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Chapter Text

"Batman, what the frak."

Red Hood could practically hear Batman's teeth grinding from across the grimy, blood-soaked warehouse. The Bat didn't even turn to acknowledge his words, preferring to keep systematically beating the thugs, one punch and one kick at a time. Even though they were already down on the ground. "Take care of him."

Red Hood's hands were shaking. It should be him over there beating the bad guys to a pulp. That was what Red Hood did. He did the dirty work while Batman pretended to still have clean hands, just because he didn't take that final last step of putting those who deserved to die beneath the ground. Not today, though. Batman was going berserk and leaving Red Hood to take care of the injured civilian.

The injured civilian. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne. Not Red Robin. Tim.

Red Hood turned to the kid. Batman had already let him down from the chains that had been holding him strung from the ceiling, a torn and bloody mess. Tim was slumped on the floor now, unable to hold himself up. Even over the sounds of Batman's fists hitting flesh and the thugs' cries of pain, Red Hood could hear Tim's ragged, desperate breathing. There was something terribly wrong with him. There was something terribly wrong with his hands.

Red Hood took a shaky breath, then put his gun away. He stepped toward the crumpled ball of Timothy Drake, his hands spread open. Tim didn't seem to notice, his forehead pressed to the dirty concrete, eyes closed and body limp. "Tim. Timmy."

Tim shook his head as much as he could manage. Tried to squeeze his eyes shut even harder. Trying to pretend that Red Hood wasn't there, that this wasn't really happening, it wasn't real. Red Hood didn't blame him, but he also couldn't let it continue.

"Tim, I'm here. We're here. B's on the other side of the room beating those bastards unconscious as we speak. You're safe now."

Red Hood knelt down beside him, his hands hovering. He was afraid to touch him, afraid to cause more harm. Tim's clothes hung on him in tatters, what used to be a graphic tee and a decent set of jeans. He was barefoot, shivering like a lamb in a snowstorm. And his entire body was covered with the marks of torture. Bruises, cuts, welts, burns. His face was swollen, both eyes blackened, lips split. The cartilage of one ear was torn. And his hands...

Now that Red Hood was close enough, he could see that Tim's hands had been mangled. They weren't the right shape. Someone had taken a hammer to them. Smashed them. Over and over. Again and again and again, until every bone was shattered.

He had to swallow vomit. "Timmy." His voice cracked. "You're safe now." He didn't believe his own words.

Tim shook his head against the floor. He cracked one eye open and looked up at him. Red Hood had never seen such agony, not on a face this young. Not on the face of one of his brothers, chosen or not.

God, this was going to destroy Dick. Alfred, too. None of the others were going to take it well, either, not even Damian. In an instant, Red Hood flipped from being horrified that he was the one witnessing this to glad that it was him. Better that he bear this sight, the robin who had already been broken and ruined, rather than any of the others.

Tim let his eye fall shut and huffed out a breath against the concrete. Red Hood couldn't sit there and look at him anymore, couldn't watch him shiver and shake on the floor. He reached under him, got an arm around Tim's torso and lifted him up. He did his best to make the motion as smooth and controlled as possible so as not to jar him too much.

Tim still whimpered at the touch, at the movement, but he made no effort to resist. Red Hood pulled him into his lap, trying to shield him from the cold ground as much as he could. He arranged the limp boy carefully on his chest and wrapped his arms loosely around him to offer some modicum of warmth. Tim's head lolled against his neck, breaths puffing in pained and uneven chunks.

"Timmy." He couldn't seem to stop saying his name, now. It was like a reflex, the only word in his head. He raised a gloved hand and rested it on the side of Tim's face and slowly, carefully rocked him in his arms. "You're safe now. It's gonna be okay."

The noise of fighting, if it could be called that, had stopped. Batman must be satisfied that the thugs were down and staying down. He'd probably given them all very nasty concussions. If not, Red Hood would do so later. For now, though, he listened to Batman tying up the bodies for later delivery to the police, and he held his little brother in his arms.

Tim shivered and seemed to come back to himself, just enough to know where he was, who he was with. He shifted in Jason's arms, choking back a whimper, then fell limp on his chest again. His mangled hands rested in his lap, unmoving. "Red Hood."

His voice was slurred, mushy, probably because of his bruised lips and swollen cheeks. Jason blinked back tears. "It's Jason. The bad guys are out. We don't have to use code names right now."

Bruce would disagree. They were still in the open. Anyone could be listening. Jason didn't care. He didn't want to be Red Hood right now. He wanted to be Tim Drake's brother. He let go of Tim long enough to reach up and rip off the hood. It didn’t matter now.

"What are you doing here?" Tim asked.

It was almost unbelievable. Jason almost laughed. He didn't have much space in his body for humor right now, though. "B told me what was going on. We swooped in to save you."

Half an hour ago, Jason had been riding his bike, just keeping an eye out for a mugging to foil or a potential rapist to knee in the crotch. He hadn't even known that Tim Drake was missing, kidnapped. It must have been on the news. He was taken in his civilian clothes. The city would have noticed and cared that the young CEO of Wayne Enterprises was gone. But Jason hadn't.

Then came the call from Bruce. A mission. It was unusual for Batman to call on Red Hood, and he started to tease him. It was on his lips, something caustic and cruel, before the desperate edge in Batman’s voice stopped him. It had to be Red Hood, no one else. Nightwing was in Bludhaven, Black Bat was international, and Batman was not going to bring his little desert Robin on this particular job. Even after all Damian had seen, it wasn’t right to let him see this, too.

Now, Jason was both furious and grateful that Batman had called on him, after all. It was a storm in his head, driving him just that little bit more crazy than he already was. He wanted to jump to his feet and put a bullet in the head of every person who had ever laid a hand on Tim Drake. He wanted to grab Batman by the collar and scream in his face, demand why it had taken him so long to find his third son when Tim had obviously been suffering the worst kind of torture for hours, maybe days.

More than either of those things, though, he wanted to sit on the floor and hold Tim in his arms and do his best to protect him, even a little bit, even for just a little while. So that was what he did.

“No.” Tim shifted again, uncomfortable and unable to ease it. Jason held him a touch closer. “I mean… Why did you bother? If you’d just waited a little while longer, you would have been rid of me for good. I thought that was what you wanted.”

Jason’s heart froze in horror. His arms froze where they were, too, holding Tim pinned in place. He couldn’t breathe for about ten seconds. It was like the air had been punched out of him.

He found his breath again. It hurt sucking in, blowing out, but he forced it to move. “Tim.” His voice sounded high and hysterical to his own ears. “Are you saying we should have left you to die? To be tortured to death?”

There was a shadow to his right. A presence. Jason looked up and saw Batman standing there. Looming, like he always did. But he was frozen, too. Tim seemed unaware of his presence. He curled up into Jason’s arms as much as he could, instinctively seeking warmth.

“No,” he muttered against Jason’s neck. His voice was dreamy and vague. He wasn’t really himself. Then again, maybe this was the truest Tim Jason had ever been allowed to see. “I just thought that was what you wanted.”

“Timmy, that was one time. I only tried to kill you once, and I was pretty damn insane at the time. It’s not how I feel anymore, okay? It’s not.”

Jason heard the desperation in his voice, and he wasn’t sure why it was there. He just really, really wanted Tim to believe him. He gave Batman a wild glance, begging for help. But the Bat just stood there, unmoving, unspeaking. Unhelpful, like usual when there was no physical threat to vanquish. No bad guys left to beat, no ticking bomb to dismantle. Just a kid, wounded and tortured and half-dead and saying things that made those around him want to rip off their own ears.

“Why not?” Tim asked. “It’s true. Everyone would be better off if I wasn’t around.”

“Tim.” Desperation gave way to seething fury, hissing through Jason’s teeth. “That is not even remotely true. Who’s been telling you that? I’ll kill them. I swear I will. They’re dead.”

“No one’s been saying that.” The words were still in that dreamy, loopy tone that was so unlike the Tim Jason thought he knew. “I just know it, that’s all. It’s pretty easy to figure out. I’m really smart, you know.”

“Yeah? Well sometimes you’re pretty damn stupid, too. No one would be better off if you were dead, Timothy Drake-Wayne. Everyone in the city is better off for you being here. Everyone in the world.”

Tim had the pure audacity to laugh against his neck. Jason felt a warm, sticky spatter and smelled something metallic, and he knew it was blood. “Hyperbole. You’re always so full of hyperbole, Red Hood.”

“it’s Jason,” he spat. “And you’re full of hyperbole, too. Saying everyone would be better off if you weren’t around. What a load of horse manure.”

Tim drew another breath, probably to say something else horrifying and earth-shattering. But Bruce chose that moment to step in. He knelt down next to where Jason sat on the floor. He’d pulled back the cowl, revealing his face. Grim mouth, haunted eyes. He reached out to Tim with open hands, drawing his attention with almost no effort.

“Tim.” His voice was soft, almost inaudible. Still, the entire world seemed suddenly silent, and that one word echoed and resonated in the empty space like the chime of a bell. Tim shut his mouth and stared at him, shattered and wordless.

“Partner.” Bruce laid a hand on his head, gloved fingers carefully brushing over his bloody, matted hair. “We’ve got to get you to a hospital. Please let us help you.”

“Hospital,” Jason echoed, almost as shocked by this as everything else that had happened in the last half hour. “Not the cave? Not Alfred?”

Bruce shook his head, the movement jerky and unwilling. He gestured at Tim’s hands, mangled in his lap. “We can’t… This needs more help than we can provide. We have to…”

So strange to hear Bruce without words. To hear Batman struggling to express himself. Another thing that wasn’t right, another revelation to add to the long, awful list.

“Timmy.” Bruce petted the kid’s head again, looking him in the eyes with the kind of steadiness that Jason shrank from. “I’m so sorry, but we can’t handle this at the cave. You’re going to need specialist help. It’s going to take a long, long time. You’re in for a rough road, partner. But we’re going to be with you every step of the way, I promise. I’m going to be with you. I’m not going to leave you alone, not again.”

Jason could tell by the way Tim shivered in his arms that he didn’t believe this. Not a word of it. But he nodded and closed his eyes, going limp. Surrendering.

Bruce looked at Jason, too. Right in his eyes. “Please let me take him.”

Not a demand. A simple request. Jason nodded wordlessly. Bruce leaned forward and lifted Tim out of Jason’s arms and into his own. It was slow, ginger. Achingly gentle. Bruce took great care to arrange Tim’s limbs in such a way as to hurt him as little as possible. To move his hands only barely, letting them rest against his stomach. Tim’s lips still tightened in pain, his head rocking as he bit back a moan, but Bruce succeeded in picking him up without causing him undue pain much better than Jason had earlier.

It made Jason want to cry again. Some more. Made him wish he’d been awake and aware when Bruce dug him out of that rubble, back then, because maybe it would have been like this. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone so crazy and run so far if he’d known how much Bruce cared about him. About all of his sons.

Bruce finally stood up with his wounded child cradled in his arms. He stood with his back straight, his face forward. And he strode to the door, where the Batmobile was already waiting. He didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Tim wished he could just pass out. He was so tired of being in pain. So tired of feeling his heartbeat in every whiplash and cigarette burn. Tired most of all of the relentless throbbing in his shattered, mangled hands.

But his eyes remained half-open, gazing sightlessly out the window as the streetlights of Gotham flashed by, the Batmobile traveling at insanely dangerous speeds. The car was on autopilot. Bruce was still holding him in his arms. Tim's ear was pressed to hard Kevlar and thin cloth. If he tried, he might be able to hear Bruce's heartbeat instead of his own. But his own pulse was so loud.

Bruce didn't talk, and Tim had nothing to say. He could have told him about the men who had taken him, but Bruce must already know, since he'd tracked them down and rescued Tim eventually. They didn't matter, anyway. Batman had beaten them badly enough to cause near-permanent injuries, he was aware of that. And whatever he hadn’t done, Red Hood would finish.

He ought to feel guilty, but he didn't. Hadn't he become Robin to temper Batman's darkness? That was the whole point. Batman had been getting too brutal after Jason's death, so Tim had stepped in and offered himself as a point of light. What a presumptuous and arrogant thing to do. He knew that now. Now that he didn't have any light left anymore.

The Batmobile made a turn and started to slow down. They must be getting close. Bruce shifted slightly, not much, but it still made all of Tim's various aches and injuries flare to agonizing life again.

"I'm going to have to leave you," Bruce said. His voice was hushed, almost blank. Conveying facts, but Tim still heard the anguish deeply buried in it. He'd spent a long time learning to understand even the tiniest nuances of Batman's voice. "Right after I promised not to leave you alone, too. I'm sorry about that. But I'll be back, as your dad, as quickly as possible. You won't be alone for long."

Tim grunted in understanding. He'd known that from the second Bruce said that he was going to take him to a hospital. It would make no sense for the Batman to hang around after rescuing Timothy Drake-Wayne from villainous hands and getting him to safety. The price they paid for privacy was loneliness. It had always been that way.

The Batmobile slid to a stop, but Bruce didn't immediately jump out. He paused for a moment, his arms tightening enough to make Tim lose his breath at the pressure. He felt Bruce trembling, and he marveled at the sensation. Imagine that. The Batman himself, wavering at the thought of leaving a broken, useless kid alone in an emergency room for a few hours. He never would have guessed.

Then Batman pulled on the mask and opened the door and left the car with Tim in his arms. He shouted for help, gravelly and bellowing. The next few minutes passed in a blur of light and pain and voices yelling far too close for Tim to make out what they were saying. Still, he couldn't pass out, as much as he wanted to. The breath left his body when somebody dropped him down on a surface, and his vision fled in sparks of white and red. He thought he might have screamed. Then he felt the burning in his throat and knew that he definitely had.

There were too many hands on him, and his breath sped up in unreasoning terror. He knew these hands were here to help, somewhere underneath all of the agony and shock and the overwhelming environment, but they hurt. He tried to move his own hands, tried to brush them away, and screamed again.

Things got very blurry. The next time he was aware of what was happening to him, he was staring up at a white light and blinking at the tears that streamed out of his eyes. Someone was leaning over him, a woman, holding his face in her hands. A nurse. "Calm down, Mr. Wayne," she was saying. "We need you to hold still. It's okay. You're going to be okay."

His throat worked. His arms twitched, and he realized that they were strapped down by the forearm. Panic twitched through him again at being restrained, but he forced it away. "Tim," he whispered, voice raw and cracked.

The nurse blinked. "What was that?"

"Tim," he said again, a little louder. "Don't call me Mr. Wayne. Please. Tim." At least that name belonged to him. Wasn't borrowed, wasn't stolen. His.

"Tim," she repeated, and she managed a smile. Good customer service. He would leave a favorable review for this hospital, eventually. Her thumbs stroked the side of his face. "Do you think you can calm down for me, Tim? We're here to help."

He nodded jerkily, more tears running down. "Sorry."

"No need to apologize." Her thumbs inscribed little circles on his temples. He could feel that other people were doing other things on other parts of his body. Things that hurt. A lot. But the gentle touch on his temples was distracting, and he focused on the nurse. "Everything's going to be okay."

Yet more tears flowed down his temples, a helpless surge of them, just at someone saying those words. Tim sniffled, but it would be normal for a pampered rich kid who had just survived twenty hours of torture to cry, so he didn't fight the tears too hard.

A dark, cold part of him knew it wasn't true, that she was lying to him. Everything was not going to be okay. You didn't just come back from injuries like this. He knew that. But he nodded for the nurse, letting her comfort him with soft deceptions. "Where...where's my..."

My family. He wanted to say. Didn't want to say. Didn't dare to say.

The nurse looked teary-eyed with sympathy. "Batman said he already called your dad. He's on his way."

For a moment, Tim was overwhelmed with a wave of pure longing. All he could think, all he could feel, was Jack Jack Jack Jack Jack. He wanted his dad. He wanted his dad.

"I want my dad." It came out on a sob.

The nurse sniffled. "He's on his way, honey. He's on his way."

But that wasn't Jack. That was Bruce. Tim closed his eyes and breathed. What difference did it make, anyway? Neither of them had really wanted him that much, though both had eventually found a way to deal with the fact that he was in their lives.

The medical treatment felt like being tortured again. His mind started to drift, falling into the pain. He still couldn't pass out. The nurse's touches felt more and more distant. Her words made less and less sense. He wanted his dad. No, he wanted someone who cared about him. Someone who wasn't a stranger, someone who knew him and liked him anyway, but he didn't know who that would be.

He felt raw, stripped bare and left on a rock to bleed in the sunlight. His mind spun in lazy circles, caught in loops of pain and helpless longing. He wanted things he didn't deserve and could never earn. He wanted to go home, but he didn't know where or even what that was.

Then another voice intruded. It was loud, sonorous, pitched on the edge of hysteria. "Let me see him! Let me see my son!"

Tim opened bleary eyes and stared upward. The nurse was leaning away, her hands still on his face, looking toward the commotion. Then she looked back to him with a smile as her fingers tightened gently on the sides of his head. "He's here."

Tim blinked, and she was gone. In her place was Bruce leaning over him, pale and sweaty, eyes raking him anxiously from head to foot. He was wearing a polo shirt and probably khakis underneath, and the collar was mussed and had a smudge of lipstick. Brucie was disheveled and frantic, and no one could have blamed him for seeking the comforts of a lady friend while waiting for news of his kidnapped son.

But he was here now, and that was all that mattered, right? Tim shivered. Bruce started to give him a crooked smile, a try at reassurance, when his gaze landed on the restraints around his forearms. His eyes flashed, and for a moment Batman looked out from behind them. His head snapped up, and he bared his teeth at the doctors, pointing at the restraint with a trembling finger. "What is this? Get it off him! Right now!"

A doctor tried to argue. "Mr. Wayne, he was hurting himself..."

"I don't care! Get it off!" Brucie's fingers were already fumbling at the strap. They looked clumsy, but the strap had already come undone before anyone could stop him. "My son was just kidnapped and tortured, that's what Batman told me, and now you're tying him down to a table? How dare you!"

His voice was a roar, and someone finally leaped to release the other strap. Tim gasped as soon as he was free, though he didn't move so much as a centimeter. Tension ran out of his shoulders and back, flopping him down on the table, and his eyes closed in pure relief. He hadn't realized how terrified and out of control the restraints had been making him feel until they were gone.

Hands were on his shoulders. Big, tough, shaking. "Timmy, Timmy. Can you look at me? Please, Timmy."

Bruce's voice, trembling and afraid. Tim opened his eyes and looked up at him. Another sob tore free against his will. Bruce gave him a watery smile, hands tightening on his shoulders. "Hey, kiddo. It's so good to see your eyes. I'm so sorry this happened to you, but I promise, it will never happen again."

Tim nodded. The tears ran down. His head ached with dehydration, throat sticky and coagulated, but he couldn't make it stop. Maybe Red Robin could have, but not Tim. He was helpless in the face of his pain and his adopted father's naked concern. There was nothing to do but lie there, and tremble, and cry.

"Oh, Timmy. Timmy." Bruce lifted shaking fingers and swiped at the tears, succeeding only in smearing them around. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, kiddo. It's going to be okay. We're going to make it be okay."

The confidence of a rich man, certain that if he just threw enough money at it, he could make any problem go away. Broken fingers, shattered bones, a tortured psyche, everything could be fixed if you had the right connections and hired the right people. Batman knew better than that, but Bruce was saying all the right things, playing by the right script. A traumatized rich man, shocked and horrified by what had been done to someone he genuinely loved and cared for, but still a rich man. Tim might have laughed, if he'd had the energy. Bruce was so good at this. It was something to see.

Instead, he closed his eyes with a sigh and did his best to relax despite the pain still roaring through him. A rich son would be reassured by these words from a rich father, so that was the part he would play. It itched and ached and burned, but he would do what he was supposed to do for as long as Bruce would allow him to do it. It was all he had left.

Sooner or later, Bruce would recognize that he didn't need a partner with crippled hands, and all of this would go away. Not a CEO, not a hero, not even a son. Once he let himself realize that, it would all be over. But for now, Tim could pretend.

Chapter Text

The phone was ringing, a gentle tootling that Kori had picked because she thought it was pretty. Dick forced his eyes open with a groan and fumbled for the phone on his nightstand. He glanced at the time as he pawed at the button to receive the call, 4:13 AM, what the heck. Whoever was calling him, it had better be important.

There was no ID, so someone was probably calling him on a burner. Dick yawned into the mouthpiece, partly because he couldn't help it and partly to be annoying. "Y'ello, you got Dick Grayson."

"Dick." The voice on the other end was tense, and Dick blinked himself further awake. "I was just hoping for an update on Tim."

"Tim?" Dick stared around at the blurry gray ceiling, streaked with yellow light from the lamps outside. "I don't have an update on Tim, Jay. Sorry. B told me he would call if he needed backup, but he hasn't. I figured the kid busted himself out on his own. His kidnappers are probably cursing the day they bagged a bird by accident, thinking it was some lazy rich kid they could ransom for a quick buck. Why are you calling me and not Alfred? Or O?"

He didn't have to ask why he wouldn't call Batman. Jason must have seen that Tim was kidnapped on the news and got worried, bless his heart, but of course he would never call Bruce himself. That wasn't going to happen. Dick was just surprised that Jason had come to him for news over, you know, anyone who was actually in Gotham.

Jason cursed, low and vicious. "Fuck. Shit. I didn't want to be the one to tell you."

"What?" Dick sat up, suddenly alert. There was something in Jason's voice that set up a low alarm in the pit of his stomach. He felt sick, a little dizzy.

Batman must have called on Red Hood for backup, which meant that the situation was both urgent and severe enough that he couldn't wait for Nightwing to arrive. Which meant that Jason had seen Tim in whatever state he'd been in when he was rescued, and it had been bad enough that he was calling Dick now for an update, assuming that Dick would already be at the manor. Whatever Tim's injuries were, they were not trivial.

"I'm sorry." Jason sounded truly apologetic, which was even more alarming. Jason didn't do apologies. "It's been six hours. I honestly thought someone would have called you and you'd be at the hospital by now."

"Hospital?" Dick had been moving, throwing together a bag one-handed while he held the phone to his ear. Now he stopped, frozen in the middle of his bedroom with a pair of underwear in one hand and the other fisted around the little box that held his brother's voice. "Why isn't he at home?"

The words were all but spat, harsh and demanding. Dick heard the Bat there. He would be upset with himself later, but for now he just wanted answers. Whatever Tim had been through, he ought to be tucked up in the medical room in the Batcave under Alfred's watchful care, not abandoned in a public hospital full of strangers and bright lights and a thousand triggers that would keep him on edge and unable to rest while he recovered.

Jason sighed. "That's the thing, Dick. This wasn't some random kidnapping. They weren't just looking for a rich family to roll for cash. B thinks... They knew who he was. They tortured him. For hours, I don't know how long he was gone. But it was bad, man. It was real bad. We couldn't take care of it at home, or even the clinic."

When the word "torture" crossed Jason's lips, Dick sat down. Right on the floor. Pretty hard. His butt ached a little, but he barely felt it. Somehow it had never occured to him that Tim might be tortured by his kidnappers. Hearing that word associated with his little brother booted everything on tilt, not just his mind but the entire universe.

The thought seemed so remote and fantastical, impossible to contemplate. They were just common criminals, the kind the Bats and Birds kept under control in Gotham on a nightly basis. It hadn't been a costumed villain or a madman or even Ra's al Ghul. Just common criminals.

But even common criminals had access to tools. He should have remembered that. Even common criminals could be vicious, and cruel, and willing to do anything it took to get what they wanted.

"How bad?" Dick asked. His lips felt numb.

He could almost feel Jason wavering over the phone. He didn't want to say this out loud, and Dick didn't blame him. He knew that whatever was about to come out of Jason's mouth, he wouldn't have wanted to say it out loud, either.

Jason sucked in a breath, then let it out. "The worst of it is his hands. Someone took a hammer to them. A bunch...a bunch of times. They're... They weren't the right shape anymore. When I saw them."

Dick thought about Tim's hands. How slender they were, how long and delicate, almost elegant. Dancing over a computer keyboard or deftly maneuvering through the black and white keys of a piano or spinning his staff from one hand to the other. Always in control, taking Tim exactly where he wanted to go with grace and precision. He thought about those hands being mangled, smashed by a hammer.

Tears filled his eyes. He didn't try to get rid of them. "Jay..."

"I know." Jason's voice was grim. "Don't worry, the ones who did it are in the hospital too. A different one."

Dick hadn't planned to ask. He nodded, even though Jason couldn't see him. "I'll be with Tim in a couple of hours. I'll call you with an update then."

"Thanks." Terse but heartfelt. Jason to a T. The call ended, and Dick lowered the phone to his lap and stared at it.

4:16 AM. Strange how much could change in just three minutes.

After a moment to catch his breath, he lifted the phone again and called Alfred.

X

Tim was still in surgery by the time Dick got to the hospital. The nurses he could get hold of didn't know how much longer it would take. He curled up in a chair in a waiting room down the hall from the OR and started scrolling through his phone, reading articles that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. How long it took a crushed hand to heal, what the complications could be. He looked at pictures of pins and metal plates and external fixators being used to keep bones together. He kept reminding himself that they weren't torture devices.

He watched a few YouTube videos about it, too, with the sound on his phone turned all the way down, his eyes fixed on the screen as if nothing else mattered. Usually blood and gore didn't bother him, he couldn't let it in his line of work, but that swirl of sickness in his stomach had not gone away. He kept imagining Tim's hands in those pictures, those videos, and he had to fight the urge to puke.

God, Timmy didn't deserve this. Any of this. He was such a good kid. Dick could not comprehend the kind of evil it would take to inflict wounds like this on any teenager, let alone Tim Drake, one of the bravest and most self-sacrificing people he knew.

Alfred had been awake when Dick called him, of course. He was at home, cleaning and cooking. Dick had heard bubbling in the background, so he knew Alfred was making soup. Probably baking something, too, even though Tim was going to be stuck in the hospital for days or weeks and might not get to enjoy any of it. It was just how Alfred coped. The manor was going to be absolutely sterile top to bottom by the time Timmy got to go home.

Alfred said that Damian was still asleep after patrol. The kid hadn't been told yet how extensive Tim's injuries were, only that Batman had rescued him. Tim wouldn't believe that Damian cared, but Dick knew that he did. The youngest Robin did his best not to show it, and Tim, as smart as he was, was not always good at recognizing how much other people valued him. Damian would blame Tim for being injured, loudly, but he would blame the men who had hurt him more, he just wouldn’t say it.

He was going to be furious. And hurt. Dick ran through conversations in his head, things he might say to help Damian calm down once he got the chance.

He kept Jason updated with text messages. They were mostly the same thing, "Still no news." Jason never responded, but Dick knew he appreciated it.

He didn't know where Bruce was, but he could feel that he was nearby. Probably hovering around the door to the operating room, unable to leave. Sitting on the floor or on a plastic bench, still in his get-up as Brucie Wayne, gad about town. Oh yeah, Alfred had told Dick about that, too. It was the only way Bruce could be near to Tim right now, so that was what he was doing.

He was probably chafing at the restriction, wishing he could suit up and go in there and tell the surgeons to hurry up and fix his boy. Dick smiled faintly at the image, the idea of the big black cowl and cavernous cape inside of an operating room, Batman towering over the doctors and scowling at them with his eyes squinted nearly shut.

Dick checked the news. There was a breaking story about Timothy Drake-Wayne being rescued by the Batman, but no pictures and no details, just a few paragraphs of a press release that Wayne Enterprises had sent out to quell public fears about their missing CEO. The hospital was doing a good job of keeping their celebrity patient under wraps, for now. It was probably one of the reasons Bruce had picked this one, besides the fact that they had one of the best orthopedic departments in the state. Dick knew that was true because he had looked it up, too.

Before twenty-four hours was over, though, he knew that Bruce Wayne would have hired the best orthopedic surgeon in the world and flown him or her here, no matter the cost. Bruce had probably already taken care of that while he was waiting outside the OR.

Gray streaks of dawn were showing outside the window when someone finally came and told Dick that Tim was in recovery. He jumped to his feet, phone clutched in his fist, and decidedly did not sway where he stood. "Can I see him?"

The nurse hesitated. Dick could see in the exhaustion in his eyes. He'd been in the operating room, assisting, and Dick had to refrain from grabbing his shoulders and shaking him to make him spill all the details of what he'd seen. "His father is already with him, and we usually only allow parents in the recovery room..."

"Tim's mom is gone," Dick blurted. Of course the guy knew that, if he'd been paying attention. The murder of Tim's parents and his subsequent adoption had been in the news, too. "I'm his big brother. Please."

Dick knew he was charming. He knew people had a way of doing what he wanted, just because he asked them to. He tried not to lean on his charisma too hard most of the time, because it was a little unfair. But this was a special occasion. You might call it an emergency.

The nurse didn't even try to fight it. He nodded and led the way, shoulders slumping wearily. Dick patted his shoulder and got his name, "Dave Odom," on the way to the recovery room, though he didn't have the wherewithal to chat much beyond that.

"Thanks, Dave," Dick murmured, slipping inside. The ward was dark, nearly empty. Tim was the only occupant, with Bruce Wayne hunched in a plastic chair next to him, looking appropriately done in.

Dick approached slowly, his eyes raking over as much of Tim as he could see. The poor kid was covered in wounds. His broken hands were suspended in external fixators, much like Dick had seen in his research, a sheet pulled up to his armpits, hospital gown askew on his chest. Bruce's hand lay on his upper arm, large and protective. Tim's eyes were closed, unconscious rather than asleep. Dick wondered how long it would take him to come out of the anesthesia. He hadn’t thought to ask Dave.

Bruce watched him come, dark circles under his eyes. His lips twitched in an attempt at a smile. "Good morning, Dick." His voice was low, near a whisper.

Dick nodded and came to a stop on the other side of Tim's bed. "Morning, B." He didn't bother to admonish him for not calling him. He understood the reasoning that must have gone through Bruce's mind, at least well enough. Bruce hadn't wanted to wake him up from much needed sleep. Tim had still been in surgery so there was nothing Dick could have done anyway. He would tell him later. All the logical reasons Bruce would have given himself for not telling him right away.

But Dick understood the real reason, too, without being told. The emotional truth. Bruce hadn't wanted to tell him because he didn't want to hurt another son, not after seeing one son in the aftermath of torture. Jason knowing right away, being there and seeing it for himself, was bad enough. Bruce put up a hard front, but he was as soft as a marshmallow when it came to the emotional well-being of his boys.

Dick looked at Tim's face and willed himself not to cry again. Bruce needed strength and support right now, not another child to comfort. "What's the prognosis?"

Bruce's face twitched unhappily. "They don't know yet. There could be nerve damage. Could be a lot of things. We'll have to wait until he wakes up so they can do their tests." He looked at Tim, then back to Dick. "We'll deal with it, whatever it is."

Dick nodded. He snagged a plastic chair from another bed and dragged it over to sit. "Jason's worried."

“Hn.” Bruce considered. “He was good with him. Took care of him while I finished up with the criminals. Tim said some things that made him upset. Frightened him."

"You too?"

Bruce nodded. "We're going to need..." He sighed. "It might have been momentary. Torture is never easy to endure. It puts the mind in a dark place. But I think Tim might need to recover in more ways than just the physical."

Dick's heart ached. His hand moved almost on its own, up to Timmy's head to run his fingers along his hairline. He found a spot with no bruises or cuts and ran his index and thumb over it again and again. "I wish I'd been there."

"Sorry I couldn't wait for you."

Dick shook his head. "No. Faster was better."

He watched Timmy's face and longed for him to wake up, even though he knew it would cause him pain. He wanted to see his eyes, hear his voice, even if it was through tears. Tim was too still like this, unmoving against white sheets with his face washed out and lips pale. It made Dick think too much about just how bad things could have gone tonight. He didn't know if this family would survive the death of another son.

So he was grateful, too. Grateful to Tim for making it through that, as horrible as it must have been. As soon as he woke up, he was going to tell him so.

Tim just needed to wake up, that was all. Sooner rather than later. Please.

Chapter Text

Bruce wanted to hold his kid's hand. It had never been something he thought about, never something he'd imagined he would miss. But he was sitting next to his child's hospital bed while the child recovered from surgery. He wanted to hold his hand, and he couldn't.

He had to settle for holding his upper arm, which wasn't the same thing at all. At least there weren't many wounds there, at least that Bruce had seen. Tim's shoulders were strained from being hung from the ceiling, and his forearms had taken a number of burns and slashes, but the upper arms were mostly unscathed.

He would be able to tell when Tim started to stir, probably. But Tim wouldn't be able to hold his hand in return, wouldn't be able to reciprocate the attention and let Bruce know that he was back with the living. There were a lot of benefits of holding hands that Bruce had never thought about before. He tried to remember if he'd held Tim's hand the last time he'd been injured and bedridden. He couldn't recall. He should have. He would, in the future.

