The Green Knight - hauntedlittledoll (2024)

Chapter 1: On Your Silence

Chapter Text

Tim knows only a frantic moment of not-breathing, and he tries to hold onto it, but there were these hands that he couldn’t escape. One painfully gripping a handful of his hair, and the other locked around his wrist. Then there is oxygen and a man in black.

He expends the new oxygen in a wordless scream of rage. The blows he manages to deliver with his free hand and both feet don’t seem to faze his rescuer as the man drags him back away from the water. Tim is shaken once. Twice, and his eyes focus as his traitorous body drew another breath.

Tim takes in the evidence of subterranean dwelling. He takes in the green pool, and the odd fabric of the sleeve his rescuer is wearing instead of armor.

This isn’t Gotham Bay.

“No,” his rescuer murmured quietly into his ear, locking Tim back against his chest with one arm. Tim realizes that he has stopped struggling in pursuit of the greater mystery. “Not Gotham.”

His rescuer isn’t Bruce.

Tim wants to laugh, but he can’t. He won’t. The laughter is wrong, it hurts, and Tim can’t breathe through the urge he won’t indulge. It’s like drowning all over again. He cannot laugh, and he cannot stay silent under this pressure.

The immediate nerve strike is merciful in its own way.

Tim regains consciousness in a room that he doesn’t recognize. It isn’t the medical facilities of the Bat Cave, his room at Wayne Manor or the Drake home, and it isn’t the hospital room that he feared.

Fighting his way free of the pillows and covers, Tim almost tripped over the sprawled form of the man below. His rescuer is sleeping on a pallet beside Tim’s bed, and to Tim’s dismay, the man begins to stir.

Tim tries to run, but is sent sprawling instead. Too late, he sees the long length of cord that binds his ankle to the no-longer-sleeping man. His rescuer is crouched now, having awoken too swiftly to make proper sense of a room with no threat.

Tim isn’t a threat.

“Timothy,” the adult begins cautiously after a long moment of silence. “Do you know where you are?”

Tim pointed at his throat. It is both his only defense and best offense.

“I am aware you do not speak,” his rescuer responded, irritation coloring his tone. “I believed your intelligence capable of nodding or shaking your head. Tt.”

Slowly, Tim acquiesced with the suggested shake as he stands. He wasn’t familiar with his location, and it was doubtful that he was even in America anymore, let alone Gotham. This man was dressed strangely and the noises outside were unlike those he had always known.

“You are in Egypt,” his rescuer offered, “in one of the more private al Ghul residences, to be precise. Are you familiar with the Lazarus Pits?”

Timothy knows of Ra’s al Ghul. He knows the significance of the Lazarus Pits, and he is not terribly surprised when his rescuer continues.

“Timothy, you have been dead for approximately nineteen years.”

The number is still a bit daunting. Timothy sits down on the floor once more, and stares up at the very tall man now standing above him.

“It is somewhat complicated,” his rescuer acknowledges. “Come. Let us eat, and I will tell you more.” He holds out one hand, and Timothy notes the scar of a bite wound that ends abruptly above the wrist. There are no scars from the wrist down—no marks of any kind.

Tim takes the hand.

His rescuer is named Damian.

Damian leads him to the large windows and a spread of covered dishes. Some Tim recognizes. Some he doesn’t, and follows his host’s lead. It is odd to eat on the floor, but it keeps Damian more or less on Tim’s level as they speak. Damian doesn’t look so much like Bruce when he isn’t looming over Tim.

“I am the son of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul,” Damian continues between mouthfuls. “I am third in the line of Batman, having been the fourth Robin some time after your death.”

Three Batmans . . . Tim had known he was replaceable, but Batman?

“My father died when I was ten years old, roughly six years after your time.” Damian is watching him closely, and Tim keeps his gaze on the food. “He never took another Robin. I served under Grayson.”

Dick.

“Grayson returned to his preferred role as Nightwing as soon as I turned twenty-one, and although he considers himself a placeholder . . . the acrobat was a formidable and respectable Batman.” That sounded painful to say. “I strive to uphold the legacy of Batman as my foster brother preserved it for my sake.”

Tim doesn’t want to hear about Dick. He isn’t entirely sure he wants to be hearing about Batman, but it is part of the story. Batman is always the center of the story.

“Becoming Batman was not enough for my mother,” Damian is still watching Tim, although the elder tries to pretend that his regard is for the fruit in Tim’s hands. “My parents have always been . . . competitive.”

Tim can sympathize; he had three.

“In all the things my father has done, he has failed only once. In order to surpass him as my mother wished, I would need to overcome that stumbling block. It is to this end that Talia al Ghul recovered your body and placed it in the Lazarus Pit.”

The fruit burst in Tim’s hands from sheer pressure.

He tries to unlock his stiff and sticky fingers. Then Damian is there—the dishes swept aside so his host can kneel before him and clean the remains of the fruit from Tim’s hands. Belatedly, Tim shakes his head so that Damian glances upward.

“Tt,” his host makes that sound again, and wipes a trail of the juice from his own face. “I would not have condoned my mother’s actions. The pit has its nightmares, and I rather think you have plenty of your own.” Cautiously, Damian pries apart Tim’s fingers, folding them carefully in his own regardless of the mess. “But I was not informed. I am not the detective my father was, and I only arrived in time to pull you from the pit.”

Tim keeps shaking his head. That’s not it. That’s not it at all, and the pressure in his throat is building again.

And Damian remains crouched on one knee before him, but somehow the older man understands.

“My father failed you, Timothy. I will not do the same.”

His rescuer-turned-guardian seems to be serious about that promise. He scarcely left Tim for a moment in the days that followed. The teen can’t decide if it’s due to the local assassin population or a lack of trust in Tim.

It’s as if Damian expects Tim not to be there when he returns.

Tim sleeps a great deal. Damian reads. They eat, and Damian speaks little. Tim says nothing at all, and Damian does not ask. Two days had passed peacefully in that manner, but then Damian made his first command.

“Tt. You need to shower.”

Now Timothy sits alone in the room, exhausted by an argument that had sent Damian fuming into the halls. Too late, Tim wishes that he hadn’t sent the pitcher flying at the man’s head, and buries his face in the nearest pillow. He’s been making do with the washstand for the last two days, and Damian hasn’t pressed him—perhaps too relieved that Tim hasn’t displayed any urge to drown himself again.

It’s not like Tim doesn’t realize he’s starting to smell, but he’s not taking one step past the toilet if his life depends on it. There’s a full length mirror just across from the shower, and Tim hates mirrors.

He didn’t ask for Damian to pull him from the pit. He didn’t ask the newest incarnation of Batman to protect him, and he didn’t ask to live again. Tim does not want the evidence of his failures staring back at him.

Damian steps over the china shards when he returns, and sits on the edge of the bed with a renewed calm. Tim could tell him now that while minimizing his height was courteous, the trick wouldn’t win Tim over every time.

“We do not have time for this, Timothy. If you would simply accept my word that no visible reminders of your time with the Joker have survived both the surgeries and the Pit . . .”

Tim pulled another pillow over the top of his head. Damian didn’t know, but Tim had been there. Tim had heard what the first doctor said. Tim knew better.

“If I cover the mirror for now, we will revisit this discussion later,” the man informs him quietly.

Tim thinks it over, and nods in agreement. Damian rolls him out of bed by seizing the coverlet from underneath him, before advancing on the bathroom. Tim follows at a slower pace, and nearly collides with the man in the doorway.

“Tt—will that suit?”

Tim cautiously peers past the man. The free-standing mirror has been fully draped with the scarlet coverlet, and Damian has even hung a towel over the shaving mirror that Tim had been ducking every time he used the facilities. Tim nods.

“Clothes are waiting for you. Do try to make yourself somewhat presentable.”

Tim makes quick work of the shower, resolutely fixing his eyes on the ceiling rather than risk seeing his own pale skin. The clothing that Damian left him was more traditionally American, unlike the clothing that Tim had woken up in. He wasn’t sure if the jeans were meant for his comfort or a sign of inevitable change.

Tim hadn’t worn jeans very often in his other life; he takes it as a sign.

He can hear voices in the other room as he dresses. Damian’s. A woman’s. Tim automatically slows so that he can listen.

“—to return to Gotham.”

“I’ve left everything in the hands of the Red Hood and Nightwing for a week, Mother. I’m uncertain as to the fate of my cat, let alone the city.”

“I did not raise you to jest at your mother’s concern.”

“You did not raise me.”

The woman’s response is too quiet to make out, and Damian responds just as quietly. Then there are footsteps and a sharp rap at the door. His name.

Tim buttons his shirt hastily, and forgoes the shoes.

The woman is gone, and Damian’s inspection is rushed. Apparently, they’re leaving, because the man doesn’t even give Tim the time to put on his shoes, but shoves the errant articles of clothing into a satchel with the older man’s paperwork.

Surprisingly, that satchel is entrusted to Tim. Damian unlocks the ornately carved shutters and throws them open, surveying below silently. Then the man crouches, and beckons Tim.

They’re leaving. They’re returning to Gotham.

“Tt—before the ninja arrive, Timothy.”

Damian has a point. Tim wraps both arms around the men’s neck, letting his self-proclaimed guardian boost him fully onto the man’s back. Damian swings out the window, into the night, and Tim’s never seen the world quite like this.

The Manor looks exactly the same. Tim follows Damian up the same steps and through the massive portal almost as if he’s trailing Bruce. Damian doesn’t hold the door and usher Tim in the way Bruce had, however. Damian walks straight through and expects Tim to be at his heels.

Tim has noticed a trend since they left the al Ghul estate. Damian led. Tim followed. Quickly.

His surroundings are as he remembers them except for the tuxedo cat that has come to greet them at the door.

“I must admit relief at finding you in good health, Alfred.”

Tim looks up quickly, but there is no one there. For all intents and purposes, Damian appears to be addressing the cat. Tim swallows hard as the cat jumps into one of the wingback chairs in order to regard them with a disapproving gaze. The gaze and the markings are ominous; this is Gotham after all, and no human-shaped butler has emerged to greet them.

“Yes, I agree. The occasion calls for Kitty Caviar. Go and alert Grayson.”

Tim watches the cat leap down with casual grace and saunter towards the kitchen. It’s downright disconcerting.

“Timothy.”

Follow.

Tim catches up with Damian who is heading for the library and probably the Cave. He doesn’t expect Damian to stop at Bruce’s old computer, and hovers uncertainly in the halfway space between the desk and the Cave entrance. Damian doesn’t seem to notice.

Tim’s mind is made up when two more men try to fit through the doorway at once. He immediately ducks behind the closest chair.

“Truly, together your stupidity knows no bounds,” Damian sneers, still reading whatever he’s pulled up on the screen. “What a welcoming committee, the pair of you make.”

“You missed us; don’t be nasty,” asserts the man that Tim recognizes as an older Dick Grayson. He sounds confident, and elbows his companion aside to advance through the doorway unhindered. “Did you—Timmy.”

Dick has stopped short, and the taller man runs into him. Dick doesn’t appear to notice, and the other man follows his gaze. Then he explodes.

“You bastard! You said you got there in time!”

Damian snorts. “I beat Mother to him. Do not question my timeliness in my father’s house, Todd.”

Tim chokes—saliva and laughter both caught in his windpipe. A strangled gurgle makes it out, and Tim covers his mouth with both hands instantly. The noise is lost in the argument, thankfully.

Still.

Jason Todd is dead.

“Look at his face,” Dick bursts out unexpectedly, silencing the feuding men. Tim digs his fingers in harder. “What on earth did you tell him, Damian?”

“That there is nothing wrong with his face, thank you, Grayson,” Damian snaps, looking up from the computer for the first time. “Of all the foolish drivel—”

“That’s not what I meant—Timmy, you have to believe . . .”

“Why should he?” Damian asks. “You may not have seen him in nearly twenty years, but it’s only been a week for the boy. I’ve informed him of the basics.”

“You must have left a few things out then, because Jason almost scared him to death,” Dick retorts, before blanching. “Again.”

There is a moment of awkward silence. Then Damian coughs. “For goodness sake, Grayson, hug him and get it over with so we can turn to more productive activities. I have things to do.”

Tim flinches, and thankfully that’s the last anyone mentions of physical affection. Dick keeps edging closer, and Jason shoots wary glances over at him, but further humiliation is put off in favor of food.

If the cat serves them Kitty Caviar, Tim’s pretty sure he can’t be blamed for flipping out entirely.

Alfred the cat has no intention of sharing his food.

To Tim’s benefit, Dick had finagled the definition of basics from Damian by the time Jason reappeared with food, and was filling in the holes. Like Damian’s telling, it’s something Tim needs to hear.

Alfred the butler passed away a few years ago, and while Tim is sorry to hear that, he’s relieved that his friend has not been transformed into a feline. Species is perhaps one change best not attempted. Alfred the cat belongs to Damian and is unlikely to be the butler reincarnated as the kitten had been adopted prior to the other Alfred’s death.

Tim also learns that he isn’t the first Robin to be exposed to the Lazarus Pit, although the details remain murky. Damian and Dick are quick to change the subject when Jason triumphantly emerges from the kitchen with a crockpot of Mac & Cheese.

Tim regards his plate uncertainly and glances up at Damian for confirmation.

“While his lack of taste is lamentable, Todd has proven capable of providing adequate meals,” Damian provides, serving himself. “Between that and his housekeeping skills, he will one day make someone a fine housewife.”

“I heard that.”

Tim tunes them out in favor of self-preservation. Poking at his food, he wishes that Dick would start eating instead of staring at him. Reluctantly, Tim put a fork of pasta into his mouth. Like with Bruce and Alfred, this seemed to be the key to quiet and peaceful meals. Dick’s attention doesn’t waver for long, but Tim will take whatever reprieve he can get.

He just has to eat everything on his plate. That’s the rule of the manor, and if he just does that much . . . if Tim just follows the rules, he can go.

“Hey, brat,” and Jason probably isn’t actually addressing Tim. “What are you going to tell the Drakes?”

And then the laughter is coming back. It’s bubbling in his throat, and something has to give. Tim shoves back from the table, falling to his knees and vomiting up the undigested food.

Illness works as an excuse to leave sometimes, and Tim takes the silence as permission to run.

Dick finds him in the green bathroom a short time later, but only because Tim can’t leave. There’s a huge mirror covering half of the wall, because this is the bathroom that Alfred always designated as the ladies room for Brucie’s parties. It hadn’t mattered as much in the blurry quest for a toilet, but passing it a second time proves more daunting. So Tim’s just sitting on the floor next to the mint green porcelain fixture when Dick shows up.

Green is a stupid color for a bathroom.

Dick moves around above for a few seconds. Then a damp cloth and glass of water appear in Tim’s line of sight. The older man waits for Tim to deal with both before speaking.

“No one is telling Jack Drake anything; he hasn’t been in the country for over a decade and no one is looking for a thirteen year old Tim Drake. It’s been almost twenty years—you could be your own kid for crying out loud.”

And that deserves the dirty look that Tim levels at his predecessor, but Dick is oblivious in favor of babbling. The former-acrobat tends toward babbling when he’s distressed.

“You could be Jason’s kid if you weren’t so dang small. My kid, maybe,” and Dick tilts his head as if seriously considering how well that lie would hold up. Tim kicks out, and the older man dodges nimbly. Unbothered, Dick continues, having already disposed of the cloth and cup. “Cover stories are Damian’s problem anyway. He’ll come up with something.”

Tim watches Dick make some minor modifications to the bathroom—shoving the low bench further away from the door and flipping off the lights—until Dick comes back and swings Tim up into his arms.

The dark doesn’t bother a Robin past or present, and it solves the dilemma of the enormous mirror. It’s routine, and almost as if Dick had never stopped compensating for Tim’s quirks and neuroses. Tim could walk, but nothing short of a verbal command would get Dick to put him down so Tim bears it.

Dick doesn’t carry Tim to his old room, but a guest room on the second floor where Damian is waiting for them. Tim indicates the stairs with a jerk of his head, but his new guardian shakes his head.

“Your old room is . . . in a state of appalling disrepair.”

That would be because Tim had thrown an impressive number of tantrums in it prior to his last great leap.

“We will replace whatever is unsalvageable. Todd can deal with it,” Damian shrugs. “First, he is scrubbing the dining room rug in punishment for poisoning you.”

Tim winces. There’s no Alfred to quietly make Tim’s messes vanish, and no one but the kindly butler had ever cleaned up after Tim without making him pay for it later. He has to live with these men after all.

Tim squirms in an effort to convince Dick to put him down, but the first Robin has a grip like Bruce. Tim is going nowhere. “We’ll handle it in the morning; I’ll be down to suit up in a bit. Just give me a few minutes, Little D.”

“Tt,” is the other man’s only response, and he walks away without looking back.

There’s nothing for Tim to change into. He expects that is one of the things to be handled in the morning, much like Tim himself. He kicks off his jeans and sneakers, leaves the socks, and skips brushing his teeth in favor of slipping into the bed. It’s an expedited process that works well for him, because whatever Dick intended to say dies.

Words can be vastly overrated.

Tim watches Dick steel himself, deflate, struggle, and finally just pull the covers tighter around Tim. It’s a small victory, but Tim will take it.

Dick obviously feels the need to say something though. He pauses on the way out with his hand over the light switch. “Will you still be here when I get back from patrol?”

Talia al Ghul wants him alive. Where exactly does Dick think Tim can go to escape that? Short of being buried in concrete, Tim’s stuck here. Under those circ*mstances, he would rather avoid multiple run-ins with the Pit.

“Promise me, Timmy.”

Tim nods once, and rolls over as the lights go off.

“I love you, little brother,” is whispered into the dark, but Tim heard it.

The door closes, and then Tim waits. It takes exactly three and a half minutes to get from this part of the manor to the Bat Cave, and another four minutes to suit up. Dick might be a little faster—longer legs and decades of getting used to the costume—but Tim waits the full seven and a half minutes. Then he climbs out of bed and silently crosses to the doorway.

Tim waits another minute. He wants to be sure that Dick is fully suited-up—mask, weapons, comm. Then he swiftly thrusts the palm of his hand outward, crushing the tiny bug under the light switch. In his head, he can almost hear the curse that Dick will let fly over the feedback of that one.

Did Dick honestly think he was being subtle?

Tim rubs his palm against his thigh to ease the sting and crawls back into bed. If his ‘brothers’ want to spy on him, they can watch the security feed like a proper Bat.

“Language, Grayson. You are a role model.”

Dick stuck his tongue out; Damian was convinced the man would never grow up. Regardless of his immaturity, Dick was still rubbing at his ear in irritation. It had been a rather audible disruption; Damian could hear it from several feet away.

“Tt. Did you expect anything less from a former Robin?”

Dick shook his head ruefully. “I’m out of practice.”

“Observed.” Damian hummed indifferently. “You have not hugged anyone in the two hours since first laying eyes on the boy. Is that a personal record?” His foster-brother advanced upon the young Batman with a familiar demented look in his eyes, and Damian ducked the exaggerated embrace.

Dick stretched instead, and leaned back against the railing. “I want to grab Tim and never let go. But I also want to just . . . shake him until he understands.”

Damian co*cked his head in silent query.

“Understands how much his death hurts.” Dick shrugged. “Neither option is what Tim needs right now.”

“And bugging Timothy’s quarters in the meantime is a happy medium,” Damian grimaced. “With plans like this, I am astounded by your success rate, Grayson.”

Dick frowned, shying away from the accusation. “If I’m Grayson, and Jason’s Todd, how come he gets Timothy?”

“Tt,” Damian looked away, climbing into the Batmobile. “Children respond better to their given names; you told me that, Grayson.”

“People,” Dick emphasized, as he slipped into the passenger seat. “I distinctly said people respond better, and you said I was an overly sentimental fool.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Grayson. You have obviously suffered from poor hearing long before Timothy’s assault.”

Dick rolled his eyes, glancing back uselessly as they approached the exit. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to leave him here with only Jason?”

Damian lifted one hand from the steering wheel, indicating the cowl. “I’m having the security feed from the guest room broadcast directly to the cowl.”

Dick frowned. “You were suited up by the time I came down.”

Damian nodded.

“You’ve been watching him.”

Damian nodded again.

“You little monster,” Dick ground out through his teeth. “You could have warned me.”

Damian smirked. “Indeed.”

Chapter 2: Like a Wraith

Chapter Text

Jason is in the kitchen when Tim finally gets up the nerve to show his face the next morning.

The man just sits there and watches Tim over his coffee mug for a long moment before gruffly offering: “The nutritious crap is in the pantry. The diabetes-in-a- puff is hidden behind the waffle iron, and if you want coffee, the answer’s no.”

Tim blinks.

Jason shrugs. “This is my kitchen now, and not even the Batman has any say here.”

Tim thinks that’s a pretty bold claim to make; Jason may have a temper, but Tim’s predecessor is no Alfred. That man could make passive aggressive retribution a figment of his victim’s imagination.

Tim had once hoped to learn the secret, but it’s too late now.

Jason leaves the newspaper on the table, and walks over to lean against the fridge, apparently deciding for Tim. A carton of milk and the aforementioned box of sugary cereal are planted in front of him shortly thereafter.

Tim cautiously retrieves a bowl and spoon himself before sliding into the seat across from Jason.

“How’d you like your room, Baby Bird?” the man asked, folding up the paper.

Tim had found it spotless when he ducked in to use his bathroom earlier. His mirror remained an empty frame, but Jason had somehow restored the rest of the room over the course of the night. Tim nods his appreciation, but Jason scowls back at him, unappeased.

“It’s empty,” the man stares at him. “I know you were in and out at first, but you lived in that room 24/7 after . . . afterwards. Where’s your stuff?”

Tim shook his head. He’d run a quick inventory just a few minutes ago. The clothing was in the dresser, his cameras on the desk, and the photo of his parents on the nightstand. Everything he owned was in there except for the skateboard, and that was probably gathering dust in the garage.

“Billions at your fingertips,” Jason huffed in disgust, “and you don’t even have posters.”

Tim shrugged.

“Well, we’ll fix it this time around,” Jason promised recklessly. “Paint it or something. What’s your favorite color . . . blue? Green?”

Tim shrugs restlessly. Jason’s trying too hard, and Tim’s rethinking the whole concept of breakfast.

“C’mon, kiddo. You were Robin! You’ve got guts, and you can’t be this boring!”

Tim scowls at Jason and walks out of the kitchen.

His dramatic exit would have been more powerful if Tim hadn’t needed to immediately backpedal in order to avoid slamming into his guardian’s chest. Alfred the cat looks balefully down at Tim from his perch on Damian’s shoulder, and the man follows the cat’s gaze. Tim looks at the floor, and Damian reaches over Tim’s head to reopen the door.

“Eat your breakfast first.”

Tim settles at the table without giving Jason the satisfaction of making eye contact. He’s in no mood for tolerating the cantankerous replacement to Alfred’s quiet omnipresence.

Damian takes the seat between them, the cat abandoning them for his own dishes in the far corner. “Am I too late for waffles, Todd?”

“Yep,” and Jason enunciates the pop of the ‘p’ as he pours over the comics.

“Very well,” Damian regards the box of cereal with distaste, and retrieves fruit from the centerpiece instead. “Todd, kindly desist in tormenting the boy and commence earning your keep.”

Jason casually throws a knife at the younger man’s head, which Damian ducked neatly. Nothing more was said. Unnerved, Tim watches his guardian dismantle the fruit entirely, eat it, and push away from the table. The cat promptly falls back into step.

