn’t come.

Crane didn’t smirk, which somehow made it worse. Instead, he said in that even, unhurried tone. "If you’re going to let a thought gnaw at you, at least feed it until it’s full. Otherwise it will keep taking bites"

He turned to the shelf behind his desk, reached past a line of battered textbooks, and pulled down a worn hardcover. The dust jacket was torn at the corners; the pages had gone soft with age.

"Here, read this. I think it may help with your problem" Crane said, holding it out. "In the end, you decide whether to turn toward or away from fear, but an external factor may help your decision"

Tim took it before he could think better of it.

When he left the lecture hall, the book felt heavier than it should. Not because of the paper. Because of what it meant, an unspoken invitation to keep coming back, to rely on someone who he couldn't dare consider.

And maybe, if he was honest with himself, he wanted to.

Chapter Text

The lecture hall was dim and hushed when Tim slipped in, the only sound the low murmur of conversations echoing. A handful of students were already seated, phones out, backpacks half-open.

Crane hadn’t arrived yet.

He was halfway to his seat when a strange sound cut through the low murmur of the room: sharp, staccato breaths, quick enough to trip over each other. He glanced over just in time to see a student hunched over her desk, hands gripping her knees, shoulders locked like she was bracing for impact.

Someone in the row behind them whispered, "Are you okay?" The girl didn’t answer.

The door clicked open. Crane stepped in, gaze sweeping the room once, sharp enough to catch every tension in the air.

No sharp words. No delay. He moved straight down the aisle and crouched beside the desk.

"Hey" He said softly, as though they were the only two people in the room. "You’re here. Nothing’s touching you. I need you to breathe with me"

The rest of the class froze, watching, but Crane didn’t spare them a glance. He drew in a slow inhale, letting it out in measured rhythm, and waited until the student mirrored him.

"That’s it. Good" His voice stayed warm, steady. "Shoulders down. Eyes here"

It took maybe two minutes before the student’s breaths steadied and her grip loosened. Only then did Crane straighten, giving her a quiet nod before heading for the front of the room.

He set his briefcase on the desk and, without a single remark about what just happened. Tim stared at the man, trying his best to reconcile the crazed bioterrorism with the gentle handling of someone's panic attack.

Maybe he was biased, maybe he was just getting used to the eccentric professor who gave him a personally annotated version of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

It was getting hard to think of Jonathan Crane as Scarecrow. Aside from the reverence of fear, the man seemed like the average Gotham eccentric professor.

"Not all memory lives in your head" Crane began, moving to turn on the projector.

It clicked on, filling the wall with the silhouette of a human figure. Certain areas glowed: hands, chest, and jaw.

"Some of it stays in the body" Crane continued, his tone still softer than usual. "We call it somatic memory. The body remembers what the brain can’t, or won’t, articulate. Especially in trauma"

He took a slow step forward.

"Let’s say someone grows up in a farmhouse. Out back, there’s a scarecrow in the field, covered in crows. One day, they’re locked in there with them. Feathers brushing past their face, the sound of wings beating, beaks snapping in the dark. Years later, they hear wings too close, and, without meaning to, their shoulders tighten, their breath shortens. They scan the sky before they even think to. That’s not imagination. That’s just biology"

Tim’s pen stilled. That… was oddly specific. The kind of detail you didn’t just pluck from thin air. Too close to something only he could connect. Too close to Scarecrow.

Another click as Crane seamlessly moved on. New slide: ‘‘Trauma ≠ Memory. Trauma = Response.’

"In cases of PTSD, the hippocampus, the brain’s contextual historian, is overridden. The memory doesn’t form as a neat little narrative. It forms as sensation. As tight lungs, trembling hands, and shallow breath.

"That’s why people with PTSD don’t always say, ‘I remember what happened.’ Instead, they say, ‘I feel like it’s happening again.’"

He glanced back at the student from earlier. She gave the smallest nod.

"Triggers aren’t just emotional" He went on. "They’re physical. A sound. A touch. A flicker of light. And suddenly the body is there again, screaming danger, even if the brain insists we’re safe"

Another click. A brain scan lit bright red.

"The amygdala, our old friend, goes into overdrive. But the Broca’s area, which helps you form language, goes dark. This is why trauma can be hard to explain. The words disappear, but the feelings don’t"

He placed a hand over his heart.

"This… is the unspoken response. The tension in the jaw. The stomach ache. The refusal to walk down a certain street. The flinch you can’t justify.

"And with time, care, and safety… the body can learn to feel safe again. Not by erasing what happened. But by finally being heard"

The lecture ended with Crane handing back graded papers. A couple students lingered, quieter than usual.

It wasn’t until he was going through his papers in the library that he noticed the extra credit mark on one of his assignments. No comments with it, just a simple ‘+5.’

He didn’t remember what had triggered it, but at some point in the middle of that class, his body had gone still, chest tight, shoulders locked, an echo of a response he’d trained himself to ignore.