He wanted to tell himself that Tim wouldn't get hurt this badly ever again. That he'd never have the opportunity to hold his hand in a dire situation like this. But Bruce had spent far too long forcing himself to see the world with clarity to lie to himself like that. This would happen again, as it would happen to all of his sons and daughters who insisted on putting on a suit and flying out into the night to fight evil. Despite all of Bruce's training, all of his care, all of the top-of-line equipment money could buy, he could not keep his children safe from harm.

"Bruce, what are you thinking about?"

Ah, Dick was here too. Bruce had almost forgotten. Dick was holding the side of Tim's face, rather than his upper arm, because Dick was shameless like that. Tim would probably even appreciate it, coming from him.

Bruce's mouth worked. He tried to think of an answer that wouldn't take an hour to explain. "Regrets," he finally settled on.

Dick's mouth twitched in something like a smile, a little bitter and a little sad. "You think about that too much. Why not make plans to correct things in the future, instead?"

Bruce nodded and looked back at his hand on Tim's upper arm, his fingers closing almost convulsively. His oldest boy was wise. He would do well to listen to him. "I regret...that I can't hold Tim's hand right now, and I don't know when I'll be able to again."

Dick's face softened. "Yeah, me too. Sucks, doesn't it? It isn't fair."

Bruce shook his head. None of this was remotely fair. His hand tightened around Tim's arm again, squeezing a bit too hard.

As if in response, Tim's muscles tensed against his hand. His head rocked to the side, away from Dick's touch, and a low moan escaped his lips.

"Timmy?" Dick leaned closer, voice lighting up with hope.

Tim's eyes fluttered, then sluggishly opened, just a sliver. He was facing toward Bruce, letting him see a glimpse of blue. Relief flooded Bruce's chest, and he knew it showed on his face, too. "Welcome back, partner."

Tim blinked, then turned his head to look at Dick, still leaning over him with a beaming grin. Then he sighed and sank back into the pillow, letting his eyes fall shut. Every muscle was loose and relaxed. It seemed that he was relieved, too.

"Heya, Timmers," Dick stroked his hair. His voice wavered, caught on the edge of tears. "How are you feeling?"

Tim's head rocked on the pillow. "Not great." He opened his eyes and looked at Dick, then at Bruce. "I'm sorry."

Bruce was baffled. He couldn't speak.

Dick pressed his hand against the boy's forehead. "For what, Timmy? You have nothing to be sorry for."

Tim was looking at Bruce, his eyes steady though still glazed. Reporting to his commander. "I couldn't escape on my own. I tried, but my injured leg hindered me. You shouldn't have had to come after me to save me from common thugs. I wasted your time. That was my failure."

Dick started to protest again, his voice sputtering. Bruce raised his other hand, and Dick fell silent. Bruce's eyes never wavered from Tim's face. His pressed his upper arm as hard as he dared.

"Tim." He heard the rumbling deep in his voice. The Bat. He paused, pushed it back. Then he let it come. Maybe Tim would believe the Bat.

"Tim. This was not a failure. The man who orchestrated this... McDaniels. He knew that Timothy Drake was Red Robin. We're still tracing where he got the information, but we know that much, at least. He caused your motorcyle accident the other day that injured your leg. He created the opportunity to exploit it later, to kidnap you and take revenge for the way you dismantled his crime ring last year. He was prepared for you, and you were not prepared for him. You had no way of knowing his plans, and he took every step to keep you off-balance and reacting rather than acting."

He went quiet, not sure what else to say. Tim was still watching his face, though his eyes were watering. Dick was silent in the background.

"And it was not a waste of time," Bruce said. "It will never be a waste of my time to save an innocent person. To save you. I'm glad to do it. I'm just sorry I didn't come sooner. I'm very, very sorry about that, son. You didn't deserve this. Any of this."

He thought for a long moment about how to do what he wanted to do next. He was not hesitating for lack of desire, simply considering the logistics. Then he let go of Tim's arm and slid that hand under his upper back instead, circling around until he was all but lifting the boy off the pillow. Simultaneously, he stood up and leaned over him, bringing his other hand carefully behind his head. Dick leaned back out of the way, accommodating once he understood what was happening. And Bruce held his boy close, taking infinite care not to disturb the external fixators.

Tim was stiff, at first, as if he couldn't comprehend that Bruce was trying to hug him. So Bruce hung on for a moment longer, and then another moment after that, willing the boy to understand and accept it. He knew he wasn't good at offering physical reassurance, but surely Tim recognized a hug, didn't he?

Then Tim abruptly went limp. His arms jerked, as if he wanted to bring his hands up and squeeze Bruce in return. He hissed in pain through his teeth, and Bruce tightened the hand on the back of his head, pressing his face into his shoulder. Tim relaxed, then, his breath evening out, letting himself be held. He even snuggled his face into Bruce's shoulder.

Bruce would not have been surprised if Tim had cried, then. It had been a long, hard day, and he deserved the release of tears. But Bruce’s shoulder remained dry, though Tim shuddered a bit in his hands. Perhaps the boy was dehydrated. He should have offered him some water when he woke up. Wasn't that what you did when people came out surgery?

That was the thought that finally had Bruce setting Tim carefully down on the bed again and sitting back so he could look in his face, frowning lightly. He kept one hand wrapped around Tim's shoulder, holding on, and Tim looked back at him raptly. Dick made a small noise in the background that might have been a coo.

"Are you thirsty?" Bruce asked.

Tim nodded, and Dick got up to fetch him some water or ice chips, whatever the nurse would allow. Bruce sat there and held Tim's shoulder, rubbing small circles with his thumb. He could feel the knots in the muscle, the corded tendons from being strained. Bruce kept massaging and felt the knots let loose, one at a time.

Tim's eyes fell half shut, and he made a hum of appreciation. Bruce smiled. He was glad he could offer this, as little as it was. Dick returned with a cup of ice chips and started feeding them to Tim one by one, and Bruce massaged his other shoulder, as well, then the back of his neck.

It wasn't long before Tim fell asleep under both of their ministrations, sliding gently away between one moment and the next. Dick and Bruce both sat back, watching him for a long time.

"That was good," Dick said eventually, giving Bruce a bright smile.

Bruce blinked at him. "I know when one of my children needs to be comforted."

Dick snorted gently. "Kind of easy to tell, in this case. But yeah, you did good. I'm proud of you."

Bruce felt warmth spread through his chest. It seemed that he wasn't beyond the need for praise, either. Or at least he could still enjoy it when it came.

Dick sighed, staring sightlessly at Tim's face. "I hate that he sees being kidnapped and tortured as a personal failure."

Bruce nodded. "It's regrettable, but unfortunately a natural response."

Dick bristled and glared. "What do you mean by that?"

Bruce narrowed his eyes at him. "It's basic psychology. When something terrible happens to someone, especially a young person, they naturally assume that it's their own fault. It's an ego-centric view of the world, believing that you have control over everything that happens, even if it doesn't make sense."

Dick tilted his head. "Are you saying that Tim is egotistical?" He sounded less hostile now, more curious.

Bruce shrugged. "Only in the narrow sense of the word. It's a result of naivete, not arrogance. You know as well as I do that Tim tends to take far too much on his shoulders and has difficulty sharing the burden with others."

"That's true." Dick frowned at Tim. "I wish he would stop doing that."

"It's probably a result of the neglect he suffered in childhood as well as his own personality."

Dick said nothing for a few moments. When he spoke, he sounded shaken. "You're having a lot of deep thoughts, huh?"

Bruce grunted. "Guess I'm in the mood."

"You've never talked about Tim being neglected before."

Bruce had been staring at Tim's sleeping face. Now his gaze flicked up to Dick, then back down again. "I didn't want to...burden you with the knowledge, I suppose. You knew that his parents were gone for long periods, which was why he was left to his own devices and was able to follow up on his obsession with Batman and Robin. It's why he eventually became Robin himself and even had time for the training."

"Yeah, but I never connected that with...neglect." Dick sounded ashamed.

Bruce shook his head. "There was no reason for you to. From the perspective of a young adult, Tim's lifestyle must have seemed...cool. Free. He was able to do far more than the average pre-teen because his parents weren't there to disallow it."

"Yeah, I guess, but... I was old enough when he started coming around that I should have realized that it wasn't healthy."

"Don't blame yourself, chum." Bruce sighed. "It's far more blame-worthy that I, as a full-grown adult with plenty of experience observing neglect and abuse of all kinds, didn't recognize the damage Tim's upbringing had done to him. Or if I did, I didn't care."

"You were in a dark place, B. It's why Tim pushed his way into your life in the first place."

"Then maybe we should both stop blaming ourselves for past mistakes and just look to what we can do to repair the damage now."

Dick snorted. "Fair play. You got me."

They were quiet for a while, listening to Tim's calm, steady breaths. The sound was soothing, though Bruce could hear the strain in the boy's throat even in this passive way. He'd been screaming. For a long time. With no hope of relief.

He should have rescued him sooner.

"How?" Dick asked.

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him. "Hmm?"

"How do we fix the damage? Tim..." Dick laughed bitterly. "He's not gonna be open to the idea of therapy, I don't think. Though we could all certainly use a few hundred hours of it."

Bruce had been thinking about this for a long time, while waiting for Tim to come out of surgery, then for him to wake up. He knew that the neglect Tim had suffered made him always wonder if he was wanted, if he was worthy. It was easy enough to see in his actions, in how hard he worked to earn and maintain his role on the team, and how angry and frightened he became whenever something seemed to threaten it.

So the first step seemed easy. Easy to articulate, at least. It would be another thing to accomplish. "I think the most important thing is to make him understand that he's wanted,” Bruce said. The words came slowly but surely, having percolated in his mind for many hours. “That he'll always be wanted, no matter what. He will always be welcome in the manor, or in the cave, wherever he wants to be.

"Tim has spent enough time studying the human body to know that damage to the hands is particularly tricky and difficult to repair. He's afraid that he might be crippled, which is bad enough. That’s a life-changing complication, and it would be a cruel blow to such a young, active person to lose his mobility in any way.

"But he's also afraid of what that might mean. That it might mean losing his place, both as a hero and as a Wayne. He's spent so much time trying to prove himself, over and over again. Years. He never sees himself as doing enough, as good enough. He's never satisfied. And how can he satisfy his own high standards with crippled hands?

"So we need to make sure he knows that it doesn't matter. He can still be a hero, providing support like Oracle if need be, or we can find other ways to accommodate him. He would be extraordinary as support, but if he wants to be in the field, we will find a way to make it happen. No matter what it takes, I'm willing to do it. We're all willing do it.

"But more than that, it doesn't matter. He doesn't have to be a hero to be a Wayne. He doesn't have to be a vigilante to be my son, or your brother, or Damian's rival. He's enough, as he is, Tim Drake. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne. He is loved and wanted for who he is, no more and no less, with or without a healthy body and steady hands."

The room fell quiet for a long moment. Dick swallowed hard.

"God, Bruce, are you trying to make me cry?"

Bruce gave him a small smile. "Do you need me to tell you the same? You are loved and wanted for who you are, Richard Grayson, nothing else. You are my son no matter what you do and no matter what happens to you. So is Jason, and so is Damian."

Now Dick was actually sniffling.

Bruce shifted in his chair. "I know I'm not always good at communicating with you boys. Maybe I should have said something like this earlier."

Dick waved a hand. "No, no. I mean, maybe. Yeah. Tim could have stood hearing this a few dozen times in the past. Jason, too, probably. But just... Thank you. That means a lot. I kind of wish Tim had been awake to hear you say all that, though."

Bruce nodded. "I'll say it again when he wakes up. More than once, if necessary. I'll say it as many times as I need to."

"Good enough." Dick sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring into Tim's face. There was wrinkle between his eyebrows, even in his sleep, like he couldn't quite escape the pain. "We just have to wait for that, then."

And so they waited.

Chapter Text

When Tim woke, everything felt dull. The pain in his hands was dull, as well as the rest of his body. That was a relief. But everything else was dull, too. The colors, the sounds, the beat of his heart. He felt colorless and limp, uncomfortable but unable to do anything about it, or even to figure out what needed to be done.

When he turned his head, he could see Bruce, asleep in an armchair with one arm wrapped around his body and his head propped on his hand. He was bent in a way that was sure to leave him with a sore neck, later. Tim wanted to speak, wake him up, get him to move, but he couldn't find his voice.

The other side of the bed was empty. Tim was pretty sure Dick had been there earlier, but he was gone now.

The room was different. He'd woken up in a ward last night, but now he was in a private room. They must have moved him from recovery. The window was open, and Tim could smell fresh air. As fresh as the air got in Gotham, anyway. The light outside appeared to be mid-morning.

His nose itched, dully. He couldn't raise a hand to scratch it. He couldn't do anything at all. He was helpless, trapped in his own body. He remembered watching his father similarly trapped in a hospital bed, then in a wheelchair. Maybe that was his fate, too.

But he could still use his legs. Eventually. Just right now... He didnt want to move. He didn't want to do anything. He wanted to go back to sleep, but he wasn't tired enough to override the pain, as dull as it was.

As soon as the swelling in his hands went down, the doctors were going to do tests. They were going to figure out how deep the damage went, how permanent it was. It was probably going to hurt. Tim tried to make himself care about it, but he couldn't muster the energy.

Tim stared at the off-white ceiling and tried to let his mind go blank. All of his thoughts went down empty corridors to bad ends. He didn't want to follow them. He didn't want to think about anything at all.

But when he tried to banish everything from his mind, images rose unbidden and captured his attention. The face of McDaniels, the man who had captured him, looming over him with a hellish grin. The gray floor of the warehouse as he lay in a heap, unable to move after a beating with his arms and legs wrapped in chains. His own hand on a table, a man's hand holding his wrist brutally against the surface. Another hand raising a hammer, bringing it down.

He flinched and sucked in a breath, blinking rapidly. He didn't want to cry. He wasn't going to cry. It was in the past. It was over. Batman and Red Hood had come for him, even though he hadn't expected them to. That was a blessing. It was. He was going to be fine.

His breath was speeding up, though, beyond his control. The dullness that had held him encased in helplessness was pierced by remembered terror and present anxiety. The dull pain in his hands sharpened, too, and his fingers twitched involuntarily.

This time a whimper crossed his lips, short and cut off. He couldn't stop it.

Bruce woke with a start, his face lifting from his hand, eyes wide. "Tim?"

Tim tried to calm his breathing and couldn't do it. "Bruce." His voice was high-pitched and broken, full of tears. He wanted the dullness back, if only to save himself from the embarrassment. But of course he didn't get his wish.

"Tim. Timmy." Bruce scooted his chair closer, then leaned over and took Tim's face in his hands. His voice was low and tender. "Calm down, son. It's okay. You're okay. Did you have a flashback?"

Tim nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. He knew it was normal; he knew he was probably going to be having a lot of those over the next few days and weeks, maybe years. But it was still embarrassing. He still hated it. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Please, Tim. Don't apologize for this."

Bruce's thumbs stroked over the sides of his face. It was like the nurse last night, the one who had rubbed little circles on Tim's temples, but these hands were rough and large and so much more familiar. So much more comforting. Tim felt himself relaxing almost involuntarily.

"They smashed my hands, Bruce." It came out in a rush, like a confession. Gasped, breathless. Tim didn't know why he said it. He knew Bruce already knew. "With a hammer. They held my hand down on a table and they smashed it with a hammer, and I watched the whole time."

"I know, partner." Bruce sounded tearful, too. Tim felt horribly, dreadfully guilty. He had never wanted to make things hard for Bruce. Never wanted to make him cry. He was supposed to do the opposite. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It never should have happened."

Tim lay still, breathing raggedly. He let his eyes fall shut and did his best to concentrate on Bruce's touch, slow and repetitive, firm enough to keep his attention without pressing too hard against any bruises. He let himself feel that touch and nothing else, let the repetitive rhythm bring his breathing under control. Everything was okay. Bruce was here. He was safe. McDaniels was...gone.

Once his breathing was steady, Tim opened his eyes and turned his head to face his father and mentor. Bruce gently let go of him and sat back a little, watching him with unwavering attention. "The...the men..." Tim's lips felt numb. "They're in jail, right?"

Stupid question. Of course they were. Of course Batman and Red Hood would have made sure of that. Still, Tim wanted to hear it from Bruce's mouth.

Bruce nodded. He didn't seem disappointed or surprised by the question. "They are. I swear they will never touch you again."

Stupid promise. Criminals got out of prison all the time in Gotham. It was like a revolving door. There was no way Bruce could guarantee something like that. Still, Tim's heart settled just a little bit more. It became just a little bit easier to breathe.

Bruce reached out again and laid a careful hand on his shoulder. It was like he couldn't help but touch him, hold him. Tim didn't mind, really, but it was a little odd. Bruce had never been a particularly tactile person, though he didn't hold back on physical touch and reassurance when he saw that it was needed by those around him, especially his children and other proteges.

Tim must look very needy right now. Well, it wasn't a huge surprise. He felt pretty needy. If his hands were working, he might be clinging to Bruce like a frightened toddler. Maybe it was a good thing that he couldn't do that.

Bruce's thumb rubbed over his shoulder, slowly, almost contemplatively. "Listen, Tim. There's something I need to tell you."

His voice was very serious. Tim settled his head against the pillow and watched him with all the gravity he could command. "Yes?"

Bruce's mouth pressed in a grim line. "I heard what you said to Jason..."

Tim's heart jumped, and his face flamed with embarrassment. "D-don't, don't take that seriously, Bruce, it was the heat of the moment, I'm not really thinking about, about..."

Bruce squeezed his shoulder, and Tim shut up, feeling breathless and faint, his head spinning. "Tim, Tim. I know. It was a dark moment, and you expressed the darkness you were feeling. It's okay. I understand. And maybe we should talk about it more later, but..."

He drew in a breath and let it out in something between a huff and a sigh. "There's something I need you to know, okay? I would not be better off if you weren't around. I know you weren't really thinking that, you don't really believe that, but I still... I wanted to tell you. I want you around. I want you with me. Always. And no matter... No matter what the future holds, that will not change. Do you understand?"

If anything Tim's face felt even redder. God, he must look so pathetic for Bruce to feel the need to reassure him like this. Such a baby. So useless. Couldn't even handle less than a day of being roughed up without falling into such a pit that Bruce felt like he had to talk him down like someone clinging to a bridge, about to jump.

"I understand." His voice sounded small and weak to his own ears. It made him hate himself even more. For not being strong. For not being able to handle his own issues without needing Batman to come save him. Again.

Bruce watched his face, eyes darting back and forth. After a moment he shook his head slightly, like he didn't find what he was looking for. Somehow, Tim felt even worse.

Bruce's hand tightened on his shoulder. It was starting to hurt. "No, kiddo. I don't think you're getting it. I’m not just saying this because you were hurt and I want to make you feel better. It's always true. It's been true for a very long time. I want you, and I need you, and I don't care if you're a hero or a CEO or just a kid, just an ordinary teenager going to high school and dating a girl and deciding what college to go to. You're mine, you're my son, and I love you and I want you in my life. I love you so much, Tim. You believe that, right?"

Tim felt frozen, staring at Bruce without blinking. How long had he been yearning to hear someone, anyone, say something like that to him? How long had he been wanting to hear it from Bruce, specifically? Years. He didn't know how long. And now he couldn't even make himself believe that it was true, that this wasn't some hallucination or dream borne of an overwrought mind and body.

This couldn't be real. Bruce was saying it out of obligation, or pity, or yeah, just spouting whatever he thought Tim needed to hear to draw him back from some suicidal edge. It was the heat of the moment, just like Tim saying those words last night. It didn't really mean anything.

Bruce pressed his shoulder even harder, then suddenly realized that he was being too rough and let go with a curse. He patted Tim's shoulder instead, almost caressing it, petting it like an injured bird. The tenderness in the gesture made Tim's eyes fill with tears.

"Sorry," Bruce muttered. "Sorry, I didn't... God, Timmy. I want to hold you so badly right now. I want to drag you out of that bed and just squeeze you in my arms. But I don't want to hurt you, and I hate this. I can't even hold your hand, and right now it's the only thing I want in the world. I'm so sorry, partner."

Tim closed his eyes, letting the tears spill down. A small sob tore free of his throat. He hated it. He hated everything about this horrible, awkward, agonizing situation.

And Bruce kept petting his shoulder, like he didn't know what else to do. "I'm sorry, Timmy. I'm sorry you don't believe me. I should have said those words sooner. A lot sooner. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard for you to believe me now. But it's true, I swear it is, and I'm going to prove it to you. I'll keep saying it, and I'll keep proving it. You just have to let me. You are loved, and you are wanted, and it doesn't matter if you never recover from this. It doesn't matter if your hands don't work right, or you feel depressed, or you just want to stop. You are my son, and you always will be."

Tim turned his head away. He couldn't speak. He could barely breathe.

Bruce kept petting his shoulder for a little while, then eventually seemed to sense the uselessness in the gesture and stopped, his fingers trailing away. Tim felt/heard him sit back in the chair, though he didn't open his eyes to look.

Bruce let out a long sigh, then stood up from the chair. He was moving slowly, like it hurt. Tim felt shatteringly guilty, but he still couldn't make himself open his eyes.

He felt Bruce's touch on his forehead, trailing along his hairline. "I'm gonna go...tell the nurse you're awake." Bruce sounded miserable. Tim wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. "I'm sorry, Tim. This isn't over. Not by a long shot."

And he walked away. Tim listened to every footfall, every scuff of his shoes against linoleum. Even now, he couldn't keep himself from paying minute attention to every tiny movement Bruce made. At last, though, the sounds faded, and Tim finally relaxed.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. What was he supposed to do? He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what he was supposed to feel. And even if he did, it wasn't like he could make himself feel it.

Chapter Text

Dick went back to Tim's room with a spring in his step and a coffee in his hand. He'd met Bruce in the hall, and Bruce had told him Tim was awake. True, Bruce had seemed a bit down, but that was completely understandable, all things considered. Dick hurried away without passing too many words with him, eager to see his little brother now that he was actually aware and not groggy with anesthesia.

The door to Tim's room was ajar, and Dick knocked against it with the knuckles of one hand as he stepped in. "Hey, Timbo, it's me."

Tim had been dozing off, head drooping, but now he jerked awake with a few rapid blinks. He stared at Dick blankly for a moment, then seemed to realize it was him and managed a faint smile. "Morning, Dick."

Dick gave him a bright grin. He moved over to the bedside and dropped down into the armchair there. It was still warm, so Bruce must have been sitting in it not long ago. He held the coffee steady in his hands to keep from spilling it as he sat.

Tim watched the cup with a hopeful eye. "Is that for me?"

Dick grimaced. "Sorry, bud, the doctors made us promise no outside food and drink until they have a chance to gauge your functions. Besides, you'd have to sip it through a straw, and I don't want you to burn your mouth."

Tim looked so glum that Dick's heart gave a throb of sympathy. He'd come in here fully intending to be encouraging and cheerful, give the kid something to lighten the mood after all the heaviness he'd been through. It sucked that his first action had been to make him sad, even over something as silly and inconsequential as coffee.

Dick cradled the paper cup in his hands and took a long, contemplative drink, then carefully set it aside on a little wheeled table. "Tell you what, I'll save the last inch or so, and maybe when it's cool enough I can sneak it to you, okay?"

Tim smiled at that, the first real smile Dick had seen from him since... Well, since a long time ago, come to think about it. He coughed awkwardly and concentrated on the side table, looking for the cup of water he knew the nurse had set there a couple hours ago in preparation for Tim waking up.

Ah, there it was. Big plastic tumbler with a lid and a thick, bendy straw. He picked it up and fixed the straw to a good angle, then held it out to Tim. "Thirsty?"

Tim nodded. Dick held the cup for him. When Tim was done, Dick returned it to the side table and leaned back in the chair, yawning and crossing his hands behind his head. "You didn't wake up alone, right? Bruce was here?"

Tim nodded but didn't speak. His eyes were already drooping again.

"Good. I didn't want to leave at first because I didn't want you to wake up alone, but Bruce promised he'd be here, and I really needed that coffee."

Tim yawned. His arm twitched like he wanted to cover his mouth. "It was fine. He was here. He said some stuff."

"Yeah?" Dick straightened up, hands sliding down to rest on the arms of the chair. Had Bruce given Tim that speech, then? The one he had kind of rehearsed with Dick, about how Tim was wanted and loved and always would be? Dick would bet dollars to doughnuts that it hadn't gone nearly as well with Bruce trying to say it to Tim. Somehow it never did.

Tim looked away. Dick wasn't sure with all the bruises and cuts, but it looked like his face had reddened. "I didn't, um. I didn't respond very well. I think I hurt his feelings."

And that was Tim. Always worried about how other people were feeling, even when he was the one trapped in a hospital bed covered in wounds and unable to move his hands. And especially worried about how Bruce was feeling, of course. That preteen obsession of his had never really faded.

"Don't worry about Bruce," Dick said cheerfully. "He can take his licks. If his feelings are hurt, I'm willing to bet ten million dollars that it's his own fault."

Tim gave him a curious look. "Do you even have ten million dollars?"

Dick shrugged. "Probably. Bruce set up a few trust funds in my name when he adopted me. I don't know all the details."

Tim snorted and stared up at the ceiling. He looked impossibly tired. "Yeah, well. I didn't believe what he said. I couldn't, really. I wanted to. But I couldn't. So he was sad."

Dick wondered if he should go ahead and tell Tim that he already knew what Bruce had told him, or at least he had a pretty good idea. But no, that conversation had been between the two of them. If Tim wasn't comfortable sharing the specifics, Dick wasn't going to out him.

He could still speak for himself, though. "Hey, Tim, you know something?"

Tim turned his head to look at him, drawn back by the seriousness of his tone.

Dick gave him a crooked smile. "You know I love you, right?"

Tim blinked, then nodded. "Yeah. You... You show it a lot."

Dick let out a brighter smile. "Good. I'm glad you know. I just wanted to make sure."

"Yeah. I know. I love you too."

Dick's grin brightened further. He snagged his coffee off the table and hugged it to his chest. "Even when I have coffee and you don't?"

Tim rolled his eyes. "Even then. Love you a little less, though."

Dick giggled and drank his coffee. God, it was so good to have Timmy back. Alive, awake, talking. It was all Dick needed to be happy, really. Just his family, alive and nearby.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, Dick sipping his coffee while Tim's eyelids drifted farther and farther shut.

"You can go back to sleep if you want," Dick said softly, the third time Tim jerked his head and blinked himself back awake, then slumped on the pillow again. "It's the best thing for you."

Tim grunted. His voice was slurred. "You'll b'here when I w'kup?"

"Yeah. Me or Bruce, Alfred maybe. Someone. You won't be alone. Promise."

"'Kay."

Tim's breath evened out, and Dick thought he would fade off. But after a few moments he opened his eyes again halfway, though he didn't try to lift his head. "Dick?" He sounded embarrassed.

Dick frowned and set his coffee aside. Still an inch in the bottom, just as he'd promised. "Yeah, buddy?"

"My nose itches. Would you scratch it for me?"

"Yeah, of course." Dick practically leaped to do so. "Which side?"

"Left. No, other left." Dick scratched both sides, trying not to press too hard, and Tim huffed. "Actually, both. Harder."

Dick grimaced and pulled back. "You have a couple of scabs there, bud. I don't want to scratch them off."

Tim sighed. "Yeah, okay. It feels better. Thanks." He seemed fully awake now, though, which was a shame.

Dick sat back. "Is there anything else I can do for you? Anything I can get for you? Except coffee, of course."

Tim pursed his lips. "I missed a whole day of reports..."

"What, from WE?" Dick's voice went high and scandalized. "I am not bringing you work while you're in the hospital, Timothy Drake-Wayne. For pete's sake, give yourself a few days off. Or a few weeks."

Tim wiggled his shoulders against the pillow. "I can't do that, though. There's always so much work to do..."

"Other people can do it," Dick snapped. He immediately tempered himself when he saw how Tim flinched at that, though. Right, right. The kid was insecure, constantly trying to prove himself. The last thing he needed was to be told that he wasn't necessary at his own job. "I mean, I know no one can do it like you can. But there are people who can step in, at least for a little while. I remember how you did a bunch of hiring and firing when you first took the position. You surrounded yourself with good workers, didn't you? Good thinkers, good executives? You must have."

Tim nodded shortly, staring stubbornly into the distance with his mouth set.

"So trust them, then." Dick laid a hand on his shoulder and jostled it gently. "At least for a little while. I hate watching you run yourself into the ground, Timmy. We all do."

Tim gave him a jaundiced stare. It was frankly unnerving.

Dick sat back and wrapped his arms around his torso, just as stubborn, just as set. "You could step down, you know. Find a worthy replacement. It was only supposed to be an interim position. I know you stuck at it because once you take a job on, you have trouble letting it go. But you can't really be enjoying it, can you? You're basically working two full-time jobs as CEO and RR, plus trying to finish high school and have some sort of social life. You're not just burning the candle at both ends--you pretty much lit the whole thing on fire."

Tim didn't stop staring. He still didn't say anything.

Dick shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do. Honest. I just... Maybe this whole debacle is a chance for you to take stock and re-evaluate, that's all. Maybe..."

"If you're about to say that this is a blessing in disguise," Tim hissed through clenched teeth, "you can just bite your tongue right off."

Dick snapped straight upright, stung. "I would never say that."

Tim went back to the staring act. Dick was pretty sure now that that was fury in his eyes.

He spread his hands, a tinge of desperation creeping in. "I just want you to be happy, little brother. That's all. And I don't... I don't think you've been happy for a long time. Can you tell me I'm wrong?"

Tim finally broke and looked away, though his jaw was still stubbornly set. "No," he muttered. "But whose fault is that, anyway?"

Dick blinked. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing." Tim refused to meet his eyes.

"Is there something we need to talk about?"

Dick's heart sank. Ever since Bruce had told him about how Tim's bad childhood had affected him, Dick had been combing through his memories, trying to remember if he had ever done anything neglectful or hurtful to add to the collection of wounds Tim already carried. There was only one incident that really stood out in his mind, but it was a big one. Maybe the biggest.

But Tim shook his head. "No. I don't want to talk about anything."

Dick had to stand up and pace, his agitation refusing to let him sit any longer. "I think we need to, though. I think we need to talk about when I took away..."

"No!" It was a bellow, at least much as Tim could manage from his prone position and with his strained throat. "Stop it!"

"I can't!" Dick's hands flailed in the air. He stomped back over to the bed, on the opposite side of the armchair, and leaned over Tim with his hands on the railing. "I really want to fix this, Tim, I want to fix this rift between us. We never really talked about it, we never tried to heal anything, and don't you think it's about time we did?"

Tim flinched back at Dick's unintentional looming, then rallied himself and yelled back. "No! I don't wanna talk about it. Just leave me alone!"

Dick released the railing and stood straight when he realized how threatening his posture had become. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Tim, I just really think we need to..."

"No!" The strain was getting to be too much for Tim's voice. The word ended on a squeak, and he coughed, face turning red. "Just stop. Please! God, both you and Bruce... It's like now that I'm trapped in this bed and can't get away, you're both taking the opportunity to just...dump everything all over me, and I can't, okay!"

He coughed again, harder. Dick backed off, his chest heavy, heart in his stomach. He hadn't meant to hurt the kid again, God, he had never wanted to do that, not now, not ever....

"I can't, I can't deal with all of this..." Tim was crying now, helplessly. Tears ran down his temples, stinging in the open wounds on his face. He couldn't even wipe his own tears, and it was all too horrible to witness. "It's too much, it's too much, I can't..."

"Oh, Timmy, Timmy, please..." Dick crept back over to the bed. He felt hot and cold all over, his hands shaking. Tim's eyes were squeezed shut, his body trembling as he sobbed and coughed at the same time.

Dick moved around to the table and gathered a handful of tissues. He started mopping up the tears, moving as gently and carefully as possible. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Tim. Never mind. Forget about it. We'll talk about it when you're better. When you're ready. You come to me. I won't mention it again, I promise. I really want to talk about it, I really want to fix this, but we'll do it on your time, not mine. You set the pace. And if you never want to talk about it, that's fine too. Whatever you need. I'll do whatever you need."

Gradually, slowly, Tim's tears subsided. Dick kept wiping them up, fetching more tissues as they were needed, until Tim was finally still on the pillow, breathing rough but slow. Dick got the water cup for him again, gave him more to drink, and finally sat back in his own chair again.

He offered the kid a meek smile. "Still love me?"

Tim smiled back, shaky but there. "Yeah. Sorry."

