Chapter Text
It occurred to Tim, sitting at a diner counter and scratching out a lab justification at 12:07 Tuesday night (... Or Wednesday morning?), that most of his issues were demons of his own design. No one had ever accused him of making the best decisions (at least in regards to himself) and that was probably a fair omission in his "personhood resumé".
"Waxing poetic about your issues doesn't make them artistic nor does it solve them," Tim muttered under his breath, parroting Dr. Sinclair.
Dr. Sinclair had gotten right down to brass tacks during Tim's third stilted visit and pointed out that just acknowledging his abandonment and commitment (fun combo) issues wouldn't actually solve them. Again, a fair evaluation. As such, she had tasked Tim to reflect on his day and self-validate in a journal while also keeping a list of "facts" vs. "feelings". They helped somewhat, but it couldn't address the real underlying cause of his issues. It's not like Tim could be 100% honest with the therapist assigned to him when he tripped his way into foster care. What would he even say?
"Hey, doc, I accidentally rewrote time when presented with an ultimatum by some...guy or gal or demon? I'm not really sure what the guy was exactly, but they made me choose between 'them' or 'me' during some messed up shonen-esque gauntlet house of horrors BS. I chose 'them' because…because the needs of the many, y'know? Count Grumps McGoo world-class butthole smirked and I woke up age 10 at boarding school. Knowing that my memory would start to fizzle and futz and be rewritten I jotted down a list of things I had the obligation to change: Jason Todd's death... Which I guess he died somehow? Damian Wayne's upbringing though that hardly seems to be my business. Cass' years of running. From where to where, I have no idea. Kon’s…everything, which is especially unclear because I've never met anyone by that name. My parents' fateful trip to Haiti…So far, I have a pretty good record…only 'officially' failed on the parents thing. It wasn't Haiti though so I count that as more of a tie than anything else…Also, despite listing all of that out I only have vague notions of what most of that means."
Tim scrubbed at his tired eyes and tried to concentrate on the results of the lab he'd completed last Friday. Most of the time, his old memories just faded into the background. It was like the persistent buzzing of his tinnitus. Only he could hear it and it was part of him but it didn't usually become a problem unless he was around loud noises all day. His old life was just memory tinnitus. He couldn't remember much from his old life, just the broad strokes and most of the time he didn't even notice the dull buzzing of another life's worth of memories unless something big triggered them. There were actually a few close calls during the lead up to Jason Todd’s (potential?) death because Tim's memory got so fuzzy and he had been excited about his school's photography exhibition. Two of his friends had turned in good submissions! At the last minute, Tim had come across a note from himself to call an Agent Metta at Interpol to look into Felipe Garzonasa. Given that Jason Todd was currently a Junior at Gotham Academy with several award-winning essays under his belt, Tim assumed he had averted whatever “Ethiopia, Sheila, crowbar, clown bastard, explosion” was.
"Concentrate…" Tim muttered as he rubbed at his eyes once more. "You absolutely cannot fail freshman science."
Tim knew he shouldn't be out, but… The apartment was empty and it was always harder to be alone around this time of year. The next month would be four years in this new timeline and it was like the mere proximity to the date made his entire brain itch. The anniversary shouldn't gnaw at him so much. Most of what "old Tim” wanted to accomplish in this new timeline was done according to his notes. He'd even gotten a headstart on “Kon's Ordeal” by setting up several watchdog journalists with information about Lex Corp. An absolutely brilliant investigative reporter named Lois Lane had broken a story about successful clone creation. Something about that whole debacle made Tim's muscles twitchy… He couldn't fully remember who Kon was exactly other than he was a net positive in the world. The details in his notes were thorough, but they were more about how to avert disasters as opposed to why. Still, it felt right that Ms. Lane uncovered the whole thing and demanded that the clones be given good homes with some sort of witness protection. Tim was fairly good at research (a holdover from before he was sure) so he knew that two were sent to Vermont, one was sent to Kansas, three were sent to California, and one was sent to Minnesota. Apparently, Luthor had cloned more than just himself.
Of course, reminiscing about his exploits was not helping him with his current problem: high school science. Tim wasn't bad at the science part. At the risk of being cocky, Tim would say he was actually excellent at labs and testing and drawing conclusions from data. The trouble was writing out the results.
"Hey, kid, we close in twenty!" Gio called from the kitchen.
Tim yawned, stretched, and glanced at the clock. He'd gotten lost in his head for a half hour and all he had to show for it was three quickly discarded sentences.