And for the first time in a long time, no one had called it weakness. No scolding. No demand for control. Just… an acknowledgment. A quiet mark in the corner of a page.

Chapter Text

Bruce had insisted he take something low-stress. That ended with him in PHED 110: Yoga and Mindfulness.

Tim had been hoping the “mindfulness” part would mean sitting in the back with his notebook while everyone else bent themselves into human pretzels.

No such luck.

The room smelled faintly of eucalyptus and the kind of essential oils that belonged in a spa. Sunlight strained through Gotham’s ever-present smog, a halfhearted attempt that never quite touched the grass. The mats were evenly spaced, soft enough that Tim immediately calculated how many hours of sleep he could make up if he just passed out on one.

Instructor Callie Rowan had the kind of soothing voice that made him suspicious. "Today’s session will be restorative" She announced, barefoot and serene. "We’re going to release tension and focus on grounding the mind"

That… sounded suspiciously like a trap. One he didn’t remember signing up for. There's no way Bruce hadn't known what this class entailed. And the man hadn't told him. The audacity.

Still, he sat down on his mat, trying not to look like he was about to bolt. His joints ached from too many late nights in the library and not enough actual rest. His eyelids felt like they had lead weights stitched into them.

"Let’s start in Child’s Pose" Rowan said, already folding forward onto her own mat.

Tim followed, arms stretched ahead, forehead resting on the mat.

And then… nothing happened.

No ‘okay, now move into downward dog.’ No ‘let’s transition into warrior pose.’ Just… breathing.

"Let your weight melt into the floor" Rowan's voice was quiet. Disarming. She should narrate a podcast, he decided. "Feel the ground holding you. You are safe here"

Seven minutes passed. Or maybe seventy. Hard to tell when your face was mashed into a mat.

Seven full minutes of nothing but breathing, birdsong, and the warm sunlight pressing against his back.

His thoughts, which had been running like they were late for a train, started to slow in fits and starts. The tight coil between his shoulder blades eased.

And then his brain decided that if he wasn’t actively holding it together, it was free to consider the possibility of sleep.

Which… wasn’t the worst idea with Rowan's soothing voice occasionally chiming in.

Next to him, Mason let out a slow exhale that sounded a lot like relief. Tim didn’t move. He didn’t want to. Instead, he just matched the slower rhythm, letting it sink in.

They cycled through exactly three poses for the entire class. Each one lasted long enough that Tim could feel his body start to unclench from somewhere deep inside, muscles he didn’t even know had been locked tight.

By the time Rowan finally ended the class with a "That’s all for today," Tim wasn’t sure if he’d survived a cult initiation or the first real break he’d had in months.

Mason yawned, stretching like a cat. "I could sleep here"

"Don’t tempt me" Tim muttered, rolling up his mat. "I'm susceptible to suggestion right now"

They shuffled to return their mats to the pile, nodding at Rowan, who smiled.

Thankfully, this was his only class of the day, so he was free to go nap in his dorm. Whoever made his schedule needed a raise.

But there was one problem. Between him and his dorm stood Nix. She seemed to have been already waiting. She waved enthusiastically, which Mason returned.

"Smoothies?" She asked once they were close enough.

Tim blinked at her. "What?"

"Tropical Smoothie, it's across the quad. Come on"

It wasn’t really a question, more like a directive, and somehow Tim found himself trailing after them.

Definitely susceptible to suggestion. ...And smoothies.

The café was warm and smelled like sweet fruit. The blender noise was loud enough to fill the gaps in conversation without feeling oppressive.

Nix ordered something bright pink. Mason went for some simple mango drink. Tim didn’t even look at the menu, just went with whatever had peanut butter in it.

They sat by the window, sipping smoothies and watching the campus move. Students drifted past with coffee cups and backpacks, a frisbee arcing across the grass like it was the most important thing in the world.

No one was in costume. No one was bleeding. No one was demanding he choose between two impossible options.

It was… normal.

The kind of normal that felt almost foreign now.

For a second, Tim let himself sink into it. Just a boy, a smoothie, and a world that, for once, wasn’t trying to kill him.

Chapter Text

The lecture hall was already buzzing when Tim slid into his usual seat, notebook out, pen balanced between his fingers.

The conversations around him were low, quick, people swapping notes, complaining about last week’s assignments, scrolling through their phones. Tim tuned it out, eyes on the clock.

Right on the hour, the door slammed open. Crane swept in mid-sentence, coat flaring like a stage curtain, hands already in motion.

"—and suddenly, no one knows who screamed first, but everyone’s running"

A stack of papers hit the desk with a sharp crack. A few students jumped. Crane grinned like he’d just set off a firecracker and was waiting to see who panicked first.