Dick shook his head. "No. That was my fault entirely. It was really rude of me to try to force such a painful subject when you kept telling me to stop. I won't do that again."

Tim nodded. "Okay." His eyes were drooping again. "I think I really am gonna sleep now."

"You do that. I'll be here."

And he did.

Chapter Text

Jason didn't know why he was here.

Well, that was a lie. He really should stop lying to himself, if no one else. He was here, waiting uncomfortably in a hospital lounge, because he wanted to see Tim Drake-Wayne with his own eyes. It wasn't even to "make sure he was okay," or anything else that could be summed up in a platitude. He knew very well that Tim wasn't okay, and wasn't going to be okay for a long time, if ever. He just wanted to see him.

Dick's frequent text messages should have been enough for him. He knew Tim had been in surgery for seven hours to place metal pins and plates in his shattered hands. He knew Tim had woken up briefly in the recovery ward, then several times today, though he couldn't stay awake for more than fifteen minutes at a time. He knew he was in a lot of pain but trying to hide it. He knew Dick and Bruce hadn't left Tim's side. He knew the kid was completely emotionally overwhelmed, that he had had a flashback already, that he had cried a couple of times. Dick's texts were very detailed.

Probably too detailed. Tim wouldn't appreciate it, if he knew. But Jason did. He was grateful, honest. It kind of surprised him how grateful he was.

As mentioned, the texts should have been enough. Dick was taking great pains to keep Jason in the loop. And still, it wasn't enough. He had to see the kid for himself.

Jason had put serious thought into just ascending the wall and coming through a window. But Tim's room was on the seventh floor, and the hospital complex didn't have any nearby buildings he could swing from. Plus, it was broad daylight. Later, when Tim was back at the manor, Jason was definitely going to climb through his window to visit him. Better than the doorway. Hadn't he sworn something like that, something about never darkening Bruce's threshold again? Well, it wasn't a threshold if he came through a window. That was a...sill. Yeah. Good loophole.

But for now, he was in a hospital lounge, waiting for Dick to come tell him it was okay to come back. He had texted ahead, like a normal person, to let Dick know he was coming. Hopefully Dick would find an excuse for Bruce to leave so Jason wouldn't have to deal with him. His text in response had promised he would try.

Jason had taken a shower and washed off the blood, the stink of the night. Worn his least patched and worn leather jacket, a pair of jeans without any stains or tears, a clean t-shirt. Looked at himself in the mirror for about five minutes until he could stare at himself straight without his hands shaking at the memory of holding Tim's torn and bloody body in his arms, hearing him say those awful words. "Everyone would be better off if I wasn't around."

Swear to God, if Jason ever found out who had put that thought in Tim's head, that person was dead. Promise or no promise. Yeah, sure, Tim said he came up with it on his own. But if not...

Jason realized that his foot was tapping relentlessly on the carpeted floor, all but wearing a hole in it. He stared down at his foot and made it stop, then went back to staring at the hall, watching for Dick. So he didn't see the people coming from the other direction, just heard the rustle of clothing, then a sharp inhalation of surprise at finding him there.

His head snapped over, and there were Alfred Pennyworth and Damian Wayne standing by the other entrance to the lounge. They both looked surprised to see him, Alfred less than Damian. The demon-brat's face was open in shock for a moment, then quickly narrowed down to a scowl.

"What are you doing here, Todd?"

So much contempt in such a small body. Jason snorted and leaned back in his chair, hiding the tension flooding his body with a casual sprawl. "I could say the same to you, brat. I thought you hated Tim as much as you hated me. Why come to visit him? Just gonna gloat over his broken body? Poor form. I'm sure your grandfather would disapprove."

Damian bared his teeth in a growl and crossed his arms over his chest, feet set wide as he prepared for a fight. Alfred tsked and laid a hand on his shoulder, trying to steer him out of the doorway. "Let's at least sit down while we wait, Master Damian. You and Master Jason can have your discussion like civilized men."

He gave Jason a warm smile. "I for one am glad to see you here. Thank you for coming." Jason smiled back, almost reflexively. At least Alfred had never stopped liking him and wanting him around. He could always count on good ol' Alfie.

Damian wrinkled his nose, but let Alfred nudge him to a corner of the lounge. He didn't sit down when Alfred did though, electing to stand there and try to stare Jason down. "I heard that you were actually...somewhat helpful to Father in the recent events, so you get one pass from me, Todd. But only one."

Jason stared at him incredulously. He was pretty sure that was an attempt at magnanimity in Damian's voice. It was a little too much to take. "Okay. You still haven't answered my question. Did you just come to gloat or what?"

Damian clenched his teeth. "No, I did not come here to gloat. As you said, that would be dishonorable. I have been reliably informed that because of my public relationship with Drake as an adopted brother, no matter how false it truly is, it is expected for me to visit him while he's in the hospital. I do not expect to gain or give any pleasure in the experience, but as it is required, I am here."

Jason's eyebrows somehow rose even higher. "Of course you don't come visit someone in a hospital for pleasure, nitwit. You're supposed to be offering sympathy and comfort to someone in pain, someone you care about. How can you possibly do that for Tim?"

Damian's lip curled. "Naturally I do not intend to express anything like that. Just because I'm the only one who can see that everyone would be better off without Drake around doesn't mean..."

Jason was moving before he made the conscious decision to do so. His vision literally went red, something he had thought only happened in books. Alfred's shout of alarm brought him up short before he actually touched Damian. He came back to himself crouching on the floor in front the boy, who had abruptly sat down in the chair behind him, his face paper white.

Jason was holding a hand toward him. As if pointing a gun. But the hand was empty. Thank God. He had left his guns with his bike, partly because of the hospital security and partly because he didn't really want Bruce to kill him.

The adrenaline rushed away, and he fell down on his butt, staring at Damian with his chest heaving and his teeth clenched. Alfred had risen from his seat next to them and was standing over him, his expression the most serious Jason had ever seen. But he hadn't done anything, either. He had trusted Jason to stop.

Jason was abruptly, overwhelmingly grateful. Grateful for that shout. Grateful that Alfred hadn't tried to touch him. Grateful that he didn't have any weapons on him.

He looked back at Damian, who was still watching him wide eyes. Jason didn't think he had blinked. He had terrified the kid but good, and a tiny part of him was sorry. He didn’t like being a boogeyman to little kids.

Most of him wasn't sorry at all. "Don't you dare..." He had to stop and unclench his jaw so the words were intelligible. "Don't you dare say anything like that where Tim can hear you. Not now, not ever. You got me?"

Damian didn't move for a second. Then he nodded, short and sharp.

"Have you ever said something like that to him before?"

Damian's mouth open and closed, then pressed into a grim line. "Many times."

Of course. Of course. Jason rubbed his hands over his face and tried to drag his scrambled thoughts into some sort of coherence.

Tim would know better than to take anything the demon-brat said seriously. Their relationship had been contentious from day one. Tim did not respect Damian, so he would not give any credence to his words. He hadn't been lying when he said that he thought he'd come up with that thought on his own. That was the way it usually worked, anyway.

Still, it couldn't be good for him, having someone else voice aloud the doubts and insecurities that echoed inside his own head. Day in and day out, relentlessly. No wonder Tim preferred to live in his own apartment in the city rather than at the manor or Wayne Tower, even after Bruce came back and most of the family relocated home.

This had to stop. It had to.

Jason lowered his hands and looked Damian in the face again. Some of the color had come back to the child’s face, though he still looked mulish and contemptuous.

"Listen," Jason bit out. "I know you have trauma. I know you have reasons for acting the way you do. I know you had bad teachers for most of your life, and you're trying to overcome that now. I respect that, I really do. But the rest of us have trauma, too."

He pounded his own chest, then waved a hand down the hall, where Dick still hadn't shown his face, the slow-moving bastard. "Me. Dick. Tim. Bruce, too. Even Alfie could tell some stories, I'm sure. Your past is not an excuse for the way you treat other people now. And I'm not going to put up with you saying things like that to Tim. Not anymore."

Damian's nostrils flared. "You're not even around most of the time. How would you know?"

Jason leaned forward, invading Damian's personal space just enough that he leaned a little further back in his chair, looking discomfited. "I'll know."

Damian blinked, then rallied. "What would you even do?" His lip curled, though not as much as it had earlier. "You can't touch me. Father would destroy you."

Jason leaned back. "That's true. And I might as well tell you now, I don't intend to lay a hand on you, not like that. The only lumps you'd take from me is if we sparred together, or if you started something. I wouldn't hold back then."

He thought about it, about what kind of threat he could make that Damian wouldn’t sneer at, as he slowly got to his feet and dusted himself off, then moved to a chair across from Damian where he could sit and stare at him. Alfred had sat, too. apparently trusting them not to tear each other apart. They actually were having a conversation like civilized men, sort of.

"If you keep treating Tim like a verbal punching bag while he's recovering from these injuries that were inflicted on him by the worst kind of scum, I will hear about it. And I'll take him away. You're expecting to move him to the manor to recover, right?" He glanced at Alfred. The older man nodded. Jason looked back to Damian. "Bruce will want to keep an eye on him until he's back on his feet, and probably after that. But I'll take him away, and Alfred will help me."

Alfred nodded. Jason saw it out of his peripheral vision, still watching Damian, and smiled gently in return.

Time to finish the threat. "I won't tell anyone where we're going. A safehouse somewhere. Maybe in the depths of the city. Maybe up in the mountains. Maybe on the other side of the world. It will not be traceable. Tim will be safe from anyone who would do him harm. Including you. And your precious father will be very angry at you for causing him to be removed from his jealous guard. I won't need to punish you. He'll do it for me."

Kind of a weird threat, maybe. But it was clear from Damian's face that he took it seriously.

Of course he couldn't help objecting again. One last time. With a sneer. "And how would you take care of an invalid, Todd? You hardly seem the type to nurse another person back to health. You've also had your own issues with Drake in the past. Would he even trust you to care for him?"

"If it comes down to it, we'll figure it out," Jason said with confidence he didn't quite feel. "Anything would be better than leaving him with a snake like you. Even me."

Damian opened his mouth to protest again. Jason slashed his hand through the air, and he closed his mouth and stared at him, fury and fear both in his eyes.

Jason leaned forward and held his gaze, deliberately casual, deliberately controlled. "So take a piece of advice, Damian Wayne. When we get to go see Tim in a little while, just follow an old proverb. You like old proverbs, right? All of you League of Assassin types do."

Damian's face twisted in confusion. "What proverb?"

"If you can't say something nice, don't say anything."

Jason leaned back in his chair. Damian was finally quiet. They sat in silence and waited for permission to visit their brother.

Chapter Text

Tim had a fever. He knew this because he was over-warm and uncomfortable in a way that was hard to define, like being buried under too many blankets, even though the hospital bedding was rather thin. He also knew it because Dick murmured it to the visitors who were shuffling cautiously into the room. Jason, Damian, Alfred behind them. Tim didn't know where Bruce was. He tried to look for him, but his vision was tilting and strange.

When he had first woken up this morning his hands were chilly, splayed and trapped in a contraption that looked like a torture device, but now they were downright icy. The heat in the swollen joints bumped up against the cold in the exposed flesh so that both of his hands felt like massive lumps of pain and discordance.

They didn't even feel like hands. They were just things stuck on the ends of his arms, useless and burdensome. He wanted to get rid of them and start over with new hands, but that wasn't exactly an option. Maybe he could get a Lantern ring and make new hands as constructs. But no, he wouldnt have a finger to put a ring on.

Yeah, definitely a fever. He could also tell because his thoughts were going all weird on him. Not that they'd been exactly normal before.

It was Jason who approached him first, shuffling slowly up to the edge of the bed. His shoulders were hunched and his expression was anxious, though all the slumping in the world didn't do much to reduce his hulking figure. He hovered by the bedside, looking awkward and looming.

Somehow, though, Tim didn't find it discomfiting to have Jason looming over him. He'd been flinching all day when almost anyone leaned over him like that--nurses, doctors, orderlies, even Dick and Bruce. But when it was Jason, he felt himself relaxing instead.

Strange, that. He would have to examine it later when his thoughts weren't warping like a silk scarf in the wind.

For now he just gave Jason a smile, fuzzy and unfocused. "Hi, Jay. Thanks for coming. Last night, too."

Jason nodded and stuck his hands in the back pockets of his jeans like he didn't know what to do with them. "How's it going, Re...kiddo?"

Had Jason just held back the impulse to call him Replacement? That was a first. Tim smiled more. "Awful. Terrible. Everything hurts. I can't even get up to use the bathroom. Have to ask for a nurse and a bedpan. Do you know how humiliating that is? I hate this and I want to go home, but I can't."

Jason blinked as if Tim had done something unexpected. Tim didn't know why. It was a simple question, and he had answered truthfully. Jason took his hands out of his pockets and rested them on the railing of the bed, watching Tim with an odd sort of care, like he was evaluating him and trying to shield him at the same time. "Anything else?"

Tim hummed and rocked his head to look up at the ceiling. His lips felt dry and cracked. He couldn't even put on any lip balm by himself, and right now that felt like the biggest injustice in the world. It almost brought tears to his eyes.

"I mean, there are other things going on, too." He tipped his chin toward his hands. "There's that whole mess, of course. And..." He rolled his head toward Jason and leaned forward like he wanted to tell him a secret. Jason bent down closer, and Tim lowered his voice. "Bruce and Dick are being way too gentle and careful with me. It's weird. I don't know how to take it. I mean, I know it's my fault because I kind of had a meltdown with both of them, but it still makes me feel like I really, really screwed up. Next thing you know Damian might try to say something nice, too, and then I might actually die of shock."

He cast a skeptical look toward the doorway, where Damian stood frozen, Alfred standing behind him with a hand on his shoulder. Damian's mouth had dropped open in horror. Tim was not being as quiet as he thought he was.

Whatever. It didn't matter. Everyone already knew what a mess he was. It was all laid out, right here in this hospital bed. Something like quiet despair rolled over Tim at the realization. He really had been stripped bare and left to bleed on a rock in the sunlight. Nothing was hidden anymore.

He looked back to Jason. "Am I talking too much?"

Jason shook his head. "I think you could stand to talk some more, little bro. Sounds like this has been building up for a long time."

Tim sighed and rubbed his cheek against the pillow, staring sightlessly beyond Jason to the wall. "I think that about covers it, really." Something occurred to him, and he looked up at Jason with narrowed eyes. "You just called me 'little bro.' You've never done that before."

Jason shrugged. "You've never called me 'Jay' before, either."

"Oh." Tim rolled his head over to the other side, where Dick was sitting in his customary chair, a pained expression painted on his face. Maybe he shouldn't have said that part about Dick and Bruce being too gentle with him. It wasn't like he wanted them to start being mean or anything. "Dick calls you that. Jay. Jaybird."

Jason grunted. He didn’t sound angry about it, just contemplative.

He looked back to Jason. "I'm definitely talking too much."

"That's okay. I don't mind."

Jason's voice was soft. His face was soft, too. Great, another person who was going to be weirdly gentle with him.

Tim rolled his eyes. "You can tell me when I’m being annoying. I won’t be upset."

Jason looked uncomfortable. "Why would I be annoyed by you talking? Why would anyone be annoyed by that? You ask me, it seems like you don't talk enough. When was the last time you had a vent session with some buddies, just let out everything that was bothering you, no matter how dumb and weird?"

Tim pretended to think about it, but he already knew. "Um, roughly... Never."

"Why not?"

"No one wants to hear the stupid things I worry about. There are a lot of them, you know." Tim laughed, not a little bitterly. "I mean, here I am right now, worried that I'm annoying you by talking too much. Even though I know it's the fever. Some people get drunk, I get fevers. It's because of the missing spleen, probably."

The room went very, very quiet. No one spoke, no one moved. Tim blinked at the ceiling.

Oh, right. He had never mentioned that particular adventure, had he?

Dick sputtered and lurched out of his chair, looming again. Tim flinched, but made himself hold still. He was so, so tired of flinching from things that he knew weren't threats, but he couldn't make himself stop.

Dick didn't seem to notice, for once. No flash of guilt, no instant backing off. "Tim, you don't have a spleen? And you didn't think it might be important to mention that at some point?"

Tim tried to glare at him, but it was a bit muted by the way he was trembling. Damn, the room had gotten really cold all of a sudden. "I'm an emancipated minor. I don't have to tell you anything."

"Yeah, but you still could have at least told the people who care about you that you're missing an organ! You don't think that would have been good for us to know? For God's sake, we get hurt all the time, and we need to know about medical issues so we can be properly prepared."

"I'm prepared. I have self-donated blood in cold storage at all of my safehouses. And it's not that big of a deal as long as I take reasonable precautions. Like eating nutritious food and getting enough sleep. Simple."

Dick laughed incredulously and pressed the heel of his hand against his eye. His visible eye was wide, almost manic. "Sure, that might work, as long as you don't, I don't know, get kidnapped and tortured! They said you were dehydrated, malnourished, sleep-deprived, and of course all the wounds, God, Timmy, I don't know what to do with you right now..."

"Dick."

Jason's voice, calm and hard. Dick looked across the bed at him, panting and wild-eyed.

Jason made a face like he was tasting something nasty. "Take a walk."

Dick glared. "If you think I'm going to leave Tim right now you have another think coming."

"Dick. You need to calm down." Jason gestured at Tim. "Look at him. You're freaking him out. Take a walk."

Dick paused and looked down at Tim. Tim just lay there, trembling, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He couldn't muster any words.

He loved Dick. He really, really did. He liked having him nearby when he was feeling bad. Dick was a great brother, and he took good care of Tim at least ninety-five percent of the time. But right now, he was definitely freaking him out.

It was also definitely weird that Jason was being the reasonable one at the moment. But you know. First time for everything.

Dick saw it. How Tim's chest was heaving, straining against his broken ribs. How wide his eyes were. His face softened, and he nodded, then turned on his heel and walked away. He collected Alfred and Damian along the way. In moments, Tim was alone with Jason.

And again, that didn't bother him at all. Not that long ago, being alone in a room with Jason would have been uncomfortable, possibly dangerous. Jason was unstable, unpredictable. His motives and goals were unclear, and he used awful methods to pursue them.

But that was before he had swooped in with Batman to save Tim from torture. It was before he had come to visit him in the hospital, asked him how he was feeling, and listened to everything he said with empathy and compassion. It was before he had called Tim "little bro" and truly seemed to mean it.

Jason waited until the room was empty, then for a beat or two longer. He watched the door the whole time, as if waiting for them to come back. When it was clear that they were all gone, though, he turned back to Tim and gave him a little smile. "Alone at last, huh?"

His tone was light, almost joking. Tim felt himself relaxing, too. His eyes drooped, though his teeth chattered. "What now?"

Jason frowned. He went muttering away to a cupboard on the other side of the room, then came back with a couple of extra blankets. He smoothed them over Tim, taking care to tuck them around the posts of the external fixator holding his hands suspended over his abdomen, even wrapped Tim's arms where they hung in the air.

He moved around the bed, fussing over every inch of it, then finally settled at the vacated chair and sat down. Tim watched every move with half-closed eyes, listening to his heartbeat slow, his breath calming in his lungs. He felt the need for sleep tugging at him, but he still felt too wired from the confrontation with Dick.

He was so tired of confrontations. He hoped he didn't have another one today. They were just too exhausting and scary.

Jason watched him for a few moments, like he was thinking deeply. Then he shrugged and got out his phone. "Hey, you know you can get the Kindle app on your phone for free? And there are lots of books that are, like, public domain, so they're free, too."

Tim blinked. "If you wanted to buy books for your Kindle, I'm sure Bruce would be happy to set you up with an unlimited account."

Jason settled back in his chair, shoulders wiggling. "Sure, but the free ones are good enough. I've got Arthur Conan Doyle on here. Have you read the original Sherlock stories?"

Tim's mouth opened and closed a couple of times. This was not how he had expected this to go. Not that he really had any expectations when it came to this new version of Jason. "I... A couple of them. For school."

Jason beamed. "Cool, then I get to introduce you to them! You're a detective, you should definitely study the master. Here, I'll read the table of contents, and you tell me which one you want to hear."

He started rattling off titles, and Tim hissed through his teeth to cut him off. Jason looked at him, one eyebrow raised, half of his attention still on his phone.

Tim flushed. "Are you really gonna...sit there and read me a bedtime story?"

Jason gave an exaggerated look around the room, sitting up straight and swiveling his head around. "Doesn't look like bedtime, baby bird. I'd say it's late afternoon, if that."

Baby bird? Tim blinked again. "Are you really gonna sit there and read to me? Don't you have anything better to do?"

Jason looked back at him, straight and deliberate. "No."

Tim held his gaze for a moment, then had to look away. "Fine," he muttered.

"Now pick from this list," Jason said authoritatively, and he started reading off titles again.

Tim ended up picking The Red-Headed League, and Jason nodded happily. "Good one."

He started to read. Tim listened.

He fell asleep after a few pages, which was annoying. He really wanted to hear the solution to the mystery. Maybe Jason would still be there when he woke up and would finish it, though. Apparently there was no telling, these days, just what Jason would do.

Chapter Text

Dick was furious with himself. Just a few hours ago he had promised that he wouldn't hurt Tim again, not in word or deed. He would pay attention, be more careful, refrain from pressing Tim on any issue he wasn't ready to discuss. He would focus on Tim's needs, not his own. Make sure he was comfortable, resting, safe. That was his job right now; that was his only job. It was the only job he wanted.

And then he went and yelled at him. Again. Stood over him where he lay in his hospital bed, unable to move, and berated him for decisions he had made months ago, when he was alone and felt he had no one to turn to, not even Dick. Tim must have lost his spleen somewhere in his dealings with the League of Assassins, and he hadn't bothered to mention it when he got home to Gotham because there were so many other things going on at the time, so many other details to nail down. Tim hadn't mentioned it because he didn't think it was important, because he thought he could handle it alone. Because he always thought that matters concerning his own well-being were not important and could be handled alone.

Dick knew that. He knew that about Tim, especially after Bruce had illuminated him on the deep-seated reasons why. And he had still yelled at him.

And now he was standing in the hallway outside Tim's room, head down and fists clenched, focusing on himself and how furious he was. At himself. It never ended.

"Master Dick..."

Ah, yes. Dick wasn't alone. Alfred and Damian were with him. Dick raised his head and looked into the face of the man who had raised him just as much as Bruce had.

"If I may, Master Dick, I think you would benefit from a little bit longer of a walk."

Dick breathed. Once, twice. He forced his fists to unclench. He looked at Damian, who was staring at him with an unreadable expression. Almost unreadable, anyway. Dick could see the anxiety behind his eyes, in the way he held himself. Damian was out of his depth and unsure what to do.

Welcome to the club, kid.

Dick nodded to Alfred, then to Damian. "Wanna come with, Little D?"

Damian nodded immediately and fiercely. "I would very much prefer to be anywhere but here, thank you."

Dick chuckled, short and strained, and turned down the hall. "Let's go."

They walked briskly. Dick caught a glimpse of Bruce lurking in a corner as they passed. He angled his body so Damian wouldn't see him and get distracted. Bruce didn't have time, right now. He was entirely focused on Tim.

It hadn't been hard to get Bruce to leave the room so Jason could visit. Dick had just told him, "Jason wants to visit Tim, but he won't come in while you're here," and Bruce had stood up and left.

Bruce was willing to do that, of course, because he had already placed several video cameras and listening devices in Tim's room. He was monitoring them all now on his pad, though if someone tried to talk to him or glance over his shoulder he would switch to some dumb mobile game, smile vapidly, and make small talk.

Bruce gave Dick a small nod as they passed, acknowledging the hand-off. Bruce would make sure Tim was safe. Dick would go on a walk with Damian and cool off.

Dick wondered what Bruce thought about the news of Tim's missing spleen. Maybe he had already known, though. Maybe he had noticed Tim's new habit of storing self-donated blood and looked into why, or maybe one of his contacts had told him about Tim's adventures while he was gone. Dick wouldn't put it past him. Bruce wanted to know everything, about everyone, all the time.

His feet took him past the elevators, to the stairs. He wanted the physical exertion after hours of sitting. Damian kept up with him without effort. In the stairwell, though, Dick paused. Up to the roof, to stare at the sky and contemplate everything? No, down to the lobby, to people and distractions and other sights to see. He headed down, feet pounding on the steps, the concrete stinging his soles through his sneakers, not as sturdy as the boots he wore for his night job. Or his day job, for that matter.

Everything was a little more vulnerable today. Everything was a little more thinly protected. Him, Bruce, Tim. Even Damian, his breath speeding up behind him. Dick swung up on the railing and dropped himself down half a flight, just because he could. Damian laughed and did the same.

Dick stopped abruptly, and Damian ran into his back. So small. He made almost no impact at all. Dick froze, trembling.

What if it happened again? What if someone tried to grab Damian, trapped him in a warehouse, hurt him? Broke his bones, crippled his limbs?

This wasn't even the first time this had happened, after all. Barbara. Jason.

Dick moved again, faster than before, trying to outrun his thoughts. It wasn't fair. Dick had suffered broken bones, moments of terror, all kinds of things in his years as Bruce's little bird, fluttering at his side through the night. He had been angry, scared, disgusted. Even kidnapped a few times. But Bruce had always come for him, or he'd gotten himself out, before it got too bad. Why Jason and not him? Why Tim and not him?

He burst out of the door into the hallway that fed into the lobby, Damian right behind him. He wanted to keep running, but drew up short. Damian almost ran into his back again, but instead swerved around. Then he halted, too, staring.

The lobby was a mess. Reporters, citizens, lookie-loos. Someone had figured out what hospital Tim Drake-Wayne was in, and now everyone and their mother wanted to know more and had come to find out. The hospital security was only barely holding them back.

Dick spun around and hauled Damian in front of him, hoping neither of them had been spotted. He didn't want to answer questions, didn't want to put on a cheerful face and assure the gathered crowd that his brilliant little brother was fine and would be home soon. Or that they were still waiting for news, or Tim was stable and resting comfortably, or whatever other meaningless phrase would get rid of them. They could wait for a press release like everyone else. Vultures and hyenas, the lot of them.

Dick was seething again. It was an easy excuse to get mad at something besides himself. He closed his eyes, tried to fight it. His hands were tight on Damian's shoulders, probably too tight, but he couldn't make himself let go.

Damian squirmed in his grip, then suddenly lurched forward. He wrapped his arms around Dick's waist and held on tight. He was trembling. So was Dick.

After a moment, Damian let go. He grabbed Dick's wrist and led him away from the lobby, down another side hall. No one shouted after them. No one had realized who they were. Dick focused on breathing and let Damian pull him.

They walked by offices, exam rooms, lounges. Another outside door, not to the street but to an inner courtyard. The hospital had planted a garden here, trees, flowers, bird feeders. Concrete paths with wooden benches, a small white gazebo. Dick finally found some agency. He ground to a halt, and Damian paused and looked back at him, still holding his wrist.

Dick tipped his head toward a bench a few feet away. Damian moved, wordlessly, and they sat down. Damian's feet scuffed against the concrete, then he grunted and shifted into a lotus position. Dick sprawled over the bench and stared sightlessly at the flowers across the path, bobbing little clusters of red and yellow petals on long green stems. Somewhere on the other side of the courtyard, an old man with a walker was slowly moving down a path, a young woman with a hand on his back gently encouraging him to keep going, keep walking, keep trying, Grandpa, you can make it.

Dick's phone buzzed with a text, and he pulled it out. He's sleeping. From Jason.

Jason was keeping him updated. Tears stung Dick's eyes, even as he smiled. Thanks, he texted back, then put the phone back in his pocket.

He drew a breath and slowly focused back on the world and the little boy sitting next to him. Damian looked like he was trying to meditate, his eyes closed and face slack, but as Dick watched him, he opened one eye a sliver to peek at him. Dick smiled.

Damian gave up the attempt and unfolded from the lotus position with a sigh, letting his feet trail on the ground. "I want to go home," he grumbled.

Dick nodded. "Me too. But I can't. Not while Tim is stuck here."

"What does it matter if you're here or not? You can't make him heal faster."

Dick hummed. "No. But I can make him feel better, at least a little bit. When I'm not yelling at him for things he can't control." Bitterness slipped in at the end.

Damian tilted his head. "I don't understand why you're upset about yelling at Drake. It's not like he didn't deserve it."

Dick blinked, then turned on the bench to face Damian more fully. Damian twisted around to look at him, too, his face confused but intent.

"Do you really think Tim deserves to be yelled at for getting hurt?" Dick asked gently.

Damian nodded. "Of course. He failed. He allowed himself to be injured, then captured and injured again. If he had been more careful, stronger, smarter, it wouldn't have happened."

"Is that what happened when you got hurt during your training with your grandfather?"

Damian made a face like the question didn't make sense. "Of course. Though it was more than a scolding. I understand that scolding is the main form of discipline you and Father choose to employ, though, so Drake deserves to be scolded."

Dick sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. At least Damian wasn't insisting that Tim should be beaten, or something else, something worse. Dick didn't want to ask what exactly the punishments had been for failing in Damian's training with the League. He didn't want to know. Someday, maybe, they would need to talk about it, but not right now.

He gathered himself and looked to the child again. "Well, I disagree. And so does Bruce. Tim does not deserve to be scolded or punished for getting hurt. It wasn't his fault. And I would really appreciate it if you did not express that to him, okay?"

Damian scowled and scuffed his foot on the concrete. "I know. Todd already said something like that."

"What, that you shouldn't scold Tim for getting hurt?"

"It wouldn't be my place to scold him in any case," Damian said primly. "Even if you did think it was warranted."

Dick almost laughed. "Kiddo, you scold Tim all the time. Though maybe 'insult, put down, and mock' might be a better way to put it. And Bruce and I are not happy about that either, by the way."

Damian sighed and leaned forward, watching a little bird hop through the grass across the way. "I know. It's just too easy, that's all."

Dick wrinkled his nose, then reached over and ruffled his hair. "I wish you and Tim could find a way to get along. You're going to have to, since he'll be staying at the manor until he heals."

Damian grunted. He didn't respond, but he didn't try to lean away from the hair-ruffling, either. His eyes were still fixed on the little bird. It was something small and brown, maybe a sparrow. Despite going by various bird-related code names for most of his life, Dick didn't really know much about birds.

Damian was clearly still bothered by something. That impulsive hug was proof enough, if nothing else. He hadn't done that to comfort Dick. It had been because Damian needed the contact.

Why? Had seeing Tim in a hospital bed, beaten to hell and back, brought back bad memories for Damian? Was he feeling genuine sympathy and concern for his hated rival and didn't know how to deal with it? Something else?

As well as Dick felt that he had gotten to know Damian by now, sometimes he still had no idea at all what was going through his head. He wanted to ask, but he didn't know how to phrase it, his mind too pre-occupied with other things. And he was sure that Damian wouldn't answer, anyway.

They sat there in the garden, watching the flowers and the birds and the old people walking around, until Dick felt thoroughly cooled off and Damian was thoroughly bored, despite all of the cute little birds. When Dick checked his phone, it had been about half an hour, and there were no new texts from Jason, so presumably Tim was still sleeping. The pain and discomfort tended to wake him frequently, though, so he might be stirring soon. And Dick wanted to apologize. Again.

He climbed to his feet, moving much more calmly than when he'd arrived. Damian rose with him, trailing purposefully at his side. The lobby was still a mess of reporters and other people trying to get in. They slipped into the stairwell without saying a word.

On Tim's floor, they bumped into someone in the hall. Someone that had Dick's shoulders hunching in surprise and dismay. This wasn't a reporter he could throw out or call security on, though. Big guy in a trench coat, stubbly face, looked like he was always chewing a cigar even when he wasn't. Someone Dick knew very well in his night life, but really shouldn't interact with at all as Bruce Wayne's adopted son.

Harvey Bullock, GCPD detective. He looked Dick up and down, gave him a cautious nod. "You're one of them Wayne boys, right?"

Dick nodded. He reached out for Damian's shoulder and pulled him into his side almost by instinct. "What can I do for you, officer?"

Harvey tried on a sympathetic smile. "Not you. We're here to take a statement from your brother. The CEO one." He paused. "Sorry about what happened, by the way. Poor kid. Right after he finished recovering from that assassination attempt last year, too."

Dick had to hold back hysterical laughter. That assassination attempt had been faked, as had Tim's months of recovery from near-paralyzation. He had been very ostentatious about appearing in the press with braces on his legs and crutches on his arms. And he had been very happy to finally be rid of them after eight months of "therapy."

If only this incident had been faked, too.

"Yeah," he said after a beat, realizing that he should acknowledge Harvey's attempt at sympathy. "Please, come this way. I'll show you where his room is. Don't know if he'll be able to give a statement, though. He's pretty out of it."

