Chapter Text
He leaves his "school" three weeks after arriving and one month after Jason’s death. He leaves in the middle of the night wearing only his pajamas and his coat, wearing his ratty tennis shoes that are a size too small and busting out at the toes. He has five dollars and eighty-three cents in his pocket and is fighting the lethargy that comes from being overly drugged by people who think they know better than him.
He hitches back to Gotham with a guy driving an eighteen-wheeler named Dave.
His school, a fancy term for an institution for juvenile delinquents, is set in the backwoods of Virginia, and it takes most of the day to get back to Gotham.
It had taken most of the week to plan his escape, to palm the pills he was supposed to take at night and slip them into the coffee of his hallway's guard. He'd already mapped out the path of the cameras and managed to find a pathway through the grounds without setting off any alerts.
--
"You sure you wanna get dropped off here, kid?" Dave asks him, pulling up in front of Drake Manor.
The house is dark and dim and looks like it's been abandoned.
He nods anyway. He needs to check a couple of things.
Dave sighs and pulls out a piece of paper and scribbles something on it before handing it over.
"My number. You find a phone and call me and I'll come get you. All right?"
He stares at the number. It's already memorized as he takes the paper and tucks it into the inner pocket of his coat, next to his funds.
He nods and clambers down out of the truck, fighting the urge to put his hands over his ears at the noise of the engine.
The gate opens easy enough, the code the same. The manor is dark. No power. Probably no water either. There is a 'For Sale' sign out front. He sighs and keeps walking. The front door is locked, so he goes around the side of the house and climbs the terrace like he's done a thousand times before.
He has a thumb drive in his coat pocket, a clumsily sown hidden flap covering it. It's all he had time to grab when his parents had shoved him in the car for his "next great adventure," as his mother had put it.
They had packed for him, hence the shoes that didn't fit.
His window opens as easily as it ever has, and he shimmies inside with a grateful groan.
His stuff is mostly there, it looks like, minus his furniture, including his bed, which is unfortunate.
He goes to his closet, and thankfully, finds his actual tennis shoes, the ones he had paid for just before he had left. The ones that fit.
They're velcro and black and yellow and they feel so good going on that he could just about cry. His backpack is in the closet and he grabs that next. He strips off his thin pajamas and changes quickly into some thick sweats and a t-shirt, with a Gotham Knights hoodie over it. Then his coat is back on and he's warm and that's about as wonderful as it gets. He shoves some socks and underwear and an extra t-shirt in his backpack and then goes on a hunt around his room to see if there's anything worth salvaging.
He finds an additional sixty-two dollars hidden in corners of his room and adds some of it to his stash in his pocket, breaking it up into three separate spots, including his backpack and his left sock.
He's upset about the loss of his bed. He'd had almost a thousand dollars hidden away under it, but that's gone now.
He goes downstairs. He finds a package of bottled water in the kitchen and downs three bottles right there and then has to clench his fingers on the side of the dining room table to keep from bringing it all back up.
"St-St-Stupid," he tells himself when he's sure it won't reappear.
He slaps himself in the head three times for his idiocy.
"D-D-D-Dumbass. F-F-F-F-Fucking st-st-stupid d-d-dummy!" He says, pinching himself until his nausea is overtaken with pain.
He goes to the pantry and finds expired granola bars. He grabs them. He's eaten worse.
He heads to his dad's liquor cabinet. There are two full bottles of gin left, both bottles that his father would consider 'cheap.' He grabs those too. He leaves the rest. They're heavy enough as is, and where he's going, he suspects he'll be able to find more.
He'd read the newspaper headlines while he'd been away. He could read pre-approved things like that without drawing undue attention. For all accounts, it seemed like Batman had just about gone off the deep end after the death of Robin. He has no doubt that Bruce Wayne is in similar straits.
He leaves the relative safety of Drake Manor and trudges through the woods to Wayne Manor.
It's dark. And he's tired. And his head is splitting from the withdrawal of the psych meds they'd been pushing so heavily at his 'school.'
He'd like to lie down in the grass and give up, but he's tried that and it doesn't work. It's not so easy to just die, even if he wishes otherwise.
Hm, maybe Batman will kill me if I piss him off too much.
Maybe that would be better for them both.
The Wayne Manor's gate code is the same. He shouldn't know it. He shouldn't use it.
But he does and he's going up to the building carefully, remembering the path that Jason had taught him to take back before everything had gone to shit.
He gets into the manor through the mud room. It's almost three in the morning, but the Waynes are nothing if not nocturnal, so he's careful as he slips in the house.
It's so fucking warm in here.
He heads up to the 2nd floor, past the family wing, creeping at the edges of the hallway where the cameras don't quite reach, and then past that to the East wing, which has been closed down and under wraps for longer than Jason or even Dick could remember. He goes up to the farthest room, the one with the large bed in the shape of a heart. It made him snort.
He checks the toilet and finds toilet paper and it's strange how much the discovery of little amenities like that make him emotional. He takes a long time to piss and then flushes the toilet, wincing a little at the loud sound. But it works.