Damian holds the door open for the cat, but the man pauses just a moment longer: “Timothy, I’ll meet you in the library when you’re finished.”

Tim can’t quite help himself. He looks up at Jason Todd, hoping for any kind of understanding.

The older man snorts. “If I’d made him the dang waffles, he would have said the exact same thing. The brat just would have waited until after he’d eaten.” Jason begins the daily crossword, and Tim slowly slides his chair out. The man didn’t even look up. “Finish all of it.”

Tim reluctantly sinks back into his seat.

Tim thinks that Damian is going to lay out a new identity, a role with every nuance carefully planned out. Tim expects it to be dramatic and showy, because Batman has always been a stage magician with a flair for misdirection.

Look at the giant ostentatious house and forget the man who owns it. Watch the boy in bright colors, and let the Bat get the drop on you. Look there, because I’ll really be . . . right . . . here.

Tim had gotten very good at his role up until the Joker played the same trick on him.

Damian seems determined to shatter any preconceived notions Tim had of his new guardian being anything like the old. Damian doesn’t seem to want anything from Tim, and that’s a new experience for the both of them.

“I have decided to keep your presence at the manor a secret for the time being,” Damian informs him quietly. “For your protection and privacy. At a later date, we may put together a suitable cover story.”

Tim wonders what kind of story that might be.

“I don’t expect you to spend the time idle,” Damian warns. “There will be some schooling that I will hold you responsible for. Grayson and Todd are ever at your disposal, and anything else you require can be swiftly obtained.”

Tim shrugs. He doesn’t need much.

Damian is still watching him carefully. “I train most mornings, and I would not be adverse to a sparring partner. Grayson has become somewhat predictable.”

Tim looks up quickly, then masks his interest sharply.

But no, Damian is not joking; the offer is genuine. It’s not Robin, but it’s a step toward earning back his mask. Bruce had banned Tim from the cave entirely, attempted to retire Robin permanently, and Tim had assumed that his successors would keep Tim out. But Damian is giving him a chance.

That’s all Tim needs to prove himself. He can do this. He can be Robin again.

Tim needs to be Robin again.

Officially, Dick is in charge of Tim’s schooling, but the man is disorganized and prone to distraction. Tim creates his own schedule, finds his own materials, and simply turns in the completed work to Dick for a look over that it doesn’t need.

Book-learning has always come easily to Tim.

It’s the other eighteen hours a day that prove a greater challenge to fill. Most evenings, they’re stuck with each other, but the adults have differing ideas about what ‘family time’ should entail. Dick is winning simply because no one else has workable suggestions. Most of Dick’s are shot down, but the older man isn’t daunted.

The first week is mostly spent trying to cover two decades worth of must-see movies that Tim has missed, but doing battle with Jason every night for the television isn’t practical. Then Dick digs out the board games; those end with property damage because Jason and Damian both cheat. Jason just won’t admit to it even when caught.

Everyone suffers equally in the evenings, but afternoons are just Tim and Jason. Damian has endless board meetings to attend to, and Dick is a detective on the GCPD payroll. The legally deceased are not expected to be gainfully employed, so Jason and Tim find themselves alone in the mansion for several hours a day.

It only takes three days of wandering for Jason to corner Tim.

“What do you like to do, Baby Bird?”

Tim shrugs.

“What did you do before?”

Another shrug.

“What do normal kids do?” Jason threw up his hands angrily. Tim must be getting used to the explosions, because that almost makes him smile. He doesn’t shrug though, because one doesn’t taunt wild animals. Tim shakes his head a little, and backs away slowly when Jason wheels around to storm through the house.

The teen finds Alfred cat-napping in a patch of sunlight on the hallway floor and joins him.

He’s almost asleep when Jason stomps out of the kitchen again with an armful of cleaning supplies. Tim narrowly dodges as the elder proceeds to drop them directly over his head. Alfred gives an unhappy yowl and takes off for the batcave, but Tim just crouches warily. He’s waiting, but Jason just stares back at him.

Apparently, he’s being put to work.

Tim wakes up the next morning to find Damian silhouetted in his doorway. The older man’s brow is furrowed as he regards Tim from across the room.

“Are you ill, Timothy?”

It’s after five, Tim realizes with a start. He almost slept through his training with Damian, and that realization sends Tim flying out of bed. He lands with a thump, still partly tangled in the bedcovers, but Tim refuses to be thwarted by a set of sheets.

“Change quickly,” Damian sighs. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Tim’s already half-changed, furious with himself for over-sleeping. Jason had kept him busy yesterday, cleaning some of the rooms that had been closed off after Alfred died. And cleaning is harder than Tim thought. He can’t imagine how Alfred kept the entire mansion (and batcave) spotless for so many years. Between the windows and the knick-knacks, Tim was worn out by dinnertime.

Tim didn’t even remember going to bed, which means that someone (probably Dick) carried him up after the movie. The teen isn’t exactly happy about that. Tim isn’t a baby.

Tim is taping his wrists as he runs through the halls, but he makes a mental note to get an alarm clock from Jason later. It’ll give the man something new to obsess over. It’s Jason’s fault that Tim nearly missed training anyway.

Tim can’t miss training.

Training with Damian is like training with the masters that Bruce had chosen for him. Harder, in some ways, but Tim’s missed the adrenaline rush of sparring with live weapons. The new Batman is tall like Bruce, but moves more like Dick. There’s something strangely formal to his blade work too, although Damian can swiftly turn to underhanded means in a fight.

Only one of Ra’s al Ghul’s men had pursued them past the walls when Damian and Tim made their escape from his estate; Damian hadn’t even put Tim down.

The new Batman doesn’t kill, but he isn’t afraid to maim.

Tim shoves thoughts of killing and maiming far away as he flies down the last set of steps. He doesn’t have time for where those thoughts lead; Damian isn’t waiting for him on the mats which means his mentor is in the shadows waiting to attack.

Tim flattens to the mat just in time to avoid the batarang aimed at his head. He’s already rolling by the time it rebounds off the metal staircase support, and somewhere hidden in the cave are his own weapons.

Tim needs to find them before Damian runs out of batarangs.

Tim stalks his pray silently. When he lashes out with his staff, he fully expects it to make contact with Damian’s skull, but suddenly his mentor is behind him, and Tim’s spinning kick misses Damian by inches. Tim sweeps his left foot out in a smooth arc to regain his balance, and completes the circle with his other foot, bringing him under Damian’s guard.

One of his teachers told him to think of his feet as calligraphy brushes. If the emphasis is on the feet, then the hands are free to do as needed.

In this case, Tim needs to tag Damian’s heart or head to end the spar. It’s not as easy as it sounds.

Tim ducks the knives of which Damian seems to have a never-ending supply. One hand, planted on the floor, Tim swung his weight over his head and out of Damian’s hand-to-hand range. It takes a backflip to avoid the second wave, and Tim overcompensated deliberately, bracing himself with his hands to lend his kick more power.

Tim is getting strong again. He’s proving his skills, and Damian is getting increasingly harder to fight as the man metes out exactly enough to challenge Tim before taking the teen out.

Damian spins around Tim’s kick, bringing a knife with him low, but Tim still has his staff and it is second nature to block the blow. Tim can do this for hours if necessary, just spin the bo from hand to hand, forward, back grip, one hand, both . . .

Sometimes Jason comes down ‘to make things interesting’ while they spar, and this would be the perfect moment for the Red Hood to make his presence known, but the cave is quiet today. Jason usually prefers aggravating Tim upstairs with ridiculous chores or pointed questions. The man had chased Tim outside one day with a bottle of window cleaner and a grimy looking dust wand; apparently they would not be cleaning the manor on Saturdays as Tim had expected.

Apparently, former Robins played basketball on Saturdays . . . and very badly. Tim’s pretty sure Dick is making up rules as they go, and guarding against Damian is nigh impossible. The latest Batman towers over him, and if Jason remembers to pass the ball to Tim, it’s stolen in short order. It only turns truly competitive in the last game, but the cheating doubles, and Jason has no qualms whatsoever about giving Tim ‘a boost’ towards the basket. Tim doesn’t feel as bad about it since Dick was hanging from the other team’s hoop.

Suddenly, Tim’s staff disappears from his hands, and without thinking, the teen lunges at the thief. Damian grabs his arms and pitches Tim over his head. Tim almost recovers his footing despite the odd angle. Almost.

He still manages to minimize the damage right up until his roll deposited him at the feet of Dick Grayson.

“You two have some explaining to do.”

It isn’t that they were trying to keep Tim’s training a secret from Dick. It’s just that Dick was normally sleeping during the time Damian allotted for Tim’s training session. Nightwing has long nights as a vigilante, and Detective Grayson has long days as a member of the GCPD. No one is going to wake him up during the four hours that Dick actually spent sleeping.

By the time Dick usually comes down for breakfast, Tim would have showered and begun his studies for the day while Damian would already be at Wayne Enterprises. Today probably wouldn’t see either occupation.

Tim thinks that Damian expected this reaction, so he isn’t sure why his guardian didn’t try to hide it.

“You can’t just expect him to be Robin again, Damian,” Dick insists stridently, poking the taller man in the chest for additional emphasis. “Tim isn’t ready for that!”

“I am aware, Grayson.”

“You are not! You weren’t there, Dami.” Dick swallows back whatever he intended to say next, and looks back to Jason like he expects backup from that quarter.

Dick doesn’t get it, because Jason is pointedly ignoring the lot of them, very invested in his crossword puzzle. He’s been wrestling with the clue groundless for the majority of the argument. Nine letters and the fourth one is o. The tapping of his pen bothers Tim almost as much as the way that Damian and Dick are arguing . . . like Tim isn’t standing right here.

“Tim’s had enough. He’s done enough.”

Damian makes the ~tt~ noise again, glancing over at Tim as if to verify his counterargument. It’s the only reason that Tim is still in the room dealing with this nonsense. “Timothy wants this.”

“Tim doesn’t always want what’s best for him!” Dick yells, and the kitchen is silent for a long moment. Even Jason stills.

Tim braces his hands against the table, catching his ankles behind the rungs of the seat and grinding his teeth to prevent an implosion of sound. If they’re expecting him to let that get to him, they’re going to be disappointed. Tim eavesdropped more naturally than breathing, especially after the Joker. It’s not the first time he’s heard it, not even the first time he’s heard Dick say it, but it is the first time someone’s said it to his face.

He silently reaches across the table for Jason’s pen, relieved that the other man surrenders it easily. Tim pulls the newspaper over too.

UNFOUNDED

Tim passes it back to Jason, and Dick almost rips it from the other man’s grip. The former-acrobat’s forehead wrinkles as he studies Tim’s tiny neat handwriting in the midst of Jason’s heavier scrawl like it has all the answers.

It’s just a crossword.

Damian quietly redirects his older brother’s attention. “We are all Robin; it is not a title we put behind us lightly, Grayson. Each of us chose this.” He holds up one hand to forestall Dick’s outburst. “You are not without cause for concern, and some changes will need to go into effect.” Damian glances over to the table to include Jason and Tim in his little speech. “Therefore, Robin will not fly without the agreement of all four of us.”

Dick clenches his jaw, the paper crinkling under his grip. “Good luck on getting mine.” And with that, Dick walked out.

For the first time, Tim is the only one in the family room when Dick returns late from work that evening. Avoidance appears to be a family trait, because Damian is hiding under one of the cars down in the cave, and Jason disappeared for an early patrol. He left Tim twenty bucks and the take-out menu for the nearest pizza place on the kitchen table though.

Jason apparently thinks he’s a riot. Tim has come to learn that his predecessor is a rat.

However, Tim is holding his own. Contrary to the Red Hood’s belief, Tim actually can use the computers in the cave. Despite the major upgrades over the years, the fundamentals haven’t changed. With every bite of quadruple cheese pizza, Tim relishes the triumph of voice-synthesizing software.

“Did you save me a piece?” Dick asks quietly from the doorway.

Tim gestured to the Meat-Lover’s that lay untouched on the coffee table. He may not recognize the elaborate video game set up across the room, but some things never changed. Dick’s view on pizza was one of them, and the older man fairly cradled the box close as he took the nearest recliner.

“Jay and Damian already eat?”

Tim nodded without making eye contact. It wasn’t a complete lie. He had taken a few pieces down to Damian when the pizza first got here, but as far as Tim was concerned, Jason could fend for himself.

Dick takes him at his word, and doesn’t even protest that the others are breaking ‘the rules’ by skipping dinner and other bonding rituals. He just stuffs half a slice of pizza in his mouth as if to keep from saying something else. It works for a little while, and Tim is giving consideration to the video game cases that he can see from this vantage, wondering if he can distract Dick a little longer.

Eventually, Dick sets the third slice of pizza down, and launches straight into the one-sided conversation that Tim doesn’t want to have: “It’s not that I think you can’t do it.”

Tim studied the brightly-colored cases harder.

“You were awesome, and from what I saw downstairs, you’re still just as good. I know that you can do it, Timmy. I just don’t want you to do it.” Dick pushes the pizza away, shifting in the chair to look at Tim properly. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you again.”

Tim curls a little deeper into his chair, because he doesn’t want to hear this.

“It hasn’t even been a month yet, Tim,” Dick gestures helplessly. “You wander around like a ghost, and you don’t talk to anyone, and you want us to put you in the middle of Gotham with a target on your chest?”

Tim starts biting his lip, closing his eyes to block out Dick’s overly-concerned expression.

“I can’t do that. I won’t let you do this to yourself.”

Tim presses his hands over his mouth, because Dick still doesn’t trust Tim and that’s funny. He absolutely cannot listen to this, and Tim glares at his older brother over his hands. He can’t cover his ears and his mouth simultaneously, and Dick presses his advantage.

“I’m not going to feel guilty for protecting you, Tim. Do you even realize how reckless you’ve been so far?” Dick shivers. “I mean, what were you thinking—just going with Damian like that?! How could you just blindly follow a total stranger claiming to be Batman? He could have been anyone. He could have been lying about the time difference. He could have hurt you!”

Tim upends the pizza box with one calculated strike because he doesn’t want to laugh anymore. Not even as Dick blinks up at him, covered in pizza. Tim wants to hit something—preferably Dick.

Because Tim doesn’t need the costume to recognize Gotham's dark knight, and Damian is Batman.

That’s why Tim follows him.

Tim cannot stay still. It’s too much. All of it is just too much, and Dick has to question the only thing that Tim can be sure of?

He can’t run though. He can’t turn this into an emotional thing or Dick will follow him. Tim absolutely cannot flip out or break down until he’s in the cave, because Dick is the brother who would use a nerve strike for Tim’s own good.

So Tim very carefully stands without looking at Dick. This has to carry weight despite the lack of words. Dick is already reaching out, and Tim steps back just before the older man’s hand can settle on his shoulder. Now he looks up, and he won’t let the pain in Dick’s eyes sway him.

Tim breaks the eye contact, and walks out of the family room, slamming the door behind him.

Alfred is sitting outside the door, grooming his paws meticulously, but the cat pauses to regard Tim carefully. With one final deliberate lick, the cat moves to twine around Tim’s ankles and then bound ahead. The cat heads straight for the clock, and it’s the best idea that Tim’s received all day.

Damian is at the computers. It’s his night to stay behind with Tim. No one’s said as much, but Tim isn’t a stupid; they fought together before Tim arrived. He can see the tiny holes in their teamwork where another brother should fit when he watches the cameras with Damian.

Dick pretends that he’s not listening to the communicator while he tries to keep Tim distracted. Jason tells Tim to find something else to do, but that’s so Jason can smoke in supposed secret. Tim doesn’t mind it as much. Damian just leaves a vacant chair at his side, and most of those nights, Tim watches when he can’t sleep.

He doesn’t want to watch tonight.

Damian’s been listening in upstairs, because he doesn’t even look up at Tim—just jerks his head in the direction of a pile of complicated drones. It’s exactly what Tim needs.

The teen drops to the bottom step as Alfred trots for the safety of his master’s lap. Tim peels off his socks and pulls his sweater over his head. His staff is waiting for him, leaning casually against the railing despite having been put away that morning. Tim twirls it experimentally, and crosses the mat to where the drones buzz ominously.

They used to respond to the command: Engage. Damian’s rewired these to respond to a snap of the fingers.

When the first one swooped down in a bold frontal assault, Tim grips his staff and slugs the smaller drone across the cave like he’s a baseball star. It gives the drone a somewhat lopsided flight path for the remainder of the exercise, but it is one of a dozen varying drones. Tim slips into a more effective stance and begins fighting in earnest. He knows how to do this; Tim could fight like this with his eyes shut.

This drone is slippery like Freeze, hard to get a grip on and sturdy enough to take most hits that a teenager can dish out. The one creeping under his feet is Ivy, waiting to attack until his attention has been diverted. The smallest out-of-reach drone is the Riddler, firing beams that sting from the safety of above. Harley’s signature sucker punch move is the easiest to counter. The largest drone is Two-Face and if Tim waits too long, it’ll fracture into multiple drones attacking from all sides. This drone takes no offensive measures; like Catwoman, it is a distraction meant to occupy his time, energy, and interest while others press closer. The drone that Tim compares to Penguin is single-minded, attacking repeatedly in the exact same way with the same tenacity that Penguin employed. The Scarecrow drone is never used, not after a training accident with Bruce a lifetime ago.

There are other drones that Tim does not recognize. One gyrates madly emitting constant sound, while another only appears when Tim seems to have gained the advantage making its absence worrying. One shoots out hard capsules not unlike a game of paintball; it only aims for the vital areas and taking a hit ends the fight immediately. There’s a sleek one that waits on the sideline, watching for weakness, undercutting all the others to imperil Tim from where he least expects it.

The last one also waits on the sidelines. It waits from Tim to tire, because the only offense it has is a net. Unlike the sleek drone, the last one doesn’t care about the collateral damage of its fellow drones—only capture.

Tim cuts that one in half.

“Look, ‘Wing, it’s a puppy . . . you gonna kick it too?”

“Just shut up, and distract the monster.”

Damian pressed his fingertips into his temple, digging after that unreachable migraine that came from putting up with his brothers for too long. Short of drilling into his skull, it was a gesture doomed to failure.

“If the two of you could put the hellhound down before it decimates further vehicles . . .” he drew out in warning. Damian was promptly ignored.

He glanced over his shoulder; if Timothy wasn’t sleeping, Damian could use a break and their earlier spar had been interrupted. Unfortunately, the boy had finished the drones off and—with only a tired appraisal of the stairs—crashed on one of the cots in the medical center.

Damian had often made the same choice after a taxing patrol. Granted, Richard insisted on carrying him up to bed afterwards, and Damian will do the same for Timothy once the others get in. It was part of the responsible guardian role that Damian is trying so hard to emulate.

Alfred had long since abandoned him for Timothy. The cat was curled up against the back of the boy’s neck, the black of his fur blending into the boy’s dark hair from this distance. Damian was relieved that the pair had taken to each other; Alfred and Jason have been waging a private war for the better part of a decade.

“Seriously, Bat-baby, does this thing even have a weakness?”

For obvious reasons.

Damian refocused on the task at hand. “None on file, but given the fact that the beast is on fire, I would assume water to be a major deterrent.” How the first two Robins even survived this long is a mystery to all lesser mortals.

“There’s a thought. How about the duck pond?”

“The park on Allan Avenue is closer,” Nightwing put in.

“That’s a creek at best,” Red Hood protested.

“So what?”

“Pick a water feature, and get to work,” Damian snapped, then winced and dropped into a deadly whisper instead. “Now.” Fortunately, Timothy hadn’t stirred although Alfred had raised his head to gaze balefully in Damian’s direction.

“Aww, did you finally get the wittle baby bird to sleep?” Jason cooed mockingly.

Damian ignored him.

“Is he still upset?” Richard asked—his mind clearly not on the fight at hand. Thankfully, Red Hood had assumed the role of ‘prey’ and was successfully keeping the beast’s attention on himself.

“He is sleeping, Grayson. How do you propose I determine his emotional state?”

“Hey, no names in uniform,” Jason squawked. “Nice doggy.”

Damian ignored Jason with the ease of long-standing practice. “He vented on the drones. I will have to repair MR-10 or possibly rebuild it from scratch. Then he went to sleep.”

His oldest brother groaned. “I’m not the bad guy here, right?”

“You are as virtuous and over-protective as ever,” Jason chirped. “Turning it my way before I become the Flaming Hood would be awesome. I’d hate to steal another villain’s look.”

“Two o’clock, Nightwing,” Damian prompted, because he is both a good brother and a good leader. “And you are clearly a superior brother figure,” he added, ignoring Jason’s offended protest. “I have few complaints.”

That made Richard laugh. “Just a few?”

“Legitimate concerns,” Damian corrected. “I still brought Timothy home to you, did I not?”

“I’m not doing so well this time around,” his brother sighed, ducking the enraged creature.

“As you said to the boy, it has only been a month. I considered you the enemy for almost a year,” Damian admitted, obliging the cat who had come looking for attention. Damian admired cats and their persistent natures, removing his fingers from Alfred’s teeth to scratch behind the animal’s ears. “Twenty yards . . . how exactly do you propose to get the hellhound into the duck pond, Hood?”

Jason swore roundly. “You’re just bringing this up now?!”

“Relax, l’il wing. I’ve got this,” Nightwing called, back-flipping out of reach. Damian watched as the beast sprang after the superhero in blue a second time. Nightwing fell back, rolling backwards into a handstand and using the force of that roll to kick the beast overhead that little bit further into the pond itself.

“What is it with this family and birds?” Jason muttered into the com as they watched a slightly-steaming Labrador stagger from the pond.

“I believe it to be mostly Nightwing’s fault,” Damian speculated, as an eerie howling came through the speakers.

“Most things are,” Jason agreed. “And don’t look now, big brother, but I think these things travel in packs.”

Nightwing never got the chance to argue, because an entirely different howling drowned out the hounds as security alarms blared above. Alfred leapt down with an insulted air, and Damian glanced back at the empty hospital bed only for confirmation. Swearing himself, he exchanged a screen filled with flaming dogs of various breeds for a view of the manor’s overly long driveway. Sure enough, a small figure on one of the older motorcycles was disappearing into the night.

“Please tell me that you’re under attack, Batman,” Nightwing grimaced, falling back-to-back with the Red Hood who was simultaneously demanding: “Did Baby Bird fly the coop?”

Damian had found the memorial cases to be exceedingly morbid which is saying something for a former-assassin. Shortly after Grayson took him on, the cases had mysteriously disappeared while a display of every mask ever worn by a member of the ‘Bat Family’ took their place.

The rounded black domino favored by Tim Drake was missing.

“Robin is testing his wings,” Damian issued through his teeth. “The pair of you will handle the hounds. Batman will fetch the boy.”

Chapter 3: You Craven Men

Chapter Text

Tim ditches the motorcycle in the first alley he reaches, because even some of their tech nineteen years ago had overrides and autopilot features. Who knows what Batman has since developed?

This isn’t exactly a planned excursion. Tim has his old mask and a Robin cape that he never wore—probably Damian’s—because he doesn’t want anyone to look at him. Under that, he’s still in civvies.

Bruce would be having kittens.

At least the hood offers some measure of anonymity. No one will have to look at him. No one can say, “Hey, you look an awful lot like that Robin from years and years ago.” Not that anyone is looking for Tim Drake or Robin. Not anymore.

