Chapter Text
Kaleheim is hot, the dust-baked streets spread out like criss-crossed wires in a circuit board as far as the eye can see. Tim leans against the balcony of the Nest—his base at the top of the tallest, spindliest tower in existence—and rolls his flask from hand to hand, idly watching the ships overhead. The morning’s just beginning, and he has a list of errands and chores a mile long written on the whiteboard in the main room, just behind him. He’s not exactly eager to start on them though.
“Disturbance on fifth. All available units attend.”
The radio attached to his belt coughs out the words through an irritating crackle; Tim makes a mental note to tune the little device up later, when he’s done with the latest disturbance. Disturbance can mean anything from small robberies to grand-scale fires. Once, it was an invading ship, coming through the atmosphere at an alarming rate, weapon systems activated and trained on the main town.
Tim had dealt with it easily enough.
He unhooks his radio and holds it up to his mouth, lips barely brushing the hard plastic as he speaks. “Responding. ETA ten minutes.”
He reattaches the radio, lifts his flask of hot, bitter coffee to his lips and takes a long drink. One thing that hasn’t changed, in the three long years that he’s been away from Earth, is his addiction to coffee. It’s probably something he should work on, but he finds he can’t bring himself to be bothered.
“ALF, can you ready my fighter? I need to change.”
ALF, the steel butler-bot that Tim built during his first bout of homesickness, unplugs himself from the charging station and creaks across the wooden floor. Tim smiles at the familiar sound of gears grinding together and chugs the rest of his coffee before ducking inside the Nest. He searches for his clothes amidst the rubble that he keeps on the wheelie chair in front of his computers, humming intermittently as ALF beeps at him, scolding him for leaving the lights on in the engine room again.
He has to dig through empty protein bar wrappers, a plain red mug, a selection of baggy jumpers and a couple of tools that have found their way off the workbench and into the debris. Amongst those are his work clothes—nothing like the suit and tie he used to wear when he ran WE. There are no uncomfortable shoes, no stiff blazers, no tricky ties and starched shirts. No, now he gets to wear brown, skin-tight trousers and a red jacket to work. His Red Robin symbol is stitched neatly over the breast pocket, a remnant from a time long gone. Everything is soft, comfortable, easy to throw on when there’s an emergency.
There’s a series of beeps from across the room, and the hatch to the bottom floor opens up, revealing a gleaming Fighter. Tim grins fondly, running his hands over the sleek, rust-red exterior as he reaches for his helmet, still in the seat. His comm slots in one ear and his radio gets shoved under the seat as he climbs into the Fighter, throwing a salute at ALF, who bows stiffly back.
The Exit Hatch opens up, a panel that takes up half the left wall sliding down to reveal an opening just wide enough for his Fighter. Tim eases it out of the Nest and then guns the engine, grinning as the wind whips his skin before the shield goes up, encasing him in warm silence. He glances behind him and finds his blaster sitting in the back, fully charged.
“Invaders on Fifth street. Do not engage. Wait for back-up.”
The radio crackles from under his seat, and Tim frowns behind his helmet. He steers his Fighter to the left on third street and ducks down an alley, almost flattening an elderly couple as they exit a small café. He weaves in and out of alleyways until he finds the end of fifth street, and then backtracks slightly until he finds another alley that’ll give him a good look at the invaders, hopefully without forcing him to reveal himself.
Kaleheim is a maze of streets and alleys, a land overrun with paths and winding twists and turns, and Tim knows them all. He has extensive maps of the city and the lower towns—the whole of Kaleheim, really. It’s a small planet, but it’s big enough to keep him busy. All of the maps are pinned to the walls of his study, outlined and labelled in red and blue and green. They don’t look small.
The Fighter slides to a smooth stop, hovering in mid-air. Tim lifts the shield and flicks the lever for the camouflage booster, hiding the ship from view. He can see figures moving around in the distance, near the mouth of the alleyway, but he can’t make out anything else. He fishes out the radio and lowers his voice to a whisper.
“On the scene. Going to get a closer look.”