He goes back out into the room and finds a closet, one with a number of dusty boxes and makes himself a little hidey hole and clambers in with his backpack that has started hurting his shoulders, even with so much padding under it from his sweatshirt and coat.
It's colder back here, but still not as cold as Drake Manor.
He unzips his coat and pulls out his bottle of gin. Thank goodness it doesn't need a bottle opener. He's such a fucking idiot. It's a wonder he can even walk on his two feet sometimes.
He pulls the tab and pops the cork off and takes a swig. It burns. He takes another swig. And then one more and puts the lid back on and the bottle back in his backpack. His eyes are watery as he leans back into his nest.
He sighs and lets the familiar lethargy take him down into oblivion.
He has so much to do.
He's gonna get revenge on his parents, that's for certain. He's going to get revenge and he's going to air every skeleton they've ever even thought about having. And they are going to regret getting rid of him so much.
--
He wakes up mid-scream. He has to ball his fist in his mouth to keep from making any sound, an action far too familiar to him.
He grabs one of the water bottles from Drake Manor and takes a swig to clear out the cobwebs from his mouth, his stomach rolling uncomfortably.
Checking the time, he sees it's almost ten, and he doesn't know what that means for Bruce and Alfred. He knows that Alfred was always up with the sun, but Bruce didn't usually get up before noon, unless there was business. But if Bruce is in some sort of major depressive spiral, like he suspects, wouldn't that mean he's sleeping more? Or maybe Batmaning more.
He doesn't know. He needs to use the toilet and then do some reconnaissance. He sighs and gets up.
And pulls his coat off, because good lord why is it so hot in here?
Ah, that's better.
He goes back to the toilet, slurps some water from the sink and heads off down the hall, creeping softly until he comes to the family wing. He needs to learn the layout of this place better. He can't keep coming through here and nearly getting seen.
He's halfway down the hall when he sees a door open and then he's ducking in the nearest room, his heart beating wildly as he waits for footsteps to either go past him or stop in front of him.
They go past him. They're too light for Bruce . . . they're probably too light for Bruce, he amends mentally.
He looks around and nearly screams again. Why oh why had he picked Jason's room to hide out in? He's so fucking stupid.
He cracks the door open and sees that he's alone and then closes it behind him and hightails it down the hallway about as fast he dares.
In the kitchen, he creeps around the corner of the doorway and sees no one. There are apples on the island, and he darts forward and grabs two and shoves them in his pocket, then makes a beeline for the pantry and shoves a number of things in his pockets, including beef jerky, dried fruit and saltines. He makes off with his bounty and heads back for his spot upstairs.
--
Back in his closet, he finds himself wishing for a notebook and some paper. Maybe if he went back to Jason's room? He knew where the other boy had kept such things, after all. Did he dare steal from a dead boy?
He shrugs. He's already a piece of shit. What's one more transgression against his soul.
He spends the rest of the day sleeping and eating a little and drinking a lot.
He finds himself looking at the mirror in the bathroom at one in the morning, staring and wondering whose face is looking back at him now. He doesn't recognize his face. He's getting older. He's thirteen and the bags under his eyes suggest older than that.
He wonders what he'll do after he gets his revenge, whether he'll want to keep on keeping on, as they say.
Maybe Bruce will get rid of me too and the cycle will be complete.
If Bruce gets rid of me too, then that'll be enough. I won't care anymore.
Bruce probably doesn't even remember me. Why should he?
Besides the fact that he had practically lived at Wayne Manor for most of last term. Or the fact that Bruce had told him he was safe here. Or the fact that Jason had tried to steal him on more than one occasion.
He's crying. It doesn't feel any different than when he's not.
He goes back to his closet and buries himself in his coat and tries to think of nothing.
It doesn't work. It never works.
The darkness beats down on him from above. It feels claustrophobic. He ignores it. He ignores a lot of things.
The dreams come to him that night. Like they have so many times before when he's stayed the night.
There is an older man with a mustache sitting beside him, looking sadly at him.
"Go away," he says.
That's how he knows it's a dream. He never stutters in his dreams.
"Hey, sweetie. Long time no see," the man says.
"Go away," he says, lips quivering.
"Why are you sitting in my dead mother's closet?" The man says.
"Go. Away," he's begging now. "Please, just leave me alone."
Tears streak down his cheeks, and it's worse when the man pulls him into his lap.
Why does he feel so warm? It always makes waking up so much worse.
"Where's Jason, baby? Why haven't we seen him recently?" Another voice says, stepping into the closet.
It's an older woman and he hides his face from them both.
He used to see them when he and Jason had sleepovers. He and Jason had talked once and realized they were having the same dreams, but neither of them had ever wanted to tell Bruce.
His shoulders are shaking.
Jason had admitted to him that he never dreamed about the older couple when Tim wasn't there.
"You're my lucky charm," Jason had said.
"Something terrible happened," he whispers, not looking at them.
He doesn't see the way they glance at one another in concern.
"Sweetie?" The man asks, stroking his hair.
"Jason's dead. The Joker--I'm sorry."
He's crying. He's crying and the darkness is encroaching and he's alone again.