Chapter Text
There was a strange, irritating buzzing of radio static in Conner’s apartment, it was driving him nuts before he remembered Batman’s gift from the night before. He cursed under his breath and flew for the earpiece he’d placed on his kitchen counter, right next to the toaster.
“Hello? Batman?” Conner said.
There was a beat of silence. Conner could hear breathing on the other end.
“Hi, Superman.”
“Tim.”
If it hadn’t been an earpiece, Conner would have dropped the phone. It had been three years since he’d last heard his best friend’s voice.
“Don’t know about you, Superman, but I’m wearing a mask over here.” The humour in his voice was strained. He sounded tired. Tim always sounded tired, but this was a different tired. He was tired, and cold, but something in Conner’s chest felt like it was melting.
“You know I can’t hide a face like this,” Conner quipped back.
“How you haven’t been exposed to the whole world still baffles me, you don’t even wear the stupid sunglasses anymore,” Tim admitted.
“They were in style at the time,” Conner said.
“Sure, they were, just like the fade cut.”
“You were the third Robin, you don’t get to judge me for being a little out of date, at least I was original.”
“You ripped off Cassie for your costume for years, she did the t-shirt and jeans look better than you, and we all know it.”
“At least I wore my underwear on the inside.”
Tim made a strange snorting noise. It was just so easy, falling back into old arguments, picking up like a game left on pause. There wasn’t any thought behind it, Tim just opened his mouth and the words came pouring out as Conner commanded them. “Fine, you’ve got me there, no good excuse for that one.”
“Don’t even get me started on your naming habits, Red Robin might be the worst hero name there’s ever been,” Conner added.
“That reminds me, congratulations,” Tim said, “on Superman, if anyone’s earned a mantle, it’s you. Tell Cassie congratulations on Wonder Woman too, I know it’s a little late, but better late than never I guess.”
“Thanks, it’s pretty cool,” Conner agreed, “Bart’s throwing a party, you know how he is, the gang would love to see you, you can congratulate Cassie yourself.”
“Oh.” Conner knew that tremble in Tim’s voice. Barely there, but a frightened quiver nonetheless, the kind that came out when he was getting driven in a corner and didn’t have any good excuses on standby. “I don’t think I should, it would be weird, and it’s your party, and I have this case, and all my other cases.”
“Wouldn’t be weird at all,” Conner interrupted, “I want you there, we’d all be happy to have you there.”
“I really shouldn’t.” Not can’t, not even won’t, but shouldn’t.
“Well, you can, the invitation’s always been open.”
“I know, just, not this time.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”
He was disappointed. He had no right to be, Tim hadn’t shown up to a party in three years. But he’d thought it would be different if Tim heard him ask with his own voice.
“I have information on your case,” Tim said, abruptly.
“Right, what have you got?” Conner asked.
“Well, we know it isn’t the original Joker, Hood and Robin checked that lead the other night,” Tim said.
“Right, can’t believe you let that creep around that sweet little kid.”
“Whether we like it or not, he’s family.”
“He tried to kill the last two Robins who came before her.”
“Not true, the two Robins before her were Signal and Flamebird, no attempt was ever made on Signal’s life orchestrated by the Red Hood, checkmate, old friend.”
“Ugh, don’t say that, you make us sound like a couple of old men playing chess in a park somewhere, and we’ve probably been mortal enemies our whole lives.” Tim made the weird noise again. Half a scoff and half a snort, definitely not a laugh.
“Well, your point is disproven, Hood has only attempted to kill half the Robins, the previous Nightwing, Flamebird, and myself, with a zero percent success rate, may I note,” Tim said.
“Fifty percent is not great odds,” Conner pointed out.
“You miss the zero percent success rate, he had a fifty percent of trying to kill her, and a zero percent chance of actually killing her,” Tim corrected.
“Whatever, he’s still a murderous nut-job, I can’t believe he isn’t behind bars,” Conner muttered.
“Still family.”
“Has he been doing any better these last few years? I know he was doing okay, y’know, back then, but he’s kept it up? Still no relapses?” Conner asked.
“No, we’re officially dubbed him completely free of pit influence,” Tim said.
“Great, so he can’t use that excuse anymore.”
“Stop, he’s really doing better, I think moving back into the manor will do him a lot of good.”
“He moved back into the manor? When did that happen?” Conner asked.
“About a month ago after Batman and I kept him from freezing to death on a suicide mission to Nanda Parbat,” Tim said.
“Huh, I heard he’d gotten himself into some trouble recently,” Conner said.
“Yeah, he tried to take on a couple hundred ninja without backup, even if Batman and I did make it in time to save his life, he still got roughed up pretty bad, he’s looking for options, but odds are the Red Hood as he was before is done,” Tim said.
“Really? I didn’t know it was that bad,” Conner said.
“He lost a leg and an eye, Barbara’s trying to help him out with the idea he could never fight crime again, at least not physically, but he’s stubborn,” Tim said.
“Wow, that sounds rough,” Conner said.
“He’s coming around,” Tim said, “if nothing else, being stuck in the manor has forced him to spend some more time with the family.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is.”
“Sure, just know that this Superman isn’t humble enough to say I told you so should things go south.”
