Faith, Trust, & Pixie Boots

Tim Drake didn’t think he was a bad kid, but the evidence was mounting. Parents of good children could stand to be in the same room with them without it dissolving into a screaming match about an A- on a spelling test. Parents of good children don’t have to fly around the world for ten months out of the year to get away from their kids, leaving their multi-million dollar company unattended.

And lastly, Tim thought as he dabbed his bloody lip with a square of toilet paper, if he wasn’t a bad kid, then they wouldn’t have to hit him.

So really, a rational mind could only come to one conclusion.

Tim’s eyes watered in the mirror, and he gave up on the lip. It was swelling now and most of the blood was trapped under the skin. Chapped lips and a backhand to the face is a recipe for disaster.

Heading back to his bedroom, he moved quickly and silently, inching the door closed behind him. In the wake of their family fight, the house had gone completely quiet. Even the sound of a nine-year-old’s slippers on hardwood was like a gunshot to Tim’s ears. His nerves felt like live wire, like every little noise and sensation was grating on him with a serrated blade.

After settling in under his comforter, Tim’s eyes didn’t close. His face ached fiercely, making him too uncomfortable for sleep. Even without the pain, his mind kept the events of tonight rolling through his thoughts on repeat.

He could see his mother’s hand swinging for his face. Beside her, his father had pulled off his belt and was brandishing it in the air. Both of their eyes were alive with a hate that Tim could hardly believe was directed at him.

He never thought he’d long for the days when they left him alone for months at a time while traveling. Six months ago, when they told him Drake Industries was in trouble, and they’d have to stay in Gotham semi-permanently, he’d leaped for joy. They finally had the chance to be a loving family living under one roof. It was his fantasy come to life.

And now Tim had to leave.

As quickly as he’d gotten into it, he slid out of bed. His school bag was stuffed with books and a school tablet. He placed it all neatly on his desk. Hopefully, Mrs. Mac could return it to his teachers.

Instead of books, Tim filled the bag with a few sturdy outfits, toiletries, a granola bar, and his camera. He knew the latter was probably a bad idea, but he couldn’t bear to part with it. His parents had given it to him for his seventh birthday.

He took a step back and stared at the half-full bag that contained what would soon be his only possessions. He bit his lip out of habit and winced as the gash opened, blood dribbling down his chin.

After wiping the blood away, he reached under his bed and pulled out his Batman blanket. His last nanny had given it to him years ago, sewing it herself. He knew he shouldn’t take it. It was childish. Something for babies. His parents had tried to throw it away, but he’d begged them to let him keep it.

After a moment, he hastily shoved the blanket into the backpack. He quickly zipped it closed, though there was no one around to see his moment of weakness.

_____

Jason Todd didn’t consider himself a good kid, but he’d definitely met worse. He may do what he has to to survive, but that never involved hurting another person. No gangs, no drugs, and no supervillains. That was more than he could say for most of the homeless middle school dropouts in his neighborhood.

His relatively clean conscience wasn’t the only reason why he stuck mostly to petty theft. Jason didn’t want trouble. If he wanted to stay alive and out of the foster care system, he couldn’t afford it either. He kept his nose in his own business, and people left him alone for the most part.

His personal rules went out the window, however, when he came across the batmobile, idling unsupervised in Crime Alley, just a few blocks from his squat. As soon as Jason got a good look at those custom, sleek, black tires….

Well, he considered himself a decent kid, not a fucking saint.

He’d already removed two bolts from the first tire when he realized he wasn’t alone. At the movement from the corner of his eyes, he jumped up from his crouch, brandishing the tire iron.

“Come out from behind the dumpster, creep,” he growled, expecting some two-bit thug or maybe even Batman to step into the dim light of the street lamp.

Instead, it was a little kid with dark hair, blue eyes, and a hell of a fat lip. Even from a couple yards away, Jason could see how his hands gripped the straps of his backpack like a lifeline, knuckles white. The bag was almost as big as him.

“That’s the batmobile,” the kid blurted out.

Jason raised an eyebrow, and the young boy’s ears went slightly pink. “I noticed. What are you doing out here, kid?”

Because it was obvious he didn’t belong. The kid was a little skinny for Jason’s taste, but his clothes were quality, and he’d definitely been bathing on the regular. There wasn’t a single speck of dirt under his nails.

Instead of answering Jason’s question, he eyed his shoes as he scuffed them against the dirty pavement. “You shouldn’t take Batman’s tires. He’s a hero. He fights bad guys and makes the city a better place.”

Definitely hadn’t been on the streets long, Jason thought.