Harvey nodded and fell in step with them down the hall. "No hurry. We can hang around. Sooner the better, though. We need to press charges against the bastards who did this. Can't hold them forever. Better to know how many crimes and which ones, you know?"

Dick did know. But that didn't make this any easier. There was a lump in his throat, and his hand on Damian's shoulder was holding too tight, again. Damian didn't protest.

He was dreading this more than he could express. He didn't want Tim to have to tell the story of what had happened to him. And he didn't want to listen to it.

But they didn't have a choice.

Chapter Text

Bruce was hyper-aware of the police officers coming down the hall, especially when his oldest and youngest joined them. Harvey Bullock and Josephine MacDonald, GCPD Major Crimes unit. He had to pretend to just happen to be at the door when they arrived.

"Sergeant Bullock, or is it Lieutenant now? How can I help you?" He had a passing acquaintance with Bullock as Bruce Wayne, but Bruce didn't know his new partner at all, though Batman did. He gave MacDonald a quick smile, charming and stressed, before focusing on Bullock again.

Bullock drew up short and let out a heavy sigh. "We need a statement from Tim Wayne. Dispatch said they called ahead."

"Oh, yes." Bruce cast a distracted glance at his phone. "I do seem to recall something like that." He gave Harvey a pleading stare. "I'm sure you understand, my son is very traumatized by these events." He didn't have to work hard to put a tremble in his lip. "I'd really rather that he didn't have to talk about it."

Bullock chewed on his invisible cigar. "Sorry, Mr. Wayne. We really don't have a choice. Would you mind checking, see if he's awake and able to speak?"

Bruce's shoulders slumped, and he nodded reluctantly. A glance at Dick had both of his sons coming with him as well, and they stepped into the room in a single file.

Alfred was there, sitting near the door. Jason jumped to his feet from the armchair at Tim's bedside, eyes wide at Bruce's entrance. Bruce felt tension flare across his upper back at the fear in the boy's eyes. He raised a hand in a sign for peace, and Jason fell back against the wall, attempting a casual stance.

Tim stirred at the noise of their entrance, eyelids struggling open. Bruce crossed to the bedside opposite Jason and leaned over him, stroking his hair. "Sweetheart, can you wake up for a little while? The police are here to see you. They need your statement."

He saw the lucidity in Tim's eyes, the understanding. He glanced toward the door, the officers standing there, and knew what he needed to do. "Do...do I have to?"

The sudden trembling, the weakness in his voice, was only half an act. Bruce knew that. He held Tim's shoulder in his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, even as he reached out for the button to raise the bed. "I'm sorry, son. Let's get it over with, okay? I want the people who did this to stay in jail. Forever. Do you want me to stay in the room?"

Tim nodded almost frantically. Once the bed was raised, he looked around a little wildly. "Please don't leave."

Bruce shook his head. "Never." He reached over to the other side of the room and snagged a chair, dragging it closer so he could sit next to his son. "Is there anyone else you want to be with you?"

Tim looked at his family clustered near the door. "Dick." Dick moved forward instantly to stand behind Bruce. Tim looked at Alfred. "Not Damian. Please. He doesn't need to hear this."

Alfred nodded, his hands on Damian's shoulders. Damian started to protest, something about how he deserved to know, but Alfred squeezed his shoulders in warning, and he fell silent.

Tim's eyes tracked to the side, and his mouth opened. "Jay..." He stopped.

Bruce glanced at Jason, trapped against the wall, face pale and eyes wide under his unaffected demeanor. "Of course Jay will stay."

He looked to the officers. "This is Jay Dodson, a private bodyguard I hired to protect Tim while he's recovering from this attack." Not the best alias he'd ever come up with, but hey, it was short notice and he was under a lot of stress. He glanced at Alfred, and Alfred gave a slight nod. He would have Oracle start working on forged paperwork as soon as he left the room.

Bullock and MacDonald accepted this without a fight. MacDonald hefted a duffel bag in her hand. "Okay if I set up a camera? That way we'll only need to take your statement once. We can transcribe it later and have you sign it when you're ready."

Tim glanced at his trapped hands, not a little bitterly, then gave MacDonald a nod. "That's fine." His voice was faint, wispy.

Alfred ushered Damian out of the room as MacDonald set up a tripod and video camera. Bullock stood there awkwardly, looking over a page of notes. Bruce sat as close to Tim as he could get, holding his shoulder, brushing his fingers through his hair. He could feel Dick behind him, standing strong and tall. He could feel the fever rising from Tim in waves, though he seemed entirely awake and in control of himself, at the moment. He felt Jason's stare and took care not to look in his direction if he didn't need to.

He still didn't know what to do about Jason. It pained him that they couldn't seem to even talk when they weren't in uniform. And when they were it was just about cases, keeping down the criminal element. But right now, he couldn't spare the effort to figure out how to interact with Jason. He needed to focus on Tim.

Tim was very clearly doing a breathing exercise to calm himself down, counting silently in his head, in through the nose, out through the mouth, stomach rising in deep, slow rhythm. Bruce rubbed his thumb over his shoulder to the same rhythm, slow and firm. By the time the equipment was ready, Tim was as relaxed as he was going to get.

Bullock settled himself on his feet and gave Tim a sympathetic look. He didn't know that this was the Robin who had saved his life a couple years ago. How could he? Bruce hoped that those memories would help Tim feel as comfortable as possible, though. "Mr. Drake-Wayne, if you could..."

Tim shook his head. "Just call me Tim. Please."

Bullock nodded. "Tim, if you could just tell us what happened in your own words, please. We'll ask clarifying questions if we need to. Take your time. There's no hurry."

Tim nodded and sucked in a shaky breath. "Looking back, I think it really started a couple of days ago. I had... I had finally been released from physical therapy from almost getting paralyzed, and I was celebrating being free of those braces and crutches. So I took a motorcycle ride through the city, just...enjoying being free. And I got in an accident. A hit and run. A van sideswiped me, sent me spinning across the road, then took off."

Bullock's nose wrinkled. "How is this related?"

"I think... It was a blur at the time, but looking back, I'm pretty sure the man who hit me was one of the, one of the..." Tim bit his lip. "One of the men in the warehouse. His face is clear in my mind."

Bullock took some notes, even though the camera was running. "Did you ever hear his name?"

"I think it was Johnson. I'm sorry, I know that's not very helpful."

Bullock shook his head. "Don't worry. We'll figure it out, maybe have you look at some mugshots later. What happened next?"

"Well, my leg was injured in the crash, mostly my knee." Tim looked forlornly down at his right leg. There was a lump under the covers around his knee. He'd torn ligaments, almost dislocated his kneecap. Bruce had seen that, along with a lot of Tim's other injuries, while he was in the emergency room immediately after the rescue. That alone would take him weeks to recover from, never mind everything else.

"After getting my knee treated at a nearby clinic, I took my bike to a shop I knew to get it looked at. I knew the owner through...some of my projects." The police would assume he was talking about the Neon Knights or another Wayne Foundation organization. Bruce knew Tim was talking about his work as Red Robin.

"What was the shop owner's name?"

"Harry Walker. Slim. He's a good man, does his best for the neighborhood he lives in. Anyway, he insisted I stay the night, rest my knee, and I was tired and didn't refuse. I should have just gone home, but I didn't know..."

Tim was shaking harder now. Bruce held his shoulder a little tighter, and Dick made a sympathetic noise behind him. Jason didn't move, didn't speak, just stood against the wall.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then looked at Bullock again. "Slim's house was broken into that night, while I was staying there. He fought back, but was overwhelmed and knocked out. We both thought they were neighborhood gangbangers coming after him for his work to clean up the streets, but they weren't after him. They were after me. They knew I was there. It was all planned."

He fell silent, breathing raggedly. A beat passed, then another one. Bullock cleared his throat. "What happened next?"

Tim let out a laugh that was half a sob. "They beat me up. I tried to fight back, but there were too many." And he was in his civilian clothes, no Red Robin suit, none of his usual tools, no communicator to call for back up, his leg already injured. Bruce could picture it all too clearly in his mind. Tim would have fought like the highly competent, trained fighter that he was, but all of the skill and talent in the world could still be overwhelmed by pure force and numbers.

Bullock nodded carefully. "And then they took you away?"

"Yeah. Put a bag over my head, tied me up, the works. I've had training in how to escape kidnapping scenarios, but they seemed to know every trick."

"How many men were involved? Did you catch any other names?"

The specific questions seemed to draw Tim up short, catch him off guard. He was quiet for a moment, thinking. It gave him some time to calm down. Bruce was grateful. He didn't let go of Tim's shoulder for a second, still concentrating on his face and paying very little attention to anything else.

"I think there were...five or six who broke into Slim's house. Yeah. At least that many. A driver must have been waiting in the van we drove off in, because we started right away as soon as I was inside, no one had to go jump in the driver's seat. And in the warehouse..." Tim's breath caught, then sped up.

Bullock waved a hand. "We'll talk about that in a moment. Five, six, maybe seven involved in the actual kidnapping, right?" He made some notes. "Any names?"

"They didn't really talk to each other then. Seemed to have a plan and just followed it. In the van someone said the name 'H.R.,' but they might have been talking about Slim. That was his nickname some years ago."

"All right." Bullock took more notes. "Mr. Walker has already been in to the station and given his statement, but we can follow up with him if need be." He took a deep breath, then looked at Tim straight on. "I'm sorry about this, Tim, but we need to talk about what happened next. This is the part only you can tell us about. I know it's going to be hard. Take your time. Your dad and your brother are with you, and Josie and me are here to help, too. We're all in your corner, everyone of us."

Tim nodded jerkily. "I know. I know. The, the next thing I knew I was in a warehouse, tied to a chair. They pulled the bag off my head and, and I could see them, they were all around me...." His breath was speeding up again. "Eight, nine men, maybe. And in the middle was, was a man I recognized from the news. Gary McDaniels. He, uh. He ran a trafficking ring. I think he blamed the Neon Knights for the way it got broken up."

Bruce knew the truth. The Neon Knights had been involved, but only after the fact, to draw in the younger kids who had been caught up in the operation and give them an alternative. It was Red Robin who had broken up McDaniels's organization, almost singlehandedly.

"And then he..." Tim took a breath, staring into the distance. He was trying to separate himself from what he was about to say. He looked at Bullock, then at Bruce. His eyes did not waver from Bruce's face. "He punched me. Face, stomach. Really hard. He laughed. Said he was looking forward to this, to what they were about to do. I was so scared. I was so scared."

His eyes were full of tears, now, starting to run down. Bruce's were, too. His heart ached in his chest so badly that he feared it might kill him. He wanted to drag Tim out of that bed and hold him in his arms even more fiercely than before.

God, he loved this kid. So, so much. It hurt him to hear Tim describe himself being hurt, almost as if it was him taking those punches, tied to a chair and aware that he was about to be subjected to torture for having the audacity to try to make things better in his city. Knowing that this was going to end in his death, most likely, unless someone got to him in time. Unsure if Bruce was coming, even if he knew what was going on, if he would know where to look.

Fortunately, Harry "Slim" Walker was a minor vigilante himself who went by the moniker "Mr. Fixer." He kept to his own few blocks most of the time, but Batman had been aware of his activities and met up him with a few times. When he got back to town a few months ago, he'd stopped one night and made sure Slim had his new contact information. And right after Tim Drake-Wayne had been kidnapped from his house, as soon as Slim woke up from being knocked out, the first person he called was Batman.

He should have gotten to him so much faster. Bruce knew that this was where the story got really bad. Part of him wanted to hear it all, every last detail, so he could know exactly how badly he'd failed his child. Part of him wanted to hear none of it at all. But he was going to hear it, regardless. Tim needed him to be here, needed him to listen.

The room was quiet. All Bruce could hear was Tim's breathing, harsh and loud. All he could see was the pain and terror in his eyes. All he could feel was the boy shivering under his hand. Bullock was silent, not prompting Tim to continue. If he had tried, Bruce would have snarled at him. Tim deserved all the time he needed to gather himself.

After a few more deep breaths, Tim started to talk. He looked into Bruce's face the entire time, never wavering. His voice was clear, though it trembled. At times he faltered, started to break down, but then he pulled himself together and continued. Tears leaked out of his eyes, and Bruce reached out and wiped them away with his thumbs. He felt Dick's hands on his shoulders, gripping tight. He felt Jason's presence watching over them all and wished that he could pull him in, too, but he couldn't look at him. He kept his eyes on Tim's, giving him all the strength he could.

Tim started out speaking factually, almost blankly, as if giving a report at a board meeting. They beat him with baseball bats and plastic pipes, broke his ribs, left deep dark bruises all over his body. They hung him from the ceiling with chains around his wrists. They whipped him, leaving long bloody marks across his back. They burned him with cigarettes up and down his arms and legs. They shocked him with a car battery.

They made him scream. And scream. And scream.

They asked questions. They wanted passwords, information on security at Wayne Enterprises, ways to get in. Tim held out past midnight, when he knew the passwords would all be changed, then he told them anything they wanted to know. At least about that part of his life. He knew all of that could be repaired.

Tim's voice was worn down at this point, a raspy murmur. Bullock called for a break, and MacDonald turned off the camera. Tim breathed, slowly coming down, though he was still tense and wound up. It wasn't over. There was more he needed to say.

Jason held the water cup for him to drink. The blank, factual tone was gone and would not return. Bruce kept wiping Tim's tears as they kept falling down. He felt like there were spikes inside his chest, piercing outward, tearing him slowly to pieces. He would give anything to take Tim's place during those awful hours, to bear all of that agony and degradation for him. He would give anything to be able to do that now, too. But all he could do was sit there and hold his shoulder and wipe his tears. It wasn't enough.

He hated McDaniels as much as he hated the Joker. Possibly more, as this was more fresh and immediate.

Tim looked at MacDonald. "Turn the camera back on. I want to finish." Then he looked back at Bruce.

Bruce heard the camera whirring again. Bullock shifted, cleared his throat. A paper rustled. Dick's hands were painful on his shoulders, holding Bruce like a lifeline.

"They asked other questions," Tim said. "About other projects. I didn't tell them anything about those. Nothing. Not a word. They were trying to confirm that I was involved in stopping another criminal activity of theirs. I never gave them that."

Bruce understood. McDaniels had suspected that Tim Drake was Red Robin, but hadn't had proof. Part of the torture had been to make Tim confess to that part of his life, but Tim hadn't done it. Their identities were still safe.

Bruce nodded slowly to show he understood. "Good job," he murmured, though it almost killed him to do it. "You did so good, sweetheart."

Part of him, a large part, raged against this. He wished Tim had just given in, given them what they wanted. Bruce didn't care if Tim gave away all of their identities, confirmed every suspicion, told them exactly how to get to the Batcave, any of that. It all would have been worth it to spare Tim even a portion of the torture he'd gone through.

But no, then they would have killed him. Tim was alive because he had held on and refused to give in. He had protected them all with everything he had, including his body. Including his hands. Self-sacrificial to the end, that was Tim. That was Bruce's son, the one who just kept saving him and protecting him over and over again.

Tim fell quiet, though it was clear that he was balancing on the edge of something. One last push, Bruce hoped, and it would all be out there, all done except the details. His trembling intensified, and there was a metallic rattling that had Bruce looking around, trying to figure out where it was coming from.

The external fixator. Tim's hands were shaking hard enough to rattle the device that was meant to hold them still.

He turned back to the boy, his heart breaking for him. Tim's face was raw with distress. He sucked in a breath, and it came out in a desperate gasp as the tears ran down. "Bruce... Dad. Dad!"

Tim needed something from him. Something immediate and strong. Bruce's heart was pounding in his chest, and he jerked to his feet almost on instinct. What was it? What could he do?

Only one thing occurred to him. He grabbed the bed rail, searching for the lever to push it down. "Here, sweetheart, sit forward. Dick, can you help, please, we need to..."

It took some doing, but they managed to lower the bed rail and have Tim sit up and lean forward. Dick shifted the external fixator so it wouldn't get in the way, Jason leaping to help. Bruce jammed himself into the bed halfway, sitting behind Tim. Half of him was still hanging off the edge, the bed not meant for two grown men, or one large grown man and one smallish teenage boy.

But he was able to wrap Tim up from behind, folding his arms around him and drawing his head down to rest on his chest. Tim rolled his head over to hide his eyes against him, sobbing into his neck. It took some doing, and it was probably the most awkward and uncomfortable position Bruce had ever been in. But he was holding his son, and it was all he wanted.

He spared a passing thought to the poor policemen in the room. They were going to have a lot of useless footage of Bruce Wayne comforting his traumatized child. But they were just going to have to deal with it. Nothing mattered right now but Tim and helping him get through this.

Bruce held his son, murmured soothing phrases, stroked his hair. Dick was leaning over them, too, rubbing Tim's shoulder and upper arm. He was crying helplessly, pausing now and then to scrub his face on his arm. Jason had retreated to the wall, shoulders hunched, his face turned away from the officers. It looked like he might be teary, too, but Bruce couldn't spare him much attention.

It took several minutes, but Tim finally calmed down enough to swallow his tears and turn to look at the camera again. Dick backed off and sat in the chair Bruce had vacated. Bruce kept a hand wrapped around the side of Tim's head as if to shield him.

"Sorry," Tim whispered, his voice completely wrecked. "I didn't mean to break down like that."

Bullock shook his head. His face was grim. "That's all right, son. There's just one more thing we need to talk about, isn't there?"

Tim nodded. His breath seemed stuck in his throat.

Bullock said it for him. "We need to talk about what happened to your hands."

Chapter Text

Harvey Bullock knew two things for certain.

Number One: Jay Dodson was not just a private bodyguard. There was something going on there. He was a friend of the family, or a friend of Tim's. Maybe through school or the Neon Knights or something. Not quite in the inner circle, not with the way he kept avoiding Bruce Wayne's eyes, but that guy cared way too much to be just a hired gun. After Tim's breakdown, he was goddamn shaking.

Not that Harvey was going to do anything about it. Tim obviously trusted this Jay guy, whoever he was, so that was good enough. Maybe he was the one who had gotten Bruce to hire him or something. Because yeah, it was also damn clear that Bruce Wayne would do anything for Timothy Drake-Wayne. Anything at all.

Which led to Number Two of the things Harvey Bullock was certain about: He would fight anyone who said that Bruce Wayne didn't love the kids he adopted, or that they didn't love him back. This habit of collecting orphans that Bruce had was not about publicity, or image, or even just the kind of charity that a lot of rich people indulged in when they ran out of other things to spend money on. That was clear in the way Bruce, Dick, and Tim interacted, even before Tim broke down and the others forced a way for Bruce to sit on the bed with him and hold him in his arms.

Damn the gossip rags for speculating anything else. Bruce Wayne loved his kids. Period. Full stop.

Which just made it all the harder for Harvey to do his job, really. To stand here and make this shell-shocked young man recount, blow for blow, all of the sins that had been committed against him. Gotham was a crappy city, the worst, and Harvey was used to his job being hard. But this was another level of hell, and he would be happy as a pig in shit when it was over.

He just wanted to go home and pet his cats.

Instead, he opened his mouth and said the thing they all knew, but didn't want to say. "We need to talk about what happened to your hands."

Tim leaned back against his father's chest, his head sheltered in the dip between Bruce's arm and side. His face was flushed under the bruises and cuts, streaked with drying tears, and absolutely miserable. He nodded, swallowing hard.

"Right." Harvey glanced at his notes, mostly as an excuse to stop looking at the poor kid's face for a split second. "So did that happen...before or after all of the other stuff?"

"It's...a big blur, mostly," Tim murmured, barely loud enough for the camera's mic to pick up. His voice was rough and cracked. Josie shifted behind the camera and fiddled with some settings, probably to make it easier to hear him.

"Any guesses?" Harvey asked. The timeline wasn't crucial, but the more details the better. This case had to be airtight. Had to be.

"Toward the...toward the end. They were getting frustrated."

"So what happened? Who was involved?"

Harvey knew he was asking a few too many questions, but the kid obviously needed the guidance. He couldn't just leave him hanging out there, struggling to put together the pieces on his own. Tim had done an amazing job so far, all things considered. He'd been very factual, very detailed. But it was no surprise that this last part, the worst part, was the hardest for him to express.

Tim looked away, a thousand-yard stare into nothing that was frankly a little eerie on a face so young. Bruce's arm tightened around his abdomen, under the cracked ribs, his other hand still buried in Tim's hair. "Th...they let me down from the chains. I thought...I hoped maybe I was getting a break. But they tied me to a chair next to a table. Same table they'd used for the car battery, but that wasn't there anymore. It was just the chair and the table. I didn't know what was going on."

He pulled in a breath, wincing when it dragged against his strained throat, his aching lungs. "Up till then, M...McDaniels had m-mostly just been in the background, watching. He... He'd tell them what to do, egg them on. But he left the dirty work to, to his men. But for this part, I guess... Like I said, they were frustrated. He was angry. So he d-decided to get involved. Personally."

He swallowed again, this throat clicking. Bruce bent his head over his, nose buried in his dark hair, and murmured something close to his ear. Tim nodded absently, his gaze still far away.

"So I was tied to the chair, next to this table, and McDaniels was s-standing there. With a hammer. And one of the other guys, I think it was the one called Sam, grabbed my wrist and pulled it out, pressed my hand to the table, palm down. There were two other guys holding my shoulders, one on each arm, even though I was already tied down. I tried to keep my hand in a fist, but Sam grabbed my fingers and forced them apart, so they were flat on the table. And..."

His breathing quickened. Dick, sitting in the chair next to him, stifled a sob.

"McDaniels raised the hammer. High. He asked a question. I don't remember what it was. But I didn't answer. So he... He brought the hammer down, right in the middle of my hand.

"It hurt. I screamed."

The last words were whispered, faint and barely there. Harvey had to lean closer to hear them. He wasn't sure the camera would be able to pick them up. He and Josie might have to fill in some gaps in the transcript later.

The next words out of Harvey's mouth might have been the worst he'd ever uttered. "I'm sorry, Tim, but could you please speak up?"

Tim blinked, eyelids fluttering, and seemed to come back to himself. He looked at Harvey, then at the camera. And he nodded. Brave, ruined kid. He nodded.

"It hurt." This time the words were extremely clear. They rang in the room like a fucking bell. "I screamed."

Harvey nodded and rocked back on his heels. He didn't miss Jay Dodson glaring at him like he was something black and stinking picked up on his shoe. He didn't blame the guy one tiny bit.

But the job, you know. He had to do his job.

"Then what?"

Tim blinked again. He seemed vaguely offended by the question, as if Harvey should have been faster to pick up what he was putting down. "Then it kept happening. He asked questions. I didn't answer. He hit my hand with the hammer. When he ran out of places to hit on that hand, they switched to the other one."

Harvey nodded. "Got it." The medical report had said that Tim's right hand was broken in nineteen places. The left hand was broken in fifteen. Damn near didn't make a difference.

He made a note, then looked back at Tim. "So just to clarify, then. McDaniels himself wasn't directly involved in the other stuff. The beating, whipping, burning, none of that. But he held the hammer himself. The whole time."

Tim nodded. His eyes welled with tears, then flowed over. "Yeah. He did. And I watched the whole time. I couldn't look away." Bruce pressed him somehow even closer, tucking Tim's head against his. Tim blinked, but continued to stare at Harvey.

So that was thirty-four separate counts of battery that they could charge to Gary McDaniels. At least. Harvey made another note.

He sighed and swiped a hand over his forehead. Almost done. He hoped. "Is there anything else that was physically done to you?"

Tim took a breath, then another. "I think I covered it all."

Harvey spread his hands. "Take your time. Think about it. There's no hurry."

So Tim did. He sat there, wrapped up in his father's arms, and thought hard about everything he'd gone through in the last two days, making sure he hadn't left anything out. Harvey could practically see the gears turning, the boxes ticking off in that brilliant young brain. Tim was exhausted and agonized and at the end of his rope, but he was still Timothy Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and it fucking showed.

Number Three of things Harvey Bullock was now certain of: Tim Wayne had not been made CEO of his father's company out of mere nepotism. He fucking deserved that position, and he was probably doing a goddamn amazing job at it. The stock price was going to drop without him at the helm, but Harvey wasn't gonna sell. Not a cent. He was going to hold on and hope that Tim overcame all of this and came back.

It honestly seemed like he could.

After a suitable period of mulling it over, Tim met Harvey's eyes and nodded, firm and resolute, like the goddamn leader of industry that he was. "That's everything. Not...every single individual strike. I couldn't account for those if I tried. But the broad strokes, yeah."

Harvey mustered a smile. "Okay. Good job, Tim. If you change your mind, if you think of anything else, day or night, don't hesitate to call. Me, Josie, the precinct. Whatever. Call the commish, if you want. We'll leave you some business cards."

Tim smiled back, a little hazy but sweet. He was relaxing, leaning limply into his dad. Even Dick and Jay seemed relieved, shoulders slumping.

Goddamn broke Harvey's heart to have to put an end to that, even temporarily. He raised a hand. "Sorry, just a couple more questions."

Tim's eyes had been drooping, but now they opened wide again.

"Just...anything you might have overheard. Did it sound like they had plans to kill you? Did you fear for your life?"

Tim rolled his eyes slightly, like this should have been obvious. "Yes. Of course. If I had given them everything they wanted, they would have finished me off." He shuddered gently. "Eventually."

Harvey nodded and jotted down "conspiracy to murder."

"Right. Okay. And did any of...uh. Any of the blows against you, did they seem like they were intended to kill you?"

Tim licked his lips. "N-no. I don't think so. Kind of... Kind of hard to tell. But I'm pretty sure they wanted me to stay alive for a while." His breath was speeding up again.

"Right." Harvey nodded sympathetically and definitely didn't show any disappointment. Couldn't add "attempted murder" to the list. But hey, they sure did have a lot.

Tim's teeth chattered lightly. He was getting the shakes now, after the fact. Completely understandable, poor kid. Harvey started looking for a graceful exit.

"Are we done here?" Bruce Wayne asked. His voice was a low growl, his grip on his son even more tightly wound, more protective and possessive.

And there it was. The exit. Harvey nodded, relieved to be done. "Yeah." He gave the kid his best version of a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Tim. We'll get him."

Tim blinked. "What do you mean, g-get him? Are you talking about M-McDaniels?"

Harvey nodded. He looked down at the list of charges in his hand, feeling mostly satisfied. "Yeah. We have every cop in the city looking. With this many charges, we ought to damn well be able to hold him, this time."

Tim's breath stuttered. Harvey looked at him sharply and realized that he was starting to look shocky, face pale and skin clammy. "I, I thought..." The words stumbled out over numb lips. "I thought he w-was already in c-custody."

Oh no. Harvey's heart fell into his shoes. He stood there, frozen, and looked back at the kid he'd just thrown into a panic without even meaning to. "Ah. No, actually. I'm sorry for the bad news, Tim. Batman and Red Hood delivered a whole bunch of thugs into police hands from that warehouse. But McDaniels wasn't with them."

Tim blinked at him. "Oh," he whispered.

And then he passed out.

Chapter Text

The world came back in snatches, fuzzy at the edges, fading in and out like a radio station at the edge of its coverage zone.

"...blood pressure too low, elevate..."

"...Mr. Wayne, I have to insist..."

There were hands on him, jostling him, moving him around.

"...get the oxygen started..."

"...what, what is that..."

People were talking, some scared, some firm and urgent, overlapping like a mosaic of tissue paper.

"...lacerations opened again..."

"...get him on his side..."

The pain sharpened, then dulled, then sharpened enough to make him gasp for air.

"...Dick, get Alfred..."

"...can't make me leave..."

His breath stuttered, almost stopped, started again. He became aware of a mask over his mouth and nose, a hiss of gases, something like a fresh breeze in his nose. The world became less fuzzy, more coherent. They'd put him on oxygen. Tim wondered hazily why they hadn't done that before. He'd been having a hard time breathing with the cracked ribs since he came in. Had he not mentioned it?

"...increase the dosage..."

"...wouldn't agree..."

He was lying on his side. They'd rearranged the bed and the boards holding his hands up. His back was bare, and he shivered, feeling the air against his abraded skin. Someone was gently wiping his back with a cloth, soaking up a layer of something thick and sticky. Blood. Some of the whipmarks had opened up, probably because he'd been moving around too much while leaning against them.

Tim's breath stuttered, then smoothed out. Bruce wasn't holding him anymore. He felt cold, despite the fever that weakened his limbs and dizzied his head. He wanted that warmth, those arms, to be around him again. But it would be selfish to ask for it.

Where was Bruce? Tim forced his eyes open, squinting against the light that pierced them. A large hand was lying over the side of his head, gently brushing his hair back. Bruce was there. Bruce was still there.

"Sorry," he whispered against the oxygen mask.

He felt more than saw Bruce shake his head. "No apologies," that deep voice rumbled. It vibrated in Tim's chest like a tidal wave, like an earthquake. It undergirded the world, shook it, sustained it. It was everything and everywhere. He had no choice but to listen, no choice but to believe. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

He was raw and exposed, a quivering nerve laying open to be plucked. The nurse behind him finished cleaning up the blood and started taping down gauze. He shivered helplessly and waited for it to be over.

He wondered how horrible his back looked. How many more scars he would bear at the end of this. He couldn't remember how many times they had whipped him. It hadn't been for very long. Even McDaniels had seemed surprised by the amount of blood, by how loudly and wildly Tim had screamed.

Tim stifled a sob. "I'm so pathetic."

"No." Bruce's hand lay flat against his head. His thumb brushed over Tim's hot, swollen cheek, painful and soothing at the same time. Tim was so sensitive that it felt like the lightest caress would burn, would ache, but he didn't want Bruce to stop touching him. It seemed like that was the only thing that was keeping him from floating off into nothing.

"You are not pathetic, Timothy. You are the strongest person I've ever met."

Tim laughed, choked, then turned his head downward and coughed into the pillow. It felt like he was smearing blood everywhere, but it was probably just saliva and snot. "Not...true," he reproached.

"Yes. True," Bruce rebutted, calm and steady. Again, Tim had no choice but to believe, at least a little bit. "There are different kinds of strength."

The nurse finished with his back. Careful hands tied the cloth bands on the back of the hospital gown, shielding him in flimsy linen. There were footsteps, movements behind him. Tim tried not to tense up. He heard the nurse walking away, saying something he couldn't catch. A door opened and closed.

Other hands pulled a blanket up over his shoulder, protecting him from the air that made him shiver. Tim recognized those hands. It was Dick who was standing behind him now. No one would get him while Dick was there.

He blinked, closed his eyes. Listened to the different sets of lungs breathing in the room. He recognized all of them. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Alfred. He was safe. His heartbeat settled, his body going loose. He felt steadier, more in control of himself, though he was still afraid of floating away. Bruce's touch kept him tethered to reality.

Tim huffed, rueful and embarrassed. "I can't believe I...fainted...like a Victorian maid at shocking news."

There was a snort somewhere near his feet, amused and wet. Jason. Tim wondered how many Dickensian novels he'd read that featured that trope. A few dozen, at least.

"It was very shocking news," Bruce murmured. "Completely understandable that you reacted badly. I'm sorry, partner. I meant to tell you when you were a little stronger, when...all of this...wasn't quite so fresh and awful."

"Wait a second." Dick's voice, suddenly sharp. Tim forced himself not to tense. It was fine. Dick wasn't angry at him. "You knew? You knew McDaniels wasn't in custody?"

Tim heard Jason shifting from foot to foot. It was like waves on a beach. Bruce didn't waver, not an iota. He kept petting Tim's head, holding him down to earth.

"Yes, we knew. It's one reason Jason didn't come to visit until so late in the day. He was looking for him."

Dick's attention turned to Jason. "What clues have you found? What are the leads? We have to go now." His voice was still sharp, getting sharper. It was rising toward frantic. Tim shivered involuntarily.

"Dick." Bruce's voice had gone gravelly. "Calm down. We're working on it, I promise. We have allies. They're looking. Right now it's more important that we focus on Tim. He needs us here, not out there."

How did Bruce know? How did he know what Tim didn't dare to say aloud? He could barely put three words together right now, everything getting stuck in his throat behind the confining mask. How did Bruce know that he would much rather that they all stay with him, even if that meant the man who had hurt him went free for a little while longer?

Just listening wasn't enough. Tim had to force his eyes open to look at his father again, even though his vision was tilting and blurred. Bruce was sitting by the bed, hunched over with his face on level with Tim's, watching him like nothing else mattered. He saw Tim's eyes open and gave him a smile, barely there. His voice was soft, just for Tim. "I told you. I won't leave you alone. Not again."

Tim swallowed and nodded, his head shifting under Bruce's hand, then let his eyes drift shut again. The gratitude nearly suffocated him. "Thank you."

Bruce hnned. Dick moved around restlessly for a few more seconds, then abruptly dropped down into a chair. Jason and Alfred were both still there, too. No one was leaving.