"Welcome," He announced, "to the psychology of the crowd. Let’s talk about what happens when fear stops being personal… and becomes performative"

He turned to the chalkboard, chalk squealing as he scrawled in large, bold strokes:

Mob Mentality – Identity Dissolved

"In a group, you’re no longer just you. You are the crowd. A fragment of something primal and collective. You shed identity in exchange for belonging, even if that belonging leads to violence, chaos, or collapse"

Tim’s pen moved automatically, the words spilling into neat bullet points. His focus was sharper here than it had been in days, but still, there was a thrum in his chest. Something about watching Crane lecture like this always left him on the edge of his seat. He wasn’t just talking. He was performing.

Crane started pacing in quick, deliberate strides across the front of the room. His voice rose, rhythmic, pulling the students into the current whether they wanted to be there or not.

"This is mob mentality. It’s not stupidity, it’s psychology. Your moral compass? Overridden. Your individual accountability? Dissolved. You stop thinking ‘What should I do?’ and start thinking ‘What is everyone else doing?’"

A click. The projector buzzed to life, the image of an old black-and-white crowd photograph filling the wall. The caption read: Gustave Le Bon’s Contagion Theory.

"Le Bon, late 1800s, called this contagion. Emotional infection. When fear, rage, ecstasy, any intense emotion, spreads through a crowd like a virus. You catch it. You become it. The more people around you react, the more you’re compelled to mirror them. Logic has left the building"

He raised a hand dramatically, voice rising to match the words.

"Picture a theater. One person screams. Another shouts ‘Bomb!’ Within seconds, the exits are blocked and people are trampling each other, not because the bomb is real, but because fear became the performance"

Click. The slide shifted to a photo of a masked crowd, banners raised. The caption read: Fear as Spectacle.

"Modern version? Social media. Protests. Mass panic. Terroristic threats. Fear becomes a show. A badge. A tool. The more visible it is, the more powerful it becomes. And when people realize they’re being watched?"

Crane leaned forward, lowering his voice until the room instinctively leaned with him.

"They perform it harder"

The silence that followed was electric. Even Tim caught himself holding his breath.

Then came the smirk: slow, knowing, unsettling.

"The scariest part? It feels good. There’s euphoria in rage, in panic, in tearing something down as part of a collective. Mob mentality gives us permission to abandon our constraints. To surrender"

Click. Final slide:

Crowds Don’t Think. They React.

"So what do we do with this knowledge?" Crane asked. His gaze swept the room, pinning each student in turn. "We remember that fear doesn’t need to be true to be contagious. It just needs to be loud. And the moment you forget who you are inside a crowd…"

He gestured wide, arms sweeping across them all.

"…you become something else entirely"

The projector clicked off. The spell broke.

Backpacks unzipped, pens clattered, conversations ignited. A few students laughed nervously, shaking off the weight of the lecture like they’d just left a movie theater too late at night.

Pockets of chatter flared across the room, fragments of the lecture reshaping into half-jokes and muddled theories. A cluster near the windows compared notes, flipping pages and circling phrases like they were swapping trading cards. The scrape of chairs against tile built into a restless chorus, everyone eager to reclaim the hallway.

Tim lingered, sliding his notes into his bag with more precision than necessary. He wasn’t in a rush to join the crowd jamming the aisles.

Crane busied himself with his papers, stacking them neatly, adjusting his satchel strap. For a moment, Tim thought he might just slip out unnoticed.

Then the man glanced at him, completely neutral.

"Your mask is slipping, Red Robin"

The words were spoken low, quiet enough not to carry. But they hit like a punch to the sternum.

Tim froze. His heartbeat spiked so sharply it made his vision pulse. "I– What?"

Crane didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Just adjusted the pile of papers and said, in the same calm tone he might use to grade a test, "Don’t worry, you’re passing"

And then he turned away, as if the conversation had already ended, sliding the last of his papers into the briefcase.

Tim stood there too long, bag strap clutched in his hand, trying to decide if he’d imagined it.

He hadn’t. He knew he hadn’t.

But by the time he made it into the hall, the noise of the crowd swallowed him, and he walked out in a daze, too confused to even be upset.

Chapter Text

HIST 317: History of Gotham Crime and Culture.

Tim had expected the class to be an easy elective, a weekly slideshow of sensationalized trivia with minimal grading. It was supposed to be a break. Something to sit through while sipping overpriced coffee and pretending to be a civilian.

He hadn’t accounted for Professor Percival Rowe.

Rowe, or “Percy,” as he introduced himself, was a whirlwind of tweed, elbow patches, and chaos. His lectures always began the same way: mid-sentence, chalk already squealing across the board like it owed him money.

Today’s topic: “The Red Hood Incident: Gotham’s Modern Prometheus.”

Tim’s pen froze. Oh no.

Rowe gestured with the enthusiasm of a man who’d just discovered fire. "Now, as we all know, the Red Hood Gang terrorized the city in the early 2010s before being dismantled by the Batman, who, according to several unverified sources, pushed their leader into a vat of acid during a factory raid"

Tim’s left eye twitched.

Rowe barreled on, oblivious. "Some say the leader survived and became a kind of mythic trickster figure, an urban ghost, if you will, known for stealing from both criminals and heroes alike!"