"Gio, how do you use a semicolon?" Tim asked finally.
The aforementioned stepped out of the kitchen with a tray to collect condiments, "Why you asking me when you got that English teacher sister of yours at home?"
Tim sighed and rolled his eyes while he watched Gio wrangle ketchup and ranch, "Helena isn't my sister and she's been busy with the fall musical. She wasn't gonna take on the extra contract because of me, but she loves it… I told her I could handle a little time on my own."
"Sure, that's why you're here past midnight on a school night," a voice called from the back.
Tim shrugged, "What social services and Helena don't know won't hurt me…or them. She dropped a lot of things to take me in. I still want her to enjoy her life."
Gio had returned with his assortment of half filled bottles, "Helena is enjoying her life. You being in it adds to her stress, sure, but it also adds to her happiness. I guarantee you she wouldn't go back and change a thing."
Tim…didn't know what to say to that given how he got to this point. When Tim's first foster home had been a bust (of the drugs and human trafficking variety) he had been drawn to Ms. Bertinelli's room with his evidence. Tim didn't even know her that well, but the same itching that had led Tim to suggest a donation to the research of a Dr. Sandsmark in lieu of flowers at his parents' funeral drove him to seek out the new English teacher. She was quick to report what she knew to the proper authorities. Which was great given they'd ignored Tim and his foster brother the week before. Apparently, Tim’s home had been the key to uncovering several other shady foster homes. Tim felt conflicted as his foster siblings were whisked off to emergency placements. He knew he did the right thing, but he wasn’t sure it was the right way. A few weeks later he landed in a more permanent placement with Ms. Bertinelli (“It’s Helena, kid”) which seemed like a conflict of interest in some way, but Gotham was desperate and Tim wasn’t complaining. He felt safe with Helena in a way he didn’t with almost anyone else. He was 100% sure he knew her in the other timeline, but he didn’t know how or why. What mattered to the state was that she managed to have a significant amount of savings for a young teacher (inheritance) and provided Tim some stability (he didn’t have to change schools). The state didn’t seem to know that three nights a week, Helena would leave around 10:30 and not return until 2:15 in the morning. Tim didn’t mind, he was used to limited supervision, but he had a feeling the state might frown upon whatever she got up to when she snuck out the window next to the guest bathroom.
“I don’t know, Gio,” Tim sighs as he hears the diner door jingle open behind him. “Given the choice, I think most of us would change some things about our lives.”
“Closing in ten so I can only offer drinks,” Gio announces to the newcomers then he pauses looking thoughtful, “That’s the rub of it, isn’t it, Timbo? Our lives aren’t just our lives. There’s no unilateral decision that fixes everything and we can’t really know what changing things will really do. Too many of those dependent variables you’re always rambling on about. Can’t know what waves you’ll make in other people’s lives. Best not to fight destiny and all that.”
Tim grinned down at his notebook and scratched out a sentence about how long it took for potatoes to start decomposing, “I don’t believe in destiny. It’s just an excuse to not take responsibility for your actions.”
“Ahh, but what is destiny, then, but other people,” a new voice pontificates and Tim’s brain starts to itch. “We may control ourselves, but we cannot control others. As much as we may try, we cannot survive without others. So if destiny were to exist it would be the result of the people who we surround ourselves with. The ones we can’t shake. They change our world without our permission all the time, just as we change theirs.”
Rhonda, who had been taking inventory in the kitchen, was looking out the order window with stars in her eyes, “I thought you vigilante types punched your problems. Now I’m thinking you might just bore them into submission with philosophy.”
Tim’s brain was sweating. He desperately wanted to keep his head down. He wanted to go back to the Bertinelli abode and ignore the fact that the name on the lease wasn’t actually asleep in the other room. He wanted to skip the next month and a half. He wanted the buzzing in his head to stop. He wanted the oddly familiar voice to walk right back out the door and leave him be.
Instead, the universe punished Tim’s hubris as the voice took up residence on the stool to his left, “Rhonda, you wound me. I’ll have you know that thesis won me a debate in Speech 212.”
“Seriously, Blue, we close in eight,” Gio interrupted. “I’m happy to get you something, but I’d like to get home before 2.”
The voice has the sense to sound ashamed, “Sorry, Gio, can’t turn down the opportunity for a spirited debate with Gotham’s youth.” As if to punctuate his point the arm belonging to the voice elbows Tim gently.