Bruce's thumb kept stroking his cheek. "You should be getting sleepy now. There's no need to fight it. We'll be here guarding you while you sleep."

Tim remembered one of the phrases he'd caught while his brain was fuzzing in and out. "You...increased the dosage?"

Bruce hummed again, sounding pleased that Tim had figured it out. "We asked the doctors to increase your painkillers and sedative. Just a little. Well, Alfred did, since he's the one you designated to make medical decisions on your behalf. I know you don't like how heavy drugs make you feel, but I think it's worth the trade off in this case. As I said, your brothers and I will be here watching over you the whole time."

"Even Jay?" Tim asked sleepily.

Jason cleared his throat and injected his voice with something like cheer. "Hey, I'm a hired bodyguard now, remember? I'm taking that as a twenty-four/seven gig, baby bird. No leaving. I swear."

For some reason, Tim felt himself believe this. It was probably the drugs. "Okay. Sorry I'm...such a pain."

"You're not a pain." Jason sounded weirdly fierce. It woke Tim up enough that he opened his eyes and tried to focus down on that end of the bed. He couldn't turn his head much with Bruce's hand lying so heavily on it, though.

He couldn't quite work out why Jason was upset. He understood why Dick was angry about McDaniels still being out there. A dangerous criminal who had badly hurt his little brother was currently free to hurt others, to cause more problems. It itched at Dick's justice-loving soul, as well as offending his big brother sensibilities.

Tim also understood why Bruce was so insistent on staying here, at least he was pretty sure he knew the reason. Bruce was treating Tim's health like a mission, like a case he had to solve. So that meant he needed to stay where all the evidence was, analyze the situation, and test theories until he found a solution. Having all of Bruce's obsessive nature bent on him was a bit intimidating, but Tim appreciated it, too. When Bruce decided to solve a problem, that problem got solved.

But he didn't understand Jason. He'd always believed that Jason could become a hero again, if he was able to heal a bit from the trauma of being murdered, resurrected, dunked in a Lazarus Pit, and manipulated by the League of Assassins for years. Yes, it was a tall order, but Tim had believed that Jason could do it. He had been Jason's advocate to Bruce ever since Red Hood's identity had been known, and he had been as pleased as could be when Jason started trying to live within Batman's code and find an equilibrium with him in Gotham.

Jason's desire to get along with Batman hadn't necessarily translated to a desire to get along with Red Robin, though. Tim understood and accepted that. Especially since he had been replaced by Damian, the mantle of Robin taken from him without his consent, he had not begrudged Jason for hating him, calling him "Replacement," even wanting him dead. It all made perfect sense, especially for someone who was slightly unhinged by everything they had suffered in addition to the evil influence of the Pit.

But something had changed last night when Jason picked him up off that dirty warehouse floor and cradled him in his arms. Now it seemed like Jason didn't hate him at all. And Tim no longer felt any need to be wary in Jason's presence. Indeed, he found it to be soothing, instead. He felt safe when Jason was near, much like he felt with Bruce and Dick.

Tim didn't really get it. He didn't understand how that one moment could be such a huge turning point. Part of him was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Jason to revert and turn on him again, for something else bad to happen.

The rest of him was tired of that, though. He wanted to trust this. He wanted to believe that Jason really had changed, somehow, someway, that he really was on Tim's side. It would be...really nice to have Jason on his side.

So after a few seconds of trying to figure out why Jason was defending him, Tim gave up. He was too tired, and he didn't want to question this. He closed his eyes and relaxed, concentrating on the feeling of Bruce's hand against his head, his thumb along his cheek. The fever weighed him down like a heavy blanket, fogging his mind and slowing his reactions.

Everything was fine. He could rest. Bruce and Dick and Jason and Alfred were all here. It was fine.

Moments later, everything faded, and Tim sank into sleep with a grateful sigh.

Chapter Text

In his haste to get back to Drake's room, Father had left his computer pad on a chair only a few steps down the hall, barely hidden in an alcove next to a vending machine. Damian found it almost instantly after he was ordered out of the room, again, like a mere servant and not a member of the family. Seething, he sat down cross-legged on the chair his father had vacated and started guessing passwords.

Pennyworth offered to keep him company while they waited, but Damian shook his head, eyes fixed on the pad. If Father didn't have anything interesting on here, he was going to lose his mind with boredom. Even if it did have something interesting, Damian was inclined to open the register and start randomly deleting lines just to express his displeasure with the way he was being treated.

It didn't take him long to guess the password: a combination of Grayson's and Drake's birthdays and the names of two tangential associates to the Batman. And it turned out that there was, indeed, something interesting on this pad.

He should have guessed that his paranoid father would have placed video cameras and listening devices in Drake's hospital room. Damian flipped through the different available angles with a grim kind of satisfaction. There were already earbuds plugged in, and he popped them into his ears and hunched over the pad, listening intently.

And so he heard everything. Every last word that Drake hadn't wanted him to hear. Every sob, every crack in his voice. He saw Father pour himself into comforting the broken Drake with the kind of avid attention he usually reserved for only the most puzzling of mysteries. He saw Grayson cover his face with both hands, his shoulders shaking with repressed weeping. He saw Todd stand against the wall, ghostly pale, lips pressed tightly together.

At first, listening to Drake's story, Damian didn't know what to feel. He felt numb, disconnected from his body. Of course he had deduced that Drake had been tortured when he saw him lying in that hospital bed. No one had told him exactly what had happened to Drake, only that he had been badly injured during his captivity and the situation required a familial visit. But Damian had seen enough victims of torture in his time with the League to recognize it instantly.

He hadn't known what to think at that time of realization, so he'd pushed it out of his mind and let Grayson take the lead in their run down through the building and into that garden courtyard, where he had let his thoughts wander to nothing and nowhere. Now, listening to the words stumbling through Drake's cracked lips and ravaged throat, Damian felt the numbness slowly resolve. It crystalized from confusion and indecision, compressing down and down until he knew what it was, until he recognized the emotion that filled him from the soles of his feet to the ends of his hair.

He was enraged. At first he thought that it was Drake he was angry with. Drake often deserved anger, after all. He had allowed himself to be victimized. He hadn't fought hard enough to escape. He had brought dishonor on his status as Father's former companion and partner. Any student of the Batman should not have fallen prey to such crude and unsophisticated captors. It was embarrassing. Drake was an embarrassment.

But as Drake kept talking, describing more and more methods of torture that had been visited on his body, Damian felt something inside him shift. It was too much. They just kept hurting him again and again, in different and worse ways. It was horrible. Unconscionable. Drake had already been punished sufficiently for his failures, and they didn't stop.

Then Drake described what had been done to his hands. Damian's hands tightened around the thin computer so hard that he heard the casing creak. His stomach turned, twisting and aching. He felt dizzy with rage, so much so that his vision whited out for a second.

And he understood. He wasn't angry at Drake. He was angry at the men who had done this.

How dare they. How dare they.

On the screen in his hands, Father had crammed himself into the bed with Drake and was holding him in his arms like the child that he was. Then that oaf of a detective revealed that Drake's main tormentor was still at large, and Drake fainted from the shock. Such a weakling.

The next few minutes were chaotic. Damian ignored the movement and sounds in the hall, preferring to watch what happened on the screen. Nurses and doctors were alerted by the drop in Drake's vitals and poured into the room to resolve the issue. They forced Father to let go of Drake and move off the bed, which revealed that Father's shirt and side were now stained with blood because the wounds on Drake's back had opened. Grayson was frantic and tried to intervene, and a nurse had to hold him back.

Father made Grayson leave the room to fetch Pennyworth, and again Damian ignored the movement at his side as Pennyworth finally moved away from where he'd been standing beside Damian's alcove. Neither he nor Grayson seemed to notice Damian sitting curled up in his chair, which was fine with him. The scene inside the room was as exciting as any televised drama.

Something else pierced Damian's heart as he watched the action unfold. Envy. Father, Grayson, Pennyworth, even Todd...they were all absolutely focused on supporting Drake and comforting him in his time of need. At the end of it all, they each determined not to leave, even though they would be much more useful tracking down the criminal who had done this rather than sitting uselessly in a hospital room with a sleeping Drake.

Damian didn't have much experience, yet, with what it meant to be in a family. What it meant to be loved, to be shown affection. But he could recognize it when he saw it. All four of the men in the room with Drake loved him a great deal, and they were determined to show it in every way they could.

It made Damian wonder what would happen if he was hurt like that. Victimized like that. Would they surround him the same way, show him the same kind of unconditional kindness?

"Tt." The sound of his own scoff echoed in his head.

Damian lifted his head and stared blankly at the wall. These thoughts were unworthy. Completely pointless. He would never allow himself to be caught and tortured like that. He would escape long before it came to that. He had certainly been injured in this line of work plenty of times; it came with the territory. But he would never know if the others would treat him the way they were treating Drake right now, because the same situation would never happen to him.

He didn't need that kind of suffocating, all-encompassing attention and physical contact. He would never need it. So there was no point in wondering if it would be available to him.

Still, he stared at the wall and thought about it for a long time.

A scuff on the floor drew Damian's attention, and he looked up. Father was standing there, looking at him with a soft expression. He glanced at the screen and saw that it had gone dark, then stood up, took out the earbuds, and set the pad down on the chair. "Father."

Father's lips moved in a sad smile. He reached out and took Damian's face into his hands and rubbed his cheeks with his thumbs, the same way he'd done for Drake while he was telling his tale. "You've been crying."

Damian blinked. He hadn't realized. But now, yes, he was aware of the moisture in his eyes, the uncomfortable tightness of the skin where tears had dried in tracks down his face. He glanced at the pad, then looked up at his father miserably.

Father did not have to be told what he'd done. "You figured out my password. Did you watch the whole time?"

Damian nodded and managed to unstick his voice. "You left the room. Why? After what you said."

"I told Tim he won't be alone, and I don't intend to leave this building until I can take him with me. But that doesn't mean I can't take breaks from sitting with him to deal with other matters. Such as when I notice that my youngest son also should not be alone. I'm sorry, Damian. This must be confusing and frightening for you."

"You're not angry at me for watching? For finding out Drake's secrets when he didn't want me to?"

Father sighed and rubbed his hand over his forehead. He considered Damian for a moment, then moved around him and sat in the chair, shifting the pad to the floor. He pulled Damian around to face him and drew him in to stand between his spread legs so they were looking at each other face to face. His hands remained on Damian's upper arms, warm and large.

"Tim didn't ask for you to leave because he wanted to keep what happened to him a secret from you. Well, that might have been part of his reasoning, but it wasn't the main point. He was trying to protect you. He didn't want you to have to hear the details of the horrors he went through."

"Tt. I am not a child. I know what torture is. And I knew that Drake had been tortured the instant I saw him. It was obvious."

Father nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. You are not a normal child, we all know that. But you are young, you can at least acknowledge that, can't you? It's instinctive for us to try to protect the young from hearing about horrible things like what was done to Tim. And he wasn't wrong to try to protect you, was he? It affected you. Deeply. It made you cry. Do you dispute that?"

Damian scowled and scrubbed his hands over his face to try to get rid of the evidence. He knew he wasn't entirely successful, which was frustrating, but he bit his lip to suppress his anger. He needed to have more self-control, he knew that. "I wasn't crying because I was horrified or frightened by hearing Drake's story. I was angry."

His teeth gritted as he remembered the white hot rage that had poured through him when Drake talked about his hands. "Gary McDaniels... And his followers who helped him carry out these despicable acts... They deserve to die, Father. Every single one of them."

Father's expression was grim. "I don't disagree with you, Damian. But it is not our role to mete out vengeance. The best we can work for is justice, swift and sure."

Damian deflated. "I will not lose sight of our mission, Father."

"I know you won't." Father rubbed his upper arms and gave him a smile, then went serious. "Speaking of, I would like to ask a favor of you."

Damian straightened up and looked him the eyes. Finally, something to do. "What is it?"

"I want you to help us protect Tim from those who would do him harm while he's recovering from this. I know how strong and skilled you are. Tim could have no better guardian, as long as you're willing to do it."

Damian's forehead wrinkled. Something about that request pinged him as strange. Then his forehead smoothed out as he realized why. He gave Father a nod, strong and resolute. "I had already determined to do that. It's not a favor to you. It's what I want to do."

Father's smile was much wider this time. It went all the way up to his eyes. He even chuckled lightly. "That's my boy." He pulled Damian into his arms and held him against his chest in a warm embrace. "I'm so glad to hear that. I'm proud of you, Damian."

Damian put his arms around his father's neck and held him in return. He felt full again, from his soles to the tips of his hair, not with rage but with warmth and contentment. It was good to be in accord with his father, with his family.

After a moment a thought occurred to him, and he scowled and drew back. "Tt. Does this mean that I'll have to work with Todd? He's already determined to be Drake's round-the-clock bodyguard."

Father laughed, even more heartily than before, and ruffled his hair. "I suppose you might. Maybe the two of you can work out some kind of shift schedule."

Well. Bollocks.

Chapter Text

After the chaos and constant trauma of the first day, things at the hospital settled down into kind of a routine. Jason was determined to keep his word to Timmy and be his bodyguard, which meant that he had to get used to a lot of very uncomfortable things, very quickly. He did not like being in the same room with Bruce. He was not particularly fond of being in the same room with Dick. He found it grating to be in the same room as Damian.

Alfred was okay.

But he put up with it, because Timmy was scared, and Timmy deserved to feel safe, and for some reason, God only knew why, he seemed to feel safe with Jason. Granted, it wasn't always easy to tell how Timmy was feeling, because after the horrific spectacle that was giving his statement to the police, Timmy's fever got much worse, and he also got much worse at staying awake for more than a few minutes at a time. But in his lucid or almost-lucid moments, when he realized Jason was there, he always relaxed. It was endearing and also somewhat alarming because, you know, Timmy was supposed to be the smart one, and here he was relaxing with someone who had tried to kill him once.

Not that Jason was going to try that again. He hadn't been lying when he told Tim that he didn't feel that way anymore. Remembering that time was like looking back into a fever himself. He could remember what it felt to be like that, unhinged and wild and out for blood, but it was like a dream. The dream of another person, even.

It wasn't impossible to be in the same room with Bruce and Dick, just uncomfortable, mainly because they mostly focused on Timmy to the exclusion of all else. Even when Timmy was sleeping, which was most of the time. They both also took frequent breaks from the room to make calls and deal with outside business.

Jason had parked his butt in a chair near the head of the bed but not crowded against it and rarely moved except to eat and piss. He had become a furnishing in the room, something easily passed over with the eyes. When they came back in from whatever they needed to do, Dick and Bruce would give him a small nod of acknowledgement, then settle in the chair facing Timmy, or sometimes lean or sit on the bed, and stay there for the duration.

Damian, according to Dick, had taken to roaming the halls to fend off any possible threats. Dick had to fight off laughter when he told the story of a couple of reporters who had tried to corner Damian for news on his brother, and the tongue-lashing Damian had given them for their trouble. The press left him alone after that incident. Sounded like pretty much everyone left him alone, as far as Jason could tell. No one wanted to deal with a fuming eleven-year-old stomping around the hospital as if it had personally offended him. Heck, Jason didn't want to deal with him, but Bruce or Dick or Alfred were usually in the room to buffer on the rare occasions he stopped by the room for "status updates" on Timmy's condition.

Bruce, shockingly, did not go on patrol that first night, even when Timmy woke up semi-lucid, realized how late it was, and asked him why he wasn't on the streets. Bruce just leaned a little closer to him and petted his head and told him, again, that he wasn't going to leave him alone. Timmy still didn't seem to believe this, or at least thought that keeping Gotham safe was more important than sitting with him, but he caught Jason's eye and relaxed, like always, then went to sleep again. It was hard to argue with someone when you couldn't stay awake.

Dick did leave for a few hours in the late evening to check on some cases in Bludhaven, but he was back in the early hours of the morning. He arrived just in time to yawn, collapse in a corner, and fall asleep contorted against the wall like the circus freak he was. Timmy didn’t seem to realize he was gone, and anyway, Bruce and Jason were both there the whole time.

Alfred was gone the most, since he actually followed the hospital rules about visiting hours and such. He forced Damian to go home and sleep, then go to school the next day, so that was a good eighteen hours or so that none of them had to worry about the demon brat. Alfred came back in the middle of the schoolday to deliver changes of clothes to Dick, Bruce, and Jason and bully them into stopping at a hotel next door where he had rented a room in the Wayne name to shower and nap. Dick and Bruce went, after some argument. Jason did not. Alfred was no longer the boss of him.

On the second day, the world-class hand surgeon Bruce had flown in from somewhere in Europe arrived, Dr. Eva Patel. She was not pleased with how high Tim's fever was. She couldn't do an effective examination while he was so out of it, and the inflammation in his hands was also still too pronounced. They were going to have to wait until both of those factors decreased before she could give a prognosis or formulate a course of treatment.

So they adjusted Timmy's meds, again with Alfie's permission. He was already on a hefty antibiotic because of the spleen thing, but they added more antipyretic and decreased the sedative. It worked. Timmy was much more aware of his surroundings when he woke up late on the second night, after the normal confusion on first waking.

Timmy was lying on his back at this point. They kept having to move him around because they needed to keep his hands elevated above his heart to reduce the swelling, but they also couldn't leave him on his back for too long for fear of the lacerations opening again. So it was a constant rotation: left side, back, right side, back, left side, back. About once an hour a team of orderlies and nurses had to come in and rearrange everything. They never managed to do it without waking the poor kid up again, too. No wonder he was so tired. Constant interruptions did not make for deep, healing sleep. And Timmy was never completely comfortable no matter what position he was in, that was obvious.

Dick had gone out to wear the Batman suit for a few hours, then Red Robin, so the criminal element didn't get any ideas about them being gone. Damian and Alfred were somewhere getting food to bring back. Bruce was tired, slumping in his seat. Jason was tired, too, his eyes half open. Still, they both perked up immediately when Timmy started to stir, a breathless whimper crossing his lips.

Sometimes when he was half-asleep he tried to fight the external fixators on his hands and rub off the tube in his nose, since the oxygen mask had been downgraded to a cannula. Bruce leaned forward instantly, already making little shushing noises, big hands moving to Tim's near shoulder and the far side of his head. "Shh, it's okay, it's okay, sweetheart..."

Jason blinked. Did Bruce realize that he had just used a Brucie word when he didn't have to? Bruce didn't wince or flinch, completely focused on Timmy, so there was no way to know.

"D-Dad. Dad?" Apparently the endearment had caught something inside Timmy's chest, too. He turned his head toward Bruce like a flower seeking sunlight, his eyes still pasted shut even as hope lit in his face.

Bruce stood up to get closer to him, hunching over and trying to get Timmy to hold still without restraining him. "Shh, yeah, it's me, it's your dad."

Timmy finally forced his eyes open and squinted at Bruce, face creased with confusion, vision bleary. "Jack?"

Bruce's breath caught. But his hands didn't falter, still holding Timmy gently, one thumb brushing his temple and skating over a bruise. "No, son. It's me. Bruce."

Timmy's face smoothed out. "Bruce. Dad. Bruce-dad."

Bruce let out a breath that might have been a chuckle if it weren't so mingled with pain and relief. "Yeah. Bruce-dad. That works. That's me."

Timmy blinked a few times, then focused on Bruce with more coherence than he'd shown since he'd talked about how his hands were shattered with a hammer. "You're not patrolling. Again."

He sounded disapproving, which forced Jason to suppress a smile.

Bruce smiled. "I told you. I'm not leaving you alone."

Timmy frowned. "But..."

"No buts." Bruce hooked his foot around the leg of the chair and dragged it closer, then sat down again. He didn't let go of Timmy for an instant. "You're too important to risk. The Birds are patrolling for us. The city is safe." He hummed. "As safe as it ever is."

Timmy turned his head to look out the window on the dark cityscape beyond, and Bruce was forced to move his hand rather than end up covering his face. "But... But if something really bad happened, you'd go out there, right? Like an Arkham breakout, or something like that?"

Bruce shook his head, slow and solemn. "Not today. Not tomorrow, either. If something really bad happened, I have other allies I can call on too. I'm not leaving until I can take you with me."

Timmy turned his head to look at him again, a persistent frown dragging at his face. "That doesn't make any sense. You're not making any sense."

Which was almost funny, coming from a kid who had spent the last day and change mumbling incoherently in his sleep. But Jason didn't laugh. Neither did Bruce.

Bruce shrugged and slowly sat further back in his seat, reluctantly letting go of Tim to grip the arms of the chair instead. "It doesn't have to make sense. It's the way it is. I'm not going to leave you alone." He hesitated. "Unless you want me to go? I won't force myself somewhere I'm not wanted."

"I didn't say that." The words were practically blurted. Timmy's eyes widened, then softened again. He settled himself back against his pillow. "I just... I don't understand why you're being like this."

"I'm your dad." A half-smile. "Your Bruce-dad. I love you, and you're hurt, and I'm not leaving you alone. Not even with the redoubtable Jay Dodson as your round-the-clock bodyguard."

Timmy glanced at Jason and visibly relaxed. Again. Fully aware this time. It really was a thing, wasn't it?

Timmy nodded. "Thanks for being here, Jay." His voice was soft.

Jason nodded back. His voice felt stuck in his throat.

Again, he wondered. If the Joker hadn't blown him up. If he hadn't died. If he'd woken up in a hospital, beaten and tortured but still alive. Would Bruce have sat at his side, smiling at him with pain in his eyes and gentleness in his hands? Told him he wouldn't leave him alone? Called him "sweetheart" with that great tenderness in his voice?

He didn't know. He ached for never knowing. But he could guess.

The room had gotten too heavy. Jason cleared his throat and lifted his phone. "Hey, baby bird. Do you want to hear the rest of the The Red-Headed League? I've been holding onto it, waiting for you to wake up a little more."

Timmy nodded eagerly. He winced a little when the movement pulled at something sore, then went still and limp, watching him expectantly. Bruce turned slightly in his chair, giving the impression that he was listening closely, even while his eyes didn't leave Timmy.

Jason smiled and began to read at the spot where he was pretty sure Timmy had fallen asleep last time.

"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter...."

Chapter Text

On the third day, Dr. Patel was finally able to examine Tim. Tim asked everyone to leave the room, even Jason.

"Are you sure, sweetheart?" Bruce asked. "I'd really like to stay, if you'll let me. There's no need to be embarrassed."

He knew the exam was going to painful. He knew Tim would be wincing, possibly crying. He might also have flashbacks of the hammer being brought down on his hands again. Bruce could respect Tim's need to show as little weakness as possible in front of his family, but he wanted to make it clear that it wasn't necessary.

Also, that ship had pretty much sailed. Tim was smart enough to know that.

Tim held his head straight and jutted his jaw forward. Trying to hold onto his dignity. Bruce understood. "This is between me and my doctor, even though you hired her for me. I will want you to return to discuss the results, though, since you're going to be involved in my recovery."

Bruce nodded, grateful for the concession. This was Tim acknowledging that he was going to be returning to Wayne Manor after his hospital stay, not going back to his own apartment. He appreciated that they weren't going to have to fight about that. "All right, son. Have someone come get us when you're ready. We'll just be in the lounge down the hall."

He left the room, gently nudging Dick ahead of him. Jason lingered for a few moments, saying something that Bruce didn't catch, then reluctantly wandered after them. It was the middle of the day, so Damian was in school, thankfully. Bruce was in no mood to have to fight him on Tim's behalf, as well.

In the lounge, Dick frowned at the computer pad Bruce instinctively picked up. "Bruce, no."

Bruce sighed and put it down. He honestly hadn't intended to spy on his son during his exam. It was mere force of habit. Besides, an alarm was already set to go off if something alarming happened in the room, such as an assassin bursting through the window or Tim suffering a panic attack.

His fingers trailed over the pad. Perhaps it was better safe than sorry after all...

"Old man," Jason said, much more harshly than Dick. Bruce glanced at him and read a whole story of threats in his eyes.

He nodded and removed his hand from the pad. "Sorry."

Jason blinked, surprised that Bruce had acquiesced so quickly. He leaned back in his chair, stiff but trying for casual. "So, anyone want to tell me the story of why Timmy's legal father is not allowed to be in the room with him during a medical exam?"

Dick raised his eyebrow. "Didn’t you notice that Alfred was making medical decisions while Tim was out of it? He's an emancipated minor and named Alfred as his authorized..."

Jason waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah. I got that part. But why is he an emancipated minor, huh?" He stared at Bruce challengingly, not meeting Dick's eyes.

Bruce stared back at him, feeling a strange swoop in his stomach as he realized just how much Jason didn't know about the family and their internal dynamics, all of the changes that had happened, the bridges built and burned. He still thought of Jason as his son and always would, but Jason had been away for a long time, and had gone through so many of his own changes in the meantime... He was almost a stranger, an outsider looking in.

It made him ache. He didn't want this. He wanted Jason, Tim, all of his sons, back under his roof where he could protect them, help them heal, make sure they were safe from the myriad enemies they had all drawn in their wake. They had all suffered far too much, and he hadn’t done nearly enough to prevent it.

"Some of this would be better discussed...more privately," Bruce said slowly. "But to make a long story short, Tim was forced to make a number of decisions while I was...indisposed, in order to protect both my life and my legacy. Part of that was preventing a...hostile takeover of Wayne Enterprises by...foreign parties. From the Middle East, more exactly. It was a plan I had set in place long before I was forced into hiatus. Lucius Fox had to track him down and bring him back to Gotham from the...international travels Tim was undertaking on his own. But once back, he willingly chose to enact my plan, taking 51% of WE stock and the position of CEO. In order to do that, he had to become a legal adult, even though he was still seventeen at the time. Thus, emancipated minor."

"So he did it to protect you," Jason summed up. "God damn it, Bruce, how many things has that kid done to protect you in his short life?" His hand was curled into a fist on the skinny arm of his lounge chair.

Bruce grunted. "Far too many."

Jason glared some more.

Bruce shook his head and forced himself to meet his eyes. "I don't like it either, Jay. I promise you, I don't. Tim was forced to grow up far too fast, by far too many outside factors. I don't..." He huffed painfully. "I'm not sure if he ever even had a childhood, not really. Not the kind that every kid should have, protected and coddled by attentive parents who are there to provide guidance and love day in and day out."

Jason's glare turned into something else, something wide-eyed and horrified. "Did his parents..."

Dick shook his head. "Not that we know of. Not physically." His jaw clenched. "They didn't hit him. Probably. Tim's not exactly forthcoming, and he's still protective of their memory, despite everything."

"But they neglected him," Bruce said quietly. "They left him alone in their huge house for weeks, sometimes months at a time, with only a housekeeper checking in intermittently. From about the age of six, I think. He's never confirmed it. It's part of the reason why he's so independent. He had to be. He doesn't know how not to be."

The glare was back. "And you never did anything to change that, did you? You let him protect you, save you, again and again. How could he learn to depend on you when you were the one depending on him?"

Bruce shifted in his chair. He could feel anger rising up in his belly, defensiveness for the choices he had made ever since Tim came into his life. Jason was good at bringing that out in him. Dick, too, when he felt the need.

But he couldn't argue. Along with the surge of anger and defensiveness came an equal welling of guilt and self-recrimination. Nothing that Jason was saying hadn't already crossed his mind a dozen times over while he was sitting in this hospital, watching Tim sleep uneasily in his fever and analyzing years of interactions, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. Trying to figure out when "Batman needs a Robin." became "Everyone would be better off if I wasn't around."

To his surprise, Dick rose to his defense with an angry hiss through the teeth. "Hey, you're jumping to a lot of conclusions, here. Bruce never wanted to depend on a kid. Tim volunteered for the position. Practically forced him to accept."

Jason's eyes fluttered in confusion. "What the hell? How could some stripling kid force Bruce Wayne into anything?" The emphasis let them know that he was referring to Batman, not Bruce. Then his face darkened. "What, did he blackmail you or something?"

No. No. This was not how Bruce wanted this to go at all. He hadn't anticipated this conversation happening in the first place, but now that it was, they needed to speak frankly. The constant use of codewords was just muddling everything. He sat up straight and looked around. He'd already taken over the security cameras on this floor, but there were too many people walking around.

He stood up and beckoned for his sons to follow him. "Come."

After a small hesitation, both popped to their feet, Dick slowly and Jason aggressively. Bruce led them to a stairwell door and inside, then took out his phone. They stood there awkwardly waiting as he opened a certain app. He looked up at the security camera in a corner of the concrete stairwell and hit a button on the app. The red power light blinked off.

Jason gaped at his phone in sincere awe. "Did you just...turn off a security cam with an app?" His voice echoed oddly in the confined space, making it feel even more barren and claustrophobic.

Bruce gave him a half smile and tucked the phone back into his pocket. "Tim made it. No one will hear us now. We can talk freely."

Jason wrinkled his nose.

Bruce took a breath and raised both hands between them. He tried to make it into a gesture of openness, not defensiveness. "Listen, Jay. Tim didn't blackmail me, nothing like that. I guess you never really heard the story of how he became Robin, did you?"

Jason shook his head mutely.

Bruce opened his mouth, but couldn't quite find the words. He looked at Dick pleadingly.

Dick smiled tightly and took up the narrative. "After you... After you died, things were not good, Jaybird. Bruce and I were still fighting, and he... He was going downhill fast. Fighting too aggressively, getting hurt too much. And Tim..." He glanced at Bruce, passing the narrative thread on.

Bruce nodded and took it up. He didn't try to hide the pride in his voice. "Tim Drake is a brilliant young man, I'm sure you've noticed. He had figured out that I was Batman and Dick was Robin back when we were working together. He never told anyone, never meant any harm by it. But he would follow us, take pictures."

"A little kid?" Jason's voice was strangled. "Following Batman and Robin? Around Gotham?"

Batman nodded grimly. It still filled him with chills, sometimes, thinking about how many times Tim must have narrowly escaped robbery or injury or even death in his childhood wanderings through the worst streets of the city. "Tim knew when you became the new Robin. And he knew when you died. He put together the death of Bruce Wayne's second son with the reckless way Batman was fighting, and he came to a conclusion."

"'Batman needs a Robin,'" Dick quoted, half amused, half choked up.

"He didn't want to be Robin," Bruce said, looking Jason directly in the eye. "Not at first. He actually wanted Dick to come back and be Robin again."

"He chased me down," Dick said. "At Titan headquarters, if you can believe it. Dragged me back to Gotham, tried to convince me to work with Bruce again. To save him from himself."

Bruce rubbed a hand over his face. "He was so earnest. So...pure. It was hard to say no to him. But I did. Repeatedly."

"So did I," Dick said, his voice tight and strained. "I told him I couldn't go back to being thirteen again. But I admitted that I could at least work with Bruce again, as Nightwing. So we tried. But we were both idiots. We got caught in a trap laid by Two-Face."

"And Tim came after us," Bruce said. "He took a spare Robin suit, and Alfred drove him, and he actually fought with Two-Face. With no training except a few martial arts classes and the general fitness he earned by biking and running all over Gotham."

"His first act as Robin was to save you," Jason said soberly. He looked at Dick. "Both of you."

Bruce nodded. His breath felt too short. "I guess that set a precedent."

Dick took a breath, then reached out and laid a hand on Jason's shoulder. "Jay. Tim never wanted to take Robin from you. He just wanted to save Bruce. He just wanted to protect Batman. That's all he ever wanted."

Jason blinked at him. "I get it. I'm not mad about that anymore, anyway. How could I be, when you took Robin away from him, too?"

Dick winced and stepped back, letting his hand fall to his side.

Jason looked at Bruce. "And you let Timmy do it. You let him keep saving you. You let him become Robin."

"I don't...regret it," Bruce said through gritted teeth. "I regret...many things. But not that decision. I won't apologize for letting Tim into my life. He has been...a brilliant light. I don't want to give that up. I never will."

"Fine." Jason crossed his arms over his chest and looked him up and down. "But if you want to keep Timmy in your life, then you have got to make some changes, old man. He doesn't know that he can depend on you. He doesn't know that he has any worth outside of being Batman's shield, Batman's soldier. Apparently he's never gotten to be a kid, fine, I get that, but that has to change."

Bruce nodded painfully. "I know. I know. Why do you think I've been spending so much time sitting at his side, holding his face, calling him 'sweetheart?' I have to start somewhere. He didn't believe me when I tried to just state it in words."

Jason quirked an eyebrow. "You were doing that on purpose? Calling him an adorable little petname?"

Bruce smiled. "It started out as a Brucie thing, sure. But... I like it. It's accurate. I'm going to keep using it."

Dick gave him a curious look. "Did you already know about the missing spleen, or was that a surprise to you, too?"