There’s an alarmed noise through the radio, but whatever is said next gets cut off as Tim switches it off, tucking the radio back into his belt and muting his comm. He eases the Fighter open and slips out, boots making a dull thud as they connect with the sun-warmed paving stones. His blaster keeps the back seat warm as he slips closer to the mouth of the alleyway, his old instincts kicking in as he tries to remain swift and silent, nothing more than a shadow, the way Bruce taught him. He’s trained since he came here, and he’s not gotten sloppy, but there is something about this that brings back memories of Gotham. Patrolling her streets was like a shot of caffeine straight to the heart, and the restless part of Tim has missed it.
It’s not until he reaches the end of the alleyway that he spots the great big fuck-off plane parked in the middle of the street, squeezed into the narrow gap between the crooked, sandy houses. It’s a familiar plane, one that Tim’s ridden in many times, although not recently, not for a long while.
It’s Batman’s fucking plane.
His heart sinks, and all the colour drains from his face. It’s not possible; the plane isn’t made for space travel, and yet there it stands. He throws one arm out, staggering slightly until his fingers find the warm brick. Swallowing, he starts counting, eyes flicking from figure to figure. Four. There’s four of them, and Tim knows them all.
Bruce is the most striking, except he’s not Bruce at the moment—he’s Batman, dressed in black Kevlar and the cowl, standing in the street talking to a teenager that must be Damian, even if Tim can’t quite compute it. Hell, Damian’s a teenager now.
One of the figures starts to leave, walking primly up into the plane. Alfred, then, from the set of his spine and the silver of his hair. Tim watches him disappear inside the plane with longing, a sick feeling swelling up inside him. His eyes drift to the right, towards the one person he really doesn’t want to see right now.
Dick is surveying the town, murmuring to himself. He’s in full costume, blatantly Nightwing, and it’s odd, because Tim’s so used to seeing him like that in the night, and not in broad daylight. He takes in every inch of him, swallowing hard against the bile rising in his throat, and takes a step back.
Something hard digs into the back of his spine. Tim recognises the bite of a gun instantly. He stops, bracing himself, inhaling sharply.
“You lost, or somethin’?”
Tim turns; he knows that voice.
“Hey. ‘M talkin’ to you, here.”
It’s definitely the Red Hood. Tim recognises Jason’s usual drawl, the old Gotham accent wrapped lovingly around each vowel, would know it anywhere, and even if he didn’t, the stupid helmet would give it away. He swallows thickly and doesn’t reply, putting both hands up as he’s directed backwards into the middle of the street.
“Found this one lurking,” Jason announces, jabbing Tim in the chest with his gun. Nightwing sidles closer, eyes dark behind his mask. Tim flicks his eyes over the rest of them, and finds his heart sinking in his chest; they really are all here. The plane stands proud and tall in the centre of the street. The Justice League isn’t here, but Tim has no doubts that they’re not far behind, or at least aware of where Bruce is. The Teen Titans aren’t here either, thank God. Tim doesn’t think he could take that.
Bruce is still standing, talking to Damian quietly. His back is to Tim, but he finds his eyes fixed on Bruce regardless, taking in the width of his shoulders, the sweep of his cape. That’s Bruce. That’s his Dad—even if Tim couldn’t bring himself to use the word—or the man that used to be his Dad, right there, and he has no idea that it’s Tim behind this helmet.
Tim has no doubts that Bruce is fully aware that there’s someone else with them now. He’s aware of everything, and Jason’s not exactly being subtle.
“No guns, Hood,” Dick murmurs, but Tim hears him loud and clear.
There’s a scoff, but it’s not from Jason. Tim glances over and finds, much to his disgust, that Damian is taller. His shoulders are broader, and his face is more defined, although still set in a scowl. The Robin outfit is different, slightly, less childish, like it’s grown with him. Tim doesn’t know how to feel about that. There’s still something young inside him that craves that R, no matter how much he tries to ruthlessly squash the feeling.