Tim keeps his eyes on his papers as he starts to pack things away, “I should get going, Gio, thanks for letting me stay. Final bill was $7.40, right?”
As if sensing Tim’s distress (he wasn’t exactly hiding it well), the voice says, “Just add it to the sodas for me and the birds, Gio. It’d be nice to aid the people of Gotham in a legal way for once.”
Tim resists the urge to tear his eyes away from his things, “That’s okay, sir. Actually, I’ll pay for your drinks. Least I can do for the heroes of Gotham, right? You managed to stop the Firefly before he burned down my favorite skate park. Figure I can pay it forward.”
“Uhh, that’s really not–”
“Now, now, Wing is not solely responsible for that bit of heroics,” another voice complains. “If anybody deserves your admiration it’s me. I played decoy–”
“Three sodas, please,” a third and final voice orders.
Tim slapped down $15 on the counter and slung his bag over his shoulder, “See you, Gio, I’ll ask Helena about the tickets. I’m sure we can get you the best seat in the house.”
Without lifting his head up or looking where he was going, Tim rushed out the diner door. Years of following after his parents at museums had left him with a pretty good spatial awareness. His brain was still itching when Tim exited, but at least he could breathe again. In celebration of this accomplishment, Tim took a moment to roll out his stiff shoulders before he headed…to the place where he lived.
“Hey, kid, wait!”
Without his permission, Tim’s head shot up and he regretted it immediately when he made (admittedly masked) eye contact with the voice from the diner, “Huh?”
The voice was clad in blue and black with a domino mask Tim knew covered blue eyes, “You forgot your notebook. What kind of hero would I be if I let a civilian fail 9th grade Science?”
“Umm, a normal one,” Tim replied without thinking. “Based on the demographics, your villains seem to have more PhDs than you guys do. And college degrees in general.”
Blue and black chuckled and handed Tim the green notebook he’d poured over for the last three hours, “Fair enough, but honestly I’m more worried about you walking home alone. It’s one in the morning in Gotham. I can’t let you wander the streets in good conscience.”
For some reason that irritated Tim more than anything else, “I can take care of myself and I live like two blocks away.”
“Still–”
“It’s not necessary, sir!”
“Sir? I’m not that ol-”
“I don’t need you to walk me to the place where I live,” Tim continued without missing a beat. “I make this walk all the time. Ill-advised as it may be. I have nothing anyone wants.”
“‘The place where you live’ is a weird way to describe a home, kid,” is the response. “Are you sure that you’re okay? I mean, you don’t have to answer that…that can be a hard question. Maybe we can talk about something else while I walk you to…the place where you live. You said you liked skateboarding maybe we coul-”
“Wing! We have to hoof it. B says that the targets showed up early at the docks!” Tim looks to see the other two voices exiting the diner. Red and brown. Black and yellow. He wondered, vaguely, if him throwing up would get them to leave or just worry them more.
“You guys go ahead, I’m going to get this kid ho–”
Tim was off like a shot. He might not remember much from “before”, but he had the sense to take self-defense and parkour classes at the local rec center. Travis had smiled and ruffled his hair after the first two weeks claiming that Tim had a lot of potential. Tim had spent the rest of the day wondering if his half-memories of the original timeline meant that he was cheating his way through his classes. Previous life training and education weren’t exactly natural talent after all. Either way, he used it now to scurry to a nearby alley and out of sight before…before…Nightwing could offer to walk him back to the Bertinelli residence again. Tim didn’t bother to cover his tracks as he clambered up the fire escape ten minutes later. It’s not like he’d really be able to keep things from members of the vigilante community anyway.
By 1:15 Tim had changed into an old t-shirt and shorts, brushed his teeth, and was lying in bed. Helena wouldn’t be back from wherever for another hour at least so Tim didn’t feel the need to hide his frustrated yell, “Four years! I couldn’t make it FOUR YEARS!”
Tim curled up and laid on his left side…another old habit from “before”. His brain was still itchy…his everything felt restless. He pushed away half-memories of circuses and apartments and…train surfing? Tim breathed (“In through the nose, out through the mouth”) and reminded himself that chance meetings meant nothing in Gotham. Coincidences happen and there are only so many diners open until 1 AM, right? Forty-five minutes later Tim hears the window down the hall open and he relaxes just a little. A few more deep breaths. It occurs to Tim as he drifts into an uneasy sleep that, although most of his issues are demons of his own design, some of them are just…bats.