Bruce grimaced. "I suspected. I knew a lot of things had happened to Tim while I was away, some of them bad. A lot of things happened to you and Damian, too. But I couldn't begrudge him keeping a few secrets."

"He learned from the best, after all," Jason said. He might have sounded aggressive and accusing, but instead he just sounded tired.

Bruce nodded. He couldn't dispute it.

They stood there in silence for a few minutes, mulling over everything they'd just discussed. Then Bruce huffed out a breath and leaned on the door. "Let's go back. Hopefully the exam is done now."

It wasn't. But they sat together in the lounge again, and this time the silence was much more peaceful.

Chapter Text

It was Dr. Patel herself who came to fetch them, surprisingly. Alfred had returned by then, and Dick was sitting with his back straight in unconscious imitation of Alfred's always perfect posture, but when the doctor appeared he somehow straightened even more.

Dr. Patel gave Bruce a nod, her eyes flicking over the rest of them to include them in the conversation as well. "He's asking for you. I'm going to go analyze the x-rays and scans in my colleague's office two floors down. I'll return to discuss the results in a few hours." She had a slight European accent, German or possibly Romanian, pleasant and rolling.

"Anything you can tell us now?" Bruce asked, his voice rough. "Preliminary findings?"

Dr. Patel smiled. "Timothy said you would ask that. He gave his permission to tell you my initial thoughts. I don't want to speak too soon, but I'm cautiously hopeful. Timothy should be able to regain most function in his hands, given time and physical therapy. I'll know more soon."

Most was not all. Dick's heart cratered into his stomach. He wondered just how much Tim had lost. Just how much was permanently gone.

"Thank you." Bruce stood to shake her hand, and she took her leave.

In his room, Tim was laying on his side again, his hands resting on elevated boards in front of his torso. He looked wrecked and exhausted, face streaked with tear tracks that no one had taken time to wipe away for him. He turned his head to acknowledge their entrance, hair trailing on the pillow, though he did little more than blink and grunt by way of greeting.

Of course Bruce made a beeline for the chair facing him, selfish in his single-mindedness. Dick tried not to let it bother him. He climbed up on the bed behind Tim instead and reached out to massage his stiff shoulders and neck. "Let me know if you want me to stop," he said softly, and Tim nodded limply. Jason took up his customary position near Tim's head, where Tim could see him at all times, and Alfred stood against the wall.

Bruce found a damp cloth and took his time wiping Tim's face, careful not to disturb any scabs or press too hard on any bruises. When he was done, he laid his hand on Tim's pillow above his head and stroked his fingers through his hair. Tim's eyes fluttered shut, a weary sigh whispering through his lips.

Dick's heart ached. It was getting to be a familiar pain. He could feel the knots in Tim's muscles under his hands gradually relaxing, letting go. Tim must have been so tense, in so much pain. Dick wished he could do more. He wished Tim had let them be in the room with him, but at least he was accepting their touch and presence now.

Bruce bent closer to Tim's head as if drawn by a magnet, his face craggy with exhaustion. His other hand slipped under the boards to fold around Tim's arm against the bed, holding it as Dick knew he wished he could be holding his hand, instead.

"Is there something you want?" Bruce murmured. "Anything, Timmy. As soon as this is over, as soon we get out of here. Say the word and it's yours. A yacht? A trip to Disneyland? A new car?"

Tim managed a ghost of a smile and peeked at him with one eye. "You're gonna get me a new car anyway, even if I tell you I don't need one. It's what you do."

Bruce shrugged. "I like cars. So do you."

Tim giggled. Honest-to-god giggled. It was so beautiful that Dick's heart soared in delight, even while the churning in his stomach did not go away. "Yeah, I do. I like fast cars."

Bruce smiled and stroked his hair. "Something else then. Something special. Say the word, sweetheart. You deserve the world."

Tim sighed and closed his eyes. "I just want to go home."

Bruce swallowed. "Me too," he said with difficulty. "We'll make it happen, I swear. The instant we can, we're out of here and not coming back."

Tim nodded gently. Bruce leaned forward and pressed a kiss over his left eye, in a spot that was almost clear of wounds. Then he sat back in his chair, though he did not stop holding Tim's arm and carding his fingertips through the hair on the top of his head. "Jay-lad, will you read to us?"

"Sure." Jason's voice sounded thick, too. He cleared his throat, then made a production of getting out his phone and opening his Kindle app. "Any requests, baby bird? Or should I pick?"

Tim hummed. "Whatever you want. Something longer than the Sherlock stories, though. I need something to concentrate on."

"Treasure Island it is."

Dr. Patel returned a couple of hours later, as promised. Tim was lying on his other side, this time. Dick was still sitting on the head of the bed, having barely moved position even when the nurses and orderlies tried to make him get off. Tim's head was pillowed on his thigh, drool soaking steadily into Dick's trousers. He didn't much care. His baby brother was sleeping peacefully, for once. Dr. Patel's face went through a complicated journey at the sight of them.

Dick gave her his most charming smile. He patted his fingers on Tim's forehead to wake him up. "Hey, buddy, the doc's here."

Tim snorted awake and blearily turned his head to look at the doctor. The rest of them all looked at her as well, steady and expectant. If she was intimidated by the attention from five intense men, she didn't show it.

She was holding a clipboard in her hands, but she didn't refer to it, instead offering Tim a professional smile. "Timothy, my initial impressions held up. You've definitely suffered nerve damage, in addition to the breaks and crushing trauma to both of your hands, but your odds of regaining most function in both hands is high."

"What does that mean, 'most function'?" Tim asked the question on everyone's lips. "You said...gross motor control, right?"

Dr. Patel nodded. "It will take time. Months. But I have every confidence that you will eventually be able to handle most daily tasks on your own. You'll be able to dress yourself, drive your own vehicle, even type on a computer. You may suffer some loss of fine motor control, however. And there's a high likelihood that you'll have some arthritic pain, unfortunately for the rest of your life. But it can be managed. Everything can be managed."

Tim nodded. His distress didn't show in his face, but Dick could feel the tension in his muscles as he laid a hand on the back of his neck, gently massaging. "This is...this is good news."

"It is." Dr. Patel nodded firmly. "I don't want to downplay the ramifications of these injuries, Timothy. It's a shame that you may never regain full fine motor control, and that you will suffer pain. But it's important to remain positive. The results could have been much, much worse. And it's clear that you have a loving family here to support you. You will be all right."

"I appreciate that," Tim said, though his voice was faint.

Dick sort of hated her. Not for delivering bad news, or mostly good news with a little bad. Mostly that she was trying to do it in such a cheerful, upbeat manner. He understood the need for patients to be positive about their situations, but this was...this was them. This was the Batman and his family.

They dealt in despair on a regular basis. It was their stock in trade, their weapon, their tool, their constant companion. They didn't need false cheeriness, false hope. They just needed the facts, and then they would deal with them. Just like they always did.

It was clear that Tim couldn't speak, so Bruce took up the task, even as one of his hands sneaked under the boards again to wrap around Tim's arm in a firm grip. "What are the next steps? When can we take him home?"

"We need to wait another day or so for the swelling to reduce as much as possible. Then I would like to take Timothy in for another surgery. I will be checking all of the pins and plates to make sure the placement is ideal, and also replacing those that are somewhat outdated with the new ones I brought with me. Afterward, the burden will be much lightened, and the breaks will be more secure."

"How long do you anticipate the surgery to last?" Bruce asked.

"I won't know until I can see it for myself, but at least five hours."

"After that?"

"We'll wait another day for the swelling to reduce from that surgery. Then we will be able to protect the injuries with hand-to-forearm casts. Timothy should be able to go home, then, though you'll need to discuss it with his other doctors as well. From what I understand, most of his other injuries are relatively superficial."

Bruce nodded. "If it wasn't for his hands, I would have insisted on taking him home days ago."

More like if it wasn't for his hands, they wouldn't have brought him to the hospital at all. Dick shuddered. It was utterly, utterly horrible being forced to abide by schedules they did not control.

"So it'll be at least two days before I can go home?" Tim asked.

Dr. Patel nodded sympathetically. "Closer to three. But yes. I promise you, Timothy, we'll all do our best to send you home as soon as possible. I know how uncomfortable you are here. No one likes being in the hospital."

Tim snorted in agreement and turned his head down to hide his eyes against Dick's leg. He was done with the conversation, checking himself out the most effective way he could. Dick tried to give her another charming smile as he carded his fingers through Tim's hair, but he knew it was mostly a failure.

Again, Bruce stood to see her out, offering a hand for a business-like handshake. "Thank you, Dr. Patel. I appreciate the excellent care you are providing for my son."

"Anything for Bruce Wayne and his family, of course." She shook his hand with a pleasant smile, then Alfred saw her out.

Dick thought he saw dollar signs in her eyes.

He shook his head and looked down at Tim, who was still hiding his eyes against his leg as Dick stroked his hair, slow and gentle. No. That wasn't fair. She had been hired to do a job. She was doing the job. She was the best--Bruce wouldn't hire anything less.

Bruce sat down with a sigh and reached out to hold Tim's arm again. "Well, I didn't hire her for her bedside manner," he grumbled.

"You sure didn't," Jason snarled.

"I admit I found her mien somewhat...lacking...as well," Alfred said primly.

"Tim," Dick said gently, focusing on the matter at hand. He pressed his hand against the back of Tim's head, the closest he could get to a hug right now. "I'm so sorry, buddy. It sucks. It really, really sucks."

Tim shook his head, then maneuvered so his mouth was free and he could talk. "It's fine, though. It's fine. I'm gonna be okay. In a few months. I'll be able to, be able to live, and take care of myself, I won't... It's fine..."

His voice was small, and desperate, and so, so afraid.

"It's okay," Dick murmured. He stroked the hair back from Tim's face and scratched his scalp. "It's okay. You're allowed to be upset. You're allowed to grieve. You lost something. Something big. It's okay to be sad."

Tim nodded, then turned his face to hide fully against Dick again. His shoulders trembled, and once again liquid began to soak the fabric over Dick's thigh. But this time, it was tears.

The room was silent. No one made a sound. Not even Tim.

Chapter Text

Batgirl smashed through the back window of the drab, dumpy motel room, feet first, and rolled to a stop on the floor. She had considered smashing through the front door, instead, but decided the back window was slightly more discreet. Plus there was another building across the alley she'd been able to swing from to gain momentum.

She popped to her feet, batarang at the ready. She was hoping for someone to threaten. Hopefully to maim. She really felt like maiming someone, preferably the man she was looking for.

Gary McDaniels. Just thinking the name had her teeth clenching hard enough to make her jaw sore. That man richly deserved a good maiming.

But the room was empty, just like the other five possibilities she'd checked today. All rented under aliases that could have been McDaniels, all found by Oracle and communicated to Batgirl to follow up on. There were other people who could have conducted the search, too, but Batgirl had wanted this. She wanted it real bad. She'd only had to skip a couple of college classes to do it, and they were boring anyway.

When she found the scumbag who had hurt Tim Drake, tortured him, broke his hands...

But he wasn't here. Batgirl knew it instinctively, even as she stomped through the room, searching under beds and inside the closet and bathroom, her footsteps rattling the cheap puke-green walls. Something in the air told her, maybe, something stale and empty. Maybe she was finally developing that "detective instinct" Tim used to talk about. Whatever.

She dumped out the wastepaper basket to look for clues, another trick Tim had taught her, and sorted through the crumpled tissues and receipts with jerky movements. Nothing newer than three days ago, which was before Tim had been kidnapped. Couldn't be from McDaniels. He probably hadn't even been here.

She put the batarang away in her utility belt with a hiss of regret and stood in the middle of the room, closing her eyes and breathing slowly as her fists clenched and unclenched. She had to keep it under control. She had to use her rage, not let it use her. She had to prove that she was the right person for this job, no matter how emotionally compromised she was.

Not that anyone else who could have done this would have been any less compromised. Everyone in the Gotham vigilante scene loved Red Robin, with the possible exception of Red Hood, but he was still kind of riding the line between hero and villain, most days, so he barely counted. Oh, and Robin, another one of Tim's brothers who had tried to kill him at one point. But he was in school right now.

By hurting Tim Drake-Wayne, McDaniels had hurt a whole lot of other people, too, all of whom took the attack on Red Robin as a personal insult. He had no idea the storm that was coming for him. Batgirl just hoped that she would be the one to get to visit it on him personally.

After tossing the place thoroughly, Batgirl finally admitted defeat and swung out the window again. She made her way up to the rooftop and hopped a couple of blocks away before settling under an overhang to make her report to Oracle.

Oracle sounded unhappy but not surprised at the news. "It's starting to look like he's skipped town entirely, Steph. I've already put out an APB to the hero network. If he pops up...no, when he pops up...someone will spot him and nab him."

"And bring him back to Gotham for justice?" Batgirl asked. Her fist was clenched again. She made it let go.

"That's the plan."

Batgirl sighed and looked up at the sky. It was gray and overcast, late afternoon. If they lit up the batsignal right now, it would shine dully against the low clouds that hovered over the bay. Hopefully that wouldn't happen, though. They didn't need another emergency.

"So there was no luck following up on that vehicle he took from the warehouse?" Batgirl asked, already knowing the answer.

"He switched vehicles a couple of times before I lost him on the security feeds," Oracle said regretfully.

"And you haven't found any more motel rooms under likely aliases for me to try?"

"No. Sorry, hon."

Batgirl sighed and brought her knees up to wrap her arms around them. "It's been three days of running, running, following every lead, and it all ends with nothing."

"Yeah. Sometimes it goes like that. We have to be patient for more developments. I know that's the last thing you want to hear."

"Yeah." Batgirl tried not to grumble at her mentor, she really did. It still came out basically like a grumble, though.

"I do have one spot of good news, though..."

Batgirl perked up. "Yeah?"

"...Ah, never mind. Heading your way."

Stephanie jumped to her feet, pulling off the cowl as movement caught her eye. A streak of black against the gray sky, rapidly drawing closer. She knew that graceful figure, those precise movements. There was no mistaking it.

Almost quicker than she could have believed it, the streak of black arrived. Black Bat, dropping out of the sky to land soundlessly at her side on the roof. Stephanie grinned, feeling like she could see her friend’s face even through the full-face mask.

"Cass! You're back!"

Always more comfortable with motion than with words, Cassandra lunged forward and pulled Stephanie into a backbreaking hug. Steph returned it, gripping with desperate intensity. It felt like years since Cass had gone to Hong Kong to pursue her own interests, her own life. They had been friends, once upon a time. They still were, right?

"Sister," Cass murmured.

Yes, they were still friends. Better than.

"I missed you," Steph said. Her voice cracked.

Cass held her tighter.

"We all missed you."

"Back now." Cass pulled back, still holding Stephanie's shoulders. Then she let go with one hand to wipe away the tear trailing down her cheek. "Oh." Her voice was soft.

Stephanie sniffled and forced a smile, stepping back to wipe her own face with both hands. "Sorry. It's not you. I'm happy to see you. So happy. It's just been... It's been a bad week. It's been awful."

Cass nodded solemnly. "Tim."

"Yeah." Stephanie pressed her hand over her heart, trying to control the ache there. "I just... You were on a plane, right? So you might not have heard the latest."

Cass shook her head.

Stephanie felt her face twist in anguish, screwing up as she forced the words out. "The doctors think he'll never get back full use of hands. He'll be able to do most things, but not all. And he'll always have some arthritis-like pain. For the rest of his life. He's seventeen. I can't..."

Her hands clenched into fists involuntarily, which just served to remind her, once again, how very very nice it was to have hands that worked, that did what she asked them to do. Hands that could throw a batarang, or grip a grappling hook to let her fly through the city. Hands that could punch and lift and pick locks and hold a writing utensil. She couldn't stop thinking about how many of those tasks Tim might never be able to do again.

"Steph." Cassandra was hugging her again, warm and tight. Stephanie wasn't a body language expert, not like Cass. But she didn't have to be one to read the comfort, love, and unwavering support in that gesture. "It's okay to be sad. But we're going to take care of him. We're all going to take care of him."

Stephanie laughed moistly and buried her face in Cassandra's shoulder. She held there for a long moment, another, a third. Then she finally pulled back, feeling much stronger and steadier.

"Yes," she said. "We will. We definitely will. Whether or not he wants us to."

Cass was definitely smiling under the mask now. "Let's go see him."

"Uh." And here, Stephanie faltered. She tried for a smile, couldn't quite make it fit. "I'm not sure he wants to see me right now."

Cass managed to look unimpressed. "Of course he does."

"Yeah, but you know how I...died? But I wasn't really dead?"

Cass nodded.

"Well, when I got back, Tim was... Well, he was happy I was alive, sure. But he wasn't exactly happy to see me, you know? That whole thing... It hurt him. A lot. We kind of avoided each other after that. And then of course Bruce 'died,' too, and Tim went off on his crusade to save him, and then he came back and suddenly he was a CEO and had a different hero name and a whole other group of people he was working with and just... It's a mess, Cass."

Cass grunted. It sounded so much like Bruce that Stephanie instinctively looked to the side, thinking that Batman had shown up on their rooftop, too. "Time to clean the mess, then."

"It's not that easy."

"Make it easy."

God, she really was like Bruce. Stupid, stubborn, single-minded...

Steph sighed and pressed her palms to her temples. "Cass, you can't really expect..."

"Stephanie." Cass reached forward and grabbed one of her hands. Pulled it down, held it in her own. She spoke slowly, but precisely. "I'm going to go see my brother in the hospital now. I want you to come with me. Please."

Well, when you put it like that... Steph nodded helplessly. "Okay."

They swung down off the roof, heading to Steph's place to change first. Without words, like old times. Spoiler and Batgirl had always gotten along. Now, Batgirl and Black Bat got along just as well.

Cass spoke without words in the hospital, too. She swept into the room like a graceful thunderstorm. Hugged Bruce around the waist, gave Alfred a fist bump, kissed Dick on his nose, gave Jason a casual wave, all while Stephanie hovered in the doorway feeling like the most awkward of awkward birds. A penguin, maybe, or an ostrich.

Tim was asleep, lying on his back in the hospital bed with his hands resting on boards hovering in the air, covered with metal bits like some kind of horror movie. Steph drew up short, just staring at him, unable to breathe. So many bruises, so many cuts... Even Cass paused, her head tilting to the side as she considered him, deciding what to do.

Then Cassandra flowed forward, sure and lithe. She crept into the bed with Tim, barely seeming to disturb a thread, sliding in under the metal contraption and wrapping herself around his side with her head resting lightly on his shoulder. She was managing to hug him without hurting him, and Stephanie was incredibly, insensibly jealous. Bruce and Dick looked like they were feeling the same.

"Little brother," Cass murmured. Her voice was soft and sweet and so, so sad. "Timmy-bird. Poor little brother."

Tim made a noise in his sleep and rolled his head down so his cheek rested against her hair. He didn't wake, but somehow he seemed much more relaxed, much more at peace than he had been a moment ago. Bruce's shoulders slumped downward, too, and even Dick and Jason looked happier.

Which...Jason, really? Steph blinked at him. She hadn't fully registered his presence earlier, too busy watching Cass work her magic. The guy was just sitting there, holding a phone loosely in his hand. Most of his attention seemed to be on Tim, with one eyebrow raised for Cass.

Stephanie wondered if she should be worried. But no, if Jason had any sort of hostile intent, Cass would have read it on him and greeted him with something much different than a casual wave. Apparently Stephanie could add Red Hood to the list of Gotham vigilantes who loved Red Robin, or at least meant him no harm. "Huh."

Oops, she hadn't meant to say that out loud. Steph covered her mouth, blushing. She hadn't meant to draw attention to herself.

But only Alfred looked at her, the rest of them still focused on Tim. The kindly butler offered a smile. "Miss Stephanie, would you like to come in? I'm sure Master Tim would be happy to see you when he wakes. It probably won't be long. He hasn't been able to sleep deeply for his entire stay here, poor boy."

"Oh. Um." Stephanie drew back, rubbing her sweaty palms on her jeans. "I mean, are you sure? I don't want to intrude. I know hospital visits are meant for family."

"Family and friends," Alfred said gently. "I need to go pick up Master Damian from school soon, so you're welcome to take my chair."

"Ah. Okay. If you're sure."

Alfred swept his hand to show her the way, and she sidled into the room and gingerly sat. Bruce looked over and gave her a distracted smile, the patriarch giving his blessing for her presence. Stephanie sat up straighter and wrapped her hands around her knees.

"Thank you for coming," Bruce said, his voice deep and rough. He sounded sincere.

Stephanie blinked. "Wouldn't miss it," she said weakly.

Dumb. What a dumb thing to say. But he just smiled absently and went back to watching Tim.

They were all watching Tim, almost without wavering. It should have been creepy and weird, but Stephanie felt herself relaxing, instead. Slowly, bit by bit, but definitely relaxing.

Tim was safe. He had never been safer in his life. He had three super-powerful vigilantes watching over him at all times, without rest. Four now that Cass had arrived.

Tim was okay. He was going to be okay. For the first time since Oracle had come over the comm to give her the awful, horrible, terrible news of what had happened to Tim while no one was looking, Stephanie started to believe it.

Chapter Text

For once when Tim's consciousness rolled slowly out of the depths of sleep and into the waking world, he was completely warm. One of the worst things about being stuck in the hospital with his arms outside the covers suspended in the air was that he always woke up chilly, even when Jason did his best to tuck the blankets completely around him, even when Dick sat above him with Tim's head in his lap, petting his hair, even when Bruce kept one hand wrapped perpetually around his arm as if to hold him down, keep him tethered, as if they were trapeze artists catching each other before a fall.

But Tim couldn't catch back, not with broken hands. He had to let Bruce do all the catching, and he hated that. He was supposed to be a partner, not a weight. Not a burden. But they hadn't been partners for a long time.

This time, as awareness filtered in, Tim was still aware of a coolness in his hands, riding the line between pleasant and unpleasant. But everywhere else, he was warm. It was a soul-deep warmth, comfortable and sustaining. There was a space heater in his bed, wrapped around his side, a head on his shoulder, his cheek resting on soft hair....

Tim made a little humming noise as his eyes slid open. He knew that smell, rain and leather and warm spices, ginger and clove and anise. "Cass?"

She hummed back and snuggled into his side a little more. "Timmy-bird." Her hand patted his belly, just over his stomach and under his ribs. A spot where he wasn't sore with bruises or breaks. Somehow she knew. She always knew.

Tim didn't relax at her voice. He was already completely and totally relaxed. "Hi, Cass. I missed you."

His throat closed up with the weight of that, and he closed his eyes again. He had missed her so much. When she left, he lost one of the few people he knew really, truly liked him, for nothing else but because he was Tim. Then he lost Dick, too, or felt like he did, no matter how Dick protested the contrary. Then he had left, too, and lost everything else.

He was suddenly tired with a weariness that went far beyond the physical. Soul-tired, spirit-tired. His limbs felt heavy, his body anchored to the bed by more than just his injuries and Cass's gentle weight securing him in place.

"Back now," Cass said with more a hint of fierceness, tightening her grip on him. She must have read the weariness in him, and she was trying to fight it. Tim couldn't help but smile, despite everything. It was so good to have Cass as his ally again, his sister.

He opened his eyes and glanced around the room. Everyone was still there, of course. Alfred and Damian were at the foot of the bed, and in another chair...

Steph?

Tim's breath stuttered. His brain stuttered, too. Somehow it had never occurred to him that other people besides his family could visit him here. But then, Steph was practically family, too, wasn't she? It wasn't fair to treat her as if she wasn't, not after everything they'd been through. Still, his throat locked up, and he couldn't speak.

The room suddenly felt too close, too oppressive. There were too many eyes on him, too many breaths sharing the same air. Yeah, it was a big, private hospital room, and Tim had seen hotel rooms that were smaller and less well-furnished, but it still felt far too small for all the people in it.

Steph gave him a sheepish wave. Alfred glanced between them, then abruptly nudged Damian toward the door. "I believe we should clear out for a little while and give Master Tim some time with his new guests, yes?" His eyes swept over Bruce, Dick, and Jason, too.

Damian barely even resisted, except with his voice and a flailing fist of outrage. "Make me come here, make me leave, will this foolish carousel ever end?"

Alfred's lips twitched in a smile, but he did not stop urging Damian toward the door, even as he looked at the men gathered around Tim's bed like the world's most menacing entourage. "Gentlemen?"

Dick was the first to move, peeling himself off the wall to follow them out. Bruce watched Tim's face for a while, determining for himself if Tim wanted him to leave, then finally nodded and lumbered to his feet to go. Jason, though, stayed right where he was in his customary chair.

Tim gave him a glance, and Jason shrugged. "Bodygaurd. Twenty-four seven. Remember?"

"I'll be perfectly safe with Cass here," Tim said. She hummed in satisfaction and nodded against his neck.

Jason scowled and dug himself deeper into the chair with a defiant butt-wiggle. "I accept the backup. But I'm not leaving."

Tim sighed and nodded, and Bruce finally stopped hovering in the door and closed it behind him. He looked at Steph, sitting at the far end of the room, still. It was kind of straining his neck, so he rolled his eyes and tipped his head at the empty chair Bruce had vacated.

Steph took the hint and moved chairs, and Tim rolled his head over to look at her, Cass's head tucked under his chin. "Hey."

She smiled awkwardly. "Hey yourself."

"Bruce said the Birds were keeping an eye on Gotham for us."

She nodded. "Yeah, I've been..." She cast a paranoid look around the room.

Jason cleared his throat. "No bugs, no security. Except Bruce's. We can speak freely here."

Steph let out a breath and looked back to Tim. "I don't know if you want to talk about this. But yeah, we've been patrolling. And we've been looking for..." She looked pained and gestured at...all of him.

Tim understood. "McDaniels."

It hurt to say the name. It burned in his throat. His heart jumped, then settled when Cass laid her hand gently over it, tender of his broken ribs.

Steph's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Yeah."

"Have you found him?"

"We're going to."

They hadn't, then. Tim looked up at the ceiling. His insides felt like they were doing a polka. At least he hadn't fainted this time.

Steph reached out, slow and hesitant, and touched his arm. It was a soft touch, barely there. Tim looked back over at her, saw the liquid sympathy in her eyes. "We should talk about something else."

Tim blinked and tried to come up with something. It was hard. Why was it so hard? Talking to Steph used to be so easy. They talked about everything, random things, important and unimportant, whatever came into their heads.

"How's college?"

He almost winced at himself. So pedestrian. So boring.

But Steph settled into her chair, a smile lighting up her face. "It's great. Except when it's not. You know, like school normally is. The classes I want to take are awesome. Getting to pick your own education is the bomb. The gen eds...less so. But there's usually something interesting going on even there."

Tim let his head rest back against the pillow, a smile tugging at his lips. He loved the spark in her eyes, still. Loved to see her getting enthusiastic about something. Loved...her? He wasn't sure.

"Tell me about it?"

"Okay, well, you know how in movies or TV shows, it always seems like whatever the protagonist is trying to figure out, if they go to school or a lecture or something, the speaker will say something that's actually relevant to what's going on? And it seems like sort of cheap and lazy writing, like how, how does it always work out like that? Well, it turns out life is like that too. Like I'll be trying to make a decision or something and some college professor will say something that will, like, turn a light bulb on in my brain. Can you believe that?"

Tim grinned. "I think it's more likely that the professors say a lot of stuff, all the time, and you just tend to pick up what's relevant and fixate on that. Out of hours and hours of listening to other people talk, at least a couple of minutes has to have some importance to you and your personal life."

Steph waved her hands. "That doesn't seem like a huge coincidence to you?" Her voice was getting passionate, almost mockingly so. There was no personal stake here. It was just a fun, friendly conversation-edging-on-debate.

"I mean, maybe. But there's no such thing as coincidence, not really. And I don't mean that in the way that we're governed by fate or a god or something. I just mean that humans are pattern-seeking creatures, and we like to see things fit together where they really don't. It's all just random stuff that we piece together on our own."

"Tim." Steph sputtered. "That's so...nihilistic of you. Am I using that word right?"

Tim shrugged with one shoulder, the one Cass wasn't laying on. "I think you're thinking of materialistic. As in, believing only in the material, nothing of the spiritual. Or realistic."

"Yeah, one of those." She pointed a finger at him and waved it dangerously. "So cold and rational, Timothy. Is there nothing in you of whimsy?"

"Hey, I have room in me for whimsy."

"Where?"

"I..." Tim cast his eyes to ceiling and thought about it. Really hard. Did he have any whimsy in him? He used to, certainly. He remembered being a kid, dreaming of being Robin and flying through the air with the greatest of ease. Even a couple of years ago, one of his favorite activities had been hanging out with his nerdy friends from school playing Warlocks & Warriors, coming up with crazy scenarios and doing his best to surprise his buddies with how far out of the box he could go. They always said he was the best GM, to the point that that had become his permanent position at the table. He'd done voices, too, and tried to embody every NPC he played with facial expressions and acting.

It had been a while since he'd done that, though. Before even Bruce had...gotten lost...he'd let that pastime fall to the wayside. He wondered if Ives still played, if he had a gaming group. There was no way Tim would ever be able to set aside a whole night every week to join a campaign, though. Maybe once a month, if they were flexible...

He shook it off. Steph was still waiting. He raised his eyebrows at Jason, who was still sitting near the wall looking somehow both bored and intrigued at the same time. "Jay's been reading Treasure Island to me. And I love it."

"You do?" Steph and Jason said at the exact same time, with almost the exact same incredulous inflection. They looked at each other, then back to Tim, both with wide, blue eyes.

Tim laughed. It was so weirdly funny. "Yeah. I do. It's a great story. I think I read it on my own for school, a long time ago, but no one ever read it to me before. And Steph..." He tilted his head toward her and lowered his voice, like he was sharing a secret. Steph instinctively leaned forward, her eyes bright and shining, a mischievous smile on her lips.

"He does voices. And they're really good."

Jason looked scandalized and betrayed, like Tim had betrayed his trust after being sworn to secrecy.

Stephanie grinned and looked over at him, resting her chin on her hand and blinking cutely. "Will you read to us, Jay-Jay?"

"What the hell..." Jason muttered under his breath, shell-shocked. Then he raised his voice and yep, he sounded scandalized. "Jay-Jay? Really?"

Stephanie shrugged. "If the shoe fits."

"It's not a shoe, it's a..." Jason's voice was strangled. "....weird little nickname..."

Tim smiled sweetly and decided to gang up on him as well. "Please, Jaybird? I know you've been practicing that pirate accent. It's practically perfect."

Jason looked between Tim and Steph with wide eyes. "You two are terrors."

Cass chose that moment to raise her head from Tim's shoulder and give Jason a sharp-toothed smile. "Read, Jay-Jay."

Jason sucked in his breath through his teeth. "Fine." He nodded at Steph and Cass with narrowed eyes. "Firecracker. Princess." An even more squinty-eyed look at Tim. "Baby bird."

He managed to give off the impression that he was highly offended and that he was doing this only as an enormous favor out of the deep and abiding goodness of his heart as he got out his phone and opened his app.

And he was, in fact, practically perfect at the pirate accent.

“Come, Bill, you know me; you know an old shipmate, Bill, surely,” said the stranger.

The captain made a sort of gasp.

“Black Dog!” said he.

“And who else?” returned the other, getting more at his ease. “Black Dog as ever was, come for to see his old shipmate Billy, at the Admiral Benbow inn. Ah, Bill, Bill, we have seen a sight of times, us two, since I lost them two talons,” holding up his mutilated hand.

“Now, look here,” said the captain; “you've run me down; here I am; well, then, speak up; what is it?”

“That's you, Bill,” returned Black Dog, “you're in the right of it, Billy. I'll have a glass of rum from this dear child here, as I've took such a liking to; and we'll sit down, if you please, and talk square, like old shipmates.”

Chapter Text

The fight between Timmy and Bruce that night was truly epic. Well, as epic as it could be while Timmy couldn't raise his voice much because his throat was still strained, and Bruce kept his tone to a loving murmur the whole time. On second thought, that just added to the surreality of the whole thing. If Jason had felt any inclination to leave his seat, he would have gone searching for popcorn.

Cassandra and Stephanie had gone off to have dinner before Steph did her homework and went on patrol for a few hours, and Damian had gotten his wish and been allowed to go home with Alfred driving, so it was just Bruce and his first three Robins, as it often was in this room.

Timmy started in without hesitation, as soon as he woke up and saw that it was getting dark out. "Bruce, you should patrol tonight."

"We've been over this," Bruce said, gentle and patient as could be. "I'm not going to leave you alone."

"I'm not alone. Cass is coming back after her dinner with Steph, and Jay is still refusing to leave. You're Batman. You can't be off the streets for so many nights in a row."

"Dick can wear the cowl again for a night," Bruce said.