Stealing. Tim’s jaw clenched. That was one word for it.

He could practically hear Jason laughing in the distance.

"Of course," Rowe continued, pacing between rows, "many scholars debate the gang’s political motivations. Some posit they were early anarchists. Others—" He tapped the chalk against the board for emphasis "—believe the Red Hood identity was symbolic of Gotham’s working-class rebellion against corruption"

Tim wrote false, false, oh my god false in the margin of his notes.

Across the aisle, Mason raised an eyebrow at him like, you okay, man?

Tim shook his head once. No.

Rowe’s next slide featured a blurry tabloid photo of Jason mid-fight, captioned “The Phantom Thief Returns!”

Tim’s soul left his body.

By the time the professor reached the "Red Hood’s mysterious disappearance," Tim’s fingers were digging crescents into his pen.

When Rowe finally paused for discussion, the room erupted into theories.

"I think the Red Hood was actually three different people" One student said.

"Wasn’t it just a Joker copycat cult?" Another offered.

"My uncle swears he saw him steal a police motorcycle!" Someone added.

Tim closed his notebook, counted to ten, and raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Drake?"

Tim smiled the polite, practiced smile that usually preceded a verbal takedown. "Just a small clarification, Professor. The Red Hood name predates the 2010s, it’s been a recurring pseudonym of Joker since the fifties. The modern Red Hood stole the name in revenge. And… the leader wasn’t exactly pushed into a vat of acid. The evidence suggests it was more of an accident during a chase"

Rowe blinked. "An… accident?"

"Yes, sir. Batman wasn’t even near him when he fell" Tim kept his tone academic, detached, absolutely not defensive. "Also, the post-incident activity doesn’t align with the term ‘phantom thief.’ The modern Red Hood primarily targets organized crime, not civilians"

The room went quiet. Someone in the back muttered, "Damn, he came prepared"

Rowe stared at him for a beat too long, then broke into a wide grin. "Excellent observation, Mr. Drake! I adore a student who does their homework"

Tim relaxed an inch. Maybe that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

After class, when everyone filtered out, Rowe called, "Mr. Drake, a moment?"

Tim hesitated. Nix gave him a sympathetic wave as she passed.

Rowe leaned against his desk, arms folded, eyes alight with curiosity rather than suspicion. "You ever think of majoring in criminal anthropology?"

Tim blinked. "I— What?"

"You clearly have a knack for criminal behavioral patterns and historical context" Rowe said, like this was perfectly normal. "You’d be a natural. Gotham needs more minds like yours digging through its mythology"

Tim forced a laugh. "Right. I’ll… think about it"

"Splendid!" Rowe clapped his hands once. "Always follow the evidence wherever it leads, Mr. Drake. That’s the mark of a true scholar"

Tim managed a nod and escaped before the universe decided to make this conversation weirder.

Out in the hallway, he exhaled through his teeth and muttered, "Jason’s never allowed to hear about this"

Mason, waiting near the door, looked up from his phone. "You look like you aged ten years"

"I might’ve"

"Smoothie run?"

Tim sighed. "Please"

They walked off down the hall, Tim already drafting a message in his head: Dear universe, stop giving me heart attacks during elective credits.

Chapter Text

The class was quieter than usual when Tim walked in. Even the air felt heavier, like the room itself knew Crane was planning something strange.

He wasn’t wrong.

Crane entered a moment later holding a porcelain mask. Plain white, expressionless, gleaming faintly under the fluorescent lights. He didn’t say a word, just stood at the front of the room and stared.

The silence stretched until someone coughed. Only then did he speak.

"You’ve all worn one of these"

He set the mask down on the podium with care, the faint click echoing louder than it should have.

"And I don’t just mean metaphorically. You’ve smiled when you were breaking. You’ve laughed when you were seething. Congratulations. You’re human"

Click. The projector lit up behind him: Persona.

"Let’s start with Carl Jung" Crane continued, voice even. "He defined the persona as the mask we wear to face society. Not out of deceit, but out of necessity. It’s the curated version of you. The version you present to be accepted, understood, admired, left alone"

He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing slowly.

"But behind that? There’s the raw you. The messy you. The you that cries at stupid commercials and thinks things you’d never admit out loud"

Click. Next slide: Defense Mechanisms.

"When life threatens that inner self, when something hurts too deeply or feels too dangerous, your brain gets crafty. It builds defense mechanisms. Walls. Disguises. Redirects"

He started listing, each step across the room punctuating a word.

"Denial, pretend it didn’t happen. Repression, bury it so deep even you forget. Projection, blame someone else for what you fear in yourself. Rationalization, wrap your pain in logic and call it solved. Displacement, you can’t punch your boss, so you scream at the toaster"

A few students laughed. Crane didn’t.

"These masks are survival tools" He said simply. "They keep us functioning. But wear them too long…"

He gestured toward the mask on the podium.