Tim doesn’t need the grapple to move through Gotham. It makes things easier, but Tim could only reach his staff in the few precious minutes that Damian was distracted by the fight onscreen. So Tim climbs freehand; Gotham makes it easy with the bizarre architectural norms like gargoyles, window ledges, and the odd fire-escape to nowhere.

He’s not looking for villains or vigilantes. Not yet. Tim wants to stand on a roof above the streets and pretend that he’s Robin again. Tim is so very good at pretending.

He hears the Batmobile before he sees it, and after that, it becomes a game of tag. Something he took from the cave has a tracker in it; Batman wouldn’t be able to follow his movements so accurately without one. Tim can’t give up the hood and the mask, can’t risk being seen by someone normal, and he’s not so foolish as to part with the only weapon he has.

Not in Gotham.

The flying Batmobile is just not fair, but Tim blends into the shadows if he keeps the yellow underside of the cape from flaring out too much. Only, Tim seems to be picking up more shadows as he runs.

Tim knows when he’s being followed by more than the Bat. He learned that lesson the hard way.

Tim flings himself to the ground as the first blade flies overhead. It’s countered by a batarang, and how exactly did Batman get ahead of him when Tim can still hear the Batmobile approaching steadily from the rear? Tim rolls, ready to switch direction, but ninja cut him off.

The teen finds himself being steadily backed into the corner where Batman is presumably hiding and piloting the Batmobile closer. Blocking the nerve strike that an androgynous form darts forward to give, Tim twirls his staff in hand to knock another ninja out.

The first ninja is seized by the neck and pitched to the far end of the roof by a black gauntlet. Batman stands from his crouch, stowing some handheld device in his belt as he head-butts the closest ninja. It seems to make an impression, but a Bat’s head is harder than that of the average ninja. Tim lashes out at the feet of another, making them jump and attract Batman’s attention.

It’s like playing Whack-a-Mole. For every ninja they take down, another pops up. Tim loves every second of it, because this is what he’s supposed to be doing. This is what Tim trained to do, and even if it’s stolen time—he’s Robin again with Batman at his back.

Tim knew it couldn’t last forever, but even he’s surprising when Damian cuts Tim off mid-strike. Batman catches Tim around the waist, flinging the teen over one shoulder while he disposes of the remaining ninja. Watching Batman work stills Tim’s protest temporarily, but once they’re surrounded by only unconscious or badly injured ninja, Tim begins to struggle.

Damian uses a nerve strike to instill cooperation in Tim. It’s something that Bruce wouldn’t have even tried, and Tim can feel that choking feeling that might be a scream or might be that awful laughter welling up in his throat. He grinds his teeth together to cage it.

Batman dumps him in the passenger seat of the waiting Batmobile, and takes over the manual controls. Starting to get some feeling back in his body, Tim shrinks down in his seat and wraps his arms around the knees that he’s already drawn up.

“My mother does not want you dead,” Damian finally speaks. He’s a quieter Batman than Bruce, and that’s an impressive feat. “She wants you alive and useful to her ends.”

Tim has figured that much out on his own. The woman doesn’t use the Pit lightly, and she went to a lot of trouble to recover Tim. Taking him out a month later for disobedience doesn’t make much sense; he’s just not sure what the ninja are meant to accomplish.

Damian answers the unasked question: “She uses ninja to relay messages. Costly ones.”

Tim wonders what the message is, but Damian doesn’t share.

They travel in silence for another minute or two before Tim realizes that they are going in the opposite direction of the manor. Damian doesn’t explain that choice either.

The Batmobile pauses over the rooftop of GPD, and Tim scrambles down after Damian. Batman doesn’t stop until he reaches the unlit signal. Tim almost dodges when Damian reaches for him, but he doesn’t. The gauntlets lock under his armpits, and then he’s standing on top of the slippery glass of the signal. He hooks one foot on the rim to keep from sliding off, and turns to face his mentor.

The extra feet make him taller than Batman. Tim smiles—just a little bit at that—because he’s never thought to do this before, but apparently Damian had at Tim’s age. It’s hard to imagine Dick as being taller than Damian, but obviously Tim’s not the first height-challenged sidekick.

“You can see some of the worst streets in Gotham from here,” Batman comments quietly. “It’s not like the view from Wayne Tower, but it’s not bad.”

Tim stills.

“Approximately two blocks over in that blind alley is where they found some of the broken tracking devices. It’s not even out of hearing distance.”

Tim lets himself slip off the Bat signal, leaning back against it instead.

“Batman lost Robin then. You will find it much harder to escape my attention now,” Damian informs him, the Timothy unspoken in the field. “This signal calls us to arms; I know that draw. There were instances—many instances—where I suited up to answer it on my own if I deemed our brother too slow or too weak.”

Tim can imagine how well that went over; he’s not looking forward to returning to the Bat Cave himself.

“If restraints to contain me existed, I am sure that my Batman would have employed them,” Damian confides dryly. “He can be . . . hypocritical at times. But that is not the point.”

Tim looked up cautiously.

“When the signal is lit, Gotham needs us and we are heroes.” The cowl’s lenses narrow as his mentor stares Tim down. “The signal is not lit.” Again with the silent Timothy. “Do you understand?”

Yes.

“Good, then I need not repeat my—”

Damian suddenly shifts, flinging an arm around Tim to shield him under the taller man’s cape. The move knocks Tim back against Damian’s chest as Tim loses the battle of face vs. armored gauntlet.

“Leave it alone, Gordon,” the Batman growls over Tim’s hidden head, and the teenager stiffens.

Not Commissioner Gordon . . . not after what Tim did . . .

“You know, your predecessor at least smiled a little when he asked me for a favor,” is the reply in a woman’s voice, which means that this is Babs. The former-Batgirl probably won’t arrest him, but Tim does not want risk a face-to-face meeting. “Sometimes, he even said Please.”

There is a long moment of silence where Tim’s heart is racing, and then Damian—rather begrudgingly—offers a strained “Please.”

“Next time, keep the secret parties off my roof,” Barbara sighs, and Tim makes out the beep of an elevator through the cape. “If we need a bat, we’ll signal for one.”

For a few minutes everything is quiet, and then Damian releases Tim again. The Batman stalks back to the car, grumbling: “That woman is going to have me disemboweled when she finds out . . . are you coming?”

Yes.

Dick is waiting for them when they return to the Cave, and neither Tim nor Damian gets out of the car for a long minute. Tim looks at Damian hopefully, but under the cowl, the older man is obviously not amused.

“I have done nothing wrong, and I will not submit myself to Grayson’s overly-emotional fits—not even for your sake, Timothy. Give me the mask, and accept the consequences of your actions.”

Tim scowls, but carefully removes his mask as instructed and exits the vehicle reluctantly. Dick is just standing there and for a second, Tim thinks that he’s actually surpassed the limits of Dick’s patience. He looks away, reaching up to tip the hood off.

Apparently that is Dick’s cue, and Tim’s arm gets stuck half-raised as Dick hugs him tightly. The material of Nightwing’s survival suit doesn’t give under the pressure of Tim’s nose and forehead. His trapped arm is starting to hurt, and the cape is half-strangling him, but any movement on Tim’s part will just make Dick hug harder.

Tim isn’t expecting the sudden release or the dizzy sensation that comes with an adult grabbing his shoulders and shaking him—once. Twice. Tim refocuses on Dick’s eyes, shrinking a little under that gaze, but not looking away a second time.

“Why would you do that?” Dick demands, his voice raw. “Why, Tim?”

Because Tim is fourteen years old and can do stupid things sometimes. Because there are fights he can’t win, and people he won’t fight. Because he’d rather be Robin than Tim.

“Dick,” Jason cuts in quietly from the sidelines. “He’s not going to answer you.”

The wince from that one rolls through the acrobat’s entire body, and Tim thinks that’s why Dick shakes him that third and final time—trying in vain to disguise it. “Do you even understand how terrified . . .”

Tim lets out a surprised huff of air as Dick pulled him in close again. “If . . .” the man choked out. “If you’re going to defy us again . . . would you at least take Jay with you? He doesn’t like authority either.”

Tim eyes the middle brother warily over Dick’s shoulder, and Jason gives that tight, not-remotely-amused grin that promises dire things if Tim ever tries it.

“I can see the Bat-leash was considered,” Damian interrupts from where he’s studying the assortment of evidence on the far counter. “Did I not prove that a foolish measure the first time?”

Dick shifts so that he can keep Tim pressed against his side, even as he moves to join Damian across the cave. Tim doesn’t protest, just tries to imagine a much smaller Damian on a leash to distract himself from the hand on his shoulder that just won’t move. “That’s not for Tim.”

Damian raises an eyebrow as barking comes from the shower room. “No. We have been over this before, Todd. No.”

To Damian’s frustration, the dog stays for a week—mostly in the kitchen where Batman has no say.

Tim will just keep those few forays upstairs to himself, because the dog keeps hunting Jason and Tim down during the day and howling his head off at night until someone takes pity on the dog and sneaks it upstairs.

They need the animal to observe the effects of the substance used to alter the animals into raging, flaming beasts of the night. Dick’s prevailing theory is that being on fire would alter anyone’s mood, but Damian suspects a hallucinogenic among the fumes given off by the burning-yet-unharmed creatures.

Alfred, the cat, despises the interloper. He proved this upon the much larger animal, and as a result Jason and Damian are not speaking—each firmly on the side of the breed they favor.

Dick just pets whichever animal is closest (and occasionally Tim if he can get away with it), and maintains his demand of adequate Family Time each night. He’s gotten even clingier since Tim’s solo adventure, but since Dick isn’t interfering Tim’s training, the teen suffers in silence. He even shows up in the evenings without prompting.

Jason and Damian occasionally have to be persuaded, and that is a task best left to Dick and the dog. Tim just holds the jealous Alfred, and watches the show from the safety of his end of the couch.

It was likely one such summoning that led Damian to declare the dog’s usefulness at an end. Samples have been obtained, the dog’s behavior (or “lack thereof”) has been noted, and Damian is more than ready to have “the beast” removed from his home.

Tim and Jason are hiding in the kitchen when Dick brings home a coworker from the station to take custody of the stray. Apparently the blonde woman had been looking for a dog, and Dick was quick to recommend their soon-to-be-homeless canine.

Jason is distracting himself by tormenting Tim with interior-decorating via the internet. A couple cans of yellow paint are waiting upstairs, and Tim is trying to avoid making any other choices that will lead to a semi-permanent alteration of the manor.

However, Jason is a force to be reckoned with. The longer the giggling and barking go on in the other room, the more things pile up in Jason’s online cart.

Tim just buries himself further in the reports and tries to ignore the rest of them until Damian comes home.

It was late, even by their standards when Tim finally makes it to bed. Past sunrise, he suspects. Something was going on in the Hellhound case, because Damian hadn’t even stopped at the manor before heading out on patrol. Jason barely fed Tim before following Batman out on patrol.

It has been Batman and Red Hood on patrol all week, but everyone is carefully not-mentioning the burns that Dick is hiding. Tim is mute, not blind—he’s seen the pills that Dick takes like clockwork. He’s watched Jason and Damian submit to embraces they would normally shrug off or retaliate over . . . as well as take on duties that normally fall to their eldest.

The way that Dick has been moving this week is an unsettling reminder that Tim’s childhood hero is almost forty—that’s older than Bruce ever was. So maybe Tim has been going somewhat easy on Dick this week too.

It’s not guilt.

Tim just lets Dick get the clinginess out of his system. He doesn’t let Dick carry him upstairs though, because a) Dick shouldn’t be doing that with burns across his back and b) Tim is not a baby. Tim may have been half-asleep when Damian wearily informs them that Batman and Red Hood are returning, but he’s capable of walking up to his room on his own.

At least Dick had given in and gone down to the Cave in the first place. The acrobat wasn’t willing to sacrifice Family Time completely, so they synced the computer to run a show called Firefly on one screen and the Bat-cameras on the rest. The story was kind of interesting if non-linear; Tim suspects that it would make more sense if not interspersed with flaming dogs and swearing superheroes on the rest of the screens.

It’s Dick so Tim will probably get many more opportunities to watch it. Dick loves everything . . . especially on repeat.

Tim trudges up the stairs, passing a descending Alfred on the way and lets himself into his room. The bedside clock blinks 6:42 AM at him in mocking red light. Tim pulls the curtains to shroud the room in some semblance of darkness. Then he kicks off his shoes, ignoring the metallic ring as one of them collides with the paint cans in the corner, and blearily shuffles into the bathroom for a perfunctory teeth-brushing.

He’s almost out of toothpaste already; Tim will add it to Jason’s list in the kitchen (if there’s room under Dick’s demand for sugar). Maybe add a new toothbrush too just to mess with Jason a bit.

Tim spits out the foam and rinses his mouth twice out of habit.

His eyes flick upwards unintentionally, and Tim chokes on mint-tainted tap water as he scrambles backward. He collides with the wall behind and as soon as his airway is clear, Tim screams.

It’s a strangled sound—more of a squawk than anything—and Tim snaps his mouth shut with enough force to tear his eyes from the mirror as he rebounds off the wall. Then Tim sinks to the floor, burying his face in his knees as the pounding of footsteps heads in his direction.

Dick is the first to reach the bathroom doorway, but Damian is right behind him—still suited up sans cape and cowl—while Jason is wheezing on the stairs beyond.

“I forgot,” Dick is babbling, as he falls to his knees beside Tim. “I meant to warn you, and Damian was going to talk to you about it, but then there was the hounds-incident, and I really meant to warn you, Timmy.” Dick’s fluttering hands finally land on Tim’s shoulders as if to uncurl him, but the teen doesn’t give. “Dami, the lights . . .”

“Tt,” was the response, and Damian bypasses the light switch entirely to crouch beside Dick and Tim. “I told you that we would address this at a later date, Timothy. I had intended to discuss this last night, but it will have to be postponed further.” He glances down at his costume ruefully. “We would achieve little in our current state.”

Tim stares blankly ahead to the cabinet doors, hands pressed to his mouth. He’s actually not sure if he is going to laugh or throw up should they be removed. Both should be avoided.

“He means we’re exhausted, on edge, and the mirror will still be here to argue over after everyone has gotten a little sleep,” Jason glowers down at them all. He has finally made it to the doorway, but he is still in full uniform—mask and all. “Right, Baby Bird?”

Not if Tim has anything to do with it.

Dick is still tugging at him. “Let’s just get you in bed, Timmy. It’ll look better in the morning—Damian, get the lights.”

“Timothy is old enough to turn his head to avoid images he does not wish to see.” Damian’s gloved hand settles on Tim’s opposite shoulder, and that is Tim’s only warning.

He clenches his eyes shut as Dick and Damian leverage him upward. For just a moment, Tim considers making them haul his deadweight, but he’ll never get Dick off of him afterwards. Tim forces his knees to function instead, letting his brothers lead him out of the bathroom and into the safety of his room. They guide him past the paint cans and his desk before Damian turns Tim to face him.

Tim keeps his eyes closed rather than look at his mentor. After a long moment, Damian sighs and Tim feels the brush of chapped lips against his forehead. “I am sorry, Habibi. I will make amends in the morning.” Strong hands slip under Tim’s arms and there’s a moment of weightlessness before Tim is settled back on the bed.

Dick just pulls the blankets over Tim, sitting on the side of the bed to stroke Tim’s hair away from his face and whisper at him in Romani. Tim rolls away from the grip—inadvertently towards Dick—and hides his face in the pillow against Dick’s hip. The older man starts to shift, but apparently thinks better of it. Tim feels the hand tousle his hair gently and Dick kisses the top of his head the way that he used to before . . . before everything.

Back when Tim was Robin and Dick was Nightwing and they patrolled together whenever Bruce was too busy for them. Every time Dick dropped Tim off at the Drake residence, it was only after the hug, hair ruffle, and kiss had been imparted.

Dick’s weight disappeared, but Tim knew that he wasn’t alone. Hopefully, Jason isn’t going to get touchy-feely too. That could be . . . uncomfortable.

Thankfully, Jason just stands there for a long while. Tim thinks that the man might be making sure that the others are gone before he goes; Jason had sounded pissed enough earlier to have not been in on the plan.

There’s a distinct thump of boots on carpet as Jason finally shifts. “Get some sleep, Baby Bird.”

Not happening, but Jason didn’t need to know that.

Jason stalled in the doorway a little longer. “You know, street-kid isn’t as pretty-sounding a native language, buddy, but if it helps . . . I’ll give ‘em hell for you.”

Tim doesn’t wait the standard two minutes after the door closing to roll out of bed. The three older men sharing his home were not going to notice because they had much bigger fish to fry—each other.

Tim was raised by socialites and archeologists. He could sense an intense debate/blood-shed worthy argument a mile away. And in this case, Tim may have set them up—just a little. They deserved it.

So yeah, the other three are not going to notice Tim returning to his old stalker routine. Two of them had a history of missing the stalker routine in the first place. Tim quietly lets himself out of his room and across the hall. Everything is quiet.

To the Bat Cave.

Tim has long since mastered the art of opening the grandfather clock soundlessly, and with a little practice, now he could even dodge the three sensors that Damian has built into the doorway to alert the elder to another presence in the cave. Tim allows himself inside and settles on the top step where a convenient rock formation shielded him from the sight of anyone below.

True to his word, Jason is berating the others: “We’ve been shielding him from every mirror in the place for weeks, and now you just shove one in his face?!”

“If Timothy knew it was there, he would have avoided it,” Damian defends his choice. “I intended to be here. I hoped to speak with Timothy concerning his misconceptions.”

Jason snorts. “Yeah, I guess I owe you twenty bucks—you got a response.”

They were betting on him?

Damian is quiet for a long moment. “It was not the response I hoped for.”

“Oh, it’s not?! How’d you think he was gonna respond?!”

“Like you’re any better, Jason?! You’ve been trying to piss Timmy off enough to cuss you out since Day One!” Dick accuses, and Tim bites down harder on his lip to keep the laughter in; he has figured out that much on his own.

Clever, but it wouldn’t work.

“Cussing is a response,” Jason returns—now he’s on the defensive. “It’s even got words. Good plain English . . . and maybe some—”

“Enough!”

Tim wonders how long it took Damian to be able to silence both of his older brothers like that. Dick and Jason have actually taken a step back with that command, and that seems an extreme reaction . . . oh.

Damian used his father’s voice to make the order. Not the Batman voice—Bruce Wayne’s voice.

Tim keeps forgetting that to the others’ the man’s been dead for well over a decade. They’re not like Tim. They don’t expect to hear his voice every other time they turn around.

Tim climbs to his feet; he doesn’t want to see the fall out of this bit of emotional blackmail. He’s not even the main topic of discussion anymore. So instead of listening to further recriminations, Tim goes to hide in the only place that the others won’t look for him—Bruce’s bedroom.

The room has been stripped. It doesn’t even look like a room anymore, the way that Jason’s had during Tim’s first life, or even the way that Tim’s own room presumably had before Jason’s intervention. The mattress is bare, the curtains drawn, and the rest of the furniture covered with those awful white dust-cloths.

Tim has only been in here a handful of times. Never before the Joker; there was no reason for it back then.

But afterwards . . . afterwards there had been nights where Tim had destroyed his own room in a fit of temper or fear. There had been nights when the damage was so extreme that Bruce had carried him back here instead, giving up his own bed and room in favor of a long punishing patrol.

Only once or twice really (four times).

The rest of the time, Dick usually proclaimed a ‘sleepover’ in his own room or Alfred cautiously kept an eye on Tim’s late night wanderings through the manor. But the worst nights had found him being carried into this room by the strongest man that Tim had ever known. Tim swiped an angry hand over his eyes.

It wasn’t fair; he had been . . . not getting better, but adjusting. Then there was the Bat Signal, and that one last night in the Robin suit, and it had been okay. Tim had been okay with it.

And now he was starting all over again.

Nothing important is the same as it once was. Dick has become a true adult, a parent. Jason isn’t a ghost hanging over Tim’s head, but a very real presence guarding the kitchen and Gotham with sheer force of personality. Alfred is gone, honored by a finicky cat, but gone—irreplaceable. Tim’s room is immaculate, every possession carefully guarded, but Bruce’s room is empty.

Tim slowly moved through the room, pulling off all the white sheets one-by-one. That was the chair Bruce sat in until Tim pretended to fall asleep. This is the bookshelf that held copies of Bruce’s favorite books—the ones that the man liked to reread over and over again. There had been three picture frames on the nightstand when Tim had last been here: a picture of Bruce as a little boy with his parents and a picture of Bruce and Alfred with Dick at some school function or another. The third picture had been turned down, but Tim had peeked once and memorized the green eyes and sh*t-eating grin of his predecessor.

There wasn’t a picture of Tim. He hadn’t belonged to the manor before the Joker, and Tim never allowed pictures to be taken afterwards. He didn’t want to see himself. He didn’t want to see what the Joker had made of him.

Now Tim just stared at the empty nightstand for a long minute. Then he closed his eyes and walked into the suite’s master bath.

There is total silence in the cave for a long minute after Damian’s pronouncement. Jason is trying to work up the gumption to swear at Damian, but he doesn’t want to put words out there that will disturb the non-existent echo of their father’s voice.

Dick is stronger, wiser . . . always has been. He drew himself up, and stared down his much-taller baby brother. “Damian. Go to bed.”

The half Bat-clad man scowled. “I am not a child.”

“You are acting like one. Go to bed.” Dick pointed towards the staircase. “Now.”

“I have things to do,” Damian sniffed, regally. “Reports and maintenance—”

“Not anymore,” Dick interrupted firmly. “Red Hood and I will be patrolling tonight.”

Damian studied them both for another long moment before nodding: “Very well, but you should also take the opportunity to rest . . .”

Dick waved him on. “Right behind you.”

Jason waited for their little brother to disappear before collapsing in the computer chair. “It’s not cute anymore when he freaks out about us fighting.”

“I still think it’s adorable,” Dick countered, fetching medical supplies on his way back to Jason. They’re not going to discuss Bruce. They never do.

“That’s because you’re a freak,” Jason snorted, running a hand through his hair. “And I don’t need stitches.” He frowned at the shallow slice on his thigh. He had done battle with barbed-wire earlier in the evening while on the run from a flaming Chihuahua—how was this even his life?

Dick ignored him with the ease of longstanding practice, and Jason settled back in the chair. It wasn’t worth arguing. “It was a stupid idea.”

Dick nodded, making tiny neat stitches down the length of the cut. “It’s hard to not fix Timmy sometimes.”

“He doesn’t need to be fixed,” Jason snorted. “He needs a shrink and a vacation to the Caribbean.”

Dick snorted. “I don’t think that will go over well.”

“No, it probably wouldn’t,” Jason grimaced. “It’s not the mirrors, Dick. It’s not the photographs. It’s not talking or other people or anything else—not really. He’s afraid of what he’ll see and hear. He’s afraid of what will look right back at him.”

Dick tied a simple knot. “Then we just have to keep telling him that there’s nothing wrong with him.”

Jason shook his head. Dick was the golden boy; he didn’t understand. Hopefully, his older brother never would.

Chapter 4: A Gift of Magic

Chapter Text

Tim didn’t turn the lights on right away, and he didn’t open his eyes. Tim just thinks about the flash of his appearance that he had gotten earlier. Really, just an impression of shadowed features and the glint of teeth.

“It’s impossible. The damage is too extensive. It’s permanent. He’ll never be the same.”