Dick opened his mouth to agree, but Timmy cut him off with a swift glare. "That's not gonna work everytime. Dick doesn't have your height, your build, and people are gonna figure it out. People knew it was a different Batman while you were...gone...but it was still a Batman, so it worked well enough."

Dick shrugged. He wasn't wrong.

"Besides, Dick has his own responsibilities. The 'haven needs him to keep it from spontaneously combusting at least twice a month. We know this."

Dick smiled crookedly. "True enough, B. I was actually gonna head back tonight. And since Tim will be in surgery tomorrow, I thought I should spend the day at the station, too."

Bruce scowled, then smoothed his expression. "Fair enough." He switched his attention back to Timmy. "Nonetheless. There have been times when Batman has been away from Gotham for weeks at a time while I've been off-planet or out of the country. A few days won't matter."

Timmy's face screwed up in frustration, which might have been adorable if it weren't for the cuts and bruises reminding them all of the torment he'd recently suffered. Jason's heart gave an unhappy lurch, seeing the kid make a face like that. "A few days right now will matter, though. I was...I was feverish before when I told you to patrol, I wasn't thinking clearly, but I know now why that felt so urgent to me for you to go out."

Bruce looked confused, but nodded gently for him to go on.

Timmy paused, biting his lower lip, forced it out. "McDaniels."

The room went cold. Jason, Dick, and Bruce all held absolutely still in reaction to that name. It was plain to see how much it pained Timmy to say it, how his breath came shorter and his face paled. Dick reached out instinctively to lay a hand on his shoulder, and Bruce cradled the side of his face and started caressing his cheek with his thumb, as he done many times over the past few days.

Timmy looked a bit irritated at the sudden attention, but his shoulders also relaxed, and his breath evened. His eyes remained fixed on Bruce. "He suspects that I'm Red Robin. He was almost one hundred percent sure, he just needed a final confirmation. He asked about Batman, Robin, Nightwing, all of us. He knows we're associated, he knows we're...family." The word sounded raw, ground out of him. "Dick going out as me for a few hours helped, but that's not going to be enough."

He glanced over Dick. "You talked about the media. They know we're here. It's public knowledge that Tim Drake-Wayne is laid up in the hospital, and Bruce Wayne has refused to leave his side. And that's fine."

He looked back at Bruce. "But if Batman doesn't go out, if Batman doesn't follow his usual patterns while Bruce Wayne is holding vigil at his kid's side, McDaniels is going to take that as proof. And..." His lip trembled, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing steadily. Then he looked at Bruce again. "And everything I went through will be for nothing."

Bruce's face was a thunderhead. He sat back, his fingers trailing away from Tim's cheek. Still, his voice was low and soft and kind. "Sweetheart, no."

Timmy huffed a breath. "Bruce-dad, yes."

Bruce wavered. Jason all but held his breath. Trust Timmy-bird to find Bruce's kryptonite. His actual, beyond-a-doubt, iron-clad weakness against which he was as helpless as any babe in the woods.

But Bruce frowned and held steady. "That's not proof. McDaniels would be a fool to take it as such."

Timmy drew a shaky breath and prepared to keep arguing. Jason could see how much he didn't want to keep talking about that man, but he felt like he had to. He felt like he had to get Bruce out on the streets, no matter what it took, no matter what it cost him.

And suddenly, Jason understood. Protecting the Batman. Timmy was trying to protect the Batman.

Timmy would do anything to protect Batman. The man, the symbol, everything it meant to both Gotham and the world. He would tear himself apart to protect Batman. He would overcome any obstacle, subject himself to any ordeal. He would lay himself down in the dirt to be crushed by the wheel of fate, as long as the wings of the Bat continued to fly over the city.

He would let his hands be smashed with a hammer.

He would argue with his father, who was finally showing him unconditional support, unwavering attention, who he wanted to stay by his side with every straining, yearning fiber in his love-hungry little soul, and tell him to leave.

All to protect the Batman.

Jason sat forward. "Bruce, you should go."

Bruce turned to stare at him. Jason almost shrank back in his chair. It felt like the first time Bruce had looked at him with his full attention in forever, and it was terrifying. The man looked wounded. Betrayed. Furious.

"Jay-lad." He kept his temper. His voice was soft for Jason, too, though there was a hint of steel underneath. "We talked about this. You told me things need to change."

It took a moment for Jason to remember, his thoughts scrambling backward like a terrified child crawling on the floor. Oh, right. He had told Bruce that he needed to change his priorities. That he needed to show Timmy that he could depend on him, that he didn't have to protect Bruce and the Batman to be worthy, to be valued.

But he looked over at Timmy, trembling on the bed and looking at him with a kind of desperate hope, as if he was praying for Jason to be his ally. He lifted his chin and looked back at Bruce.

"We have to figure out a balance. We have to do both."

We have to let Timmy protect you. He'll feel useless if he can't. It's too soon. Don't break his heart, not right now.

Bruce blinked. Then he looked back at Timmy. "Do you really want me to go?"

His voice was so soft, so tender.

Timmy blinked back tears. "No," he admitted, voice cracking. "But you have to."

Bruce shook his head. "I don't, sweetheart. I really don't. I don't have to. And I want to stay here with you. I really, really do."

"Gotham needs Batman."

"But Tim wants Bruce to stay. And that's more important."

Tim closed his eyes. "It's not. It's really not."

"Yes, it is."

"Just for a few hours," Tim bargained. "I'll be fine. Cass will be here. Jay will be here. I'll be perfectly, totally safe."

He was trying to convince himself as much as he was Bruce.

"Tim." Bruce leaned forward slowly, carefully. He cupped his hand around Timmy's head and kissed his wrinkled forehead. "Why is this so hard for you? You want me to stay, and I want to stay with you. Why are you struggling with this?"

"Because, because..." Timmy's chest heaved for breath. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then looked up at Bruce imploringly. Begging him to understand what Timmy barely understood himself. "I love Gotham, too. I want, I w-want..." It was so hard for him to say this. So hard for him to express himself when he spent so much time repressing his needs, his wants. "I want you to stay. But I need you to be Batman."

I need to protect you. I need what happened to me to be worth the cost. I need my sacrifices to have meaning.

Jason mentally dismissed his earlier urge to go get popcorn for this. What he really needed was a Tums. A whole sleeve of them.

Bruce stroked the hair back from Timmy's face with a deep, doleful sigh. "Okay." He understood. Somehow, Timmy and Jason had been able to make him understand.

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Just for a few hours, then I'm coming right back." Dick finally relaxed and moved back, too, the tension in the room easing.

Timmy nodded, eager to accept his...win. "Six hours."

"Two hours."

"Four. Please, Bruce."

"Okay. Four hours. But I'll wait for Cass to come back."

Timmy beamed at him, though his body was still trembling faintly as the adrenaline ran out. "That works. The only one almost as good as you is her."

Jason made a noise of disgust from his corner. "Hey, what am I, chopped liver?"

They both looked over at him in almost eerie unison. God, Timmy was way too much like Bruce already. It was downright creepy.

But Bruce's eyes softened, as if in apology for looking at Jason with so much anger earlier. "Of course not, pumpkin."

Jason blinked. Then blinked again. "Did you just call me...pumpkin?"

Bruce shrugged.

Dick sniggered into his palm. "The nicknames in this family are getting way out of hand."

Bruce gave him a sweet smile. "I'm just getting started, sunshine."

Dick choked on his own spit and started coughing.

Bruce looked at the door. "Anyway, I wonder how long Cass will be?"

Jason's brain was still stuck on what Bruce had just called him. "Is it...is it because of the helmet? It reminds you of a jack-o-lantern?"

Bruce raised his eyebrows at him. "No. Of course not. It's a fitting endearment."

"It is!" Jason pointed at him accusingly. "You've been...you've been thinking about this. About what stupid little petnames you want to call us from now on. This is calculated."

"Well, I couldn't leave any of you out," Bruce said entirely too reasonably. "If I'm going to call Tim sweetheart from now on, and I am, the rest of you need endearments, too. I love you all equally."

Jason folded his arms over his chest. "What's your new name for the demon-boy?"

"It's in Farsi. And don't call him demon-boy. It hurts his feelings."

Jason doubted this severely, but he put his hands on the arms of his chair and clutched those instead. "What about Cass?"

Bruce hummed. "I'm still thinking about it. She needs something really special."

"Alfred?"

Bruce looked flummoxed. "It hadn't occurred to me that he needed one."

"He's a member of this family, isn't he?" Jason threw his hands up in the air. "You saying that Alfie is chopped liver now?"

Despite himself, he was starting to enjoy this conversation. It was just so bizarre to sit here with Bruce Wayne, the Batman, calmly discussing what stupidly sweet nicknames he planned to call the rest of them from now on. It was also probably the only non-contentious talk Jason had had with him since...well...before he died.

Huh.

Bruce tilted his head to the side. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"Well, I mean, there are the standard nicknames for grandpas. Grampy, Pappy, Gramps, Pawpaw. Any of those would probably work." Jason squinted at him. "Oh, but he's your dad, isn't he? You gotta give him a dad name, if it's coming from you. Papa, Daddy, Old Man, Geezer..."

Bruce looked amused. "So when you call me 'old man,' it's a term of endearment?"

Jason sputtered, unexpectedly caught out. "What? No. I just call you that 'cause you're old. It's an insult."

Bruce smiled smugly and settled back in his chair. "It is. I knew it. Thank you, pumpkin."

"I never agreed to that!" Jason pointed a finger at him. "You stop that right now!"

Bruce grinned. "No."

It was stupid. So stupid. But Timmy and Dick were both giggling, and the air felt light and breezy. The shadows had fled the room.

So for the moment, everything was okay.

Chapter Text

Tim was asleep when Cass got back from her dinner with Stephanie, which was not unexpected. Cass knew how recovery worked, especially recovery in a hospital. Tim needed lots of sleep. All the sleep. Maybe he could finally catch up.

More unexpected was the fact that Tim had managed to talk Bruce into going out as Batman for a few hours. Cass saw resignation-relief-pain in his body language. He didn't want to leave Tim's side, but he also didn't want to leave the streets unguarded. She wondered how hard it had been to persuade him to go. She wondered how much it had cost both of them to make that happen.

Bruce and Tim had an interesting relationship. Both always trying to give to each other, the other not knowing how to take. They managed to sneak things to each other almost behind each other's backs. Gifts of time, energy, thought, bodily pain, sacrifices of all kinds.

She liked watching them, because so much of it was without words. It was communication in her first language, so she understood it perfectly, even though neither of them seemed to understand what they themselves were saying most of the time. Even when she tried to explain, they didn't really get it. They were so silly, but she loved them very much.

They were special. Bruce was the father who took the place of her first father, who had only been kind to her when she earned it. Bruce was kind all of the time, even when she hadn’t done anything. He was a very different type of father than her first father, and she loved him fiercely for it. But she loved Tim, too; Tim also was special. He had been her first brother, which was a new relationship she had never experienced before.

She learned later that she had had other siblings with her first father, imperfect students rejected by a harsh hand. But she hadn't known them when she was young, and she never got a chance to know them later, either. It was nice to have other siblings, too, in Dick, and now in these two new boys she had barely met yet, Jason and Damian. But Tim had been her first brother, her first sibling, and he was just as kind as Bruce, only in a slightly different way. He was loud where Bruce was quiet, and sometimes quiet where Bruce was loud. She loved him with her whole heart.

Tim was lying on his side when she came back, his poor injured hands still stuck on little boards in front of his torso, so she couldn't sneak into his bed and snuggle with him again. Cass grunted in displeasure when she saw it. She would have liked to lie down at his back and hug him from behind, but she could see that his back was badly damaged, and she didn't want to hurt him. It was very inconvenient. They needed to get him fixed up a little better so she could hug him more. Tim needed a lot of hugs. He always did, but especially now.

"You'll be okay with Jason, Cass?" Bruce asked, a wrinkle between his eyes that spoke of hope-trust-wariness. He was trying very very hard to believe that Jason did not mean any harm to any of them, but sometimes he wasn't sure. He was doing a good job of hiding that, though. Cass was sure that she was the only one who could tell.

Cass nodded and looked at Jason where he sat in his chair, his head leaning on one hand propped on the chair's arm. He was tired-protective-nervous, but mostly protective. There was no hostility, no potential for harm, not even deep, deep down.

She smiled at Bruce. "All good." She tried to show him with her body language how true that was, how relaxed and comfortable she felt with this new brother. Bruce's shoulders loosened a little in response, so she knew she had done well.

She had heard the stories. She knew how Jason had appeared in Gotham with only one intention: to kill. But that was gone now. She didn't know exactly how it had all passed, exactly how Jason had moved from that path to a new one. But he had.

He had only one intent right now: to care for and to protect. And it was all for Tim, which pleased Cass a great deal. Tim deserved a dedicated protector. If Jason's intent ever changed, Cass would see it, and she would act. But she didn't think it would. Jason's intent seemed very settled, practically permanent.

Bruce smiled and cupped her cheek with his hand, then leaned down to kiss her forehead. "See you later, angel tiger."

Cass giggled. Such a funny name. But she kissed him on the cheek and wiggled her fingers in farewell as he left the room.

She found a spot to perch on Tim's bed, down near his feet, which were curled up toward his body. She let her legs dangle over the edge of the mattress and swung her feet, giving Jason a pleasant smile. "Hey, new brother."

Jason's eyebrows bent. "Kind of an old brother, actually. I've been around quite a while."

Cass shrugged. "New to me." Tim murmured in his sleep, and she wrapped a hand around his ankle under the covers and squeezed lightly to let him know she was there. Tim settled down with a soft sigh, body falling limp.

Jason snorted. "That's fair." His eyes lingered on her hand, still wrapped around Tim's ankle. "You love the kid, huh?"

Cass nodded. "Tim is special." She didn't feel a need to explain beyond that.

Jason just nodded back solemnly, as if they were discussing some deep truth of the universe. "Yeah. You know I tried to kill him once, right?" He was tense, but also very watchful, his eyes fixed on her. He wanted to see if she would hate him for that.

Cass nodded. "I heard. But you've changed."

Most of the nervousness bled out of Jason's body language. "Yeah. I have. It was... A lot of factors led me to do that. Most of those are gone now."

Cass tilted her head. "You love the kid, huh?" she echoed. It was plain to see.

But Jason stiffened. "What? No. It's not like that, I mean, what the hell?" He was sputtering, his eyes flying around the room as his face flamed bright red.

It was almost hilarious, and Cass couldn't hide a smile. Another man who didn't understand himself. Or didn't want to acknowledge his own feelings. Well, he fit right in with this family. A burst of fondness took home in her chest. All of her brothers were so silly and so sweet.

"I just don't want the kid to die, that's all," Jason said, his lips twisting. "He didn't deserve what happened to him, and I hate that he had to go through it."

His hand clenched into a fist on the arm of the chair, holding tight. Cass knew he wished he could be squeezing the neck of the man who had hurt their brother. She sympathized.

"And somehow, I don't know why, Timmy's decided that I'm trustworthy." Jason swept a hand toward the boy in the hospital bed, bewilderment overtaking his expression. "He's hurt, hurt real real bad, and everytime he wakes up, he's scared. But then he sees me, and he feels safe. He should be scared of me, but he's not, and I just..." His voice lowered to a murmur. "I don't want to betray that. I don't want to lose that. Everyone in this damn family is scared of me, at least a little, and they ought to be after what I did. But Timmy isn't, and I have to make sure that doesn't go away."

Cass hummed. "You love him. Timmy can tell. He's smart."

His face reddened again. "I told you, it's not love. That's...way too strong a word."

Cass's nose wrinkled. She knew she wasn't good with words, sometimes. Even after all of the learning she'd done, she still had a hard time finding the right one sometimes. But she knew what love was. She knew it when she saw it.

But Jason was scared of that word, for whatever reason. So Cass could be kind. She could pretend that he was right, or at least stop talking about it for now. Jason would have to figure out on his own that she was right. She was always right.

At least she could try to dispel another misconception. "I'm not scared of you."

He lifted his chin and looked her up and down. "You really aren't, are you?" he asked with some wonder.

"Nope."

"Is it because of your...thing? Like how you can kind of read minds?"

Cass rolled her eyes. "I can't read minds. I read bodies. Body language."

"Super accurate, is it?"

Cass nodded.

Strangely, some of Jason's tension came back. "So would you be able to tell if...if I changed back?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Why would you change back?"

"It's... You know how I said that a lot of factors were involved in me trying to kill Tim that one time?"

She nodded.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Well, one of them was because I got dunked in the Lazarus Pit. It made me...crazy. More crazy than I already was. It's mostly gone now, but I can...I can still feel it lurking, down there. It'll come back if I let it. Even if I don't let it, maybe. I don't know. It hasn't even been that long since I got it under control...."

There was fear in his posture. He didn't want the madness to return. Cass had known about this, too, but it said a lot about Jason that he was choosing to tell her about it, sharing his worry that the Pit might overcome his conscious desires in the future. He really was very protective of Tim, now. He didn't want to hurt him, not even by accident.

"If that happens, I will stop you," Cass said. She spoke with supreme confidence, because it was nothing but the truth.

He watched her without blinking. "I heard that you're the only one who consistently beats Bruce when you spar. When he wins, it's usually a fluke, or you let him win."

Cass nodded. "I will stop you," she repeated, more softly and surely than before. "I will stop anyone who would hurt Tim."

"What if you're not there?"

She shrugged. "You'll have to hold on until I get there. Call and I'll come."

"What if it happens too fast? I don't...I don't really know how this works, princess. It could be instantaneous."

Cass blinked. This seemed so obvious to her that she was surprised she had to say it. "You won't let it be like that."

"How do you know?"

Cass shrugged and swung her feet, still holding Tim's ankle gently under the covers. "Because you love him, and you don't want to hurt him."

He chuckled hollowly. "You sure do have a lot of faith in me. More than anyone else in this family."

"Except Tim," she pointed out.

"Yeah, except Timmy."

He sighed and switched his gaze to Tim, and his eyes went soft and gentle. He really, really loved Tim. Cass didn't understand how he couldn't see that about himself. She hummed and swung her legs.

"It's okay, Jay-Jay," she said kindly. "I won't let you hurt him. Not now, not ever."

"Yeah, okay." Jason relaxed and slumped down in his chair, his eyes drooping. It seemed to be the first time he had fully relaxed in days. He must have napped at some point. Had he been this scared the whole time? "I'm gonna just...drift for a little bit, if that's all right."

Cass smiled. "Go ahead. I'll wake up Tim if I get bored."

He gave her a sleepy glare. "You'd better not. Kid needs all the sleep he can get. He has surgery tomorrow."

She grinned. "Kidding."

He rolled his eyes and yawned. "Yeah, okay."

And he was out. Cass swung her legs up on the bed and sat cross-legged, tapping her fingers on her knees and humming to herself. She listened to the sounds of soft breathing in the room, and she watched over her brothers.

She would keep them both safe. From threats outside and threats inside. No matter what.

Chapter Text

The surgery went well. Now that Cassandra was back, she was taking a deep interest in everyone who came in contact with Tim, vetting all visitors before they even got close to him. That included the hospital personnel. She had watched Dr. Patel with such unnerving intensity that the surgeon actually fell silent, watching Cass back with wide eyes. Finally, Cass nodded and went back to sitting next to Tim's head and stroking his hair, and Dr. Patel finished her little speech and got out of the room.

"She's okay," Cass told the rest of them with a sunny smile. "She just doesn't know how to talk to people. She tries. She cares about her patients, no matter who they are."

Only after that was the surgery allowed to proceed.

It was a long, dull day, as was the following night. Bruce allowed Tim to bargain him into going on patrol again, and Jason finally went to the hotel room Alfred had rented to shower and change once he came back. Everyone was feeling the claustrophobia of being stuck in a single room for too many days on end. Especially Tim, of course, but no one liked it.

Now, finally, finally, it was the day after the surgery, and they were going home. Bruce was sitting with Tim in his room, cutting up a sandwich into pieces while Tim sat upright on the edge of the bed and struggled to put on a shirt. His arms were both in casts from his hands almost to his elbows. On the right hand, even his fingertips were covered in white plaster, but on the left, a few fingertips poked out just enough that he could maneuver a few things by himself.

The others had vacated the room, trying to allow Tim some dignity while he got into normal clothes for the first time in almost a week. Bruce had had to help him with his lower body, and now Tim was wearing sweatpants and socks, with shoes waiting on the chair nearby. His right leg stuck out at an angle, his injured knee protected by a brace. He had been able to get into a tank-style undershirt almost by himself, but now he was struggling with a button-down.

Tim's face flushed as he tried to poke his right arm through the right arm hole, and once more the shirt slid down before he grab it with his barely-visible fingertips on his left hand. Bruce looked up from cutting up his last hospital meal for him. "You know, I could..."

"I wanna do it myself," Tim snapped. It might have been funny in other circumstances. Bruce had missed Tim as a toddler, hadn't even known the boy existed when he was young enough to be throwing temper tantrums and demanding his independence as every two-year-old did, but he felt like he was getting a glimpse of it now.

It wasn't funny, though. Tim was frustrated at needing so much help with such a basic task as dressing himself. He had studiously looked away when Bruce helped him pull on his underwear, then his pants, while Bruce himself did his best to treat it like a business transaction, nothing strange about it. Tim had hoped that after the casts were placed on his hands, he would be able to manage some things for himself, but that optimism seemed to have been misplaced.

"You just need some practice," Bruce said as soothingly as he could. "You don't have to figure everything out in a single day."

Tim growled and finally let his cast-covered arms fall into his lap, the shirt puddling next to him. The flush on his face was worse, and he was panting for breath. He was tired out already from a few minutes of exertion, another reminder that his recovery had only begun.

Bruce stepped away from the tray table and extended his hands. "Can I?"

Tim nodded jerkily and averted his gaze. Bruce pretended not to see the tears in the corners of his eyes. He sorted out the shirt without a word, then held it out for Tim to push his right arm through the correct hole.

Tim did so, still barely looking at him, and Bruce got his other arm in, too. It was a practiced motion from helping countless socialite ladies put on their coats over the years. Tim looked up at the ceiling while Bruce did his buttons for him. Alfred had suggested something more comfortable, like a sweatshirt or hoodie, but Tim had insisted on looking at least a little bit presentable for the press outside, even though they were going to do their best to avoid them.

"All done," Bruce said, giving the boy a smile as he smoothed down the fabric on his shoulders, giving his arms a comforting rub in the same motion. "Do you think you can eat?"

Tim looked askance at the food on the tray table. It was very basic: a ham sandwich, a fruit cup, a bag of chips. "I'm not really hungry."

"Please, Tim." Bruce rolled the table over and picked up the fork. There was a place on Tim's right cast on the web of the thumb that had been molded to hold utensils, and he snapped the fork into place with a satisfying click. Finally, his son could feed himself again. It felt like a triumph.

Tim stared at the fork for a long moment, then sighed and stabbed downward at one of the bite-sized pieces of ham sandwich Bruce had cut for him. The fork speared the food successfully, and he brought it to his mouth. He worked his way through most of the sandwich and half of his fruit cup while Bruce sat on the arm of the chair next him, reveling in the breeze coming through the window and thinking about how good it was to be going home and taking his son with him.

Tim reached out with his left hand for the bag of chips. He tried to hold it down with his exposed fingertips and open the bag with the fork, but it didn't quite work. Bruce reached out wordlessly and opened the bag for him. Rather, he just ripped it open and dumped the chips out on the tray.

Tim tried to pick up a chip with the tiny gap between his fingertips, but it kept sliding away. After several attempts, he gave up and looked at Bruce, his face twisted in displeasure.

Bruce smiled gently, though his heart was aching. "Can I feed you?"

It was the only way Tim had been able to eat since arriving at the hospital. Usually one of them was happy to feed him, Bruce or Dick or Alfred, but sometimes Tim asked them to leave and let a nurse do it. It was just too undignified, rubbing too raw at Tim's sense of independence and pride.

The injury to his hands had not been a single moment for Tim. It was an ongoing agony, an ongoing humiliation. It never ended. Every time he wanted to do pretty much anything and then couldn't do it on his own, from eating food to reading a book to scratching his nose, he was reminded of what had happened to him and what he had lost.

It was a sandstorm in the desert, continually scraping away at the edifice of his sense of self; it was ocean waves pounding on a rocky shore, steadily eroding everything away and carrying it out to sea. No wonder he got tired of it. No wonder he asked them to leave when he couldn't take it anymore.

Tim nodded and opened his mouth, and Bruce popped a chip inside. He couldn't help but smile a bit, which made Tim glare as he crunched down. "What's so funny?" Still, he opened his mouth for another chip.

Bruce gave him another one. "Sorry, just... Baby bird."

Tim grimaced, but he ate more chips. Only about a dozen, then he shook his head when Bruce held up another one. He gestured at the fork on his cast with his opposite hand, wordlessly asking Bruce to remove it.

Bruce frowned down at the remainder of the lunch on the tray table. "You didn't eat much."

"I'm just saving room for Alfred's cooking. Can't wait to get home."

"Hnn." Bruce removed the fork and set it down on the table, then rolled it out of the way with his foot. Tim sat on the edge of the bed, slumped and weary, but looking more like himself than he had in days. "Ready for your shoes?"

To his surprise, Tim hesitated. He looked around the room almost nervously, blinking at the sunlight streaming in the window, then looked back to Bruce. "Do you think... Do you think Jay will show up?"

Bruce tried not to frown too heavily. Once it had become clear that Tim really was being released from the hospital, Jason had suddenly stood up from the chair that had become his home for almost a week and said he had something to do, then left the room. That was several hours ago, and he hadn't responded to any of Dick's texts nor let anyone know if he was planning to join them at the manor.

"Do you want him to?" Bruce asked.

Tim looked conflicted, distress crossing his bruised features. His emotions were still close to the surface after all of the turmoil and pain of his ordeal, as if parts of himself that were usually hidden had been laid open, bare and vulnerable, and he couldn't spare the energy to cover them up yet. "I thought... He said he was gonna be my bodyguard. Twenty-four seven. I guess I assumed... I hoped he meant until M-McDaniels was caught. But maybe he just meant till I went home."

"I don't think he likes the idea of being at the manor again," Bruce said quietly. "I think it carries a lot of pain for him, a lot of bad memories. I'm sorry, sweetheart. I meant to talk to him about what his intentions were once you went home, but I got complacent and let myself forget."

Tim made a noise of frustration and lifted his left hand to rub at his face, swiping his fingertips over his eyes and through his hair. "I'm sorry, it's stupid, I just really... I guess I w-wanted..."

He was shaking. Bruce stood up from his chair and moved to sit beside him on the bed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "You feel safe with Jay," he said softly. "We all saw that, including Jason. It's why he stayed for so long. I'm sorry I can't provide that sense of safety for you, too."

Tim sagged against his side, turning his head to lean on Bruce's shoulder. "I do feel safe with you. I don't... It's not like that. It's just..." He made that noise of frustration again, muffled against Bruce's shirt. "I wanted him to stay. I wanted someone..."

Bruce felt his heart implode. Just a little. It was a collapsing, a loss of structure. Something he had thought was there turned out to be missing the whole time, and it fell in on itself. Tim didn't trust him to stay.

He turned his body and pulled the boy more fully into his arms, still holding gently because of his poor wounded back, his broken ribs. He wrapped him up and tucked his chin over his frazzled head. "You wanted someone to stay," he said softly. "Someone, anyone, that you could trust to not abandon you. And you hoped that maybe Jason would be that person. It seemed sudden, but he was just so kind, so devoted. It gave you hope that maybe he wouldn't leave you like everyone else has."

Tim sniffled and turned his head to rest his ear over Bruce's heart. His arms moved forward, wrapping around his torso, though he didn't hold on tight. Tim never held on tight. He was too used to things slipping away between his fingers.

"I'm not saying you abandoned me," he said in a near whisper. "You didn't mean to die. You didn't mean to get lost in the timestream. It was just... It wasn't your fault."

"Maybe not," Bruce heard the rumbling in his own voice, the rawness and the rage. Not at Tim, never at Tim. At himself. At the circumstances that had conspired to steal him from his children, all of them, but especially this boy who had lost far too many people in far too short a time, who had never had an adult he could depend on, who never had a chance to learn to depend on Bruce before he lost him, too. "But I still left you. You had to rescue me. Again. I'm so sorry you had to do that, sweetheart. That shouldn't be your job."

Tim made a dismissive noise. "Whatever. I'm not upset about that. I'm glad to do it. I just..." He shuddered in his arms and fell silent.

Bruce wrapped him up just a little tighter, a little closer. "I wish you could trust me," he murmured. "I wish you could believe me when I say that I love you, that I'm not going to leave you again. I know I haven't earned that trust."

Tim sighed and sagged against him a little more heavily. "Sorry. I just... This has happened before."

Bruce's heart stuttered. He looked down at the boy in his arms, but all he could see was a mop of dark hair, the slope of his back. "What do you mean?"

Tim hummed and turned his head, wiggling his face free of the fabric of Bruce's shirt so he could speak more clearly. "When I was seven. I fell out of a tree, broke my leg. Neighbor found me. My parents came home a few days later. They fussed over me for a while. Said they were going to stick around and spend more time with me. For a while it was good. They watched movies with me, read books, got my favorite foods. It was nice. We went to the zoo. Then another trip came up, and they went back out. I wasn't even off the crutches yet."

"Tim..." Bruce could barely breathe.

But Tim wasn't done. "When I was ten. Got pneumonia. I had school then, luckily, so a teacher figured out I wasn't doing well and got me to a hospital in time. A week later, my parents showed up. Fussed over me. Said they're going to stick around, spend more time with me. We had Christmas. It was nice. I got a new camera. Middle of January they left again."

Bruce swallowed thickly. "Then your dad, when you were fourteen. Woke up from his coma. Told you he was going to spend more time with you, get to know you better. For a while it was good. It was nice. And then he found a new interest. Got remarried."

"Died," Tim whispered.

Bruce bent his head and buried his face against the top of Tim's head. He felt the tears running down his cheeks into the boy's hair. He felt Tim's tears soaking his shirt. "Oh, sweetheart. How can I ever prove myself to you?"

"I don't know," Tim said. "I don't know how any of this works. I want to believe you. I really do. So, so much. I'm sorry I can't, because I don't want to hurt you. I just... I don't know how."

"Okay." Bruce sat there and held his wounded son as close and tight as he dared. "It's not your job to figure that out. It's mine. I'm going to do it. So just... Just wait for me, okay? I'll get there. We'll both get there."

"Okay," Tim murmured, holding him back as much as he could with his broken hands, his weary body.

It was all that they could do.

Chapter Text

Coming back to the manor felt strange. Tim had spent all of half an hour there, total, for the past several months. Returning filled him with a strange mix of comfort and anxiety.

Bruce seemed to notice. He was sitting in the back of the car with Tim, one arm around his shoulders holding him against his side. He felt Tim tense up when the manor came into view and somehow managed to pull him even closer, then turned his head and pressed a kiss into Tim's hair.

Ever since their talk in the hospital room, Bruce had been touching Tim almost non-stop. Dick had pushed Tim's wheelchair to get him out of the building, but Bruce had walked beside him with one hand resting on his shoulder. They had taken a back entrance to try to avoid the paparazzi, but there were still a few. Bruce had put an arm around Tim and shielded him from the cameras and the questions, Alfred, Cass, and Dick also surrounding him like bodyguards. Bruce had all but lifted Tim into the car, then slid in next to him while Alfred closed the door behind them.

Tim kept waiting to feel suffocated or overwhelmed by the constant attention, but so far it had just made him feel safe and protected. He missed Jason, couldn't help it. He kept expecting to turn his head and see him sitting right there on the periphery, then being unpleasantly jolted when Jason wasn't there. But Bruce was an adequate substitute for the time being.

Tim almost smiled at the private joke. Just wait until he told Jay that he'd been thinking of Bruce as his replacement. He hoped he would get the chance.

"You okay, partner?" Bruce asked, nudging Tim's side to get his attention.

Tim nodded without speaking. His throat felt strangely full, his chest tight. It wasn't like the manor had ever really been his home, not for more than a few months at time. There hadn't been enough time between when the adoption went through and when Bruce disappeared and he had to leave. Sure, there had been the months while his parents were traveling, then while Jack was in a coma, but those stays had always been temporary, too, and he’d always been aware of that. Tim had never really settled here, never fully dug his roots in. He'd definitely spent far more hours in the cave below than in the house above.

Yet he had still felt homesick for this place. Often. Even when things had been good with Jack and he'd been sleeping in his own bed with two parents who he was pretty sure actually loved him, he had still sometimes longed for Wayne Manor. On his trip around the world, he had always thought that he would come back here someday.