"…and you forget what your real face looks like"

Click. A shattered mirror appeared on screen, labeled The Fragmented Self.

"And that’s the cost" Crane said. "When the mask becomes permanent, when defense becomes identity, you lose touch with your own truth. Your needs. Your voice"

He stepped closer to the front row, eyes sharp but not cruel.

"But here’s the twist: the mask isn’t evil. It was built to protect something fragile. The persona wants to keep you alive. The defense mechanism is the bodyguard, overzealous, maybe, but loyal"

Click. Final slide: You are more than the mask. But the mask once saved you.

"Don’t rip it off. Understand it. Honor the reason it exists. Then choose when to wear it, and when to finally breathe without it"

He let the projector hum for a moment before continuing, tone softening.

"Your assignment is to design a mask that represents your true self. No wrong answers. No need for artistic skill. What matters is the meaning"

Tim stared at his notes. He wasn’t even sure what his “true self” meant anymore. Red Robin was built out of logic, fear, and the need to fix what Batman couldn’t. But Tim Drake, the name, the person, felt like a mask, too. A convenient fiction built to look functional.

He jotted down a few words in the margin: Order. Guilt. Glass. Wings. Then scratched them out.

Class ended with the usual shuffling of papers and quiet murmurs, but Tim stayed seated until the room cleared. Crane was erasing the board, the porcelain mask still perched on the podium like a sentinel.

When Tim finally stood to leave, Crane spoke without turning around.

"You never flinch at external fear" He said. "But internal? That’s another matter"

Tim’s pulse skipped. "I’m not sure what you mean"

Crane set the eraser down and looked over his shoulder. "Yes, you are"

Tim didn’t answer.

Crane’s gaze lingered a moment longer, not unkind, before he added, almost conversationally, "For what it’s worth, that’s the kind of honesty most people never reach. The fear of oneself is the hardest to face"

Tim nodded once, unsure if it was acknowledgment or defense. "I’ll… keep that in mind"

He left the room still thinking about it, the porcelain mask, the words on the slides, the way Crane’s tone had shifted somewhere between teacher and mirror.

Maybe he was learning more than psychology. Maybe, for better or worse, he was learning himself.

Chapter Text

The room was dim when Tim walked in.
No projector hum, no props waiting on the desk, no dramatic entrance music this time. Just quiet.

Crane stood at the front, hands folded loosely behind his back. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, it was heavy, deliberate.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried differently. Lower. Calmer.

"Today," He said, "I’m not here to thrill you"

A pause.

"I’m here to draw a line"

He clicked the remote. The projector flickered to life with a blank white slide: Horror vs. Harm.

No pictures. Just text.

"Horror," Crane began, "as we've discussed, is the invitation to fear. Fictional, contained, often even cathartic. We watch, we flinch, we survive. And in that survival, we learn something about ourselves"

He started pacing slowly, the motion measured instead of theatrical.

"But harm?" He looked up. "Harm is real. Harm is inflicted. And sometimes…" He gestured faintly toward the board, "…it wears horror’s mask"

Click. The slide shifted. Fear, when wielded, becomes control.

"In literature, in media, in relationships, we sometimes celebrate fear as thrilling. But when it crosses the line into humiliation, coercion, psychological manipulation…"
His voice sharpened, a rare edge surfacing.
"…that’s not horror. That’s abuse"

Tim’s pen stopped moving. The tone was different today. Not detached, not performative. There was a thread of something personal stitched into every word.

Crane raised a hand, fingers steady, precise.

"If a horror story strips the viewer of autonomy, if it retraumatizes, dehumanizes, or mocks pain for spectacle, it ceases to be horror. It becomes violence in costume"

Click. A quote appeared across the next slide in stark white: Fear without consent is cruelty.

"Consent," Crane said, "is the unspoken contract between storyteller and audience. Between person and person. In horror, we say, ‘Yes, scare me.’ We accept the terms. But in harm, there is no choice. There is only imbalance. Only control"

He leaned against the desk now, closer to them than usual.

"Abusers use fear the same way horror uses tension. They isolate. They escalate. They convince you that you’re the problem. That the fear is deserved. And they’ll often say it’s for your own good"

The room was silent except for the faint buzz of the projector.

"That’s not fear for growth" He said quietly. "That’s fear for control"

Click. The final slide appeared: When horror empowers, it heals. When horror degrades, it destroys.

Crane took a slow breath, the kind meant to anchor, not command.

"So when you consume fear-based media, or live inside a fear-based dynamic, ask yourself this: does this make me feel more human… or less?"

His gaze moved across the room, steady, searching.

"Horror is a mirror" He said at last. "But when someone’s holding it against your throat instead of up to your face, that’s not horror anymore. That’s harm. And you are allowed to put the mirror down"

No one moved for a full ten seconds.

Even Tim, who’d spent his entire life navigating different flavors of fear, felt something in his chest go still. There was a raw clarity in Crane’s tone that wasn’t academic. It was human.

