Chapter Text
When Jack Drake woke up with a start, his first thought was, By God, I survived. Last he remembered, Captain Boomerang was inside his house, hunting him down while Jack called Tim and Bruce on the phone. He had his gun in hand, waiting for the inevitable end. He remembered getting a shot in on Boomerang. At least, he thought he had. Then there was a stabbing pain from his chest, and then, nothing. The idea that he hadn’t died meant that he must have be on some intense painkillers, because there was no way he had escaped unscathed.
He opened his eyes quickly, hoping to see Tim sitting in a chair by his hospital bed, or perhaps Batman silently guarding him. He winced as he pulled his eyelids open, grimacing at the gunky feeling that crusted them over. Surprisingly, there was no bright white light or pungent odor of antiseptic. There was no beeping heart monitor, no muted noise from outside a hospital room, no sting of an IV in his wrist, and no uncomfortable cot.
Jack Drake was not in the hospital. And if he wasn’t in the hospital, and he wasn’t dead, then… he had amnesia? He had lost time? He quickly reached down to his chest, feeling where he vaguely remembered something hurting. Nothing stung. He ripped open his shirt, staring at his unbroken skin.
Not even a scar.
This was all making Jack lightheaded. What was happening? There wasn’t even a scar. He ran a hand through his hair—still the same length as he last remembered, which meant… what? He had gotten regular haircuts just the way he liked while in a dissociative state?
Jack looked up, dragging his hands down his face. Everything was so confusing. He took a shuddering breath, and started to study his surroundings. He was propped up against a metal wall, rusting from neglect. The floor was concrete, filthy, and cracked in more places than he could count. The rest of the area was stark and bleak—piles of rotting junk, deteriorating scrap metal, the works. It looked as though he was in a warehouse.
What did this mean? Had he gotten drunk, collapsed here, and restarted his memory by accident? But then, why wouldn’t he remember the—wait. How long had it been? Long enough that a wound had time to heal completely and not leave a trace. Unless he had imagined the pain, and had gone into shock? But no, going into shock wasn’t the same as blacking out. He’d remember something, surely, even if it was blurry.
Jack’s head hit the back of the wall with a thunk. He needed to get out of here and figure out what had happened. See how much time he’d lost, call Tim—oh, God. Tim. Was he okay? He must have been scared to death. The last thing Jack had said to him was Tell Bruce to take care of you. Was he doing that? Or had Jack been absent at all? Maybe Tim was still living with him, and Jack just didn’t remember it. Or maybe he’d been in a mental hospital for the last… however long it’d been. Or maybe—
Stop with the maybes, Drake. Get it together.
Jack pushed himself to his feet before he lost his nerve, stumbling a bit on his way up. Everything felt strange. Like he wasn’t completely grounded in reality.
Almost like a ghost.
Jack dismissed that idea. He didn’t believe in ghosts or an afterlife.
Jack looked around the warehouse for an exit, and thankfully spotted a heavy door that wasn't blocked by heavy machinery. He made his way over, used his strength to push the door open, and took a step into fresh Gotham air.
Almost immediately, Jack realized where he was: the docks at Miller Harbor, halfway across the city from his house. It was a bit chilly, but whether that was from the weather or from the sea air, he didn’t know. How had he gotten here? He didn’t exactly have any business at the harbor. Jack shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He could figure this all out later. Right now, he needed to see what day it was. One step at a time, Jack, one step at a time.
It was pitch black outside. Probably around midnight if Jack had to guess. He mentally ran through where the nearest library was. His phone wasn’t on him, pay-phones were scarce nowadays, and he’d be hard pressed to find a compassionate Gothamite willing to let him use theirs in this area of town. His best bet was to do some research in the library, figure out what he’d missed.
Jack still had that floaty feeling, making him feel distant from his own body. His feet felt more like they were gliding over cracked sidewalks rather than making contact. But he felt corporeal. He could still touch things, like the door back in the warehouse.
Jack decided to stop thinking before he went down a rabbit hole.
He trudged on and on through the city, seeing a few people on his way who didn’t give him a second glance unless it was to analyze whether or not he had a weapon. Jack did the same.
When he finally reached one of the three public libraries in Gotham about thirty minutes later (he speed-walked), he was relieved to see it was still open. Praise the Lord for Bruce Wayne and his decision to rally for 24-7 access to libraries.
He shuffled in through the large wooden doors, still feeling tired, confused, and maybe even more floaty than before. The desk lady nodded at him wearily, looking like she was nearly asleep. Jack lifted a hand in greeting back.
Unsurprisingly, there weren’t many people there besides a few young adults—late night studying, perhaps? Was it the school year, then? Jack climbed up the stairs towards the back of the library, looking for a room that wasn’t occupied by college students.