The older boy rolled his eyes. “Since he’s such a great guy, I’m sure he won’t mind donating his tires to the cause.”

The other boy didn’t have anything to say to that, so they lapsed into silence. Instead of picking up the tire iron and finishing the job or heading for the hills, Jason eyed the kid.

“Your parents do that to your face?”

The younger boy’s hand drifted up to his bloody lip, seemingly without his permission. “N-no.”

“Lemme guess,” Jason drawled, “you fell.”

The boy’s eyes went wide, and Jason snorted. “Word of advice, kid: come up with a better excuse before child services catches up with you.”

“I don’t want to go into foster care,” the kid mumbled.

“Yeah. You, me, and every other kid in this city. It’s the stuff of nightmares.”

There was a rustle of movement on the roof above him, and Jason froze. He’d been perfectly willing to risk Batman’s wrath when it was only his bacon getting cooked.

“Run, kid,” he ordered, eyeing the roofline with suspension.

“Why?”

Internally groaning, Jason grabbed Tim by the elbow and pulled him along. The kid didn’t put up any kind of fight, which would get him killed or worse pretty quick on these streets. Jason put that out of his mind for the moment, though, running down the unlit alley with the younger boy in tow.

The kid kept gasping something about not needing to run from Batman. When Jason finally stopped to catch his breath, he said, “Second word of advice: Batman is not your friend, kid.”

A stubborn line in the other boy’s jaw appeared before Jason’s eyes.

“Yes, he is,” the boy said mulishly. “He’s a hero.”

Letting the matter drop for the moment, Jason appraised the boy again. He was painfully small and would be easy prey for predators, traffickers, and all manner of bad guys that roamed Crime Alley. Honestly, he’d be surprised if the kid lasted the night.

But that wasn’t Jason’s problem, he reminded himself. His squat was only a block or so away, and there was half a can of tomato soup and a few cheetos waiting for him. He could barely keep himself alive and fed. He couldn’t go involving himself with every runaway he happened across.

Jason heard himself ask, “You have somewhere to stay tonight?”

The kid glanced back the way they’d come, and Jason remembered he’d found him behind a dumpster. There were worse places to spend the night. The smell kept most people away, and it’d be warm enough on a September night.

Jason had certainly had worse, so why did the thought of this kid curled up on the dirty ground all night make his chest hurt?

“I’ve got a place,” he said slowly, regretting it even before the words were out of his mouth. This kid was undoubtedly trouble. “Nothing fancy. Four walls, roof, whatever. If you wanted--”

“I could stay with you?” The kid finished eagerly.

“One night offer only,” Jason amended gruffly.

There was a wetness to his eyes, and Jason hastily looked away before it could tug anymore at his heart. But instead of crying, the kid smiled.

“That’s ok! One night would be great,” the kid said brightly. “People don’t usually want me around longer than that anyway.”

Jason swallowed at that. “What’s your name anyway, kid?”

“Tim,” he said, and then stuck out his hand like a miniature of a businessman on TV.

Despite himself, he laughed. “Jason.”

The answering smile was blinding. “Nice to meet you, Jason.”

He finally gave in and shook the boy’s hand, if only to get him to put it down. “Let’s go home, kid.”

“Home for the night,” he said, walking along Jason without complaint.

“Right,” the older boy said doubtfully. “Just for the night.”

Tim didn’t run into supervillains all that often. And, quite honestly, he preferred it that way. Gotham villains weren’t like the ones in Star City or Metropolis. Newly fourteen-year-old boys that crossed their paths didn’t live to tell the tale or develop the pictures, for the most part.

So, Tim Drake wasn’t looking for Two-Face that July night, riding around one of Gotham’s historic districts, eyes on the rooftops. And it was because Tim Drake wasn’t looking for Two-Face that he almost got run over by him.

“Christ!” Tim squeaked, wrenching his handlebars to the right to avoid the nondescript, black sedan coming right for him. His front tire hit a lamp post, bouncing backwards and sending Tim crashing towards the ground. Instead of watching the ground, however, he watched the untinted windows of the car as it sped past him.

The man’s suit was split perfectly down the middle, one side white, one side black. The symmetry mirrored the two sides of his faces. One was the poised, charismatic trial attorney. The other half sported burned, bubbling skin, turned red and tortured by acid. His lips had been burned away there, revealing white teeth all the way to the gum. He only had one eyelid, making him an unblinking monster of a man.

Tim had seen Two-Face on the news before. The in-person vision, even brief, was ten times as horrifying. There were certain details that didn’t come through, even with 4k resolution.