Uncomfortably, undeniably human.

He thought of the way Batman used fear as deterrence.

The way he did, sometimes, without realizing how close the edge really was.

He’d seen the mirror turned both ways.

And now, sitting here in a quiet classroom with thunder rolling faintly outside, Tim was realizing maybe Crane had too.

When class finally ended, nobody rushed to leave. It was like stepping out of a storm you hadn’t noticed building. A few students murmured goodbyes. Others stayed seated, thoughtful.

One girl leaned over to her friend, whispering, "That was… something"

"Yeah" Her friend said. Her voice felt distant, caught somewhere between admiration and unease. "Makes me think about my last boyfriend"

Crane dismissed the class with a simple nod. "See you next week"

No homework. No follow-up. Just that.

Tim slung his bag over his shoulder, hesitating halfway to the door. He glanced back, expecting to find Crane already absorbed in his papers, but the man was watching the class disperse with something almost like protectiveness.

When their eyes met, Crane gave a faint, acknowledging nod. The kind you’d give someone who understood rather than simply listened.

Tim didn’t know what to do with that.

By the time he made it to the stairs, the two girls from before were waiting by the steps.

"That was intense" The first said, balancing her coffee to rummage through her bag. "Like… I think I actually learned something about boundaries"

"Yeah" Her friend nodded. "I feel like he could single-handedly end half the true crime industry"

The first huffed a laugh. "He probably already tried"

The second grinned. "You realize we’ve started calling him our cryptid dad, right?"

Tim blinked, slowing his steps to match their pace.

The first girl seemed to blanch. "Our what?"

"You know, appears out of nowhere, says something terrifyingly profound, vanishes before you can ask a follow-up question"

"Oh. Cryptid dad"

Tim rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Because, somehow, it fit.

Chapter Text

It started with Nix cornering Tim in the library.

Which, for the record, should’ve been illegal. Libraries were supposed to be neutral zones.

"Mason’s birthday’s next week" She said, whispering like it was a state secret.

Tim blinked. "And?"

"And," she continued, "we’re doing something for it"

"Mason hates birthdays"

"I know!" Nix said, far too cheerfully. "That’s why it’s a surprise"

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. "...That’s not how that works"

"Sure it is" she said, tossing her braid over her shoulder. "We’ll keep it low-key. Picnic on the quad. Cupcakes. No candles, no singing. He won’t even see it coming"

"That’s… kind of the problem with surprises" Tim muttered, but it was too late. Nix had already walked off to recruit more help.

By the day of the “non-party,” Mason had already made it clear that he didn’t want presents. He’d said it three times in class, twice over text, and once while handing Tim a notebook.

"I don’t need anything" Mason had said, firm but not unkind. "Seriously. Don’t"

So Tim didn’t buy anything.

He made something instead.

He stayed up until three a.m. the night before, sitting cross-legged at his dorm desk under the faint buzz of his desk lamp, sketching with mechanical precision. It started as an idea, a detailed recreation of Mason’s favorite horror game interface, the glowing symbols and eerie inventory menus that had become an inside joke between them.

But the longer he worked, the more it stopped being a gift and started being… something else.

Something careful. Thoughtful. Maybe even personal.

When he finally set down the pen, the paper was filled with intricate UI elements, ghostly details like they were printed from another world, the kind of obsessive accuracy that only Tim Drake could achieve on too little sleep and too much caffeine.

He almost didn’t bring it. But then Nix texted: bring something, even if it’s just napkins.

So he rolled the art print carefully into a folder and showed up to the quad.

The afternoon was uncharacteristically warm for Gotham U. The smog had thinned enough to let sunlight filter through the clouds, hitting the grass with a pale, forgiving glow.

Nix was already there, spreading a blanket on the grass with theatrical flair. A small bakery box sat beside her, tied with red ribbon. Mason stood nearby, looking like someone who’d been dragged into a trap he wasn’t sure he minded.

"Happy… uh," Nix paused, looking at him, "regular day that happens to align with the anniversary of your birth?"

Mason sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "You people don’t listen"

"Correct," Nix said brightly. "Now sit"

They did. The three of them sat cross-legged on the blanket with cupcakes, juice boxes, and exactly one half-squished bag of chips. It wasn’t much, but somehow, it looked right.

Tim handed Mason the folder awkwardly. "Here. Don’t get excited. It’s— it’s not much"

Mason opened it, brows furrowing as he slid the print free.

Then he just… stared.

The hand-drawn interface shimmered faintly in the sunlight, all crisp angles and impossible light sources. It was almost too good, hauntingly precise, like a real screenshot printed on paper.

"You drew this?" Mason said quietly.

Tim shrugged. "Yeah. Figured you’d like something you can’t download"

Nix leaned over, eyes wide. "Holy hell, Tim. That’s insane"

"It’s just a drawing"

"It’s not just a drawing," Mason said. His voice was quiet, but the kind that carried. 'It’s… perfect"

Tim tried to brush it off, but Mason kept looking at it, not in awe, exactly, but like he was trying to process the idea that someone had made something for him.