He flicks on the voice modulator, ignoring the way Red Hood’s hands tighten on the gun when he moves. “Who are you and what do you want?”
“Any particular reason you don’t want us hearin’ that pretty voice of yours?” Red Hood asks, cocking his head to the side.
Nightwing lays a hand on his arm, and surprisingly, Red Hood doesn’t shake him off. He doesn’t lower his weapon either, but clearly Tim’s missed a lot over the years, if they can stand side-by-side without a fully-fledged war breaking out. The fact that all of them are here means something. Tim just can’t figure out what.
“We don’t mean to cause trouble,” Nightwing says, his voice lilting and familiar, placating. “We were tracking a signal, and it brought us here, but we’re out of fuel, and we can’t leave just yet. Are you some sort of authority? Like the police?”
Tim dips his head once, shortly. “Peace-keepers. It’s our version of the police. We were told that an unregistered craft was invading. What kind of fuel do you require?” He slides his eyes to the left, not that they can see that through his helmet. “It doesn’t look like the usual kind of craft.”
Red Hood glances pointedly up at the sky, where dozens of different spacecrafts zip to and fro along the designated traffic lines. Air roads, of a sort, although most don’t stick to them. Tim scowls behind his helmet, and Red Hood smirks at him, like he can sense it.
“It looks like Earth tech,” Tim grits out. “We don’t see a lot of Earth tech around here.”
“Are you sure?” Nightwing presses, shifting forward slightly, eager. “The signal we’re tracking, it came from Earth technology. A phone.”
Tim freezes, every muscle in his body going taut. Fuck. Fuck.
Tim’s an idiot.
ALF had been the one to find the phone. Tim knew it was a mistake not destroying it when he left Earth, but he had wanted to keep something, and the phone had all his old texts on them. Even if he couldn’t look at them, he knew they were there, and it was some measure of comfort to him. Old texts, texts from Dick, when they still spoke, when Tim was still Robin. Texts from B, about parent-teacher days, although he’d rarely show up, and questions about board meetings and the odd book. Texts from Babs by the hundred, letting him know that his security sucked, and texts from Steph by the thousand, letting him know everything that ever crossed her mind. Texts from his friends, from Kon and Bart and Cassie. All his family, wrapped up in a little device, and Tim couldn’t let go of it.
He’d stuck it in a box under his bed when he first took over the Nest, and ALF had found it the other morning. Tim’s finger had slipped on the button when he discovered it charging on his workstation, and for a brief second, the thing had lit up, before he panicked and switched it off. It must have been enough for Oracle though.
Tim shakes himself, clears his throat. “No. We don’t have anything like that. Kaleheim has its own technology, and it hasn’t integrated with Earth technology.”
“Then how d’you know what Earth tech looks like?” Red Hood asks, flipping his gun idly over his fingers. Nightwing looks curious.
“Pictures,” Tim deadpans. “And the Internet.”
“The Internet is Earth tech.”
Tim smirks, and they might not be able to see it, but they sure as hell can hear it in his voice. “Who said you had it first?”
Nightwing steps forward before Red Hood can reply. “Look, we’re just looking for our brother, okay? Can you help us or not?”
Tim sucks in a sharp breath. Things seem to slow to a stop, grainy and thick as treacle. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Your brother?”
He almost expects a different name, but sure enough, Nightwing nods seriously and says, “His name’s Tim Drake-Wayne.”
“Drake,” Tim says faintly. “It’s just Drake.”
Jason pauses, his gun across the back of his knuckles, and then narrows his eyes. Tim curses himself as he watches Red Hood’s mouth open, watches the dreaded words fall past his lips and into the air.
“Baby Bird?”
Tim stiffens, and so does Nightwing. He goes tense as a livewire, his body thrumming with energy. Both Batman and Robin glance over, growing still, and Red Hood takes a step closer.
“That you?”
Tim stays as still as possible. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Red Hood snorts. Nightwing is practically vibrating now, his fingers shaking at his sides. He clenches his hands into fists as Tim watches.