“Noted, should we get to the case sometime tonight?”
“Oh, right.” He’d almost let himself forget, let him believe that Tim was finally ready to talk again. “The Joker’s really buried in some backyard somewhere? Just dead, and hidden, and no one noticed for three years?” Conner asked.
“Yeah, they buried him behind Arkham, the bats all know, of course, so does Harley, she let the information slip to Ivy and Catwoman, some of the other old Rogues figured it out too, I think Riddler, Penguin, and Bane all knew, but Bane kicked it two years ago, and Riddler leaves most of his business to Enigma these days, and there’s no way he would just tell her what happened to him, so Penguin’s the only one who might be in a position to use the info, but I’m sure he wants that kind of panic just as little as we do. There might be others, but we aren’t really sure. Lots of people, especially in Gotham noticed he stopped showing up, some people have speculated he’d died, but there weren’t many guests to his last show, and without a body, no one wants to let their guard down. After all, if anyone could hide underground and return to terrorizing people three years later, he’d be the guy.”
“But he’s just dead, really dead,” Conner said.
“Yeah,” Tim agreed, his voice shaking that tiny bit. “He’s really dead.”
“Were you there? His last show, as you called it?” Conner asked.
“Yeah, didn’t stick around for the funeral though,” Tim admitted.
“You know who killed him?”
There was a heavy pause.
“Yeah. I do.”
Another pause.
“So,” Tim continued, “about our guy, we’ve got a couple of broad possibilities, and I’m throwing together a list of suspects right not.”
Not subtle, Tim was usually better.
“Option one, we have a copycat, probably a twisted fan of the original who decided to pick up the fight when he decided the original wasn’t coming back. Two, someone’s using the Joker as a cover up, drawing suspicion away from an average killer by making it look like a famous serial killer. Three, unlikely, but not impossible, a ghost, I don’t know how he would be killing if he wasn’t corporeal, but we can’t rule it out entirely. And lastly, option four, don’t like this one as much, but it’s possible the Joker chose and trained an heir to his clownery before his death, and the newest clown prince is making his move now, why now, I’m not sure. Personally, I like option two best, it would explain why the crime took place in Metropolis instead of Gotham, and it doesn’t involve a Joker Junior running around.”
“Okay, sounds, solid.” Tim’s voice was quivering the whole time he spoke. This case had him spooked. “What can I do to help? Let’s wrap this case up as quickly as possible.”
“I want nothing more,” Tim agreed.
“So, what do you need?” Conner asked again.
“I need more information on the victim, any sketchy records, anyone who might hold a grudge, I’ve hardly got a name in this file you gave us,” Tim said.
“You can’t search her up in your fancy computer network?”
“Do you want to be a part of this case or not?” Tim asked.
“My city, my case, if anyone’s hanging up on anyone, it’s going to be me this time,” Conner said.
For a moment Conner didn’t realize why Tim wasn’t responding to his tease.
“I’m sorry,” Tim said. “I really did mean to call, but things went bad in Gotham, people got hurt, then the Joker died, and I… I’ve had a rough couple of years, Kon, things are different, now, I’m different now.”
“Are you okay?” Conner asked, “now?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you want me there?”
“No, no, I just want this case off my desk.”
“Okay, I’ll get you that info on the victim, I can drop it off.”
“Bring it to the Batcave, they’ll forward it to me.”
Conner scowled. It would be nicer if they could meet face to face.
“Okay,” Conner agreed.
Tim hung up abruptly.
He leaned forwards in the dry bathtub, letting his mask bounce against his knees. He turned the razor blade over in his hands again and again. He’d been in the bathtub five times in the past three years. Three times that first year, when the therapy wasn’t working, and he still heard him the back of his brain, and sometimes for weeks on end he couldn’t stop the laughing he’d sat in the bathtub three times with a razor blade between his fingers. The first time he’d chickened out. He unlocked the door after contemplating for an hour and pretended nothing was wrong while his family stared at his scars with those sad eyes. The second time he carved big grins in his wrists to match the one he’d had carved on his face. They had lots of friends, but none so deep, or so he thought. He hadn’t cut deep enough and woke up in the bathtub an hour later. He unlocked the door again and went back downstairs. By the third time, his family were getting wise. They noticed the scars, and Damian the human kicked the door down after Tim had only sliced one curved smile. The fourth one was a relapse. It had almost cost him his chance to get out of the manor. It was within the first month of moving out, he didn’t have Damian the dog yet, and he just hated that his wrists weren’t even, and without needing to worry about his family stopping him, he slit a match. One scar was more faded than the other, that still drove him crazy some days.
Tim heard scratching and whimpering at the bathroom door. Looked like the fifth trip to the bathtub would end like the first.
Tim unlocked the door and Damian the dog began to circle his feet. Tim fell to his knees and let the dog climb all over him, licking at his mask and crawling in his lap.
If there was a sixth trip to the bathtub, that would be the end of it. Tim decided. Damian the human would take Damian the dog if Cass wouldn’t take him. He would come back when he solved the case. When he came to the indisputable conclusion he predicted, he would kill the Joker all over again. And he would kill him for good.