Bleeding from various scrapes and scratches from his merger with the pavement, Tim sat there, half on his bike, half off, trembling. He needed to pick himself up and ride all the way back to the Drake Estate. No stops. Not even for energy drinks.

But he didn’t do that.

Instead, he watched as the car pulled behind a private residence. The house was at least a hundred years old and in impeccable condition. The front door was bracketed with columns and the rest of the outside was covered in beautiful moldings.

Money. Old money. Not like the Wayne’s, but certainly something a crime lord could afford as a secret base.

Almost against his will, Tim felt himself leaving his bike behind, creeping closer to the house Two-Face had pulled into. The rest of the street was deserted. An older neighborhood. He couldn’t expect anyone to hear his screams if something went wrong. All the hearing aids had been turned off for the night.

This fact didn’t send him running for his bike.

The back door was the door Two-Face had use, so Tim situated himself in the bushes outside the front of the house. His sneakers sank in what he hoped was mud, but he was crouched in the perfect position to peer in through a window.

Inside, two goons sat in a breakfast nook. They were playing cards with bulky, clumsy fingers and studiously trying not to glance at their boss by the fireplace.

And Tim totally got that, because Harvey Dent was in rare form tonight.

Hands shoved into the pockets of his mismatched suit, the villain paced back and forth in front of the mantle. Every few passes, he paused to growl at a hand radio that had seen better days. Someone had spray painted half of it purple and then slammed it against something hard.

In an attempt to hear what Two-Face was saying, Tim pressed one ear against the cold glass. He winced when he found it strangely wet but soldiered on.

“...to lure him to me...what would he expect...no...never done that before…suspicious...Princess Diana’s double-diamond pendant...no....”

Just as Tim moved to remove his ear from the glass, Two-Face shouted, “Batman! Two minds but we’ve got to be one!”

So, he was trying to come up with a trap for Batman, Tim mused. Probably to get the Caped Crusader out of the way, leaving the villain in the clear for his end game.

Leaping back from the mantle, Two-Face pulled out his gun and let off a barrage of bullets at the radio. “Batman dies tonight!”

Tim flinched so hard at the commotion, he fell backwards into the mud with a grunt. Luckily, the sound wasn’t loud enough to be heard over gun fire. Two-Face was too worked up to notice an extra pair of eyes on him anyways.

The next moment, Tim was up and halfway to his bike. Maybe he could work out Two-Face’s master plan on the way, maybe not. But one thing was for sure: he needed to warn his hero.

A quick glance at his bat-feed told Tim what he already knew. There hadn’t been any bat-sightings yet tonight. It was still a little early for the Caped Crusader, which meant there was only one place that Tim could reliably find him at. He bit his lip, unsure if he was willing to risk life and limb to go to this place.

Before Tim could change his mind, he climbed on his bike and started off towards Wayne manor. Sometime during the arduous ride over there, a short burst of rain fell from the sky. Instead of washing off the mud clinging to his clothes, it just made his jeans heavier and his body colder. The night was unseasonably brisk.

Despite his discomfort, Tim almost wished the ride had taken him longer, because before he knew it, he was pedaling up the drive to the intimidating, gothic mansion that housed the Bats. To complete the picture, a flash of lightning struck in the distance, thunder rolling in only a few moments later.

So, the choices were between knocking on Wayne manor’s door or being struck by 300 million volts of electricity.

Tim had barely finished his first go at a large, ornate knocker when the door opened to reveal Alfred Pennyworth, ally to the Bat.

Having only seen him in pictures and across the room at a Wayne charity gala, he took a good moment to stare up at the elderly man. Mr. Pennyworth stood ramrod straight, clothes impeccably crisp and clean despite the weather. An air of confidence and competence followed in his wake. He was exactly the kind of man who would stand with Batman.

With that realization, all the words Tim had scripted out on the way over left his head. He watched them go with a numb sort of terror. This wouldn’t be the first time he floundered socially.

“It’s a little past visiting hours, Master Drake,” Mr. Pennyworth said, no surprise leaking into his voice. “What can I do for you?”

There isn't much thirteen-year-old Tim Drake wouldn't do for Batman and Robin. Without them, he'd be stuck in an empty mansion every night and stuck in his lack-luster life.

So when Jason Todd dies only a year after Dick Grayson, leaving Batman a wreck, Tim steps out from behind the lens to save the idea of the Dynamic Duo. Along the way, Tim might just learn what it takes to be his own hero and the heavy burden that comes with the pixie boots.

***

This is the story of Tim Drake's very beginning and how he became Robin in a world where Dick Grayson, assumed dead, is in the Court of the Owl's clutches.