When he reached the computer room, he sat down heavily into one of the chairs and stared at it confusedly. This… looked far more advanced than anything he’d seen recently. It wasn’t clunky or wide. There was a sleek mouse next to it, not even plugged into the computer.
How much time had he lost? The date. What was the date?
Jack hesitantly took the mouse and clicked, hoping it worked like he thought it would. Aha. The computer lit up, opening up to a home page on a search engine he didn’t recognize. He searched around the interface for a second, looking for where the day would be listed.
He nearly fell out of his chair when he saw the number.
Five years. Jack was missing five years. Tim. Tim was a man now. He was twenty-one. An adult! He could vote, drink, buy cigarettes…
Jack had missed five years of his son’s life. He—what had happened? He needed to find Tim, right now. He needed to see him, see what he looked like, how grown up he was. Had his personality changed? Was he still Jack’s snarky and eerily smart boy? Did he have a girlfriend? Was he in college, studying a passion? Was he still Robin?
Was he still alive?
In a frenzy, Jack typed out “Tim Drake” into the engine as fast as he could.
Please, please, please…
The first result was an article from—from five years ago. Only months after the last day Jack remembered.
The headline read: “Billionaire Bruce Wayne adopts recently orphaned Timothy Drake”.
Jack’s heart skipped a beat. He—no, that couldn’t be right. Jack was here, right now, alive. He hadn’t died. He couldn’t have.
He clicked on the article.
As of yesterday, Timothy Jackson Drake, son of former business moguls Jack and Janet Drake, has been adopted by the so-called king of Gotham—our very own Bruce Wayne. When Timothy was just thirteen, his mother Janet died in an undisclosed accident that left her husband in a coma and with a paralyzed lower body. Mr. Drake was able to resume parenting after recovering from his injuries, but in his absence, Timothy had been temporarily looked after by Bruce Wayne, the family’s neighbor and longtime friend. Now, in light of Mr. Drake’s death two months ago at the hands of Captain Boomerang, Mr. Wayne has officially made the boy his son. [See image below]
This makes the third young boy that Mr. Wayne has taken into his home, causing some to speculate—
Jack exited out of the article. He struggled to breathe. Mr. Drake’s death. Jack was dead. Or—or believed to be? Yes, that must be it. He must be in witness protection, and Bruce’s adoption was only for public presentation.
Jack’s own words from what he remembered as yesterday rang in his ears like the roar of a crashing wave. Tell Bruce to take care of you.
No, no. That couldn’t be it. He was alive. Cogito ergo sum and all that.
Jack typed in his son’s name again, this time scrolling for a more recent article, praying that his beautiful boy was alive. He saw baffling headlines. “Tim Drake-Wayne becomes acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises”, “Drake-Wayne introduces new WE offshoot”, and “Drake-Wayne: Engaged?” from four years ago. Others with similar gossip and speculation. It was all ridiculous. There was no way Tim had been a CEO before he was even legally an adult. Preposterous. Jack chalked it up to paparazzi and misinformation.
He scrolled faster, getting more frantic as he struggled to find recent ones. But then again, if he had died, it’d be the top result, right?
Finally, Jack found a lone article from a week ago. “Drake-Wayne gives talk at old high school”.
Sweet, sweet relief. Jack collapsed into his seat, holding his heart and letting out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. His son was alive and well. He resisted the urge to click on images and see how grown his son had become. No, no. He wanted to see him in person.
As Jack’s racing heart calmed down from the euphoria from knowing his boy was alive, he wondered what else he needed to figure out before he went to find him. Surely Tim would be at Bruce’s home, or—wait. Tim was twenty-one. He might be living on his own now. Did he even live in Gotham anymore? For all he knew, he could be in Coast City or somewhere in Europe.
Jack opened a new tab, and typed in “Robin”. He went straight to images, and what he saw both frightened him and gave him solace. The boy in those blurry photos, taken and posted as recently as a week ago, were not his boy. This kid was much smaller, and carried himself completely different than Tim. The costume wasn’t anything like Tim’s either.
He could hardly believe Bruce had found another one. He thought he’d stop at four, but apparently not.
So. Tim wasn’t Robin anymore. But if not, who was he now? Had he given up vigilante-ing entirely? There was no way. His boy was so emphatic about helping Gotham, nothing could convince him to stop short of Jack forcing him to. Even then, he’d come back to the role quickly. Jack still felt awful about the way he’d handled that.
He must be going by a new name. But what?