Tim turns the lights on, and forces himself to look into the mirror.

The face of Timothy Jackson Drake looks back.

His hair isn’t green or smartly-coiffed. It is dark and getting too long. It frames a face that was pale, but not white. And his face is no longer stretched into that terrible false smile.

Tim turns off the light. Then he turns it on again.

The Lazarus Pit really did work wonders. Tim opens his mouth, checking to make sure that his teeth were normal. They are straighter than they had been as a child—but that effect could have come from braces instead of the Joker’s tools.

Off. On.

Off. On.

Off. On.

One nose, still just a little too round. Two eyes, blue—but darker than Bruce and Damian’s. Tim’s are closer to Dick’s eye color actually, but with a touch more of grey. His mouth is drawn downwards apathetically. Not a single freckle and the scar just under his eye is gone.

Off. On.

Off. On.

He looks human.

Off. On.

Tim leaves it on this time, and leans forward to rest his forehead against the mirror, because it will be alright. No one else can see, and Tim is one step closer to being Robin again.

The requirements are unspoken, but Tim still knows what they are.

Tim goes back out into the darkened room, and stares at his former guardian’s furniture. Tim looked at the mirror and he didn’t throw up or laugh or break anything; he thinks that deserves a reward.

He gathers up the discarded dust-cloths and builds himself a nest on the bed. They’re dusty and rougher than normal sheets, but it’s the principle of the thing really. Tim isn’t going to actually sleep or anything.

He’s just going to lie there and pretend that Bruce and Dick are on patrol. He’s going to pretend that Alfred will come up to wake him. He’s going to pretend that Jason never died, and that Damian is his little brother, only—Tim runs the numbers in his head—four years old and therefore still smaller than Tim.

He can’t pretend the Joker never happened.

It is no longer morning when Tim finds Damian in the library. He hadn’t expected to find his mentor in the Manor since it’s actually late enough in the evening that Dick and Jason have already left on patrol.

Damian was waiting for Tim.

Tim pauses in the doorway. Damian stays sitting at the desk, regarding Tim for a while before flipping open a folder. Tim recognizes his own medical records.

“You should have a four inch long scar on the sole of your foot from an encounter with Poison Ivy. Have you noticed the mark?”

Tim shifts his gaze from his feet to the paperwork once more.

“The knife wound from fighting an unidentified gang member was low across your hip and approximately two and a half inches long. The unintended puncture of Catwoman’s claw on your forearm . . . no longer there,” Damian nods at the arm bared by Tim’s t-shirt.

Tim waits.

Damian slowly stands and moves closer to Tim, cautiously rolling up his sleeve to reveal the half-scar that Tim had noticed in Egypt. “Killer Croc has a pet. I had removed my glove to check Bat—Grayson’s pulse. I was only twelve at the time.” Younger than Tim. “I’ve carried that scar for over a decade.”

And then Damian had pulled Tim from the Lazarus Pit, and half of the mark had been washed away like it had never been there at all.

Damian studies Tim slowly, sinking into a crouch that puts him at Tim’s level once more. “The Lazarus Pit wipes away scars. You should not fear. I do not want you to be afraid, Timothy.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“My execution may have been a trifle . . . clumsy,” Damian uses that word with something between disdain and disgust, but Tim will not smile. “For that, I apologize.” Damian rocks backward and on his feet once more, he circles the desk. “Where I come from, an apology is not enough. Usually there is bloodshed, but some form of compensation is required as well.”

Tim strangles down the amusem*nt; it’s not funny—not really—and Tim has certain things to accomplish today that will be much harder than this.

Damian is watching him curiously, but the man still hands over the box. “I am told that my father preferred to apologize through the motor vehicle industry, but that seems inappropriate.”

Tim doesn’t speak, so he doesn’t have to tell Damian that there is a classic 1976 Triumph Spitfire downstairs that was an apology gift from Bruce after a bad training session. Tim’s not entirely sure how Bruce got it put in a twelve-year-old’s name to begin with.

Damian is still watching, so Tim cautiously opens the box. It’s a watch—clearly expensive and undoubtedly modified. The band is gray leather, and the face is lightly raised in silver. The face is somewhat over-sized, providing for the wider band, and there’s something about the glass cover. Tim cautiously taps the center and feels the watch hum as the screen darkens so that only the silver numbers remain visible.

“Robin online,” Damian echoes softly as he withdraws the earpiece from the box. “Batman, Nightwing, and Red Hood return to group patrol starting tomorrow,” Damian is not exactly blushing, but Tim can tell when his mentor isn’t saying something. “You will be our extra set of eyes in the Cave. Tap a number, and the voice synthesizer will send us the warning instantaneously. Wind it, and the signal for Return-to-Cave will be broadcast.”

Tim taps it again, and the screen fades to ordinary glass and an ordinary watch. Tim carefully wraps it around his wrist, and glances up at Damian. Apology accepted; unmentioned tracking device accepted.

“Given that we are both . . . grounded . . . I thought we might make the best use of our time,” Damian begins cautiously. “And revisit the topic of reflections and scarring?”

That is not the best use of their time. The best use of their time would clearly be sparring or testing out Tim’s new tech on an unsuspecting Nightwing and Red Hood . . . but first things first.

Tim holds out his hand expectantly, and Damian hesitantly reaches into the desk drawer for the small mirrored disk. Tim sighs heavily, and brought it up to his face, counting to thirty before flicking his eyes towards Damian.

Is that good enough?

He had practiced. It was nothing now to look his demons in the face.

Since Damian did not say otherwise, Tim flipped the disc in his hand and set it on the desk, glass side down. Then he tilted his head expectantly. Damian hesitated. Tim crossed the room to the clock and gestured impatiently for Damian to follow. Slowly, his mentor obeyed.

The “Shall we spar then?” is a bit belated.

We shall, is Tim’s regal nod, and maybe just the tiniest quirk of a smile.

The next sentence isn’t meant for Tim’s ears, but the teenager hears the muttered sentiment anyway: “Timothy, what do you see?”

The smile fades.

Blood.

A week into the others’ group patrol and Tim tentatively thinks that he might like the watch. He likes the authority of sitting solo in front of the computer bank, and the responsibility of sending relative information to Damian’s cowl or the Batmobile console. He likes to watch the others work as a team in the field, and although he hasn’t used it often—their teamwork is pretty impressive all on its own—Tim likes the ability to warn the older heroes.

He simply presses a number, and the computerized female voice echoes it softly in a way that is firm, but doesn’t startle. It’s invaluable, and always earns him a quick word of appreciation. It’s another little step towards Robin.

He doesn’t comment on the sudden ease that the others have in locating him on his wanderings through the mansion. Bugging each other is a sign of affection in the Batclan. Tim will make allowances this time.

He doesn’t go back to Bruce’s room again, so that is still his secret. And his other wanderings are mostly boredom or an inability to sleep; distraction is always welcome.

Tim isn’t wandering when Jason finds him curled up on the sofa in the library with a good book. He’s vaguely considering the schoolwork that he should be doing and weighing that against the cliffhanger of this chapter.

It’s a difficult decision. On the one hand, he has an algebra ‘test’ to study for. On the other, Tim’s good with math and the book is only a few more chapters long . . .

Jason makes the decision for him by plucking the book out of his hands and shooing Alfred away.

“Come on, Baby Bird. We’ve got shopping to do, and you can read in the car.”

Tim blinks.

“Up,” Jason commands, bodily removing Tim from the sofa with one hand. “Go change into something a little less Victorian rich-boy.”

Tim manages to catch hold of the doorway and temporarily stall the older man. It gives him a few precious seconds to try figuring out a way to remind Jason that they’re both legally deceased.

“We’re going just outside the city,” Jason explains, removing Tim’s fingers one by one to toss the teen over his shoulder. “No one’s going to recognize you.”

That’s not the only problem with this plan.

“Relax, kid. You don’t need a passport and a social security card to buy the dang groceries.” Jason twists to prevent Tim from catching hold of the stair railing. “Just cash . . . and this family has plenty of that.”

Tim crosses his arms in irritation as the second floor recedes. It isn’t that much longer until Jason lets them into Tim’s room and drops the teen on his bed.

“Jeans. T-shirt. Jacket, ‘cause it’s kind of cold out.” Jason winces. “I’m turning into Dick, I swear.”

Tim doesn’t comment, and Jason reaches out to ruffle his hair.

“You’ve got ten minutes, Boy Wonder, and if I have to hunt you down, you’ll regret it.”

Tim believes him. That doesn’t mean he’ll make it easy on Jason.

The grocery store is almost a non-event despite the way Tim is waiting for the world to implode every second of the way. Jason tears the list in half and leaves Tim with the cart and the half that is primarily Dick’s impassioned pleas for ordinary things.

Since Tim has never been here before, he shops in the most logical fashion possible—one aisle at a time, scan the list, select appropriate items, and cross off as located. Jason apparently shops straight down the list with multiple trips down various aisles, and only reappears to dump his latest armful of supplies in the cart. Tim has to pause every time Jason does that and reorganize their supplies so that things don’t get crushed or broken.

Tim only has to double back once. The toothbrush that Jason picked out is unacceptable because Jason is a troll. Tim selects his own, and finds Jason making small talk with the cashier. He plays the surly teenager to avoid questions, and Jason seems to grasp that Tim’s very small tolerance for other people has been used up.

For about ten minutes, Tim thinks they’re actually going home.

Then the car stops, and Tim looks up at Jason. The man smirks and climbs out of the car. Tim hesitantly follows the older man’s lead, but freezes before he can shut the door. It’s a skate park—the skate park where the Titans had sometimes met up late at night when things were quiet to train . . . the skate park that he had frequented twenty years ago on days off from school where he didn’t have to be Tim Drake.

It’s been abandoned.

For a moment, Tim thinks they’re here to train. Dick and Jason have a completely different style than Damian. They’re more acrobatic, show-people in their own fashion. Damian is the type to end a fight as quickly and decisively as possible. Together they’re a balance of grandiose and economical movement. It would make sense for Jason to train him here in all the ways that training with Damian in the cave won’t ever cover.

But when Jason finally rounds the car, he has Tim’s old skateboard in his hands.

“Have fun. Don’t get hurt, or Damian will have my hide.”

Tim hasn’t been skateboarding since before the Joker. And until just now, Tim hadn’t missed it. There had been bigger things.

Robin. Not-Robin. Doctors. Night Terrors. Dick. Death. Damian and Jason. Not-Robin. Robin again.

Tim is good at prioritizing, and skateboarding just wasn’t a priority. But now he’s miles away from the Manor and the Cave, and years away from the Joker. There’s no one to see him, and skateboarding again just might be worth how insufferable Jason will be because of it later.

Tim takes the board and after a couple false starts . . . it’s exactly the same.

Tim brings his reports upstairs with him when the others return from a patrol early. Since he isn’t even remotely tired yet, Tim heads for the kitchen for a snack.

His . . . brothers . . . pour themselves into kitchen chairs around him once they get around to following.

“Ice, kiddo,” Jason commands, and Tim obediently drops his paperwork on the tabletop to fetch the icepacks. In the Wayne Manor, the freezer has an entire shelf devoted to ice packs. Jason groans as the ice begins to work on his bruised shoulder. “You know, I’m a reasonable vigilante,” Jason grimaces anew, pressing harder into the joint. “I fight giant reptiles, crooked officials, clowns, and a woman with an inexplicable hole through her head. I work with metahumans, acrobats, aliens, and clones. I’ll even officially accept my status as a fine-looking zombie.”

Dick is rolling his eyes and icing his knee. Damian is fiddling with the coffeemaker so that it dispenses coffee faster, but Tim waits for the point because Jason always has one.

“But this whole flaming canine thing is damn weird even for us.”

“Todd has a point,” Damian sighs as the coffeemaker begins to make ominous beeping sounds. “Timothy, cups.” Tim bounces back to his feet for the second errand, but only because he is taking pity on the others. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“Dogs. Just dogs. Every night.” Jason leans back far enough to snag his coffee from Damian. “No other villainous activity—just dogs on fire night after night.”

“The only thing I can think of is the dogs are finding something—some kind of spill or zone where humans can’t get to and it affects them . . . only at night?” Dick yawns. “That sounds stupid.” The oldest hums appreciatively when Damian puts coffee into his hands. “We should be seeing it during the day. And there should be other animals affected . . . cats, squirrels, pigeons . . . something, you know?”

“Give me an old-fashioned gang war any day,” Damian deadpans, passing a cup of coffee to Tim, and taking his own back to the table. “Grayson is right; this can’t be that simple.”

Tim nods, adding creamer to his coffee. He has already considered the same problems with that scenario.

“So the real question is: what crime is happening that no one is reporting?” Jason puts in, reaching around and confiscating Tim’s coffee. “No coffee for you; it will stunt your growth.”

Tim scowls, and ducks Jason’s attempt to ruffle his hair. Pity is rapidly evaporating as Tim retakes his seat between Dick and Damian. He shuffles through his paperwork and withdraws the correct file for his working theory.

Dick takes it and promptly frowns. “Lewis Bayard?”

“Right psychosis,” Damian nods. “Wrong side of the theology.”

Dick grins a little over the top of the file. “He liked your new name for him, Little D.”

“Altogether too much,” Damian sniffs. “What about . . .” Damian frowns. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I can’t think of a villain this M.O. would fit.”

“Riddler?” Dick asks. “Maybe we’re just not getting the clues?”

Jason shakes his head. “Nygma makes those things a lot more obvious. Psyche?”

“No,” Damian refutes. “Still in Azkaban.” There’s a silent exchange over Tim’s head, and Damian relents. “I will verify to be certain.”

It takes a few seconds for it to register that the others have completely discarded Tim’s theory. It takes a few more seconds for Tim to cope with that, and he yanks the file away from Dick, throwing it onto the table in front of Damian.

“Tim?” Dick ventures hesitantly.

Tim freezes, still pointing to the tab identifying Lewis Bayard as the White Angel, formerly known as the White Knight. His whole argument is caught in his throat, and Tim doesn’t know how to make this any clearer to the older heroes.

Damian’s hand closes over Tim’s. “I will look into Bayard as well, Timothy.”

Tim snorts, sinking back into his chair. Sure, Damian will look into Bayard as a favor to Tim. That doesn’t mean Damian will see what Tim sees or draw the right conclusions.

Communication is hard.

Tim is working his way systematically through the villain files, but there are a lot more of them now than before. Four incarnations of Robin, three Batmen, two Nightwings, and the Red Hood tend to rack up a substantial number of enemies . . . even if there were only five individuals playing all those roles.

To be honest, Tim’s only gotten as far as the K files and there are some things about Selina Kyle and his old mentor that Tim doesn’t need to know. He discards the file and stretches.

If he was in the mood, he could probably convince Damian to spar or Jason to feed him.

Tim isn’t in the mood though. He is trying to make his ire obvious, but not-speaking doesn’t have the same impact when a person is living mute to begin with. So he’s mostly left with avoidance and door slamming to get the point across.

Tim shoves the computer away, and stretches again—this time all the way across his bed. His hand brushes fur; Alfred has joined Tim in his self-imposed exile. The cat is curled on Tim’s pillow, sharing dark and light fur liberally on the pin-striped pillowcase. Alfred gives a rusty-sounding purr when Tim scratches behind the cat’s ears. The sound resonates as Tim shifts to curl around the cat.

Joker’s file is missing. It’s a glaring omission in the neatly alphabetized lists.

Tim misses the old-fashioned paper back-ups. He likes to think that the Joker’s file would have made a good bonfire, but it’s more likely to have been deleted or cloaked somehow in the system. Maybe Dick would help him advance his hacking skills to the correct decade later on.

Later, when he isn’t frustrated with the lot of them.

He hasn’t come across any other serious candidates for the hellhound escapade so far, but Tim’s certain that he’s right. The White Angel fits and Tim can’t explain it. Literally, cannot explain it.

That doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Tim can see the MO clearly, and the motive is obvious . . . to Tim at least. He just doesn’t have enough evidence.

Tim could get that evidence if he was Robin, but Robin is still out of his reach because Tim refuses to speak. And if he could speak, Tim wouldn’t need to be Robin to get the evidence, because he could explain it all to Damian. But if he could speak, Tim would be Robin again . . .

It’s a never-ending cycle, and Tim bemoans it quietly as he buries his face in the cat’s soft fur. There is no sound to muffle, but he muffles it anyway. Alfred swats at him with an irritated paw, and rolls over to ignore Tim more efficiently.

Lucky cat.

Tim reaches for his computer once more. He can’t do anything except compile a list of active villains to check into. These files are all he has right now.

Besides, he hasn’t found the file for a villain that went by Psyche yet.

Tim is actually downstairs when Damian comes home mid-afternoon. He’s curled up in the parlor window seat, watching the rain with Alfred when his mentor barges into the room with Jason at his heels.

Tim stares at them both, waiting for some explanation. Damian’s drenched as if he couldn’t be bothered with an umbrella on his way home, and Jason pushes Damian aside to ruffle Tim’s hair.

Tim raises an eyebrow, and Jason gives up on attempted-subtlety. Ignoring the outraged yowl of the cat, Jason hauls Tim off the window seat and into what may be a one-armed hug. “So, Baby Bird, you and I are taking a trip. No need to pack—that’s what riches are for.”

Tim twists to look at Damian for confirmation. Maybe even an explanation.

“Tt.” Damian looks away, and that is never a good sign. “I have ruled out Psyche as a suspect with the Hounds of Hell scenario.” And that is the name that Dick and Damian have applied—Tim prefers Jason’s suggestion of The Baskerville Case. It has literary street cred. “Unfortunately,” Damian continues unaware of Tim’s internal narration, “I may have inadvertently . . . piqued her interest. She broke out of Azkaban an hour ago.”

Tim still hasn’t found Psyche’s file, and there’s been no further mention of Bayard.

“Grayson and I will deal with the villain. You and Todd will be leaving Gotham until we do so . . . a few days at most, Timothy. We have allies in Titan’s Tower, and you’ll be safer there.”

Tim starts; he has no concept of safer than the Manor.

Damian watches him for a long moment. “Come with me, Timothy.”

Tim follows, because that is what he does now. Jason heads upstairs, but Damian leads Tim down to the Cave. Tim has to wait outside the area reserved for Damian’s workspace, but that’s mostly common sense. One never knows which of Damian’s projects is designed to explode after all. Even Dick and Jason observe a safe distance from that corner of the cave. It’s worth it when Damian returns, because . . .

. . . because Damian brings Tim a new mask. It’s black, but not rounded like the one that Tim had worn on his unauthorized fieldtrip a few weeks ago. It’s shaped like the mask that Damian had worn as Robin, but slightly thicker. The lenses are black instead of white, and there’s a thin ridge of razor sharp scales along the outer edges of the mask—no more than a few millimeters tall, but capable of shredding the skin on unwary figures.

Unmasking Tim will have a cost this time around.

“You will stay in the Tower, Timothy. No patrols. No missions. You will be there as a guest, but you are also there as Robin—my Robin.”

Tim cautiously takes the mask, mindful of the sharp edges. He’s careful to hide the excitement and hope under a blank expression as he studies it closer.

“It’s equipped with the basics—automatic night vision, infrared, and magnification capabilities.”

Tim frowns because that’s a lot of delicate hardware for a ‘soft’ mask. It’s one thing for the cowl or Jason’s helmet to hide that kind of tech, but a simple domino?

“Grayson, of course, could not be entrusted with a mask modified to this extent. He has an alarming propensity for inspiring people to rearrange his face. I believe your smarter style will preserve your facial structure and thus, my tech.”

Tim has to swallow a laugh at that one, and hastily raises the mask to his face to hide behind. It’s almost worth the wait to have this kind of gear. When Tim is Robin again for real, it will be a different Robin than the one that served as Bruce Wayne’s shadow.

It’s another step, and Tim might have a super-villainess to thank for it.

“I trust it is satisfactory.”

Tim nods, but it goes unnoticed due to Jason’s arrival. Apparently, Jason packed for them both. This probably means that Tim will have every loose item in his room save the socks that he might actually need, but Tim doesn’t protest—just turns his masked gaze upward to the older man.

“Lookin’ good, Baby Bird,” Jason calls as he comes down the stairs with the duffel’s thrown over his shoulder. “Say good bye to Bats, and let’s get this show on the road.”

Tim is not keen on being the focal point of six teenagers with unknown powers. Of course Jason has already abandoned him for the pretty Amazon who jokingly calls herself the Titan’s den mother.

Tim remembers her, even if she wasn’t his Wonder Girl, per say. He’d fought with her once, and Donna is pretty unforgettable. If she recognizes him, she’s holding her tongue.

The other teens are just as wary of Tim as he is of them, but they have strength in numbers and it isn’t until the demented blonde on the end starts to bounce with glee that the Martian speaks up.

“I am D’nise, and also called Miss Martian. Welcome to the Tower, Robin. Please make yourself at home and ignore whatever J.J. says.”

“That isn’t very nice,” the girl pouts, “And it’s Jaybird . . . or Jezebel, depending on my mood. That’s Supergirl.” She points to the other blonde in the room, and this is also a next generation version of the heroine that Tim knew however briefly. “And she’s Nevermore,” this time to the dark-haired girl in a long cloak. “We’re the first team ever to have more girls than boys, didja know?”

“Not for long if Robin and Bart both join the team,” the redheaded boy refutes. “I am the current Green Arrow, and my friend is the Oni.”

The other boy isn’t masked, and he looks familiar as he looks down his nose at the smaller Tim. “I am Benjamin al Ghul.”

Tim flinches, and suddenly Jason is right behind him again. “Take it easy, shorty,” he barks at the boy who looks just like the pictures of a younger Damian in the Manor. “Don’t think I won’t call up Mommy for a little chat.”

“Not all of us want to be a flashy distraction on the streets of Gotham, Todd,” the boy sneers. “Some of us have loftier aspirations.”

“And family on the other side,” Jason returns snidely, already guiding Tim away from the boy in black.

“What’s wrong with having a villain for a parent?” the formerly-hyperactive blonde drawls softly as she wrapped an arm around each of her male team members—both ignore her, but that seems to be the way things are done around here.

Tim’s only been here for fifteen minutes and he already has a headache.

Miss Martian seems to be the de facto leader, even though the friendlier boy is pretty level-headed for an Arrow. He’s on the younger end of the age group; maybe not even thirteen yet. Neither are particularly gifted strategists. Tim thinks that they should be better at this, since both are long-distance fighters who survey the entire battle.

There are holes in their offense because Supergirl is only one person and they can’t seem to decide where to put J.J. Sometimes she’s punching things alongside Supergirl, and sometimes she’s keeping pace with the Oni in sneakier pursuits. Even with Miss Martian’s psychic link, the two boys are silent in the field, when Green Arrow could be relaying valuable tactical information. They rarely call on Nevermore for anything but travel and/or shielding, but she’s gotten the better of Tim twice when sparring with knives.

Tim studies the battle plans that Donna found for him of past Titan missions. When surveillance footage is available, he watches that. It’s better than watching Jason flirt with the oblivious Amazon or listening to the current disaster of a mission that has Donna’s full attention.

“Pull back, Oni,” she demands suddenly. “Get out—Nevermore, fetch them both now!”

Tim looks up in time to see the younger version of Damian swear and drop from the ceiling. Actual feathered-wings rise from the floor to encircle Benjamin and J.J. as the clock begins to count down. The teens materialize again outside the fortress, and Tim waits with them until the rumble of an underground explosion rocks the ground beneath their feet.