They spent the next hour doing nothing particularly special. Just sitting, eating cupcakes, trading bad jokes, and letting the afternoon drift by.

Nix eventually fell back on the blanket, squinting at the clouds. "I think I’m getting sunburned for a good cause"

Tim smirked. "You say that like there was a bad cause"

"Most of mine are questionable" She said, eyes closed.

Mason chuckled, low and soft, the kind of sound you’d miss if you weren’t listening for it.

They didn’t talk about classes. Or lectures. Or fear.

Just music, and movies, and Nix’s ongoing campaign to get them to sign up for intramural trivia night.

It wasn’t until the sky started turning gold that Mason said, almost absently, "I didn’t think it mattered this much"

Tim looked up from his empty cupcake wrapper. "What?"

"People remembering" Mason said. He didn’t look at either of them. "The day. I didn’t think it mattered"

There was a pause. Then Nix, gentle for once, said, "It matters to us"

Tim nodded. "Yeah. It does"

Mason didn’t say anything else, just smiled faintly, folding the art print back into its folder like it was made of glass.

The sunlight hit his face in that quiet, fleeting way where everything felt suspended for half a heartbeat  three students, a blanket, a few cupcakes, and a moment that shouldn’t have been important but was.

And for once, Tim didn’t overthink it.

He just let it be.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the lecture hall was different today.

Looser. Warmer. Like the collective student body had decided, silently, that they trusted Crane now, or at least accepted that his brand of chaos was more education than hazard.

Tim wasn’t sure he trusted that feeling, but he had to admit it was… comfortable.

Crane walked in not with his usual sharp, deliberate energy, but with a mug of tea and what could only be described as a smirk that had seen things. He looked vaguely rumpled in a way that made half the class tilt their heads, as if wondering whether the rumors about him actually skydiving over the weekend were true.

Tim knew otherwise, of course. He monitored the man closely for his mission. That look? Yeah, he'd tripped down a flight of stairs in C Hall.

Crane set the mug down on the podium with a soft clink.

"Alright" He said, voice lighter than usual. "Let’s talk about the good stuff"

That earned a few uncertain laughs. Crane grinned, sipping his tea.

"Fear… that you pay for"

Click. The projector screen lit up behind him. Voluntary Fear — Thrill, Choice, Control.

"Skydiving," He began, pacing with a fluid rhythm, "haunted houses. Roller coasters. Watching The Ring alone at two in the morning because you want to be wrecked. There’s a reason people line up to be terrified. Because fear, when chosen, is a drug"

Tim caught himself smiling faintly. Crane’s lectures always danced between science and theater, but this one… it was more theatrical than usual. He found himself leaning forward.

"When you voluntarily enter fear," Crane continued, gesturing with his mug, "your body unleashes a neurochemical explosion: adrenaline, endorphins, dopamine. And because you chose the situation? You stay in control. It’s a simulation. A safe crash"

Click. The next slide appeared, three images side by side: a roller coaster, a haunted house, and a leather-gloved hand holding a chain.

The class froze.

Crane didn’t miss a beat.

"Now, let’s push it further" He said. "Kink"

Someone in the back audibly choked on their coffee. Tim fought a snicker when he glanced back.

Crane ignored it, calm and clinical. "Yes, we’re going there. Fear can be erotic. So can pain, power, restraint. Why? Because it activates the same systems. But instead of running away from fear, you run into it. Carefully. Consensually"

He held up two fingers like a benediction. "Key difference? Agency and aftercare. Voluntary fear only works when the subject has control, even if they choose to surrender that control temporarily. The safe word exists. The parachute exists. The exit is always there, even if your body forgets it"

The class was utterly silent. Not uncomfortable, just absorbed.

Crane’s tone softened, reverent. "And then… comes catharsis"

Click. A heart-rate monitor spiking, then leveling out.

"After the fall, the scream, the climax, literal or metaphorical, your system releases the pressure. You emerge calmer. Lighter. It’s not just thrill. It’s relief. It’s the blood saying, ‘We made it. We’re alive.’"

His grin returned, small but genuine. "Voluntary fear is how we trick the lizard brain into believing we’re still in the wild, without ever leaving the theater, the dungeon, or the ride"

Click. Final slide: Fear, When Chosen, Becomes Freedom.

Crane set down the clicker and leaned back against the desk, looking almost… content.

"So," he said, scanning the rows. "Fear, control, freedom. Thoughts?"

No one spoke for a long moment.

Then, against his better judgment, Tim did.

"I think," He said slowly, "that the control part might be the most important. Because… it’s not really about escaping fear. It’s about proving you can walk up to it and still have the power to stop. You get to rewrite what it means to be scared"

He didn’t mean to sound so personal. But the words were already out.

Crane didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t smirk, or analyze, or twist it into a lesson. He just… nodded.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because it wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t manipulation. It was understanding. Recognition.