Jack opened yet another tab, searching, “Gotham vigilantes Batman”. The first result was a list of the city’s heroes. Batman was first, of course. Then came Nightwing—though Jack was quite sure Dick mainly operated in Blüdhaven. Then… Red Hood? Who the hell was that? A newbie, he supposed. Jack knew his boy, and this man certainly wasn’t him. Apparently this “Hood” used guns. Jack couldn’t imagine Batman liked that much. Robin appeared next. Then Batgirl and Batwoman.
Finally, Red Robin. Jack clicked down on his information, learning he had appeared first in Gotham four years ago, right after Robin got a new look. Jack’s heart pounded. This must be Tim. He hurriedly checked for photos of him, finding only a couple that weren’t blurry beyond recognition. The suit was quite different than what Tim had had before. There was a black, beak-like mask, hooked at the nose. The suit was mostly red and black, the red striping down the arms and his torso, much like Nightwing’s. Jack liked that man. He seemed quite nice when he’d met him before, if an enabler.
Tim’s hair was longer. He was taller. More muscular. There was a different insignia on the center of his chest, no longer the iconic R Jack had grown to associate so directly with his son.
But it was, without a doubt, Jack’s boy. His heart swelled with pride. He was still doing good out there. Still helping Batman and all the rest. Still—still fighting, and getting hurt, and risking his life…
Dammit. Jack was so scared of how much Tim had gone through without him. Or—or maybe not without him. Jack needed to stop acting like he really was dead, because obviously he wasn’t.
…
Dana. How could he forget about Dana? Jack searched her name.
An obituary.
A black hole formed in Jack’s chest. What? No, no, no. It couldn’t be. It must be a different Dana Winters. This Dana had died in Blüdhaven, in—a nuclear explosion? When had that happened? Nuclear warfare, just across the bay? Suddenly, he felt bad for Nightwing. But no, this couldn’t be his Dana. She wouldn’t go to live in Blüdhaven. That place was a hellhole.
Jack pressed the back arrow (he was quite good at this technology thing, if you asked him) and scrolled through more results. He tried different keywords. He found their marriage certificate. A few other articles about her physiotherapy.
There. An admittance to a… mental hospital? No, no. Must be wrong again. Jack exited the site again, fruitlessly scrolling further down as he still found nothing.
Tim would know where Dana was.
Jack would go to Bruce’s manor. Even if Tim didn’t live there, he obviously still associated with Batman. Hopefully he’d be in the Batcave, and could shed light on… everything. If not, then Bruce would know where he was.
Jack stood up, the plastic chair scraping against the wood paneling. He strode out of the room and back downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. He paused when he reached the front desk, the brown-haired woman still nodding off in her chair. Jack needed a bus ticket or a taxi. It would take him far too long to walk to Bristol, and he had no money on him.
“Excuse me?” he asked the woman, startling her awake.
“Sorry. How can I help you?” she replied, looking ashamed for sleeping at work.
“I hate to ask this, but… I don’t have my wallet on me. I need a ride to Bristol. Do you think you could spare a few bucks?”
The lady raised an eyebrow.
Jack continued. “It’s—it’s my son. I need to see him, it’s been so long. Please.” His voice cracked unwittingly, but probably selling his point. “I need to see him.”
The woman’s face softened. Maybe she was a mother herself. “Yeah. Here’s a twenty.”
She handed him the bill from her purse sitting on her desk.
“Thank you so much, ma’am. Really. Thank you.”
She nodded at him.
Jack bustled out of the door and into the cold air, and started walking to a corner where he could find a taxi. Thankfully, even at an ungodly hour of the night, Gotham wasn’t exactly quiet. You could always count on at least a couple of taxis circling the city, waiting to pick up seedy citizens needing a ride, no questions asked.
Jack stood there for about ten minutes before he saw the headlights of a bright yellow Gotham-certified taxi. He stuck his hand up, waving it over. The car screeched to a halt, definitely going over the 35 miles per hour speed limit. He rolled down the window.
“Got cash?” he asked, his voice heavy with that New Jersey-Gotham accent.
“A twenty. Can you take me to Bristol?”
“I’ll go as far as Old Gotham, champ.”
“Fine.” He could walk the rest of the way.
Jack climbed in the back, wrinkling his nose at the filth. Crumbs of unidentifiable food, scratched seats, random trash, the distinct smell of… he didn’t even want to think about it.
The taxi driver—apparently named Chris—made no effort to make conversation with Jack, which was fine with him. That being said, Jack tried to focus on the radio playing trashy pop music he didn’t recognize instead of being alone with his thoughts. He’d rather have Tim explain everything to him instead of making wild assumptions in his head.
About twenty minutes later, the driver kicked him out and left without so much as a wave. Jack was still far away from Bristol and Bruce’s manor, as spread out as it was. He sighed, resigning himself to the long walk. He would kill for a speedster or a teleportation device right about now.