The fortress begins to crumble in on itself, and the Teen Titans watched as it took the stolen tech with it—including the medical device that the Oni had been trying so hard to save.

“I could have had that,” is the only quiet reprimand that the other boy utters aloud.

Tim agrees with him. Oni was a few scant feet from the cargo net, and there had been a full eighteen seconds after their departure before the building was compromised. If Nevermore had pulled Oni from the ceiling, they could have nabbed both the device and the AI circuit from Wayne Enterprises.

Donna exhales slowly into the mic, before giving an entirely false smile to Jason.

“Better safe than sorry,” she informs her charges. “Return to the tower, please.”

Donna and Jason are both looking at Tim, but he pretends to be fully absorbed in the battle plans.

“Did Batman and Red Hood warn you away from me?” is the greeting that Benjamin uses upon finding Tim in the kitchen at four in the morning. It keeps Tim from bolting as planned. Instead, he swallows the mouthful of cold pizza and shoves the box across the counter.

It earns him a disgusted look from the other boy. Benjamin takes an apple from the table centerpiece instead, and hops up onto the counter. He nudges Tim’s elbow with his knee deliberately, and all Tim can think about is the number of ways that Damian’s clone could kill him with that knee.

“Did Batman warn you away from me?” the other boy repeats, casually peeling the apple with a kunai. It’s a highly impractical demonstration of weaponry skill designed for intimidation alone; strangely, that is what relaxes Tim enough to shake his head in response.

Damian hasn’t even mentioned Benjamin to him.

“So it was just the Red Hood then—he doesn’t count.” Benjamin sinks his teeth into the liberated fruit. “Todd’s never liked me.”

Tim shook his head again. Aside from the overprotective posturing that first afternoon, Jason has been too busy protecting Tim from the entire world to focus on Benjamin al Ghul.

The other boy still seems suspicious. “He is under the gross misconception that every teenager’s greatest ambition should be to wear the colors of a traffic light to fight crime; Grandfather says that we must be forgiving. The use of the Pit can do damage to the mental capacities of the plebian masses.”

Awesome, another thing to worry about.

As if reading Tim’s mind, Benjamin grins, the side of his mouth twisting into a smirk that looks exactly like Damian’s. “My Grandfather,” the other boy gloats, “prefers that I make informed decisions. He shares many things with me . . . Timothy.”

Tim twists the arm closest to him, manipulating Benjamin’s knife to threaten the other boy’s jugular.

It earns a chuckle. “Relax, Robin. Who among these fools would I tell?”

Tim stares at the youngest al Ghul distrustfully. If Benjamin doesn’t care for his teammates, why join the Titans at all? Why is Ra’s passing information along to the Teen Titans, but against Batman and Robin?

“I’m not a traitor,” was the quiet answer. The knife disappeared, and Benjamin shook Tim off. “Think of me as . . . an exchange student. Grandfather approved my extracurricular choices, and Troy accepted my presence, knowingly.

Donna said that the new policy demanded an adult hero vouch for every Titan. Ra’s al Ghul did not apply, which meant that a Bat must have given the go ahead for Benjamin. Why would Damian deny his clone the Robin costume, and give it to a boy the man had only just met?

Benjamin looked straight at him the way that Damian did. “My predecessor had nothing to do with me. I am here, because Dick Grayson is a fool and the Justice League trusts his judgment.” The other boy sneered. “I do not require saving.”

Tim nods slowly, and turns away from Benjamin. He offers his back to the assassin, and makes it to the doorway unmolested. He pauses there for a long moment and then heads back to the guest quarters that he is sharing with Jason.

Dick is usually right about these things.

“Jewel-heist in progress downtown. O-76: Sparkler identified.”

No one moves.

The computer repeats the alert. When the others continue ignoring it, Tim presses pause on the video game. Green Arrow looks up at him in surprise; then understanding filters across the younger boy’s face. “We cannot assist without Donna’s permission.”

Donna had been called up to the Justice League Headquarters to accompany Miss Martian on a small diplomatic mission off-world. Maybe Jason would have the authority to monitor the Teen Titans, but he had made a quick grocery run. Tim had been invited, but there had been the video game and Green Arrow looking hopeful . . . Jason just ruffled Tim’s hair, telling him to stay put and kick ass.

“—Hostages,” the computer continues to announce, and Tim looks over the back of the sofa to where Nevermore and Supergirl are playing cards. Beyond them J.J. is pestering Oni as the other boy tries to read.

This isn’t right. They’re supposed to be heroes. They can’t just pick and choose which missions are safe.

Benjamin is ignoring J.J. entirely now, watching Tim over the top of his book. It’s a silent challenge, and Tim hasn’t been on the wrong end of one in a long time.
Tim meets the cold stare with a silent challenge of his own. Then he gets up off the sofa, and moves towards the computer with purpose.

Jason’s going to kill him.

“Wait a minute,” Green Arrow is protesting, scrambling over the arm of the couch to catch up. “You can’t go. Red Hood said that you have to stay here!”

There are four hostages—a security guard, a clerk, a business man and his fiancé. The villain is a tall woman favoring pyrotechnics and diamonds. So yes, Tim is going.

And apparently, Benjamin is going with him.

“Guys!” Green Arrow whines, swiveling from them to the girls. “We can’t . . . no, guys.” Too late: J.J. tackles the Oni at a run. Nevermore isn’t far behind her, and Supergirl hovers above her friend. “I hate you guys,” the redhead grimaces, crossing his arms but not making any move to stop Nevermore from relocating them.

“Look on the bright side,” Supergirl laughs as the wings surround the team. “If you’re lucky, Batman will get to you before your dad does.”

It’s only with the Titans safely restored to the Tower and grounded to their rooms and/or individual mentors for the foreseeable future, that Jason and Donna can risk eye contact. The young heroes get heavy doses of anger and disappointment along with their punishment, and the rants trailed after the adults all the way to Donna’s quarters.

“Of all the stupid things to do . . .”

“. . .completely irresponsible . . .”

“The Demon would have killed me . . ."

“. . . anything could have happened.”

“I could wring his scrawny little neck . . .”

“. . . will not tolerate direct disobedience."

The door closed behind them. Green eyes met blue, and in unison: “Did you see them?”

“Oni was working with the group,” Donna recalled eagerly. “And Nevermore engaged the villain directly for the first time.”

“Baby Bird looked badass breathing down the bitty Arrow’s neck,” Jason gloated triumphantly. “Kid could barely get the directions out fast enough.”

Donna was already working out ways to encourage her youngest charge to notice and relay tactical information on his own . . . and without the silent guidance of young Timothy Drake. Having fought beside all four Robins in the past, she knew exactly where he belonged in a fight—where he was least expected.

"I’m gonna need the surveillance. My account won’t be good enough for Damian,” Jason decided.

"I’ll make a good dozen copies for the JLA,” Donna nodded. After the senior superheroes got over the disobedience and fear, they would be just as proud of the Titans as Donna and Jason were. Donna just couldn’t suppress her laughter any longer. “They were just . . .”

“. . . magic,” Jason finished for her, bringing back the young boy with a ridiculous costume and faith to move mountains. Donna couldn’t help hugging the current-mountain of a man, and mussing his hair fondly.

“This is going to work,” she murmured, believing it for the first time since she had signed on as babysitter to the first batch of super-kids in over a decade. “The Titans are really going to work.”

Jason hummed in agreement, taking a seat at Donna’s desk and closing his eyes. “I didn’t think I’d see anything like it again. I always thought it was Dick that made the Titans work; golden boy always brought the best out of people.”

As fond as she was of Dick, Donna shook her head and smiled, remembering an argument in the snow. “No, Jason, It’s a Robin thing.” And then, because this afternoon had not been sanctioned in any way: “As is disobedience.”

Jason snorted. “Baby Bird’s just continuing a fine long-standing tradition.”

Donna privately agreed. “Next time you bring him by the Tower, I want to see Robin’s colours . . .”

She trailed off as an alarm began to sound—not the Tower alarm, but something smaller, local, on Jason’s person. Her co-worker started, swore, and stood. “That might be sooner than you think,” he predicted grimly. “Robin has a habit of flying the coop.”

Chapter 5: That Chills You

Chapter Text

The bus isn’t exactly a glamorous way to travel, but no one cares about the silent teenager in the back seat. No one asks Tim any questions, and the bus driver doesn’t notice him slip out between two business men outside Wayne Tower.

He breaks into Damian’s spare vehicle there, and sets the autopilot for the Manor. Tim’s a little surprised that Dick and Damian don’t meet him there; he’s been working on the inevitable confrontation in his head all the way to Gotham.

But it doesn’t look like Jason contacted the others for back-up.

Tim doesn’t need a narrator. He can get the point across just as easily by throwing Harleen Quinzel’s file in front of the Batman. That’s how he got them to look into Bayard for all the good that it had done the World’s Greatest Detectives.

Tim should have known, should have realized or figured it out. A villain breaks out of Arkham and the Bats panic?

Tim doesn’t care why Damian sent him away. This is Tim’s home now; it’s all he has left. He’s not going to be chased out just because Harley-Quinn has a new shtick.

Psyche saw her lover’s true face by dying light, didn’t she? That’s the way the story went, and Tim knows how Harley-Quinn’s story goes—he wrote it.

Tim covers his face with his hands and struggles to control his breathing. When he’s ready, Tim lets himself into the Manor. His house-key still works from before, and this is Tim’s house too. His brothers—Damian—cannot protect it alone.

Tim won’t let them.

So he lets himself in, and throws himself down on the sofa in the family room to await Jason’s anger, Dick’s stifling worry, and Damian’s pride. Tim can take them all—he’s Robin.

They don’t come though, and sixty-four hours cross-country on a bus takes its toll.

Eventually Tim falls asleep.

He wakes up hours later, undisturbed and well-rested. Doing so dislodges Alfred from the cat’s nest on his belly, and Tim stares around him in surprise as the cat picks itself off and disappears in a huff.

Now, Tim is concerned.

Even if Jason hasn’t tattled on him, the older man should be here by now. The Titans have a jet for crying out loud, and as soon as considers that key piece of information, the potential scenarios snowball from there.

Maybe Jason hadn’t been able to reach the others at all.

Maybe Damian and Dick had tangled with the villain.

Maybe they were in trouble.

Maybe Jason was ambushed coming back.

Maybe Tim’s the only one left.

Tim is working himself into a panic attack when an emphatic curse word comes from the kitchen. The force of Tim’s relief hits hard enough to sit down again. He ran his hands through his hair a few times as he got himself under control, and then started down the hallway.

Damian is in the kitchen, still in uniform and stitching up a messy gash across his forearm. When he sees Tim at the door, he startles hard enough to upset the First Aid kit. Everything clatters to the floor noisily.

Then Damian is across the room and grabbing Tim by the shoulders. He shakes him once, and then … yeah, there goes the floor. “Where have you been?” Batman demands, still in the cowl, still in the persona. His grip is bruising, and Tim tries not to squirm, cautiously pointing back the way he had come.

Damian sets him down on the counter with a thump. “What the—were you sleeping, Timothy?”

Tim nods reluctantly.

“You weren’t in your bed,” Damian growls. “You weren’t in the Cave. The damn car was out front, but you were nowhere to be found! If Psyche—”

Damian cuts himself short, and wheels about-face. Tim has to half-run to keep up on the way down to the Cave where Damian calls off the search.

Tim draws closer during the brief communication until he reaches out for a handful of cape. Damian shakes off the touch automatically, before sighing as he bats away the hovering tween. “Sit down and be still, Timothy. I am not happy with you at present.”

Tim is almost certain that Damian doesn’t mean that, but he waits for his mentor to abandon the cowl to take the man’s bad arm in his and catch the free-floating needle. Damian stares at Tim bemusedly as the younger vigilante finishes the task with a few neat stitches, and then reaches out to tiredly run a hand over his sidekick’s dark hair.

“Batsy!” a female voice calls out cheerfully from above, and that same hand yanks Tim in and under Damian’s arm so fast that the teen’s head spins.

“Batsy!”

It’s a voice straight out of Tim’s worst nightmare, although the sentiment normally belongs to another higher, rougher voice that laughed in unison. This voice was more prone to words like ‘puddin’ or ‘sweetie.’

“Look, you’ve got a new birdie,” the woman cheered, and Tim’s mask is upstairs—discarded with his bag and shoes by the sofa. He presses his face into Damian’s side, and wonders how he could be so stupid as to be without his mask when Tim knew that a dangerous villain was on the loose.

Although, it’s not like he expected to literally defend his home. His ramblings earlier were mostly metaphorical for Gotham and family and maybe just a lot of being an angry teenager. Psyche isn’t supposed to be here—the villains didn’t know where Batman lived before.

Damian’s grip tightens, and Tim can’t see a damn thing so he’s back to trust exercises. He thought that kind of thing was over with Bruce, but now he’s holding on for dear life as Damian throws them both to the side.

“Now that’s not fair,” the voice whines, and Batman is back on his feet. Tim’s given up on his entirely. “I just want to teach the new bird how to play properly … the last one was so cranky.”

Damian growls, and Tim swallows an insane giggle at the unintentional insult.

He swallows an embarrassing shriek as a small explosion sends them flying, and Batman launches a line at the Cave roof. They land beside Nightwing and the Red Hood on a ledge above Psyche, and Tim stumbles shakily away from Damian and into Dick before Jason steadies him.

“Try not to lose it again, baby bird,” the Red Hood sighs, and presses the mask into Tim’s hands. “Batman gets caught with the cowl down all the time; Robins are supposed to be sneakier. Now for once in your life, stay put.”

The last order is thrown over the Red Hood’s shoulder as he flings himself over the edge. Tim grimaces as he applies the mask to his face with only the half-tacky glue of earlier for adhesion. The others are already converging on Psyche below.

Robin flies with or without permission.

During her days as Joker’s only real ally, Quinzel had restricted herself to a few favorite offensive attacks and some well-executed gymnastics. Her new toys have a brighter effect than the toy punch-lines or leftover Joker-bombs.

These exploding toys emitted sharp bursts of light that are capable of blinding an opponent. The darkened lenses of Tim’s mask protect his eyes to some extent, but even his vision is compromised by the aftereffects of light and dark in the Cave. Tim tries to shut out the blooms of colour behind his eyelids, and bats the next projectile out of the air before Dick even notices it.

The word that slips out through Dick Grayson’s toothpaste commercial smile is decidedly filthy. Completely unappreciative, Nightwing grabs Tim by the hood and gives him a shove towards the recesses of the Cave.

Rude, but not completely unhelpful; Tim finds himself in Damian’s workspace with an array of experimental gear surrounding him. Tim doesn’t touch anything he doesn’t recognize, but smoke bombs and perfectly-balanced batarangs should suffice.

Given the sound of combat from beyond, it’s a miracle that Tim catches the softest rustle of fabric in time to prevent being slammed face-down into the table of experimental triggers. Benjamin does get a good grip on his hoodie though.

“You stole my wallet,” the other boy hisses lowly, “and now Todd blames me for your disappearing act.”

Tim shrugs what could pass for an apology, and tries to sidle past Benjamin. The Oni blocks him.

“Use your brain, Robin—they keep telling me that you possess one,” the Oni sneers. “This is no brute to conquer through numbers and strength; psychology is Quinzel’s game. Even I know that.”

Tim stops for a moment, thinks, and then turns to study the other boy.

Benjamin is roughly his size despite being almost a year younger. His skin is considerably darker, but it’s not as noticeable in the shadows of the Cave. The hair is wrong, but they’re both wearing dark hooded sweatshirts.

Tim reaches out and tugs the Oni’s hood up. Catching on, the other teen kicks off his shoes to match Tim’s bare feet with a grumble: “Give me your mask.”

Tim shakes his head hard. Harley—Psyche—can’t see his face, and Tim fully intends to fight … and Tim can’t give up his Robin mask. Not even temporarily. Not to anyone. He points to the display case of masks—Jason’s idea of a memorial. Tim’s already stolen from it once before.

Benjamin sighs and divvies up the smoke-bombs that Tim’s liberated from their case. “Go high,” he orders. “I prefer my feet on the ground, and you’re the one who likes pretending to be an avian creature.” He holds up the first smoke bomb. “Every minute … on the minute.”

Tim nods and taps his chest once to indicate that he’ll be going first.

A larger explosion rocks the Cave. Benjamin promptly takes off for the memorial case, and Tim shoots off a borrowed grapple. Darting through the haze of illuminated smoke, he catches Psyche’s eye and the game is afoot.

Across the pit, up and down levels with the count steady in his head and Psyche drifting ever closer. Then he throws a smoke bomb and melts back into the shadowed recesses of the Cave that Tim knows so well. Benjamin appears at the opposite side of the Cave, diverting the villainess neatly and engaging in hand-to-hand combat until his minute is up. Tim takes off, and Psyche howls her displeasure with the new Robin’s apparent meta capabilities.

Bruce would be having fits. Damian takes the opportunity to haul the Red Hood out of battle—there’s something wrong with the helmet, and Tim can’t spare the time to worry over it.

Nightwing follows Tim up into the playground of stalactites and disturbed Bats.

It’s a world of wire up there, where Dick had once taught Tim how to be Robin all those years ago. Tim had never had the gymnastic capability of the other Robins; his training had been long and thorough. He had spent hours in the air, with only wire or a bar in his hands from time to time. Dick always said that flying was like riding a bike, and Tim slides through the maze of wire like he’s never stopped.

An indignant shriek resounds, and Tim grins. Psyche really doesn’t like the bats.

A little guano never hurt anyone.

Tim sets off another smoke bomb and steps blindly off the ledge. Nightwing’s hand is there, a firm well-practiced grip on Tim’s wrist. Psyche has taken to throwing whatever she can get her hands on at the boy below, but Batman’s back in the fight and shielding Benjamin from the onslaught with his cape.

Tim’s turn again, and he narrowly avoids the projectile aimed at his chest. A second blast knocks Nightwing from the wires, and Tim immediately diverts his flight path to intercept the older man’s. He couldn’t catch Nightwing, but he could alter his trajectory enough to send them both tumbling to one of the ledges lining the Cave walls. It’s a few seconds early, but Tim needs to disappear, needs to get Nightwing to safety.

Of course the smoke bomb doesn’t work.

One of Psyche’s weapons does, and Tim throws an arm over his face too late to block the worst of the effects.

Eyes streaming tears is the last that the glue can take, and Tim feels the mask slip. He slaps his left hand over the jagged edges as it gives way, and instinctively spins away from the light.

Only to find himself eye-to-eye with Harleen Quinzel.

“Little J?”

It burns. It burns. It burns.

It burns!

“Shh, Little J, almost done.” Soft hands grip his restrained ones firmly. “Mr. J’s almost done, you just hold on, sweetie.”

He hadn’t thought it could get any worse than the knife that the Joker had taken to his face, but then they started rubbing bleach into it and now everything burns …

Someone presses a kiss to his burning cheek like it isn’t being eaten away by acid, and two fingers trail over the new scars. “You’re gonna be pretty as a picture, Little J.”

The boy shakes, but he’s not sure how much of the tremor can be attributed to the aftereffects of shock and what is the shame still eating away at him from all the secrets spilled.

“You’re ours now, Junior,” the Joker cackles, and the boy twists away from the sound. That’s the first damning secret, he’ll come to realize someday—it wasn’t Batman that took Robin away. Joker did it first.

Joker took away everything that made him Robin—all the secrets, all the training, his dark hair and blue eyes that made him look like the others. It’s gone, and he’ll never be Robin again.

Something presses at the scars, tracing the exaggerated shape of a smile on his face in lipstick. He chokes on a sound that doesn’t quite make it past his throat, and turns his face into the hand cradling his chin. Harley-Quinn calls him Little J again, and strokes the green hair back into the Joker-approved coif.

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word … Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird …”

“Little J.”

Tim stares at Harley-Quinn—not Psyche, not Quinzel, but Harley-Quinn—who had once stroked his hair and sang a lullaby like she wasn’t assisting a madman with torture of a thirteen year old boy. He stares at her because he’s been conditioned to go to her; she’s better than the Joker and she loves him even when Tim is too broken for the Bat.

He stares because he’s hanging onto Nightwing for dear life and some things don’t change no matter how many years pass.

This is his fault. Harley-Quinn knows where the Bats live because Tim once told the Joker who the Bats really are.

How could he have forgotten?

Tim has to fix this, but he can’t quite break the ludicrous staring contest. Then the smoke bomb finally goes off, and Tim instantly shrinks back in the smoke. Harley lunges after him; Tim loses his grip on Dick in avoiding her desperate grasp.

“Little J,” she wails. “Baby, is that you?”

It kick-starts something in Tim’s brain. Harley-Quinn thinks that her ‘baby’ is dead. Tim was dead for almost two decades. She doesn’t need to know that he’s Robin again. If she looks down, she’ll see a masked-figure in Batman’s grip and Tim—no, Junior—remains nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

Tim shoves his mask into a pocket and rips the hood off his hair. He’d sliced open his hand on the sharp edges of the mask in the futile attempt to protect his identity. Now, he smears the blood hastily across his lips. It isn’t much of a likeness, but the Cave is dark and hazy with smoke. It will have to do.

She almost gets a hand on him, and Tim sidesteps her reach, putting them face-to-face again. Then he takes a deliberate step backward. Harley follows him, enchanted by her own imagination.

“Little J,” she crows, still reaching, still grasping. “Baby, you’re back. Oh, sweetie, we’re gonna be a family again. You, me, Mister J … he’s been gone for so long.”

Tim tries not to shudder.

“Won’t you laugh for Mommy?” she pleads, following him from ledge to ledge without a thought. “I haven’t heard you laugh in so long, Little J.”

Tim recoils and almost slips off his perch.

Laugh?

Every great plan has a flaw.

Tim isn’t going to pull this off without giving Harley-Quinn what she wants. So of course the mad woman wants to hear him laugh—a sound that Tim’s been choking down since long before his rebirth. He hates the sound of his laughter, hates the desperate gasp for breath and high-pitched peals when he’s genuinely amused. He hates who he becomes when he laughs, and Tim would rather die again than hear Junior’s laughter.

But he can’t let Batman down again.

Tim digs his fingertips into his neck, and opens his mouth. He tries not to swallow, and the laughter has always been on the edge of escape, but it’s harder to draw out now that Tim’s consciously reaching for it.

The first sound is a desperate gasp—not a laugh.

Then Tim finds a rhythm of sorts inthe low, panting chuckle that had been Junior’s signature. “Heh, heh, heh.”

Harley throws her head back and screams in mirth. “That’s it, little J! Big now, like Daddy!”

Tim manages a cackle, which seems to appease Harley-Quinn.

“Go on, baby,” she demands, “now what’s the punchline?!”

“… Heh, heh, heh …”

Tim reaches out to her—the woman who gave him more affection in a few days than his mother did in a few years—and Harley gives one last desperate lunge for him.

Then Tim pivots, ducks, and allows Harley to pitch right over the edge.

Batman catches the falling woman neatly, and Tim shrinks back from the ledge. He can’t stop the rough panting sounds of inappropriate laughter. There’s commotion down below, but Tim focuses on shoving the laughter back where it belongs. He can’t turn it off, and he’s choking on the sound as he curls in on himself.

He’d known Batman would be there. He had known. Where else would Batman be?