And maybe, just maybe, approval.

When the class ended, Tim lingered to collect his things, trying to shake the faint warmth under his skin.

Crane’s voice cut through the quiet as the last students filed out.

"You never fail to say the right thing" He said, not looking up from his notes. "Is it on purpose?" He smiled faintly.

Tim swallowed. "You analyze all your students like this?"

"Only the interesting ones"

And then he went back to grading, leaving Tim staring, somewhere between exasperated and… seen.

By the time he made it out into the hallway, his pulse had settled, but only barely.

He wasn’t sure what Crane was teaching him anymore.

But it was definitely working.

Chapter Text

The end of the semester carried a strange kind of stillness, like the whole campus was exhaling at once.

Projects, finals, empty coffee cups piling on library tables.

Even Crane’s lectures had quieted. The energy that once came in with the slam of a door and a theatrical prop had softened into something steadier.

Not less intense. Just… contained.

Tim sat near the front that day, notebook open but barely used. The board already had Final Project scrawled across it in Crane’s clean, sharp handwriting. Beneath it: Fear and Identity.

The irony was almost funny. Almost.

Crane turned from the board and rested a hand on the desk, surveying the class. "Your final project is simple. Create a presentation or essay on fear and identity, the mask you wear and what it protects"

The room shifted. A few students groaned, some scribbled the title down. Tim didn’t move.

Crane’s gaze passed over him, casual, almost disinterested. But Tim knew better.

The man might as well have written you on the board instead.

The class passed in a blur of examples and clarifications. Crane encouraged creativity, psychological analysis, art, performance, even journaling. "Be honest," He said, "even if it makes you uncomfortable"

Tim’s stomach twisted at that. Honesty wasn’t the problem. Containment was.

When class ended, he packed slower than usual, waiting for the last student to leave before approaching the desk. Crane was stacking papers, methodical as always.

"Professor," Tim began, keeping his tone neutral, "about the final project—"

Crane didn’t look up. "You’re not here to ask about formatting, Mr. Drake"

The air shifted. Tim’s throat went dry.

He took a step closer. "So how long have you known?"

Crane finally raised his head. His expression was calm, faintly amused, as if Tim had asked whether he took sugar in his tea. "Since week two"

"…What?"

"You analyze fear too precisely not to live with it" Crane said simply. "And I’ve only met one person who’s that comfortable discussing masks"

Tim’s pulse stuttered. "If you’re planning to blackmail me—"

Crane waved a hand lazily. "Please. You think I’d waste a perfectly functional protégé on something so vulgar? Relax. Your secret’s safe. For now"

Tim bristled. "You don’t get to talk about safety"

Something flickered in Crane’s eyes, something sharp and unreadable. "No" He agreed softly. "I don’t. But you do. You’ve turned fear into purpose. You weaponize it for justice. I did it for knowledge"

He leaned forward slightly, hands folded on the desk. "We’re not opposites, Mr. Drake. We’re research subjects that chose different methodologies"

Tim stared at him, the words landing heavier than they should’ve. "You think that’s an excuse?"

"No," Crane said. "It’s a truth. You fight fear by facing monsters. I tried to understand them from the inside out. Either way, we both learned how to breathe in the dark"

The line sat between them, quiet and cutting.

Tim swallowed hard. "You think this is redemption, then? Teaching?"

Crane’s mouth curved faintly, not a smile, exactly, more like an acknowledgment. "Not at all. Adaptation. Redemption requires forgiveness. I’ve never wanted for that"

He stood, slow and deliberate, sliding a folder across the desk toward Tim. "Your final grade. I suspect you already know it"

Tim hesitated before opening it. Inside, a neat A+ and a handwritten note:

You understand fear better than most adults I’ve met. Use that wisely.

He exhaled. "You could’ve exposed me"

Crane tilted his head. "So could you"

Their eyes met, neither blinking.

"But we both," Crane said, voice quiet but certain, "have better uses for the truth"

Tim closed the folder, thumb tracing the edge of the page. He wanted to say something cutting, something that reminded them both who Scarecrow was, but it didn’t come.

Instead, he heard himself mutter, "You’re not supposed to be this human"

Crane smiled at that, small, knowing, weary. "And you’re not supposed to be this honest. Yet here we are"

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. Just… full.

Tim turned to go.

"Mr. Drake"

He stopped at the doorway. Crane’s voice was low now, almost kind.

"You wear the mask well" He said. "My office hours will remain open if you ever need me"

For a moment, Tim didn’t breathe.

Then he nodded, not in agreement, but in acknowledgment, like they’d both reached the same unspeakable conclusion from different directions.

Outside, the hallway was filled with noise, students laughing, talking, alive. The world moved on.

Tim adjusted his bag strap and kept walking, the folder tucked under his arm like proof that, for once, he’d passed something without pretending.

He wasn’t sure what Crane was teaching anymore.

But maybe that was the point.