As he walked down the streets of Gotham, greeted by flickering streetlights, unfamiliar advertisements, and buildings that looked different than he remembered, he found himself with no company but his mind, reiterating his earlier questions a million times over about the man Tim had become. Everything about him was new. New name, new look, new father. What if Tim was all but a stranger to him now? What if Jack had abandoned him in the past five years, or disowned him? He would never do that, right? Nothing could make him give up his son.
He caught himself longing for Janet or Dana. They’d know how to reassure him. How to quiet his racing thoughts and unlikely fantasies. But Janet was dead, and Dana was… missing.
As Jack’s legs pumped from his romp around Gotham—he tried not to do excessively long walks ever since his accident—he heard a click behind him.
Gun.
Fear drove through his heart. He couldn’t die now. Not when he was so close to Tim.
“Put your hands up, man,” said a slippery voice.
Jack complied, hands raised above his head. “I’m sure we can talk this out…”
“Shut up!” the mugger exclaimed.
“I’m just gonna turn around slowly, okay?”
“Stay put, man! Don’t move!”
Jack froze.
“How much you got on you?”
“I—nothing. I got nothing.”
“Liar. I know rich when I see it!”
“I swear, sir, I don’t have anythi—”
A whoosh of wind under a cape. The thump of boots on the ground.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice said.
Tim. My God, that was his boy. His voice was deeper than it had been at sixteen, but still recognizable.
Jack heard his mugger turning the gun around on Tim, and a surge of protectiveness rushed through him.
“Don’t touch him!” he yelled, whirling around with the gunman.
Realistically, he knew this was ridiculous. Tim was a far better fighter than Jack could ever be. He’d defended himself against enemies that would make Jack cry in fear. He was strong as hell.
But that was still his little boy.
Red Robin froze when he saw him and heard his voice. His mouth opened in a little O, jaw hanging slack. He started to say, “Da—?” before he was cut off by the mugger firing off a shot.
Quick as lightning, Tim dodged. Jack clumsily threw himself at the attacker, attempting to wrestle him to the ground. Tim pulled him away, throwing him out of the fray. Jack stumbled back and watched as his son hit the mugger with a quick kick and a punch, rendering him unconscious in seconds. He quickly zip tied the man’s hands behind his back, crouching down to do so.
Tim wasn’t even breathing heavily. His head was tilted downwards as he slowly stood up and spun on his heel to face Jack. Jack resisted the urge to gather him into his arms as quickly as possible and squeeze him till he couldn’t breathe. Tim was taller than him now. His face had become more angular and sharp with adulthood. His hair brushed his shoulders, swooping into waves dissimilar from his old haircut. He looked so much like his mother.
“Tim,” Jack said, his voice cracking like it had earlier at the library.
“You’re not real,” his son muttered, still not looking up. His hand combed through his hair, just how Jack did when he was anxious. “Must’ve gotten hit with something.”
“What? No, no, Tim, I’m real, I swear!” Jack hadn’t expected this. What had happened to them in Jack’s memory lapse?
“Batman. I need backup. I think I’ve been compromised,” Tim said, touching his finger to what Jack assumed to be a communication link.
“Son.” Jack took a step closer, still admiring his grown-up face.
“No, no, I’m not hurt. I’m hallucinating,” Tim continued, still refusing to look at Jack’s face. “It’s, uh. It’s my dad.”
“Tim…” Jack trailed off. He was real. He had to be. Tim must’ve just had a hard day. He simply couldn’t consider the possibility that—that he was a dead man walking. Or absentee.
“No, he hasn’t said anything malicious or anything. Just my name. Yeah, probably not fear toxin.”
Jack took another step towards his son. He—he had never been good at handling things with Tim. He hadn’t been there enough for him as a child, and then, by the time he realized it, Tim didn’t want him anymore.
“Tim. Son. It’s me. I’m not—I’m not a hallucination. I woke up at the docks. I don’t really understand what’s going on. The last thing I remember is Captain Boomerang…”
Tim’s breath stuttered as he looked anywhere but his face. “No, yeah, he’s still talking. Says he remembers Boomerang.”
He had to convince his son he was really here. Tim was talking nonsense.
“Son, please!” Jack yelled. “Tell me what’s going on. Why don’t you think I’m real? I—I don’t understand how it’s been five years or where I’ve been or what’s happened to you since!”
Tim sucked in a sharp breath as he froze up again, staring at a spot on the ground. “You… you heard that?” he asked Batman.
A pause. Jack waited with bated breath.
Tim collapsed in on himself, falling to his knees. His head hung low against his collarbone. Jack rushed forward, bending down to a crouch.
At last, Tim met his eyes. “Dad?” he croaked.