“C’mon, Timmy,” Dick soothes, crouching beside him with hands on Tim’s shoulders. “Let’s get you down from here.” Tim refuses to uncoil and scrubs at his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. It muffles the sound, but not enough. “Timmy, it’s okay. She’s contained. She’s gone. Just let me take you down to Damian, okay?”

Okay, that’s okay.

Tim wraps his arms around big brother’s neck, allowing Dick to pick him up like Tim is a very small child. There’s a moment of weightlessness, but no flips. No grandstanding or attempts to distract Tim through flight. Dick’s scarcely on the ground again before Tim’s being plucked from his grasp, squeezed once, and then handed off.

Tim latches on to the cape as soon as he’s deposited in his mentor’s arms, digs his fingers into the heavy material, and buries his face in it to muffle the awful sound. Slowly the laughter dies away, until suddenly, Tim’s just crying instead.

He’d known.

Tim’s crying like he did when he dropped the Joker’s gun and Batman—Bruce—had picked him up and covered him with the cape. Like everything that Tim has ever done will disappear if he stops crying long enough to look at it, so he’ll just cry forever.

He feels the cape go slack as Batman—Damian—unfastens it one-handed. What isn’t already balled up in Tim’s fists is draped over him … just like Bruce used to arrange it when Tim wants to hide from the world.

He doesn’t have the tears to cry infinitely, so eventually, Tim is just exhausted deadweight against Batman’s shoulder, hopelessly entangled in his mentor’s cape.

Tim isn’t asleep.

The others seem to think that he is, and Tim doesn’t move to correct them. He has a lot of practice at faking slumber, so he keeps his breathing slow and not-quite-even. After the cry he’s had, there should be the occasional hitch. He lets Damian support all of his weight, and keeps his eyes closed even though he’s still half-wrapped in the cape.

Tim is very good at eavesdropping, and at first, there’s a lot to listen to.

The tech in Jason’s helmet amplified Psyche’s light attacks, and his vision is grey and blurry. It should dissipate over a few hours, but Dick volunteers to drive him to the clinic after a stop at Arkham.

There’s some debate over what to do with Benjamin in the interim. Damian is in emphatic support of the teen leaving his house as soon as physically possible, and Dick doesn’t want to take a teenager with him to Arkham. Benjamin refuses to go anywhere without his wallet—Tim may or may not have abandoned it in a pit stop in Ohio.

Not like any of the ID was actually Benjamin’s or even remotely legal.

There’s an argument about patrol for the night, and Damian has apparently called in a favor to cover the routes for the worn-out Bats. Tim’s not sure what that means, but Dick’s against it and Jason very much for it.

No one brings up Tim.

Damian finally evicts them all with something quiet in Arabic that Tim doesn’t understand. Whatever it is, it makes Dick and Jason chuckle while Benjamin retreats with dignified haste in the direction of the Batmobile.

And then everything is quiet in the Cave.

Damian settles in his chair at the computers, arranging Tim into a position that’s somewhat comfortable and uncovering Tim’s face in the rearrangement of the cape. Damian turns to his surveillance, and Tim listens to the sounds of Gotham at night.

“Go to sleep, Timothy.”

So he does.

Damian waited twenty minutes before answering his comm. Timothy didn’t stir, and Damian began scrolling through the surveillance footage even as he spoke quietly to the heroine on the other end. “I should think your partner competent enough to handle Gotham for the evening even when encumbered by you, Spoiler.”

“Play nice, B,” the perpetual thorn-in-his-side teased. “Remember, we don’t work for you.”

“You owe me,” Damian hissed, eyes narrowing.

“And you owe us—so on and so forth. I’ve lost count over the years, but if we’re getting technical, Shadow saved your butt first … all the way back before you hit puberty, remember?”

“Tt.”

It was a stupid name for such a talented vigilante, Damian had always thought, fitting though the title may be. Some journalist had coined it back during the dark days before Damian had arrived in Gotham, but the quiet woman allowed it to stick.

Spoiler, on the other hand, was only too aptly named.

“Somebody’s cranky,” the amused voice observed. “Did you not get your daily allowance of ass-kicking, B?”

“My clone is in town.” A factor on which Damian could only blame some of his troubles, although he’d happily take all of them out on the obnoxious teenager.

“I like your Mini-Me,” Spoiler announced cheerfully. “Reminds me of you back when you were cute and prickly.”

“Do watch your six, Spoiler,” Damian drawled, having finally located the pair just outside a string of high-end shops with far too much frippery and far too little security. The figure in purple promptly dropped and twisted, sweeping the feet out from under a thug. His warning earned a breathless laugh, and then Spoiler waved cheerfully at his camera upon regaining her feet. “Pay attention to your surroundings, woman.”

“Got me,” she returned flippantly, “and in under three minutes too. Spotted my Shadow yet?”

No, the other woman blended into her namesakes far too well. Shadow was never seen unless she chose to be, but it was a given that where Spoiler lurked, Shadow would be at the blonde woman’s heels.

Damian scowled at the screens, ignoring the knowing-laugh of his compatriot.

“Compatriot? B, you need more friends your own age,” the woman chuckled. “Abuse is a sweetie, but he lets you get away with too much.”

As the first official sidekick in six years, Damian had slim choices amongst the hero community. There was Abuse, a Gotham native named Colin that lived outside the hero community, and the West twins, who were heavily guarded within it … but the heroes did not forget. They did not forgive.

• Jason Todd—KIA.
• Robert Long—civilian casualty.
• Cerdian—civilian casualty.
• Timothy Drake—KIA.
• Chris Kent—lost in the Phantom Zone twice.
• Lian Harper—civilian casualty.

It was a mantra that resounded throughout the halls of the Justice League in Damian’s childhood. If not for Grayson, even Damian would nothave been accepted.

The few determined souls that persisted in the wake of Timothy’s death like Spoiler, Shadow, and Abuse had nowhere to turn in times of trouble until the recent movement to revive the Titans. For their generations, it was too late, and now there was a scant handful of young vigilante that had survived Gotham. They had stuck together no matter who disapproved.

“I find myself chatting with an overgrown toddler in eggplant on a bi-weekly basis,” Damian decided smoothly, pulling himself out of his funk. “Forgive me for seeking more mature company in my other alliances.”

“Zing!” the woman cheered. Shadow and Spoiler were older than the current incarnation of Batman, but they looked out for Colin and Damian in a fashion that might be called sisterly. “Witty and handsome—what’s a poor girl to do?”

The “poor girl” delivered a sucker-punch that relieved one thug of several teeth, before driving a knee into another’s groin. Shadow helpfully dropped the next opponent into Spoiler’s impatient grasp without giving away her location to Damian’s watchful eyes.

The last few thugs seemed to decide running with their ill-gotten spoils would be the wisest option. Shadow knocked two of them out with the same ridiculously-large diamond. The third ran right into the path of a speeding silver van and lost the battle with the vehicle.

A dark-haired woman leaned out the window to the best of her ability and fired a Taser at the crawling villain. “Proxy” was the daughter of a minor villain and the former-protégé of Gordon. When Gordon retired in favor of her career in law enforcement, the younger hacker had fallen in with Shadow and Spoiler.

“If that’s the Bat, you can tell him I’m halfway through his security,” she shouted at Spoiler as the blonde pulled the twitching villain out of the path of the van.

Damian sighed, and opened a new window with a few deft keystrokes. “Proxy, halfway through my security is still on the other side of the most formidable defense money can buy as well as the private program maintained by Gordon. If you wish the pleasure of my company so badly, I could make reservations at any restaurant in the city.”

“Smartass,” the genius returned from his screen, flipping him off for good measure. Wendy Harris, unlike her co-workers, was a known entity. Damian didn’t bother reaching for his cowl; his own secret identity had been blown long ago.

Despite over a decade of considerable effort, he had never succeeded in unmasking Shadow or Spoiler.

Said-blonde promptly spilled into the passenger seat and fought a brief battle for her share of the screen. Damian could attest from personal experience that Proxy had wickedly sharp elbows. Spoiler settled for leaning over Proxy’s shoulder.

“Oh, my gosh, is that the new baby bird that I’ve been hearing about?” she demanded, pressing closer. “He’s beautiful.”

Damian shifted Timothy’s weight self-consciously, dimly and regrettably aware that he was currently engaged in “adorable” behaviour. “A stunningly useless observation, Spoiler, as usual … I am more interested in your partner’s opinion.”

Shadow melted forward from the backseat and into view over Proxy’s other shoulder. Her head tilted to the left ever so slightly before giving a sharp nod of approval.

“She thinks he’s beautiful too,” Spoiler retorted, translating unnecessarily, before turning back to her partner and frowning at whatever non-verbal cues the Shadow provided. “And hurt? Not physically, but …”

Damian sighed, running a hand through his young ward’s hair. “It’s been a bad week.”

“Get better,” the Shadow provided quietly. Words were an ongoing development; Damian had only heard a few dozen from the older woman over the years, and mostly parroted phrases or monosyllabic commands at that. “Strong.”

“Yes,” Damian nodded, and this was the reason that he sought out their help tonight while the others were distracted. For as long as he had known her, Shadow had been almost entirely mute, but she had chosen to break her silence. Learning was an uphill battle, but Shadow persisted in the quiet security of those closest to her. It gave Damian hope that Timothy would recover his desire to communicate someday. “Robin has always been strong.”

Chapter 6: But Each Advance is Spurned

Chapter Text

Tim walks into the kitchen the next morning, and nearly bolts straight out again.

The teen wants it known that he could have made it if Damian hadn’t precipitated that reaction and blocked off Tim’s primary route of escape. Judging by the way Jason is leaning casually against the door to the pantry, his brothers have herded Tim here for a reason.

If that reason is a simple meet and greet with Commissioner Barbara Gordon, he is going to … something. It may take time to come up with a sufficient punishment, but Tim will have revenge.

“Tim,” Babs breathes out, shifting forward in her chair.

Tim offers a reluctant nod, and retreats in the direction of the counter and Benjamin. For reasons that no one is willing to discuss, the youngest al Ghul is still in the Manor. As the only other person in this room under six feet in height and without a say in the proceedings, Benjamin is clearly the best company to be had.

Benjamin passes him an apple, and Tim tries to ignore the redhead’s stare.

His guardian seems equally discomforted by Barbara’s obvious disbelief.. “Surely you didn’t think I was joking, Gordon.”

“Believing you and grasping the concept are two different things,” Babs counters. “Out of the million things I expected you to say this morning … Timothy has been revived didn’t make the list.”

“Quinzel is making a nuisance of herself,” Damian turns to include Tim in the conversation. “She’s passing along rumors of a new Robin—a meta, which I presume was the reason for your unusual tactics last night.”

Tim raises one hand expectantly, but clearly high-fives are not in the al Ghul lesson plan. Benjamin stares at the offending limb in confusion before abruptly passing Tim the knife that the other boy was using to peel his own fruit.

“The Robin rumors and Psyche’s renewed interest in her old persona brought the Commissioner to our door,” Damian continues unbothered by failed social interaction. “She had concerns.”

“Has concerns,” Barbara corrects Damian, fixing the Batman with a dark look. “If you think I’m going to let it go just because Timmy’s under the mask, think again, Damian Wayne. What on earth were you boys thinking?!”

Tim flinches.

“Hn.” Benjamin hops off the counter in a smooth movement. “Robin and I will be sparring in the Cave, Batman. I trust you will properly educate your Commissioner in the meantime.”

Damian nods and Tim follows Benjamin. He manages to loosen his grip on the knife in time to pitch it in the sink on his way past, but it’s close.

“Hurry up, Robin.”

Sparring apparently isn’t code for ‘eavesdrop shamelessly.’

Tim makes a mental note to correct that oversight in the other Titan at a later date, and waves Benjamin ahead. Then Tim ducks back into the dining room and takes advantage of the dumbwaiter to eavesdrop more efficiently.

Old manors like this one have larger than average dumbwaiters, and this one opens both into the kitchen and the dining room on this floor through the shared wall—for ease in serving. Even granted these improvements and Tim’s small size, the teen finds it to be a very close fit.

It’s also dirtier than he expected. Then again, the dumbwaiter saw the most use when a Robin was in residence and it has been years since Damian would have been small enough to fit inside.

Tim will work his way up to the first floor later and see if his mentor had added his initials to the interior wall the way that his predecessors had. Right now, the teen settles in to listen to the hushed voices in the kitchen.

Surprisingly enough, they seem to be discussing Harley-Quinn/Psyche rather than Robin. Tim is reconsidering whether or not this is information he wants to acquire when the door to the kitchen is yanked open.

“I,” Jason announces, “am onto you, kiddo. Out.”

Tim somersaults free of the space and surreptitiously surveys his audience. Jason looks proud. Damian is resigned. Barbara seems to be an odd mixture of bemused and pained.

It’s complicated.

Jason sticks his head back in the dumbwaiter as if he expects Tim to have stashed Benjamin away as well, but before he can report his lack of findings … three phones go off at once.

Saved by the bell.

Jason is answering a communicator, and he has to talk over Dick in order to get the man to slow down. Damian is rapidly demanding information from someone named Harris on his cellular, and Babs silences everyone within hearing distance when she snaps at the unfortunate detective on the other line:

“Why am I only hearing about this now?!”

Daylight is no Bat’s friend, but Damian is pacing in agitation at cross paths with his cat while they wait for Dick and Barbara to return with actual information. Tim wisely stays out of the way, situating himself in the window seat.

The others remove themselves from the line of fire—also a wise decision.

The fact of the matter is that five men attempted to rob a jewelry store last night, and were thwarted by two of Damian’s friends in the masked community. This morning four of the men are dead and the fifth remains a softly gibbering mess in protective custody.

“I was conversing with them throughout the encounter, Gordon. They were never out of my sight—I spoke with Proxy on one screen while watching Shadow and Spoiler restrain their prey on another, Gordon. The fools were alive and conscious when the van drove away.”

Batman’s testimony generally doesn’t stand up in court.

Now Damian is currently brooding over the fact that the jewelry store robbery was the first petty crime in Gotham since the Hounds of Hell had first appeared not quite three weeks ago.

And the Batman had missed the connection …

… because he had been distracted by Tim and Tim’s own demons.

Tim runs his fingers over the worn brocade cushion cover, feeling the pattern of a fern under his fingertips. A lifetime ago, Tim had done the same thing while waiting for Dick to return to the Manor.

Tim sits in the window seat and watches the rain, because the dreary weather is soothing. If he sits and watches the weather, then he doesn’t have to look at Bruce or Alfred.

His fingertips trace the embossed floral images on the seat cushion. Tim is careful not to look down at them, because every time he catches sight of the unnaturally pale skin he tries to scrub it off and that upsets Alfred.

Dick is coming home today.

Technically, Dick is home, but Bruce has detained the former-acrobat down in the Cave. Tim isn’t stupid; Bruce is briefing Dick on the situation.

Tim is the situation.

There’s a list. Tim knows this, because he knows Bruce. In the forty-eight hours since being rescued, Bruce has already compiled a list of things not to say or do … things to replace and things to keep away from Tim.

The Batman is very careful.

“Timmy?”

Dick Grayson is not so careful.

Tim looks up to see his childhood hero in the doorway—mouth grim and eyes tired—and Dick doesn’t flinch.

Of course he doesn’t flinch. Bruce would have warned him, would have brought up security feed to show the physical alterations, would have impressed upon Dick the importance of not reacting.

Tim flinches for the both of them, and Dick pushes off the doorframe instantly. He is neither casual nor subtle. Dick crosses the room and scoops Tim off the window seat into a crushing embrace.

“It’s gonna be alright,” Dick murmurs into Tim’s awful black hair. The dye job is really no better than the green, but Tim has to try. “Talk to me, Timmy? You can tell me anything, I swear.”

He can’t. He really can’t.

Tim cautiously returns the hug instead.

There’s an outraged yowl as the inevitable collision of man and beast occurs. Damian swears, Alfred hisses, and somehow both parties retain their dignity to stalk off in opposite directions after a brief and frantic skirmish.

Tim gives a fleeting thought to staying put, but Damian is heading for the Cave. Benjamin is in the Cave, and apparently the pair of brothers require adult supervision.

Tim should not have to be the adult here. Tim is fairly certain that he has earned the right to be a difficult teenager a million times over. Unfortunately, Dick and Barbara are at work, Donna is back at Titans Tower and Jason is in hiding.

So Tim gets to be the grown-up and prevent the end of the Wayne/al Ghul line.

Tim didn’t sign up for this.

His father didn’t sign up for this. Tim can see it in the line of Jack Drake’s shoulders, the subtle shake of his hands, the way that his father won’t look at him … and the way the man stares when Tim looks away.

Bruce is risking too much, bringing Tim back himself. The “Batman told me” excuse has a limited usage, and Harley-Quinn got away. It’s only a matter of time before someone puts two and two together.

Tim Drake is Robin.

Tim Drake was Robin.

What was he supposed to do now?

“What … what do I do now?” his father echoes. He is angry and resigned, afraid and resentful, disgusted and relieved. “What on earth can I do for him?”

Bruce’s face goes dark, and if the man opens his mouth, it will be the Batman’s voice that emerges, and Tim has to prevent that. He turns around and runs.

… out the back door, down the steps, through the garden …

He stumbles into the goldfish pond with a splash. He hits his hands and knees, scaring off all the newly-woken goldfish and it still takes a moment for the water to register.

Tim automatically starts scrubbing at his hands … his hands, his face, every inch of bleached skin that Bruce had already cleaned of the thick pancake make-up. He pulls fruitlessly at his awful green hair.

And then larger hands close over his, carefully hauling Tim out of the water and into strong arms—arms too strong to belong to Tim’s father.

“Shh, Tim. Shh.”

Bruce had followed him straight into the water, and he carries Tim out too. Tim finds himself bundled into the billionaire’s damp coat without being set down, and they don’t go back inside. Bruce walks all the way around the pretty house to get to the car.

Tim never sets foot in it again.

But he looks back over Bruce’s shoulder and sees the shadow of his father sitting in front of the living room’s picture window exactly where they left him.

Tim walks into Damian.

It’s turning into a pattern. It’s all Damian’s fault, because he’s the one who conditioned Tim to follow at the older Bat’s heels. And now there’s second-guessing and abrupt stops mid-hallway and questions that his mentor is only just realizing there are no answers to.

His mentor steadies him, and Tim falls into parade rest automatically.

It’s easy to assume one knows everything about Tim by reading the Bat-files, but Tim’s a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. He’s taken care of hiding a few of them personally.

It’s safer to have secrets. Even from himself.

Robin can be broken.

“Timothy,” Damian hesitates. Then he pushes onward. “Look at me, please.” Damian folds his arms across his chest, and waits for Tim to obey. “Aside from the glaringly obvious is there anything distressing you?”

Tim tilts his head to the side.

“You seem distracted.”

And unfortunately prone to colliding with solid obstacles in the process thereof, Tim considers mildly. Unrelated. Mostly. He shrugs dismissively for his mentor’s benefit.

Damian’s eyes narrow. “I find myself distinctly annoyed with you, Timothy, but as you are undoubtedly angry with me over Psyche’s true identity, I suspect the whole matter is a wash.”

Bingo.

Tim isn’t expecting Damian be quite so accommodating though; the older man likes things done his way and patience is not Damian’s strongest suit. Even now, he flicks a piece of imaginary lint off his lapel as he waits for some sort of acknowledgement from Tim.

He doesn’t get it, and even Damian looks pained by the vibration of his half-forgotten phone. Tim leaves him to fieldcommunications and escapes to fetch the others.

When Tim actually has an answer, Damian will likely be the first to know.

Until then, even the Batman will have to wait his turn.

“Out-of-towners,” is the blonde woman’s blunt appraisal. She sounds distinctly less amused than when she had first picked up Jason’s rescued dog. "Word may have gotten around Gotham, but the idiots had no idea what they were walking into.”

Tim watches the security footage quietly. Across the Cave, Jason and Benjamin are beating on each other in the name of stress relief. None of them take exile well, but when Dick and Babs bring the outsider to dinner, down to the Cave the dead and secret must go.

Tim frowns; the blonde detective is being awfully free with information about an ongoing case in front of a civilian. She’s somewhat familiar with Damian too—much to his mentor’s displeasure.

Then again, Detective Brown was Dick’s partner for years before transferring to Homicide. It’s entirely possible that she watched Damian grow up.

“I understand that there were other victims,” Damian murmurs deceptively soft. “Victims that the police failed to connect?”

Barbara bristles, but the blonde points down the table with her fork. Her manners must drive Damian up the wall, but he stares back blandly as she emphasizes every point with a sharp jab of her fork.

“The medical examiner’s office followed every step of protocol,” the blonde defended hotly. “An average of six heart attacks a month is normal in a city the size of Gotham.”

True—if the one criminal hadn’t suffered from a heart condition, no one would look at that statistic twice.

“You’re telling me that an entire department of Gotham’s finest neglected to notice that the six bodies in their morgue suffering from coronary failure had one other all-important similarity.”

“A half-dozen ex-cons so old that not even their parole officers are keeping tabs on them any more dying of natural causes hardly raises a flag, Mr. Wayne.”

Tim scowls, and throws Bayard’s file across the work table.

“Cool it, Baby Bird,” Jason calls, leaning against a railing with his water bottle. Benjamin is crouched across the mats, cleaning his blades and pretending not to be interested.

Tim doesn’t know why Jason suddenly co*cks his head to include the other teenager, but no one ever knows why Jason decides to teach a lesson. It’s just an uncomfortable truth that the Red Hood is a brutally effective teacher when he does.

“Robin thinks this whole mess is Lewis Bayard. That’s the White Angel, if you’re wondering.” Jason waves dismissively, striding across the Cave to rescue the abandoned technology. “I ain’t saying that he’s wrong, ‘cause this whole mess is starting to reek of Bayard’s nature vs. nurture theory. Problem is that the genius responsible for the connection?” Jason reaches out and taps the side of Tim’s head. “It’s in Baby Bird’s head, and we’re out here.”

Tim knocks his older brother’s hand away.

Benjamin studies them both for a long moment. Then he approaches reluctantly and reaches for the tablet. “I hate casework,” Benjamin grumbles, but sinks into the chair next to Tim.

On the security footage, Dick and Detective Brown are arguing over crime scene photos and autopsy reports with ever more expressive gestures. Tim watches Damian dig fingertips into his temples to stave off the migraine; it won’t work.

He jumps when Benjamin thrusts the tablet back at him. “I see no reason it can’t be Bayard,” the other boy announces stiffly, “but I don’t see any proof that it is rather than half a dozen other denizens of Arkham.”

“Mostly that they’re already in Arkham,” Jason snorts, while nodding agreeably. “And no, I don’t either. Not even Damian could figure out what Tim sees … but the Batman didn’t have these six bodies and sixty year old files to work from at the time either.”

Tim blinks.

“Oh.” Benjamin reaches for the tablet again with a heavy sigh. “Leave it to me.”

Tim and Jason watch the security feed as Benjamin advances purposefully on the dining room like he isn’t barefoot, sweaty, and possibly armed. He manages to exude the belligerence and attitude of a normal teenager as he stalks past the rest of the table to reach Damian’s side.

Tim is starting to think that Damian brings out the ‘normal’ side of the assassin.

“Finished,” Benjamin drawled out slowly, handing the tablet to his older brother. “May I have my dinner now?”

“There is a plate set aside for you in the kitchen,” Damian informs him pointedly, glancing through the tablet files with a flick of his wrist.