“Tim,” Nightwing says—except he’s not Nightwing anymore, even with the mask on. He’s Dick Grayson, and every inch of his voice drenched in mangled hope and fear. “Tim, is that you?”
Batman takes a step closer. Even Damian looks slightly nervous, expectant. They’re all waiting, and Tim has a thousand contingencies, a thousand plans and exit strategies, but he knows these people. Or he did. He knows them well enough to see that the game’s up.
Tim hesitates, and then raises his hands slowly. He finds the chink in his helmet and lifts, pulling it up and over his head. The lip of the helmet musses up his hair and catches on his muted comm unit. Dick inhales sharply at the sight of him and staggers forward like he’s been hit from behind. Tim takes an instinctive step back, and Dick stills again.
His voice is hoarse and broken, haggard and relieved. “Timmy.”
Jason takes him in slowly, critical. Damian makes an involuntary sound in his throat. Bruce is stiff as a board, unmoving, rooted to the spot. Dick just looks like he might start crying, and Tim doesn’t know how to deal with that, so he goes blank. His mind clears, his expression closing off. He shifts his weight, glances down at the radio in his belt.
He sincerely hopes Alfred stays on the plane, or he’s not going to be able to keep his cool.
“I have to call this in a sec,” Tim says, attempting to keep his voice blank, clinical. “Then we can get you off the streets, out of sight, and get you some fuel so you can be on your way.”
“On our…” Dick falters. “Tim, we came to find you.”
He surges forward, gets both hands around Tim’s biceps and grips tightly. Bruce starts moving, striding forward so he can get in Tim’s space, but Tim shoves back before he can reach him, ripping Dick’s hands off him. There’s something bitter rising in him like acid, angry and poisonous, and he doesn’t want to speak in case it all spills out.
“We came to find you,” Dick says again, softer this time in the face of Tim’s seething silence.
Tim stares at him, mouth working soundlessly. His breath is coming quicker and quicker. Finally, he bites out, “It’s been three years.”
Jason shrugs. “You play a good game of hide and seek, Baby Bird.”
“Don’t call me that,” Tim says.
Jason stills, eyes narrowing. The silence takes on a strange quality, and Tim feels almost weightless as they watch him. “What should I call you then? Not Baby Bird, and not Drake-Wayne, because apparently that’s not your name anymore, is it?” Jason’s voice is soft, like silk. “Fuck, Timbo, what happened?”
“What happened?” Tim spits out, in a deadly sort of voice, and everyone goes quiet. Tim straightens up, grabs his radio and grips it tightly. He can feel Bruce burning a hole in the side of his face with his stare, but he ignores it, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Look, here’s what’s going to happen, okay?”
Jason and Damian both bristle slightly at the tone, but Tim doesn’t care, not with the way Dick keeps looking at him, like he’s something precious and terrifying all at once, like he might disappear at any moment.
“I’m going to call this in, call off the back-up. Someone’s going to inform Al—Alfred, that you found what you’re looking for, and that it’s not particularly interested in coming home with you.” He packs enough sarcasm into the word ‘home’ to make Dick flinch. “I’ll take you to the Nest, we can figure out your fuel problem, and then you’ll be on your way, understand?”
“Tim,” Bruce says softly, and for a moment, Tim thinks he’ll break in half. As it is, he just swallows back his emotions, makes his face firm and unyielding.
“Understand?”
Dick and Bruce glance at each other, and Tim knows exactly what they’re thinking. They’re thinking that they’ll go along with it, that it’ll give them time to work on a new plan, to get Tim talking, to get him in a forgiving sort of mood. Fat chance of that.
"I'm going to take your silence as a resounding yes," Tim says drily, and he kicks up dirt as he spins on his heel, marching back to his Fighter. He has half a mind to simply fly away, but he's not stupid. They'd find him sooner or later, and they’d leave a messy trail in their wake. It’s not worth the clean-up. He groans internally and lifts the radio, clicking it on.
"Disturbance resolved," Tim says, glancing behind him to meet Dick's intense gaze. "I repeat, disturbance resolved."