Benjamin sneers. “Why should I have to eat in the kitchen just because they are here?”

Tim watches Dick go through the motions of covering up autopsy photos; his former-partner doesn’t even blink at Benjamin’s interruption.

“Because I try to offer my guests only civilized companionship,” Damian returns pleasantly. “Kitchen.”

“Friend of yours?” Detective Brown laughs lightly as if the physical similarities are not creepily exact, and taps the crime scene photo in front of her contemplatively.

“Half-brother,” Damian lies politely. It seems to be a special talent of the Wayne bloodline. Dick will prevaricate wildly, Jason bludgeon his way through, and Tim simply chooses not to answer … but Damian, like Bruce before him, offers the baldest lies with a perfunctory calm. “He’s staying with me until our Mother can find time in her busy schedule to fetch him. He won’t be here long.”

“Or course not,” Benjamin sniffs. “Mother says that you are a terrible example.”

Damian opens his mouth, but the detective beats him to it. “Suddenly seeing the family resemblance,” she comments in a mild attempt to defuse the situation.

“Blondie’s got guts,” Jason whistles. “No self-preservation instinct, but that’s a Gotham lady for you.”

Tim just shakes his head at the Red Hood’s antics.

Benjamin and Damian may be playing this game to distract the civilian from the tablet and what will undoubtedly be a pointed series of questions once Benjamin leaves the room, but neither will be bothered by slicing each other to ribbons with their words in the process.

Tim has to live with the both of them until Talia drops in for what will undoubtedly be new and exciting drama.

Dick is on the case though, and he slings an arm around Benjamin’s neck like there isn’t a very real chance of losing it. “Benjamin’s just gonna help me get dessert … in the other room … now.”

As Dick steers Benjamin from the room, Damian turns to the women and plucks a stray photograph of the flaming canines from the pile. “This reminds me of a criminal active when I was a child—the angel-killer. No, that’s not right. What did the papers call him again?”

“We at the station prefer to call him Lewis Bayard,” Babs answers archly, “but I believe the term you’re looking for is the White Angel.”

“Right psychosis,” Detective Brown shakes her head. “Wrong side of the theology.”

Tim despairs of humanity.

“So … how’s it look down in the Alley, Batman?”

Damian glowered darkly at the Great Dane that he had just doused with suppression foam. It had the nerve to wag its still lit tail happily at him.

“For, by my father’s reverend tomb, I vow they shall be ready at your highness’ will to answer their suspicion with their lives,” he muttered, extinguishing the last of the blaze with a liberal blast of foam and radioing in the animal’s location to Gordon’s clean-up team.

By the time that the Contamination Unit was through with them, the strays of Gotham had never looked better.

“Gotcha,” Nightwing sighed, used to Damian, used to Jason, and used to Shakespeare being used as a valid means of communication.

“Robin was right, and we were all idiots,” Damian announced deliberately. The boy was back at the Cave, but undoubtedly plugged into the conversation via surveillance and comm links. Shameless groveling would get them nowhere with the silent teen, but it was wise to go through the motions …

… and perhaps spend some time on new tech for the boy. Damian does have the best toys.

“Little brother gets all the credit,” Dick agreed. “Anyway …Red Hood’s gone over the mob territory with a fine tooth comb, Abuse covered both sides of the river, and I think it’s safe to say that Amusem*nt Mile has seen better days, but at least nothing’s on fire anymore.”

“Spoiler and Shadow have cleared the financial district and started rounding up the strays,” Damian reported wearily. “The Alley seems to be a dead end.”

Bayard should be easy to track given his distinct radiation signature, but setting loose dozens of his animal victims made pinpointing any one source problematic. It was also an excellent stalling tactic. By now, Bayard had clearly gotten himself into some form of containment.

At least they knew the White Angel’s ultimate goal.

It always came back to bad blood, mangled religion, and Dr. Phosphorus with Bayard. And it would always come back to radiation, blame, and demons with Dr. Phosphorus.

Bayard half-proved his argument through his own existence, and now Damian’s city is plagued with literal hellhounds, created as some sort of supernatural police force of fear.

His father never had to deal with these kind of things.

“Four o’clock,” the computerized voice chimed. Damian turned just in time to catch a glimpse of white and a flying canine. He sprayed the incoming Yorkie with suppression foam, and gently caught the somewhat lopsided result. Damian made certain the creature could breathe, and turned his gaze up to the rooftop from which the dog had come.

Oni slouched near the edge belligerently, his white tunic a beacon in the darkness of Gotham.

Father never had to deal with Benjamin either.

Chapter 7: In All the Paths of Life

Chapter Text

Timothy wearily makes his way to the kitchen for something that at least approximates breakfast … for the next ten minutes at least, if Tim’s a stickler for a morning meal.

He’s not; Tim’s a Bat.

For a group of people that considered dawn an early night, they’re shockingly well-adjusted. Tim’s already checked the surveillance before making his way upstairs from the Cave; he’s only the second person up.

Jason is making pancakes and sausage so Tim just follows his nose, rebounding off the occasional side table or door frame until he finds himself sitting at the kitchen table eying the empty place setting in front of him despondently.

His older brother corrects the oversight shortly, ruffling Tim’s hair as the younger vigilante digs in with a vengeance. “I cook and I clean, and this is all I get?” Jason quips, taking a seat across the table from Tim to better keep an eye on the last batch of sausage. “The others still sleeping?”

Tim swallows his food before nodding—it’s good manners.

Nightwing got in last, having been summoned by the Commissioner for an early meeting right after a long patrol of chasing down the hell hounds and searching for the White Angel. Dick barely took the time to express his amusem*nt at Damian and Benjamin’s identical corpse-like slumber before crashing onto the first cot in the medical bay for the righteous sleep of the dead himself.

Dick at least looks alive if only because Tim’s oldest brother is a restless sleeper sprawled across the entire surface area of the mattress as if bones are something that happens to other people.

Tim’s probably the best-rested of anyone in the house right now, and that’s saying something, because Tim spent the night in the Bat-computer’s chair. His neck is killing him, but there’s real maple syrup and a coffee machine not three feet away …

“Don’t even think about it,” Jason uttered, without even looking away from his precious sausage, pointing with a fork for emphasis. “The last thing you need is caffeine, kid.”

Tim would stick his tongue out, but it’s a waste of perfectly good pancake.

Jason takes the edge off by adding more sausage to his plate, and digging his knuckles into the knot of muscles at Tim’s neck. “And have we learned anything from sleeping at the console?” Jason teased.

Tim just ignores him.

Bruce rests his hand across the back of Tim’s neck as he crouched in front of him. Tim thinks that it’s meant to keep him grounded … or maybe to keep him from fleeing.

A trickle of warm water runs down the side of Tim’s face and the teenager flinches.

“Shh, Tim, shh,” Bruce murmurs, squeezing Tim’s neck very lightly as he dabbed gently at the thick make-up.

Scrubbing would be faster; Tim could have it all off by now if Bruce just let him hit the showers. The man has to be tired; he’s spent the better part of the last few days searching for Tim. Tim can handle this. Tim can handle this and get out. Bruce doesn’t need to bother with this.

Tim clutches the cape a little closer. Babs removed the tie earlier and Alfred coaxed him out of the jacket, but Tim is shaking too hard to unbutton the dress shirt … too on edge to allow Bruce to do it for him.

The man seems to understand. He wraps the cape around Tim’s shoulders instead and turns to something more manageable, something less invasive … something actively painful, but Tim won’t tell Bruce that.

Under the thick white paint, Tim’s skin still feels raw from the bleach, irritated by the heavy foundation … Tim thinks that perhaps he’s allergic to the make-up brand on top of everything else.

What’s worse? To be pale as a ghost or red as a lobster?

Bruce’s face seems to become grimmer as he works, his mouth tightening into a straight line and his eyes focused on the patch of skin that he’s clearing. “Shh, Tim, shh,” he repeats automatically, as the washcloth is applied to the bridge of Tim’s nose.

Tim isn’t making any sound.

He just stands there, shrouded in the heavy black material as his former mentor cares for him. It’s new. Strange too, because Bruce has never behaved like this before. Not for Tim.

The Joker changes everything. The thought is followed closely by a second that makes Tim flinch. The Joker will never change anything ever again.

“Shh, Tim, shh.”

Tim wonders how long Bruce will humor him before what Tim did sinks in fully.

“You with me, Baby Bird?”

Tim shakes off Jason, nodding irritably and returning to the messy massacre of syrup-drenched breakfast items. Jason doesn’t take the hint, just nudges the chair next to Tim away from the table and drops into it.

“You think too much, kid,” he announces, reaching out to steal a piece of sausage from Tim’s plate. “It’s not good for you.”

Tim stabs half-heartedly at Jason’s hand with his fork as a second attempt is made on his plate. The Red Hood is quick enough to avoid the jab and make off with another sausage link.

“We’ve been kind of busy,” Jason informs him around a mouthful of food, “and there’s this bad habit we have in this house—stuff gets shoved aside with each new crisis. Things fester.” Jason shrugs lightly, and reaches for his own plate. “It’s just the way things are done in Gotham.” He points at Tim with the butter knife. “You are altogether too good at rolling with the punches.”

Tim shifts slightly, but before he can escape Jason hooks an ankle around the rung of the chair and pulls it closer to the table. The only way Tim’s leaving this confrontation is by overturning furniture.

“Now, I know that you can make the quiet thing work for you. Actions speak louder than words; I get it.” Jason gestured expansively with a well-buttered pancake. “When you want our attention, you can get it. The problem is that when you don’t want it? You disappear. I’m not even talking about the whole running away thing—although you and I are gonna have an exchange of words about that too—but you just go quiet and hide under the louder crises. It’s kinda brilliant, but then you were always that kind of Robin, right?”

Anyone who said that Jason Todd was the stupid Robin is deeply deluded.

“Diversions just kind of happen in Gotham,” Jason continues blithely. “No one’s fault really; I mean look at Dick. His day and night jobs have suddenly converged into one slippery mess of a secret identity over one dang case. And Damian … he isn’t saying anything, but the brat’s worried about his friends and dealing with psychotic relatives on the side.”

Tim’s got a whole host of theories on Talia, thoughts about Benjamin and Ra’s al Ghul. Damian even, Tim considers with a twinge of hysteria.

“Me?” Jason smiles dangerously. “I have all day-every day to figure you out, Baby Bird. I’m just the housewife.”

He could still divert Jason if only Tim could just open his mouth and spit out something …

“So let’s start with Harley.”

This isn’t happening.

Tim just sits there, mechanically stuffing his face to keep from reacting to anything Jason says.

“Bruce recovered video—silent, black and white, creepy as hell video—but I bet you knew that. I bet you even hacked your way into the cave to watch it.”

Tim neither confirms nor denies. He shovels another forkful of pancakes into his mouth, and swallows hard.

“I didn’t watch the damn video,” Jason sounds grim. “Bruce did. Dick didn’t. Damian definitely did, and if there was ever a time I considered tanning the little demon’s backside—that would be it.”

Tim pauses, and Jason’s been watching for it.

“I didn’t. I let Dick’s disappointed spiel and the nightmares straighten him out, but if I had, I wouldn’t have been sorry for it. The clown was rotten to the core, and you’re a kid—not an object lesson.”

Tim’s out of food. He reaches for Jason’s plate instead, and the man lets him have it, one eyebrow raised in mocking disbelief.

“Gonna make yourself sick,” Jason warns.

Tim flips him off before the teen could rethink it, and earns a dark chuckle for his trouble.

Jason lets it go, because the Red Hood has a very specific topic to cover and Tim’s sudden foray into crude gestures isn’t important in the grand scheme of things. “Anyway, I didn’t watch the video. I did read Bruce’s files. To-may-to, to-mah-to.”

Tim is suddenly curious how Damian pronounces ‘tomato’ and if the British accent that creeps in when Damian isn’t carefully modulating his voice for one reason or another affects more than the Batman’s spelling.

Tim reads the files too.

“So here’s what I’ve pieced together,” Jason persisted. “The Joker nabbed you in some undisclosed fashion, and he had you for days.” Jason shook his head. “You lasted for days—which is pretty dang impressive, kiddo. I barely held his attention for a couple hours.”

It isn’t impressive … not at all.

“He tortured you, and somewhere in that time span, you let something slip. Something that gave Joker some kind of proof as to the identities of Batman and Robin. Bruce thought he identified that moment.” Jason dragged a hand wearily over his face. “Joker would bring Harley in sometimes—let her be sweet and fix you up a little—the sociopath version of Good Cop-Bad Cop.”

Something like it, Tim supposes.

“Bruce noted an interaction from Day 2, right after the Joker started messing with your teeth. Harley comes in, plays mommy for a little bit, and when she’s ready to leave, she lays her hand on your cheek to whisper something in your ear. Maybe it was the first time they called you Joker Junior; I don’t know. Whatever it was, that’s the only time you said your name on film according to Bruce.” Jason shrugged. “Can’t be sure; both Dick and Damian are better at lip-reading than B ever was.”

It was just the once. He was Joker Junior after that

Tim doesn’t agree or disagree with Jason’s analysis. He just pulls the little container of applesauce over to him, and starts eating it right out of the jar. Jason doesn’t comment.

“Little Jay … Tim, I’m Tim.”

“That’s not on you anyway. B always suspected the Joker knew exactly who he was. Clown called me by name more than once, and I remember this one early fight where the Joker asked after Dick’s mathlete scores. He liked to get personal, poke at our human sides, but he never targeted them.” Jason lets go of Tim’s chair so whatever’s coming next is going to hurt. “The Joker only went after the costume. All those normal people he killed … they were invisible. It was all about him and the big bad Batman. Bruce Wayne didn’t matter. We didn’t matter. Not until we put on that red suit and Robin interfered with the Joker’s great story.”

Jason looks away, getting to his feet.

“You were wearing a target, kiddo, and the clown took aim.” Jason pulls mugs out of the cupboard. “No one blames you for shooting back. You avenged me. You avenged yourself and hundreds of his victims … saved thousands who could have fallen at the bastard’s hands.” Jason pours a fresh cup of coffee and slides it over to Tim. “Right or wrong, you don’t get to be ashamed of that.”

He’s not.

The coffee hits Tim’s abused digestive system, and the teen barely makes it to the sink in time to throw up everything he’s eaten.

Jason reaches over Tim to turn on the faucet and run the garbage disposal. “Feel better?” he asks dryly once Tim is finished.

Tim doesn’t dignify it with a response; he just leans forward to capture the stream of cold water, rinsing his mouth straight from the faucet and wiping his face on an abandoned dishtowel.

Jason props himself against the counter with his arms crossed to study Tim. “Damian came to Gotham as a child assassin. He’s got blood on his hands—Gotham blood even—because the first thing he did when he got here was take out a minor villain to impress Bruce.”

Tim knows this. He’s read the files.

“My hands aren’t clean,” Jason presses. “And Dick’s a cop; three years on the force forced him into a choice thirty years of vigilantism couldn’t.” Jason reaches out to grip a handful of Tim’s sweatshirt where the ‘R’ would be if Tim was in uniform. “No one here will ever judge you for the Joker, Tim. We’re not that hypocritical.”

Tim doesn’t think Jason’s ever used his actual name before.

“No one else is punishing you for the Joker,” Jason repeats.

Then what are you punishing me for?

It’s on the tip of Tim’s tongue to say, to plead, or to demand. So much so that his mouth actually drops open, and Tim snaps it shut painfully clacking his perfect teeth together.

The terror must show on his face, because Jason’s expression falls. The older man looks away. “I almost had you there, didn’t I?”

And suddenly, Tim is really angry.

The sucker punch actually sends his older brother reeling, and Tim takes advantage of the opportunity to flee.

“This is a lousy hiding spot, Tim,” Babs announced, leaning out of the dormer window. “The only person in this house who can’t climb around on the roof like a monkey is me.”

Well, Babs does appear to be the only one searching him out after the kitchen incident.

She can’t possibly see him from that angle, Tim decides, staying put. This is a lucky guess. The right guess, sure, but still just a lucky guess.

Also, he doesn’t buy the “can’t” excuse. If he was bleeding out up here, Babs would already be on the roof. She has a lot of upper-body strength that most people failed to account for.

“I know you’re out there,” Babs warned. “Front and center, Timothy Drake.”

Tim stays put …

… and sulks when she calls for Damian.

The civilian-clad Bat is sure-footed on the angled roof even with a grown woman’s weight over his shoulder. Tim sends his mentor a betrayed look as Babs makes herself comfortable and anchors herself accordingly.

“A word of advice, Timothy,” Damian responds, avoiding Tim’s gaze as he stalks away along the peak. “Do not set yourself against Gordon. She will always win.”

“We’ve trained him well,” Babs acknowledges modestly. She waves Damian back inside, and turns her full attention on Tim.

Tim braces himself for the lecture.

He’s startled when she reaches out and pulls him into a fierce hug instead.

Tim trails his mentor like something small, young, and lost. He tries not to think about all the ways that he is something small, young, and lost—just a little boy playing dress-up in Batman’s cape.

He has to watch his footing or he’ll trip. He has to watch Batman’s back, has to keep up, or Tim will be left behind.

Tim is so concerned with following Bruce, that he doesn’t recognize his surroundings at first. The teen barely notices as his mentor guides him through the police station, easily slipping past the few officers not out searching for the lost Timothy Drake.

Tim chokes on an inappropriate giggle; they won’t find him.

And then they’re in the Commissioner’s office and everything clicks into place. Tim is a murderer. Bruce is turning him in. He’s going to Arkham.

Tim swallows hard, clutching at the cape a moment before letting the dark fabric fall away and holding out his hands to be cuffed. No one seems to notice his gesture at first.

The Commissioner just swears reverently at the sight of him, and there’s a pained gasp from behind the desk. Tim hasn’t even noticed Barbara, and he flinches under the gaze of friends.

But Tim stands his ground and waits.

“No,” Batman says softly, catching Tim’s too-pale hands in his gauntleted ones and pressing them back against Tim’s chest. His mentor sounds pained, crouching to put himself on a level lower than Tim and gathering up the cape. He wraps it around Tim’s shoulders again, and when the man stands, he pulls Tim into his side, safe in the shadow of the Bat.

“The Joker is dead,” Batman tells the commissioner, “and we need to talk.”

The Commissioner nods grimly, his eyes never leaving Tim’s half-hidden face.

Batman turns to Babs. “Will you stay with the boy, Miss Gordon?”

Babs agrees—what else could she possibly do?

She holds out a hand, and Tim shuffles over to her side wearily as the men disappear up to the privacy of the roof.

“Tim,” she whispers. “Oh, Tim.”

What else is there to say?

She grips his arms tightly, and Tim’s knees give way. They hit the floor hard as he folds over the former Batgirl’s lap, and she holds him close as he shakes. He’s out of tears, but Babs rocks him back and forth anyway.

“It’s okay, Tim. It’s okay.”

It’s really not.

“I’m not going to tell you to talk to me,” the redhead tells him quietly after they’ve sat on the roof for a while. Tim’s laying across the shingles with his head in Babs’ lap and one foot dangling absently over the edge. She strokes his hair which is new. Strangely tactile for the former heroine. “But I want you to listen very carefully to what I say.”

Tim twitches a little to signify his agreement. He doesn’t want to nod and disturb the whole hair-stroking process. It feels good.

“I know that you could handle being Robin again,” she tells him, very matter-of-fact. “I don’t like it, Tim, but you could.” She frowned slightly at the horizon. “I’m here to remind you that you have other choices. Safer choices, and Timmy, you deserve safer choices.”

She sounds like Dick, but Tim can’t stay in the ivory tower. Being out on the streets as Robin may have put him in the Joker’s grasp, but the months spent secluded safely in the Manor as Tim Drake ended in Gotham Bay with the Robin suit.

It’s not about Tim.

It’s about keeping bad things from happening to other people. It’s about solving cases that the police can’t crack and finding the bad guys before it’s too late. It’s about watching Batman’s back.

Tim has always been good at being Robin.

He sighs and curls his left arm up covering his heart and what could be the Robin symbol with his free hand. It’s complicated, but not to him.

Not to Babs either apparently, because she stills. “Do you at least know what your other choices are?”

Sure Tim does. He could go home with Barbara, and be ‘adopted’ as Tim Gordon. He could throw the media into a frenzy by appearing as Dick Grayson’s heretofore unknown son. Damian could set Jason and Tim up anywhere in the world with new identities. Tim could go to school. He could skateboard and take pictures.

But he couldn’t be Robin if he did.

Tim nods carefully so as not to dislodge her hand. The redhead gave a weary sigh, and resumed finger-combing his hair.

“I had to try,” she tells him. “Commissioner Know-Nothing Code,” and she smiles a little bit for him. Tim cautiously sits up, and Barbara kept him from sliding away by grasping his chin firmly in one hand. “I know you can do this, Tim. I know you’re damn good at it.” She pulled Tim into another fierce hug. “But I will hurt him if anything happens to you ever again.”

Fair enough.

Tim finds himself stalled outside the Batcave.

“He isn’t angry,” his mentor confides quietly from behind the teen.

Tim barely withholds an automatic flinch; he hadn’t heard Damian arrive because the man can be as light-footed as the cat when he chooses.

Damian hums something that might be an apology, and brushes at Tim’s shirt irritably. Grit from the shingles on the roof hits the floor, but Tim expects the shirt to be a lost cause. Damian seems to agree, releasing Tim with a sigh.

“Well, he wasn’t angry,” the man mutters disparagingly at the floor. He reaches out over Tim’s head to rearrange the time, and Tim makes a sudden, illogical grab for his mentor’s wrist.

Damian stills.

Tim immediately repents. Too late.

Damian takes Tim by the shoulders, guiding him firmly away from the clock and crouching to a position approximating Tim’s height. “I spoke in jest, Timothy. Todd is in no better or worse mood than his usual, questionable temperament.”

That’s not it. That’s not it at all.

Still, it earns him a short reprieve. “It was a fair strike,” Damian acknowledges, “and Todd admitted to provoking you.”

Good, because Jason had.

Damian squeezes Tim’s shoulder once, and stands with the suggestion that Tim run along and change. They have a long night ahead of them in the hunt for Bayard. Tim obediently moves toward the staircase as Damian advances on the clock once more, content to let his mentor’s interpretation stand and the matter settle.

But the man calls him back.

“It is not just a matter of speech,” Damian established as Tim griped the banister tightly. “It plays a significant role, I understand, but there are other methods of communication. You’re writing ability has not suffered, and you are familiar with the basics of sign language. We have voice synthesizing software.”

Tim nodded.

“Is it that there are no words for what you need to say?” Damian asked quietly. “Or is it the inability to decide what to say first?”

Tim didn’t have an answer, and Damian didn’t seem to expect one.

“Meet me back here in twenty minutes, Timothy.”

“I’m not mad at the kid,” Jason insisted emphatically as Dick inspected the rapid bruising along his jaw. “Proud as hell; would have hugged the kid if he held still long enough.”

Benjamin was watching them in morbid fascination. “You are an idiot, Todd.”

“I’m a miracle-worker,” Jason contradicted cheerfully.

Dick sighed and ducked into the cold storage unit for an ice pack. “Could you please stop trying to push Tim? Him socking you in the jaw really isn’t as healthy as you think it is.”

Jason snorted, taking the proffered ice and clamping it over his jaw. “Standing up for yourself is the epitome of mental health, Dick. This is a good thing,” Jason gestured wildly at his face with the free hand. “I was being an asshole. I refused to back down.” Jason grinned: “This is what should happen to assholes that refuse to back down.”

“May I quote you then the next time Troy holds me accountable for excessive force?” Benjamin interjected.

“No,” Dick and Jason responded in chorus, sharing a mutual dirty look immediately afterward. Jason—always the epitome of class and maturity—stuck his tongue out at his older brother. Dick tried to ignore him.

“You can’t make him talk, Jason,” the acrobat repeated, sliding a chair across the floor and sinking into it wearily. “It won’t fix things if you startle a swear word out of him.”

“It would be a start,” Jason returned. “Can’t fix what we don’t understand, and the kid can’t expect us to understand if he won’t talk to us.”

Dick threw up his hands. “He doesn’t want to talk!”

“Well, we don’t always get what we want!”

The Cave was absolutely silent. After a long moment, Jason closed his eyes and got to his feet. “Kid, go get lost for a bit.”

“Hn,” is the only sound Benjamin made, but he hopped off the medical cot and headed for the stairs. If he’d been Tim, Jason would have followed to make sure the boy didn’t stick around to eavesdrop. If he’d been Damian, they never would have gotten him out of the Cave.

When Benjamin is gone, Jason turned back to Dick. “You did the best you could, Dick,” Jason reminded his older brother grimly, “but wallowing in whatever’s going on in Timmy’s head didn’t get anyone anywhere but the damn bay. Keeping him safe backfired big time.”

Dick made a pained noise, his face still buried in his hands.

“You think I don’t get how hard it was back then? I saw the kid’s room, Dick. It was trashed. Half the mirrors in this place were still missing when I moved back home. It was bad, and I know it. But the mute kid wandering the Manor now isn’t the mute kid wandering the Manor back then.”

Dick snorted.

“You always said the nightmares were the worst part,” Jason pointed out. “The way he screamed in his sleep, but hid quietly in dark corners and refused to look at anyone for hours afterward. The kid’s been back how many months now? He hasn’t had a nightmare yet. Not even after Harley showed up.”

Dick looked up at him, disbelief warring with realization.

“What Damian’s doing is working. Right or wrong, Robin is keeping the kid on course. We’ve talked about this, Dick. You hold a bird too tight, and it’ll stop at nothing to get free.”

Dick swore quietly, uncurling. His fists clenched at his sides briefly, but the oldest bird didn’t lash out at Jason or upset the medical tray next to him, so the Red Hood would count that as a win.

“You wanted to keep him safe, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but bad things happen Dick. Your parents were killed, and every villain in Gotham had it out for you. Damian’s mother cloned him for kicks. The Joker shot Babs, killed me, tortured Tim, and yeah, Tim decided on a midwinter swim. It happened. Let’s just figure out a way to make sure it never happens again.”

It was a good speech. Jason was very proud.

Dick swallowed compulsively a few times, shaking his head as the man struggled for the right words: “You’re right.” And then before Jason’s ego could inflate too much: “You are an asshole, Jay.”

Jason just smirked and gestured loosely at the good side of his face. “Go ahead, Dickie-bird. Take a swing.”

Dick continued to shake his head. “I’ll take a rain-check, thanks.”

Chapter 8: That's Fear that Chills You

Chapter Text

“Last night, I stopped a mugging, punched a pimp, and blew up a motorcycle,” Jason declares emphatically, waving a whisk for emphasis. “It was beautiful.”

Tim regards the utensil-armed vigilante sleepily from where he has propped himself next to Benjamin who is napping next to his plate. Damian makes a listening noise, but the Bat isn’t paying any attention to his brothers.

After an increasingly awkward-but fruitless-half hour of coached interrogation, Damian had released Tim long enough to regroup. The man has been buried in research on adolescent psychology, PTSD, and of course selective mutism ever since.

Tim enjoys his reprieve the same way Gotham enjoys a week without hellhounds, but all good things must come to an end.

Bayard is still out there, and if he holds true to form, the slowly rising crime-rate will be a major stressor, reaffirming his mission as the time for the White Angel’s big finale approaches.

A crime here, a crime there, and a cautious return to the usual businesses last night marks an escalation that the villain won’t be able to resist. Bayard is a radiation leak; he couldn’t hide from the Bats forever … even if he wanted to.

Vacation is over.

Some vacation, Tim thinks idly, where they had to maintain the usual patrols on empty streets on little sleep. He would go to bed, but there’s no moving either Damian or Benjamin from the table to escort him.

Tim has been unabashedly using his mentor and their houseguest as living shields to prevent being cornered again by Jason or even the sympathetic Dick. One more thing that he hopes to draw out as long as possible …

The whisk is leveled at his nose, and Tim blinks.

“Prettiest explosion you ever saw, am I right, Baby Bird?” Jason demands. This verbal prompting is not new, but Jason is both obstinate and committed.

“Leave the boy alone, Todd,” Damian decrees without so much as looking up from his studies. Tim can make out a few words in French from his seat across the table and tries not to gloat.

Judging by Jason’s narrowed eyes and the silent elbow in his ribs from a mostly-sleeping assassin, Tim didn’t quite succeed.

Whether it’s a little karma out to get him for this morning or whether it was in the plan to begin with, Tim’s mentor doesn’t believe in tackling one crisis at a time. As soon as they’ve all got in the prerequisite six hours of sleep, Damian summons Tim back to the library.

They’ll fight for Tim’s voice today, and Gotham tonight.

It could be worse. Tim has dreaded the eventual repetition of last week, but he’s just writing today … catching up on all the schoolwork that he’s let slide since Titans Tower actually.

With a few new guidelines.

Simple regurgitation of the material will no longer suffice. Damian requires Tim to restate the question in his answer, and use full sentences. Tim’s done this before for English teachers, and the occasional Social Studies class. The information is still provided entirely by the textbook, but Tim has to shape it in the new designated structure and after a couple false starts, he falls into the routine of it.

He could be writing lines for punishment at private school, or performing handwriting exercises for all the brainpower it actually takes to comply with the new rules, so yes … it could be worse.

He works at it for almost an hour, catching up on old assignments while Damian studies WE reports. Then his mentor adds another step and a second layer of paper to Tim’s workspace. Pop Chemistry quiz—Bruce had been fond of those too.

Batman lists a string of elements from the periodic table. Robin fills in the missing element. By sequence. By type: metals, noble gases. Utterly Random: Elements that start with C. Batman breaks down fear toxin and Joker gas into their base elements and Robin knows when something is skipped, because lives could depend on it.

Tim multi-tasks. It’s a skill.

When they’ve covered the periodic table forwards, backwards, upside down, etc., Damian moves on to an impromptu spelling bee, and then flawless Spanish.

Tim is good with languages, but he’s not Dick. His other work slows as he focuses on translation. He speeds up again when the drills cease, and almost misses Damian’s final question.

But he knows the answer. He even writes it out in the prescribed formula.

And then it’s over.

Damian dismisses him for an early dinner, and it can’t be that simple.

“Emergency exit, please and thank you!” the Red Hood called cheerfully over the comm.

Tim sighed wearily, and double-checks the blueprints as he indicates ten o’clock. Jason should know Wayne Tower better than this. Tim knows the building better than this, and he’s never set foot inside it.

They’re all on edge with a minor hostage situation at the Tower, an explosion down by the docks, and of course Tim had lost track of Oni an hour ago. At least that’s what Tim said when asked, although he’s got an eye on the ridiculous white costume from a bug that the other teen never suspected him of planting.

Teen Titans have to stick together.

The point is that Gotham has divided them. Tim—Robin—is in the Cave. Red Hood and Nightwing are tag-teaming inept negotiators in Wayne Tower while Batman recovers contraband from the docs and pursues a masked villain new to Tim.

Damian’s friends are harassing the Penguin, except for Abuse who is rescuing small children from a fire. Commissioner Gordon is pulling an all-nighter with rookie federal agents unprepared for the level of nasty that Gotham can put out, and Oni seems to have some sort of personal vendetta against the common mugger. Every common mugger.

“Baby Bird,” the Red Hood sang out. “I could use a little advice!”

There was no ignoring Jason on the comms. Tim couldn’t hang up, couldn’t leave the Cave, couldn’t beg Damian—who was halfway across the city—for reprieve or turn Dick and Jason on each other with subtle manipulation. Tim was a captive audience, and Jason knew it.

Tim tapped the 2 on his watch, and as the Red Hood turned to follow his instructions, he tapped the digit again and held it. Tim had discovered that doing so caused a feedback loop. He’s relatively certain that this capability is a deliberate feature, knowing Damian.

It makes Jason swear and slap uselessly at the helmet. Two-for-one shot and Tim can play innocent with the best of them. He taps the 1 to guide the older vigilante to the roof where Nightwing is waiting.

He’s not punishing his brother. He’s … conditioning him… after a fashion.

It probably won’t work. It is Jason after all.

Tim has decided on avoiding all of his brothers.

Bayard has yet to play his final hand. Every night that goes by without a whisper of the villain seems to drag the heroes down further and further. The atmosphere in the Cave is tense …

… and because Bats are physically incapable of leaving things in the Cave, everywhere else suffers as well.

Dick found Jason on fire this morning, because the Red Hood was bored and experimenting with the Hell Hound samples that Batman had accumulated. His excuse (“It didn’t hurt the dogs any!”) was not considered valid by any party.

Not Tim who had the misfortune of being foundin the Cave when Jason tried the experiment. Not Damian who was promptly blamed for leaving the samples out. Not Benjamin, drawn by the sound of verbal warfare and promise of bloodshed. And definitely not by Dick.

After a shouting match of new and impressive proportions, Dick took his righteous rage to the precinct while Jason stress-baked and Damian sulked in his study.

Fair enough; Tim takes refuge in the rose garden.

Now if he can just shake his persistent tail … no, stupid idea. Benjamin may have all the subtlety of an ox, but he’s an al Ghul. He’s stubborn on a good day, obsessive in a snit.

Just like Damian.

Tim turns and beckons the other teen from the shrubbery with a sigh.

He’s not expecting the sudden lunge forward as Benjamin tackles him into the nearby fountain. The traumatized koi smartly take cover as the teens hit the water, and Tim barely avoids cracking either of their skulls against the stone sides as he lurches upright to breathe.

Benjamin doesn’t take further steps to drown him, so Tim’s soaked state must have been the desired outcome.

He flops over the edge when Benjamin lets him up, dropping onto the nearest patch of grass and wringing out his hair. He needs a haircut, but he’s not sure if he trusts Jason—“Fire is a valid style option”—Todd to trim it without some form of retaliation. Like a mohawk.

Tim isn’t meant for a mohawk.

Benjamin sloshes over and hits the sod next to him, rolling over onto his stomach rather than leave himself vulnerable to retaliation. Tim figures they’re both wet so there’s probably a reason.

He can wait for his explanation patiently before deciding on appropriate payback.

Benjamin is quiet for a long time.

Tim starts to doze and barely wards off the sudden blow to his exposed abdomen.

His companion instantly relaxes. “There are some who would question your survival instinct,” Benjamin chides formally. He sounds like Talia; Damian doesn’t. There’s a plaintive note that’s missing in the Batman’s speech. Damian uses a straightforward and matter-of-fact tone rather than the cajoling one that softens Talia al Ghul’s loving rebuke. “I am still an assassin.”

Tim wonders who Benjamin has killed. He wonders how long the other boy has been a hero, and whether or not it will last.

“Batman was told to keep me here. My mother is coming for me.” Benjamin makes an irritable motion with his hand, propping himself on his side to better gesticulate his opinion of such promises. He looks like a miniature Ra’s al Ghul when he does that—dramatically and deliberately condescending. “She has not … not yet.”

How can Benjamin and Damian share the exact same genetic code and every physical feature … yet be so completely different?

“I thought I was being tested. She did not tell me what the test was, but my mother never does.” Benjamin hums an odd note. “I thought the test might be your death.”

Tim nods slowly.

“There is no honour in taking a life carelessly given,” Benjamin continues. “I decided yesterday that the test is not for me. You, maybe. Or Batman.”

Benjamin never calls Damian by name. He doesn’t even assert his ownership the way that the heir to the League of Assassins refers possessively to all other family members and friends.

My Grandfather. My Mother. My Teammates. My Tutor. My Dogs. My Bird.

Never My Brother.

“If my mother is testing you, Timothy, you will fail. She is the daughter of the Demon’s Head, and her tests are not about success. They are about survival.”

Tim stills.

“Want it. Need it. Do it,” Benjamin orders harshly. “Your brothers ask only that of you, and it is not so hard.” The corners of the assassin’s mouth suddenly turn up in a way that looks like Bruce’s rare smile. Damian never makes that expression—bemused and self-deprecating all at once. “They ask redemption of me.”

Tim closes his eyes. He will not touch that, will not think upon it, and will not give in. Instead, he gestures sharply at the fountain. If Benjamin had decided not to kill him yesterday, then why today’s game?

“Now I know for certain what you do and do not fear,” Benjamin answers easily. “My Friend.”

Tim is careful not to react at first.

He isn’t sure of Benjamin’s meaning—the double meaning that is almost certainly a family trait. Every successive generation of the al Ghul line is crazier than the last, and—considering their patriarch—that is not a compliment.

Words are weapons.

Benjamin’s are both a promise and a threat. Tim knows this, has heard it before in the same darkly-earnest tone, and look how well the last time has worked out for him.

“Come, Timothy.”

My friend, Tim hears again, as he takes the assassin’s hand and allows Benjamin to pull him to his feet. The title is a label, possibly a badge of honour, and almost certainly a jibe at Damian. Tim doesn’t know why the brothers are so resentful of each other’s existence, but Tim is not a toy. If Damian and Benjamin insist on being jealous of each other, they can do it over things not-Tim.

My friend is the promise.

They fall into step on their way back inside. Benjamin seems unbothered by his wet clothing and his steps are silent. Then again, the other teen is barefoot, and Tim’s sneakers squelch grossly with every step.

Tim grumpily resigns himself to a complicated relationship with the four elements for however many lifetimes he has in him.

Earth, fire, air and water—one father drew his treasures from below the earth, and one father watched a treasure go up in flames. Robin flies. Tim drowns.

If Tim decides to fear everything that has ever caused him pain, nothing will ever get done.

Benjamin’s words echo in his head once more: “Now I know for certain what you do and do not fear, my friend.” Tim stills, as he finally recognizes the threat.

He does not fear water … does not fear Benjamin … does not fear dying … so what does Tim fear? And how can Benjamin be so sure?

The weight of the realization hits Tim like a wave, and it’s not dying that he fears, because … because …

He hits the water at a bad angle; the shock of it makes him lose his grip.

It’s not his life at stake.

He’s slammed against the debris underwater. His shoulder comes out of its socket, and he chokes on the tainted water from the sudden pain, but he doesn’t return to the surface. He can’t. He won’t.

The connection isn’t water, death, and Benjamin.

He dives deeper.

His mother once told him that bad things came in threes, but his father always said that it is the good things that come in threes. Bruce had scoffed at the superstition—if one looks for it, anything can come in threes. The significance is up to Tim.

Water and death and …

He can’t see anything even with the mask.

Tim didn’t realize that he was running until he heard the sudden wet slap of his shoes on the kitchen tiles as the backdoor slammed behind him.

Jason is startled and swearing, but Tim doesn’t hear it. He barely recognizes the man and ducks automatically when Jason reaches for him. He doesn’t have time for the Red Hood.

He’s drowning. He’s drowning. Tim can’t see a damn thing in this murky water and he’s drowning!

Tim vaults over the table, barely skirting the open oven door. He hits the kitchen door with his full weight and staggers out into the hall.

He catches a hold of something or maybe it catches hold of him.

The rug rucks up under his feet at the last moment and Tim catches himself on the study door. He pulls …

… and pulls. It hurts, but Tim won’t stop.

It’s not his life at stake.

The man is already on his feet and reacting to Tim’s sudden arrival, but Robin can’t stop—won’t stop.

Water and death and …

Damian’s coffee mug shatters against the study wall.

“It wasn’t the coffee,” Dick tells him later.

Tim doesn’t shrug. He’s still sitting in the over-sized chair that had once belonged to Bruce. He’s also wearing Damian’s sweater, because Tim can’t seem to stop shivering. The off-white sleeves hang far past the tips of his fingers, and Jason keeps complaining that it looks like a straightjacket on Tim.

The mess has been cleaned up, but Tim hasn’t pulled himself together yet so he stays in the study … stays in the chair where he had collapsed to catch his breath and focuses on doing just that. He’s still sitting there with his knees hugged to his chest and listening to the soft in-and-out pattern of his own breathing.

The others don’t like leaving him alone.

Tim doesn’t care.

When he continues to ignore his older brother, the man leans against the desk and rubs at already-reddened eyes with the heel of his hand.

It’s funny the way Tim’s brothers all do the same thing differently. Damian digs at his migraines with fingertips, and Jason drags his whole hand down his face to avoid dealing with the rest of the world, but Dick goes for his eyes and uses just the heel of his hand. Sometimes—when he’s feeling mean—Tim thinks his older brother is reminding himself not to cry.

Tim tries not to touch his own face, but sometimes he can’t help himself and he has to rub at his burning cheeks with balled-up fists.

“It was the brake-lines in the car,” Dick continues. “That’s all. Benjamin cut the brakes, and you know how Damian is about vehicle maintenance. There’s no way he wouldn’t have spotted the damage before ever getting behind the wheel.”

If Dick is waiting for some kind of acknowledgement, he’s going to be disappointed. Again.

“It’s a League-thing,” Dick continues, grimacing as he corrects himself. “The other League, I mean. He does it all the time, and it doesn’t bother Damian at all. Sometimes he’s even impressed by Benjamin’s ingenuity.” Dick shook his head, and rubbed at his eyes again. “I think it’s some screwed-up way of showing respect among assassins.”

Tim wonders if Dick actually buys that one. Maybe the rest of the League can make assassination attempts affectionate or respectful, but he’s not so sure about Damian and Benjamin.

Dick took a deep breath. “Damian used to do it too. It’s just … . just a test. They don’t mean it—not really.”

Not usually.

Tim understands what Dick is trying to say though. If Benjamin had meant to kill Damian, it would have been the coffee. And Tim would have been too late.

Tim wonders if he’ll ever get the whole story behind Damian and Benjamin. It won’t be from them of course, but something.

He could always ask Talia.

“Little brother,” Dick interrupts Tim’s train of thought as he crouches in front of the teenager. “Could you look at me? Please?” He brushes his knuckles against Tim’s cheek and smiles tentatively. “It’s okay, Timmy. It’s all okay.”

Tim nods obediently.

“Damian’s okay. You’re okay. Benjamin is … Benjamin.” Dick still says the name like a swearword, but with more exasperation than frustration. That’s a good sign. “His visits usually end with attempted homicide. Sometimes they start that way. We’ve got it under control. You didn’t do anything wrong, Timmy.”

Dick will always believe that. It’s extremely endearing … and very frustrating.

“You can still be friends,” Dick promises earnestly and Tim buries his face in his arms again with a muted groan.

He’s not angry with Benjamin.

Apparently Dick means it when he says that Benjamin likes to end his visits with violence. The other teenager is absolutely adamant about returning to the Tower with or without his mother’s permission.

No one likes the idea, and the rest of the family spends most of dinner arguing about it.

Tim sits there quietly and picks at his food. He has to keep readjusting the sleeves of his borrowed sweater to keep from trailing them through the stew, and Jason keeps looking at him. Tim’s still cold and he knows that it’s stupid. Someone has turned the heat up and the air conditioning off, and Jason forced tea on him … but Tim can’t quite bring himself to care because he’s still so cold.

Freezing water, broken grapple, his entire body is one big, damn bruise …the mission isn’t over. The mission is what matters.

Tim shifts uncomfortably. His clothes have mostly dried out, but some of the inner layers are still a little damp and his jeans are stiff.

He had forgotten about the dunk in the fountain long before he reached the study. It hadn’t seemed important.

Keep going, Robin, he tells himself. The mission …

In hindsight, Jason and Damian’s reactions to his sudden appearance as a drowned-rat might not be … .entirely irrational … after all.

At least, Tim feels moderately more understanding about the way they kept badgering him when he just wanted to be left alone.

Drowned-rat is a look that works for no one, and Tim is an especially pathetic example.

After a few hours of fussing, fretting, and hovering, the others seem to have decided on blaming Benjamin for his state. The chokehold eases up as the panic ebbs, but the coddling is still a force to be reckoned with.

Tim so much as shivers and the collective bane of the underworld falls apart.

However, he can deter this with minimal effort; there are measures he can take. He has sweats in his locker down in the Cave, and Alfred is a tiny, furry space-heater. Tim will go down—get a hot shower, change, and hopefully stop shivering like he’s in the Arctic—after dinner … if the bickering ever ends in time for the others to actually go on patrol.

And while Tim is dreaming of impossibilities, he’d kind of like for there to be an actual uniform in his locker. He’d like to suit up and be Robin in something more than name.

Damian didn’t let his clone wander off this time. Benjamin seemed unbothered by the Batman’s more-immediate surveillance, although the teen did eventually lead him into one of the few alleys where the omniscient eyes of the Bat Computers were not present.

Tomorrow, Damian would remedy the situation; tonight, he begrudgingly appreciated the opportunity to remove his ward (sidekick, brother, Robin) from the usual family drama that surrounded his maternal relations.

“You are getting slow, Batman,” Oni announced, tapping his foot in mock impatience.

Damian raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You have always been sloppy,” he returned quietly, reaching out to pluck Timothy’s tracker from the back of Oni’s tunic. “Arrogant. The bane of my existence, really.”

Benjamin flushed, but did not lie. Damian could tell that the temptation to do so was strong, however. Instead, Benjamin smiled tightly …an eerie expressionbehind the full face mask Oni wore. Under the material, even the famous Wayne features disappeared into a flattened, anonymous likeness.

“The albatross around your neck,” his clone suggested archly.

“Inaccurate,” Damian refuted. “When have you ever brought me good fortune?”

Benjamin’s hiss would have chilled a lesser man to his soul. The son of the Bat and Heir to the Demon must be made of stronger stuff.

“Thank Gotham, you are leaving again,” Damian announced with great feeling. “I do not know what you said to him, but I will crush any League attempt on Robin. He is not your pet.”

Benjamin’s interactions with Timothy were suspicious; if the revived boy were anyone else and if it didn’t jeopardize his mother’s plans, Talia al Ghul might turn a blind eye to ‘petty’ sibling squabbling … as if Timothy was a toy.

Indeed, getting his clone out of Gotham would almost be worth being down a man with Bayard’s finale still hanging over their heads.

In this matter alone, Damian did not trust Richard’s judgment. The acrobat was frighteningly sentimental, and Benjamin was nothing like Damian had been. Bad enough to leave the cuckoo in the Titans’ nest without risking Timothy’s perilous recovery in Benjamin’s volatile company.

“Don’t be selfish,” his clone protested piously, “and do not worry so—Bayard will not attack tonight or tomorrow night. You have more important matters to which you should attend.”

“And what do you know of such things?” Damian demanded.

“I am the right hand of the Demon’s Head,” Benjamin sneered. “I know a great many things that you do not.”

“Ben-Oni,” Damian turned the play in words back on his clone with a growl so low that even Benjamin strained to hear him. “There is nothing you know that I cannot find out.”

Benjamin chuckled. “Care to make a wager on that, Batman? You have yet to ask the right questions after all.”