But when he did come back to Gotham, everything was different. Dick and Damian and Alfred were using the downtown penthouse, not the manor and the cave. Tim had tried staying with them for a while, but Damian's constant barbs made it intensely unpleasant. Dick and Damian had settled into a working partnership, and there was no place for Tim in their little circle. Alfred was welcoming, of course, but he welcomed everyone with a grace that was nigh miraculous. So Tim knew he needed his own place, and he made it happen.

Then Bruce returned, but nothing changed. Or more accurately, nothing changed back. Tim had come to the manor for Bruce's homecoming, of course. There had been a number of celebratory dinners, conversations and debriefings, that sort of thing. But the manor still was not his home. Damian was still Robin, just working with Bruce now. Dick returned to his life in Bludhaven, though he still came back to Gotham often to hang out with Damian and help Bruce with difficult cases.

Damian had won. He had taken Tim's place as Robin, as Bruce's son, and even as Dick’s doted-on little brother. Yes, Tim still had a job. He was Red Robin now, a role he had seized and shaped for himself. He was the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, which was also a valuable role that he did his best to fulfill to the fullness of his ability. Tim was still devoted to Bruce and to Batman. He would respond to any call, take on any task that fell within his skillset. He would do anything and everything he needed to do to further his goal of protecting Batman and enabling him to protect Gotham and the world.

But he didn't have the same place anymore, neither in Bruce nor in Batman's life. And it hurt. It hurt so much. He started avoiding the manor more and more so he wouldn't have to think about it. It was easier to concentrate on the tasks left to him, the roles he had built and maintained in his own name, rather than thinking about what he had lost. The reminders were just too painful.

And now he was back. He didn't know when he was going to be able to return to his apartment, his Nest. Obviously he was going to need a lot of help while the casts were on, which would be at least three weeks. But even after that, his hands were going to be weak and he was going to need a lot of physical therapy to regain strength and agility. How long would it be until he could dress himself? Feed himself? Clean up after himself? The uncertainty was overwhelming. What if he could never live on his own again? Was he going to be trapped in this house with his family, with Damian, forever? He honestly didn't know if he could take it.

His stomach rolled, and he turned his head and buried his face in Bruce's shoulder so he wouldn't have to look at the manor anymore. Bruce made a small noise of distress and curled his arm in closer, burying his hand in the hair on the back of Tim's head. It felt nice and comforting, but Tim hated that he needed it. Hated that he was so weak and vulnerable that even looking at the place that should be his home made him feel the need to hide in his father's shadow.

"I don't think he's okay after all," Dick murmured. Tim squirmed with embarrassment at being talked about like he wasn't there, but he didn't lift his head from Bruce's shoulder.

"I think it might be time for his meds," Bruce said, his voice resonating against Tim's ear. Cass made a sympathetic noise.

Tim didn't try to correct them. His wounds were throbbing, and he was definitely overdue on his painkillers. Easier to let them think that than explain that he was feeling queasy and overwhelmed at the thought of stepping foot inside the property that was supposed to be his home, his sanctuary. That he felt so unsafe and uneasy here that he was literally trying to repress his fight or flight instinct even though he could barely walk on his injured knee and there was no way that he was going to be fighting anything stronger than a kitten for the next few months.

He wondered if Jason felt this way about Wayne Manor, too. If so it was no wonder that he had decided not to come here, never mind any promises he might have made in the heat of the moment to his so-called little brother about being his bodyguard. Tim was strongly wishing right now that he could have just followed Jason right out of the hospital room when he left and never come back here again.

The car rolled to a stop, and Tim heard a door open. Dick and Cass were probably out already while he was still sitting here, hiding his face against Bruce's shoulder and trying not to throw up or hyperventilate. Bruce pressed his hand against the back of Tim's head, cradling him close.

"Do you want me to carry you, sweetheart?"

Tim tried to breathe. No, he didn't want Bruce to carry him. He wanted to stand on his own two feet like a man. But also, his bad knee was pulsing like it was on fire, and his entire body was starting to ache with how tensely he was holding himself. And he didn't know if he would be able to make himself walk into that house even if there was nothing wrong with his body at all. After a long moment of hesitation, he nodded.

"Okay. I'm gonna get out, and you scoot along the bench seat after me, and I'll lift you up. Okay?"

Tim nodded. Numbness was starting to set in, overcoming the fear. Bruce had to let go of him to get out of the car, and Tim wanted to cling to him, but he didn't have hands. Bruce leaned in the door, waiting patiently for him. Tim pushed himself along the seat with his good leg and held out his cast-covered arms like a child asking to be picked up.

Bruce scooped him up into his arms, and Tim felt an echo of that night at the warehouse when Bruce had lifted him out of Jason's lap. He had been so gentle, so careful, as if Tim was something precious and fragile that needed to be handled with only the most delicate of touches. Bruce was only slightly less careful now.

Tim tried to help, wrapping his arms around Bruce's neck and hiding his face against his shoulder again. He did his best not to whack Bruce with his casts. Bruce, for his part, lifted him up seemingly without effort, one arm under his knees and one around his back, and started walking up the stairs to the manor door. The car door closed behind them, and soft, graceful footsteps hurried to catch up.

Cass. The others had probably already gone into the house. Cass rested a hand lightly on Tim's back for a moment as she climbed the steps with them.

"Why is Tim so scared of the house?" she asked sadly.

Bruce's step faltered for a moment, then continued. "I didn't realize he was." His voice was neutral, but Tim could hear the grief underneath it.

Tim trembled. Of course she saw. Cass saw everything.

She asked him instead. "Timmy? Why are you scared?"

He shook his head against Bruce's shoulder. "'M not." It was a breathless gasp.

He could literally hear Cass's frown. "Yes, you are."

Bruce stopped walking, and so did Cass. They were at the top of the steps. They were right in front of the doorway, but Bruce was waiting before he crossed the threshold, holding off on carrying Tim into the place he was afraid of.

Bruce shifted Tim in his arms, sort of juggling him as he tried to get him to lift his head so he could look in his face. "Tim. Please talk to us."

Cass was resting her hand on Tim's back again. He could feel the tremble in her fingertips. He felt awful. It wasn't Cass or Bruce's fault that he was so weak and unable to control himself.

"It's okay," he mumbled into Bruce's shoulder. "It doesn't matter. There's no choice, anyway. Let's just go in."

"Tim." Bruce's voice was patient but firm. "Please tell us why you're scared. If we don't know the reason, there's nothing we can do to fix it. Please, son. We would very much like to help you."

"It's stupid. And there's nothing you can do about it, anyway."

"Please, Timmy-bird."

Cass. All of these dumb nicknames were going to be his undoing. Tim sucked in a breath, then carefully lifted his head off Bruce's shoulder and looked at him, then Cass. His face was flaming, he could feel it. "It's dumb."

Bruce squeezed him a bit, not hard. "If it's something that's causing you this much anxiety, then it's not dumb. It needs to be dealt with."

"You'll just tell me that I need to be mature about it. Suck it up."

Bruce's face was grim, his jaw clenched. "Try me."

Tim swallowed. "I just don't know how I'm going to be able to stand being around Damian for however long it takes me to recover."

Bruce's eyes narrowed, and Tim winced, waiting for the inevitable scolding. Bruce was going to tell him that it wasn't that big of a deal. That he needed to accept Damian and treat him like a little brother and just ignore the mean things he said. He was going to tell him to be mature and suck it up, because this was dumb. It was stupid to be so riddled with fear over the idea of having to listen to words from a little boy with no means of escape.

But Cass's hand darted over and squeezed Bruce's arm. Hard. He blinked, and the stress-lines around his eyes faded. He looked at Tim openly, still grimly but with a posture of listening rather than instant defensiveness of his youngest son. "Explain."

Tim gaped at him. No scolding? He looked over at Cass with wide eyes, and she gave him an encouraging smile.

He looked around, feeling a little dizzy. "Can we sit? And talk?"

Bruce nodded. He sat down on the top step and set Tim down next to him, maintaining an arm around his shoulders. Cass sat on Tim's other side and started stroking her fingers through his hair. Tim let his head loll on Bruce's shoulder and shut his eyes for a moment, forcing back the tears. He couldn't believe that Bruce was actually going to listen to him. He was intensely grateful, and he was terrified of wasting the opportunity.

He had to say it. Everything. He needed to get it all out right now.

Tim took a deep breath, and he began to talk. It all poured out of him like water that had been dammed up and suddenly let loose in a flash flood. How painful it was to listen to Damian's cruel comments, how he had tried to put up with it for a while at the penthouse but eventually decided that getting his own place was safer for his mental health. How he tried to be mature, tried to ignore it, but it was just so hard.

How he wanted to be a good big brother, but Damian never seemed to want to give him a chance to even try, always pushing him away with words and deeds until Tim lost his temper and snapped at him, then ended up storming away. How guilty he felt when that happened, because he was supposed to be mature, he was supposed to be able to suck it up, and sometimes he just couldn't. How he felt like such a failure with Damian. How awful of a person must he be to have an eleven-year-old kid dedicated to destroying him mentally and emotionally, never mind the physical attacks? How weak was he that he kept falling for it?

How he was afraid, now, of having to listen to that again without being able to leave and go to a safe place anymore. He couldn't drive, he couldn't ride his motorcycle. If things got too difficult with Damian, he wouldn't be able to retreat to his Nest. He was just going to have to put up with it, and he was scared, because he hated not having control, hated not being able to steer his own destiny. He was afraid that he was going to end up lashing out at Damian even more and destroying any chance they had of ever being real brothers, real allies in the future.

It wasn't everything. Once he got all of that out, he was exhausted. He didn't have the energy to talk anymore about how much he missed being Robin, being Dick's little brother, Bruce's son, however brief that relationship had really turned out to be. How afraid he was of never being able to take care of himself again, of being dependent on other people for the rest of his life.

But Bruce had listened, for a miracle. He really had sat next to Tim for the entire time and listened to all of the stupid, petty little anxieties and fears and hurts that had poured of his mouth. He kept his arm around Tim's shoulders, holding him close and warm. Cass kept stroking his hair, tickling his scalp with her fingertips, and at some point Bruce had turned his head and rested his cheek on Tim's hair, too. It was so sweet and comfortable and nice that Tim leaned against him even more heavily, his eyes drooping.

And even after that, all of that, Bruce didn't scold him. He didn't tell him to be mature. He didn't tell him suck it up.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice deep and remorseful. "I didn't realize it was so bad. I didn't realize how deeply Damian was hurting you."

Tears pricked at Tim's eyes. He sniffled and tilted his head down to wipe his nose on his shoulder. "It was stupid. It was just words. I shouldn't have let them affect me so deeply, but I couldn't make it stop."

"No." Bruce's voice was a deep rumble. "It was verbal abuse, and it is not acceptable. It made you feel unsafe and unwelcome in a place that should have been your home, no matter what else was going on at the time. It made you afraid of coming here, quite justifiably, because you did not want to subject yourself to that abuse again, but you felt helpless to prevent it. No wonder you felt so paralyzed. I'm so sorry, son. It should never have happened. And it won't happen again."

"You can't promise that, Bruce. You can't control what Damian does every hour of every day."

Bruce grunted in displeasure. "I damn well will." His arm tightened around Tim's shoulders, dragging him into a half-hug. "I'm the goddamn Batman. I can control one little kid, especially one who actually belongs to me. Have some faith in me, Tim."

Tim couldn't help but giggle at the grumpiness in Bruce's voice, the ridiculous way he was proclaiming his ability to control a mean-tongued child. He felt light, suddenly, like there was air rushing all over his skin, lifting away the helplessness and fear that had held him paralyzed. Cass laughed, too, almost in the same breath. God, Tim had missed laughing with Cass.

Bruce huffed and kissed his hair again. "All right. Good talk. Are you ready to go inside, now? I promise, you have nothing to fear in my house." His voice went low and growling on the last part, and Tim was startled to realize that he believed him.

"Yeah. But this time you don't have to carry me. I can walk."

Well, it was more like hobble with his bad knee, his aching body. But Bruce kept that arm latched around his shoulders, like always, and Cass's hand was under his other elbow. Tim made it into the manor under his own power, and he felt very little fear at all.

Chapter Text

Alfred was humming as he walked up the steps, Dick on his heels moving lightly, almost trippingly. Dick could guess why Alfred was so happy--he was too. Everyone under the same roof, for the first time in what felt like years. Well, except Jason. But that wasn't a wound that was going to mend quickly.

Dick paused just inside the door, though Alfred kept moving toward the kitchen to prepare some food for Tim. Dick patted the phone in his pocket, then took it out and looked at it. No texts from Jason. Of course.

We're back at the manor. Feel free to come by anytime.

He looked at the message for a few seconds before hitting the send button. Then he straightened up and pulled in a deep breath. Bruce and Tim still weren't in.

He turned around, looked out the window on the door. Oh, they were coming up the steps. Bruce was carrying Tim in his arms, and Cass was right beside them, one hand lightly touching Tim's back. Cass looked worried and sad, and Tim...something was wrong. The way he was curled up against Bruce, hiding his face...

Dick put his hand on the door to go to them, then stopped himself. No. Bruce needed to deal with this. Tim needed his dad. Bruce needed to step up. Cass could translate for them, if needed. She was good at that.

They stopped at the top of the steps. Bruce and Cass were both talking, urging Tim to... Dick could have read their lips through the glass, but he decided not to. If Tim wanted to tell Dick later what was bothering him, he could do that. There had been enough spying on each other in this family. It never helped.

He turned around and decided to look for Damian instead. The kid had to be feeling neglected, what with the long hours everyone had been spending at the hospital, devoting their attention to Tim and his needs.

He found the kid in the media room, the one with the biggest TV in the manor, though the TV wasn't on. Damian was sprawled over one of the couches, Alfred the cat sleeping on his stomach. One leg and one arm dangled over the edge of the couch, his fingers trailing in Titus's fur where the dog was curled up next to the couch. Both animals were fast asleep, but Damian's eyes were open. He was staring at the ceiling, seemingly deep in thought.

Dick knocked his knuckles on the edge of the doorway. "Hey, buddy. Whatcha up to?"

Damian's eyes flicked over to him, then back to ceiling. "Oh. You're here."

"Yup." Dick made his way over to the sofa and sat down at Damian's head. He had to push and squirm his way in, and Damian squawked and pulled away, swatting at Dick with one hand. Still, he managed to avoid disturbing Alfred the cat, who merely stretched slightly as his bed rocked, then went back to sleep, purring like a motorboat.

Dick chuckled and reached over Damian's body to tickle the furry little black head. Damian grumbled through his teeth, pushing his head against Dick's thigh in a vain attempt to make him move. After a moment he gave up and consented to using Dick's leg as a pillow.

They sat in silence for a few moments, letting the animals settle back into their naps. Dick switched from petting the cat to petting Damian, letting his fingers slide through his short, dark hair. He half-expected Damian to object, but he didn't. He just lay there and took it. Yeah, he was definitely feeling neglected.

"If you're here, I suppose that means Drake is home now," Damian said eventually.

"Yeah. He's moving slowly, though. You have time to get used to the idea."

"I'm already used to the idea. It's been in the works for quite some time, after all."

Dick hummed. "How do you feel about it, then? Having Tim back in the manor again?"

"My feelings are immaterial. Drake needs to be here to recuperate. It's the safest place for him with that mangy villain, McDaniels, still on the loose."

Dick wrinkled his nose. "You really shouldn't call people mangy, even if they are villains. It's demeaning, because it's a word usually used for animals."

Damian grunted, but not in an angry way. More like he hadn't considered such a thing before and was surprised by the idea. "Some villains deserve to be demeaned. What McDaniels did to Drake was beyond the pale. I’m not sure he actually is human."

Dick huffed, but decided not to fight a losing battle. He scratched his fingers over Damian’s scalp and watched his eyes droop in contentment. "Never mind that, then. You must have some feelings about Tim being in the same house with you. You've been dedicated to protecting his safety while he was in the hospital, which is great. That made me really happy. But you haven't actually spent much time in the same room as him since this whole thing started. And now he’s coming back here, to your home, and your father is spending a lot of time with him. Are you worried about having your place usurped?"

Damian snorted. "Hardly. I am the superior Robin, and Father has accepted me as such. Drake's presence here will not change that, especially with his body so damaged. And if he's permanently crippled, all the more. He's only a victim, now, a person for Batman and Robin to protect. I don't feel the slightest bit threatened by him. All I feel for him is pity."

Well, it was better than contempt, Dick supposed. Though he wasn't sure that he didn't hear a mixture of that in Damian's voice, too.

"Okay. I would really appreciate it if you didn't talk to Tim like that, though, all right? Don't tell him he's a victim and all he deserves is pity. It's...unlikely to help him recover."

"I'm aware." Damian turned his head to face the back of the couch. "I will be civil to him. Rather, I intend to avoid him as much as possible."

Dick sighed and leaned his head against the cushion behind him. Still, he didn't stop stroking Damian's head. "I really wish you two could learn to get along instead of just staying out of each other's way. Be brothers, like you're supposed to be. You're both such great kids, so smart and tough and talented, and I love you both so much... I wish you could love each other, too."

"That is not possible as long as Drake is...Drake. He is not my brother." Damian turned his head to scowl up at him. "I have promised to be civil, and I will be. Don't expect more from me."

"All right, all right." Baby steps. Damian promising to be civil was certainly a great leap forward from his attitude before Tim's kidnapping. And Dick knew how seriously Damian took his promises, as a matter of honor. He would keep this one, even if it hurt.

Dick sighed and pressed his hand against Damian's forehead for a moment, then carefully disengaged and climbed to his feet, sliding out from under Damian's head without dropping him. "I'm gonna go see how Tim's getting along. If you wanna talk, come find me anytime, okay?"

Damian mumbled and waved a hand. Dick left the media room and almost ran straight into Bruce. The two of them drew up short, both raising their eyebrows.

"Where's Tim?" Dick asked.

"I left him in the kitchen with Cass. Alfred is serving him something delicious. Hopefully he'll be able to eat." Bruce looked over Dick's shoulder at the room he'd just left. "Is Damian in there?"

"Yes. Why?" Dick didn't like the set of Bruce's jaw. Bruce started to shoulder by him, and Dick grabbed his shirt and spun him around. "Bruce. What's going on?"

Bruce held still and stared at him, almost glowering. "I just...had a talk with Tim." The words were forced out through half-gritted teeth.

Dick nodded slowly. He didn't let go of the fabric of Bruce's shirt. "Yeah, I saw. He was upset, and you and Cass were worried. What was it about?"

Bruce settled back on his heels, looking him up and down. The hard glint in his eye was shifting to Dick, now, and Dick felt his breath catch in his throat. It had been a long time since he and Bruce had had their last knock-down drag-out fight, and he wasn't in the mood for a reprise. Especially not on the day Tim came home from the hospital.

"Tim was just...enlightening me on the way Damian has been treating him over the last year or so. Ever since Talia first dropped him into my life, really. I know I missed a lot, and then when I returned Tim didn't come around often, and when he did I didn't pay much attention, or I thought it was just normal banter... But you've spent a lot more time with them. Both of them, including together. You must have seen it."

Dick set his shoulders. He knew where this was going now, and his heart was heavy in his chest. "You mean the way Damian talks to Tim. Insults him, mocks him. Puts him down."

Bruce's jaw bunched. "I thought it was..." His voice was pained, his breath short. He clenched his fists and squared his shoulders. "I only heard a few examples. I thought it was a bit too sharp, but I didn't do anything. It seemed well-worn, well-traveled, as if that was just the way they communicated. Tim gave as good as he got, from what I heard. But what he just told me..."

He glanced away for a moment, pain tightening his face, then looked back at Dick. "Damian has called Tim worthless to his face. Told him he was no good to anybody, that there was no reason for him to be around. That his accomplishments meant nothing and he was an interloper and unwelcome in his own home. That... That crosses a line, Dick. That's verbal abuse. And you must have witnessed it."

Dick's throat felt tight. "I did. I tried to stop it. I told Damian not to talk to Tim like that. At least...the first few dozen times..."

He closed his eyes, swaying on his feet. "It's true that I... I got tired of repeating myself." He looked Bruce in the eyes, his own anger rising to meet his. "There was so much going on. You were dead. I had to take your place. Gotham was as crazy as always. Damian was...on the edge. It was all I could do just to rein in his homicidal tendencies, never mind his mouth. I did my best, Bruce. I know that's not good enough, but I swear I did."

To his surprise, Bruce looked dismayed. He even backed off a step, his hands falling to his sides. "I never said you weren't good enough."

"Yes, you did. You just did." Damn it, those were tears. Dick sniffed, trying to force them back. He wrapped his arms tightly around his chest in an attempt to hold himself together. "I know I...I failed Tim. We all failed Tim. I was pouring everything I had into helping Damian, saving Gotham, being Batman... And Tim fell through the cracks. I didn't protect him well enough. Not from your loss, not from everything else he'd been through and was continuing to suffer. I didn't protect him from Damian, either, and I know...I know Damian hurt him. I know those words crossed a line. Crossed the line dozens, hundreds of times, and I wish..."

He buried a hand in his hair, pulling painfully at his scalp as his eyes shut. The tears squeezed out. He couldn't stop them. "I wish I could go back and do better. For Tim and for Damian. They deserved better, they both did, but they just had me, that's all. It wasn't enough."

"Dick." Bruce's hands were on his shoulders. Big, rough, commanding. "Son. Stop this. Don't do this to yourself."

Dick opened his eyes in astonishment, his fingers loosening in his hair. Somehow he'd been expecting something else. What, he couldn't have said. Bruce's face was sorrowful and dismayed, his hands still hard on his shoulders. As Dick opened up and relaxed a fraction, Bruce stepped forward and pulled him into a powerful hug.

"Dick, I'm so proud of you. You did so well with Damian. Amazing things. You did amazing things. I couldn't have done better. I wouldn't have done better. I know that. He needed you, and you did wonderfully. I hate... I hate that Tim suffered for it. It's going to take a long time for us to make up for that. For all of us to make up for that. But the position you were in... It wasn't fair on you, either. You're their brother. You shouldn't have had to parent them."

Dick was sobbing now. He tried to muffle it in Bruce's shoulder. Bruce cradled the back of his head with his hand. His voice was low and soothing. He had gotten a lot of practice with Tim, and now Dick was reaping the benefits, too. "I don't blame you, son. Please don't blame yourself. You did your best, and sometimes that isn't enough, not for everyone and everything, but... You did your best, and I am so, so proud of you. I can't begin to tell you just how proud I am."

Dick could have stayed in those arms forever. Listened to those words forever. But he was sharply aware of the media room at his back. Hopefully Damian was still weighed down by his sleeping pets, not listening at the door, but if he was...

After letting himself luxuriate for a while, he gently pushed himself off Bruce's shoulders. Bruce let him go, his face still open with concern. Dick wiped his hands over his face and offered him a watery smile. "Listen, Bruce." His voice was rough, but Bruce stood up and looked straight at him, listening intently.

Dick shuddered. He almost couldn't believe this was happening. Bruce? Listening? Something magic was in the air. Maybe it was finally having Tim home after so many months away.

"Listen, Damian is doing a lot better. He really is. I just had a talk with him and he...he promised to be civil to Tim. You know how seriously Damian takes his promises. I know you were about to barge in there and confront him, scold him for the way he's been treating Tim... And maybe he still deserves that. A promise now doesn't make up for months and months of past abuse. But please. Try a little gentleness first. Damian really does want to please you. He wants to be a good person. He has so many factors fighting against him in that, and he does amazingly well at least ninety percent of the time."

Bruce listened. He really did. And then he nodded. "Thank you, Dick. I appreciate your insight. I trust your judgment. Yes, I'm going to go talk to Damian now, but there won't be any yelling. I promise, too." He smiled gently. "Does that work?"

Dick blew out a breath. "What's gotten into you? You're so...attentive, all of a sudden."

Bruce leaned back, a grimace pulling at his face. "I'm sorry I haven't been in the past. It's... I suppose you can thank what I heard from Tim's lips that night Jason and I found him at the warehouse."

Dick's heart stuttered. "The thing he said that scared you and Jason. You never told me what that was."

Bruce nodded solemnly. "I'm not going to say it now, either. That's Tim's secret to share with you, if he ever chooses to. But it showed me... Let's just say that it showed me the depths of my failure with him. And later when I tried to rectify it, and all I did seemed to make it worse..."

He looked away, his eyes dark with pain, then back to Dick. "And given days sitting with him in the hospital with little to do but think, I've had time to realize that that failure extended to the rest of my children as well. I know I haven't been the best father, to you or to any of the others." He waited for Dick to object, but of course he didn't.

Bruce smiled, small and twisted. "By your silence I take that you understand exactly what I'm talking about. But I want to try to be better. I truly do. I'll have to ask you to be patient with me, though. I'm going to keep making mistakes, I'm afraid. Just like I was about to do with Damian, if you hadn't stopped me."

He put his hands on Dick's shoulders and squeezed them gently. "So thank you, sunshine. You're amazing. Such a good big brother, such a good son. I don't know what I did deserve you. I'm exceedingly lucky to have you in my life, and I never, ever want to lose you. Please just...keep being who you are. I could never ask for more."

Dick couldn't help it. He had to lean forward and hug him again. Bruce held him back, hard and tight, pressing their cheeks together.

Dick didn't want to cry. He didn't. But he still did, just a little.

Chapter Text

Jason was a coward. He reflected on that fact as he crouched on the ledge outside Tim's window, peering inside. Tim was sitting cross-legged on the bed, shirtless, his cast-covered hands in his lap, and Dick was sitting behind him gently rubbing analgesic cream into the wounds on his back.

He should just go in there right now. Neither would be upset to see him. Dick's texts throughout the day were assurance enough of that. He could knock on the window, and Dick would come over and let him in with a big grin. Heck, he could climb down and come in by the door, and Bruce or Alfred or Cass would be happy to see him, happy to point him up to Tim's room.

Jason knew all of those things were true. Probably. They were probably true. But there was a nice, big chunk of him that wanted to climb down from his perch and go back to the bar he'd just come from.

It hadn't started out as a bender. It hadn't really turned into a bender, either. He'd had a few drinks, but the effects had already pretty much worn off. He only felt slightly buzzed, which was working to heighten his anxiety instead of relaxing him, unfortunately. He wanted a cigarette, but he was afraid Dick or Tim might smell it.

No, Jason hadn't gone to the bar to drink. He'd been looking for information. It was also what he'd been doing in the hours after joining Batman at the warehouse to rescue Tim, what seemed like years ago now, and when he first came to the hospital for a visit and then ended up never really leaving.

He wanted to find McDaniels. Wanted to kill him, maybe, or maybe just put him in jail, which would make Bruce and Tim happier. He was going to make that decision on the fly. But mostly he just wanted to find him. Wanted to look in the face of the man of who orchestrated the kidnapping and torture of a seventeen-year-old kid, who had personally held the hammer that might have crippled a young man who had never meant harm to anyone, who only wanted to be a hero, to help, to save, to protect.

And then he wanted to punch that face. Really hard. Many times.

None of his regular contacts had had any information for him. After making the rounds in his usual territory, just in case, Jason had headed to the neighborhood McDaniels and his gang used to frequent, before they were taken down by Red Robin. He'd been hoping to find a member who had escaped the police who might have information on where McDaniels might be, potential safehouses, that sort of thing. Heck, he would take a rival gangster who had happened to see something, or just a bystander. Anything.

Red Robin had been thorough in dismantling McDaniels's crew, though. Jason found a couple of guys who used to run with them, but they'd been out for several weeks and knew nothing about the recent goings on. Those two were happy to miss being busted by Batman and Red Hood, at least. Jason fought down the curl in his lip and bought them a celebratory round of drinks, digging for more.

And then, finally, a lead. McDaniels had a mistress. Maybe a couple of them. The thugs knew about their existence and a couple of potential names, but they didn't have any addresses. Still, it was worth following up on. Jason wanted to head straight back to his place and get on the computer, see what he could find in the databases. Maybe ask Oracle for help--she'd be happy to give him any information he needed to pin McDaniels to the wall, Jason was sure. She liked Tim just as much as the rest of Batman's various associates, considered him a little brother along with Dick and Cass.

But then his phone buzzed with another text from Dick.

Tim gets tired easily, I'm sure you're not surprised. It's not too late, but he's ready to turn in. You're still welcome to stop by. Please.

Jason put his phone down and looked back to his new “friends,” raising his glass. Then, a few minutes later, another text.

He hasn't asked for you. He's not that stupid. But he keeps looking. He doesn't say anything, but he'll turn his head like he's expecting to see something. Or someone. And then when you're not there, he gets that little frown. You know the one.

Please come, Little Wing. He needs you. He's afraid to ask, but he wants to.

And then he saw the time on the phone. Damn it. Damn it all.

He really had only meant to be gone for a few hours. He was just going to check on a couple of things, then come back to the hospital and escort Tim home and keep his promise. He hadn't really expected to be able to hunt down McDaniels that quickly, but he had to give it a try, right? He wanted Tim to be safe, to feel safe, and putting that rat bastard behind bars (or under the ground) was definitely the most complete and efficient way to make that happen.

But a few hours became a few more hours, then a few more. Then the whole day. He got a text from Dick saying that they were leaving the hospital, so it was too late for him to go with them. A little while later he got a text saying that they were home, so there was no real urgency for Jason to go back, then. There was no safer place for Tim to be in Gotham City than Wayne Manor, what with all of the security and the way it was constantly upgraded, including by Tim himself.

Dick kept sending Jason updates, just like he had done that first day Tim was in the hospital. Tim was having lunch. Tim was resting in one of the lounges, watching a movie, and Dick was keeping him company. Tim was having dinner. One of Tim's school friends came to visit, a kid named Ives who managed to make Tim laugh. And then this last text saying that Tim was going to bed.

Still, Jason might have convinced himself that he didn't really have to go, if it weren't for the last text of all. Tim was looking for him. But he wasn't asking for him.

Damn it.

Of course Tim wasn't asking. Jason was willing to bet that he never asked. He never expected anyone to be there for him, because no one ever had been. Not consistently. Not the way he deserved, the way every kid deserved. And damn it, damn it, damn it, Jason hadn't wanted to be yet another adult to leave this boy in the lurch. He really had meant it when he promised Tim to be his bodyguard, twenty-four/seven. Not even a week, hadn't even made it to seven, and already he'd broken that promise. He might as well have just stabbed himself in the heart. He kind of felt like he had.

So now he was lurking outside Tim's window like a creep, wiping his clammy palms on his jeans and trying not to throw up. He didn't want to be here. But he needed to. He had to.

Tim would understand if he didn't come in, right? He could text Dick and tell him that it was just too much. He couldn't stand to be in this house, on this property. Dick could explain it in a way that made sense. Tim would be fine. He had everyone else here to protect him. Bruce was Batman, for fuck's sake. Dick, as annoying as he could be, was highly skilled, too. And they had Cass, who was one of the most deadly fighters in the world. Tim didn't really need Jason, too.

But he wanted him. Even as Jason crouched there, staring, Tim's head turned to the right. It was just at the angle he had needed to turn his head in the hospital to see Jason from his bed. For a moment there was hopeful tilt to his face, but it faded just as quickly. His shoulders slumped in disappointment, and he faced forward again.

Dick noticed. His hands paused on Tim's back, and he said something soft and kind. Jason didn't need to read his lips to know that. Tim nodded and closed his eyes, relaxing as Dick continued to massage his back in slow, even circles.

Finally, Dick finished treating his back. He stood up from the bed and shook his hands out, asking Tim something. Tim shook his head, and Dick ruffled his hair, then left the room. Tim stared at the door Dick had gone through for a few moments, then slumped down on his side and stared into nothing.

And now Jason knew the truth. He hadn't left the hospital because he wanted to find McDaniels. Sure, that had been his excuse. He told himself it was why he was going. And he did very, very much want to find that man and punch him many times. But it wasn't why he'd left, why he'd stayed away, why he'd abandoned Tim, just like everyone else, after vowing that he wouldn't.

He was scared. He was a coward.

It was just a house. It had been his home for years, the first real home that had felt truly safe to him after a childhood of crowded rooms that echoed with shouts, the crash of empty beer bottles against the walls, the smell of sickness and alcohol and filth that never washed out. But this house did not represent home to him, not anymore.

It represented brokenness. It represented death. It represented loss and abandonment and existential terror. And Jason didn't want to go in.

Tim rolled over onto his back, moving slowly and carefully so as not to undo all of Dick's hard work on his whipmarks. The bruises and burns and cuts all over his torso and arms and face were fading now, slowly, but it was still all too clear what he'd gone through. Then Tim turned his face to the window.

His eyes sparked, though he didn't smile. He used his elbow to push himself up to sitting again, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He moved toward the window, slowly, and reached out with his left hand.

Jason swallowed. Busted.

The latch had already been undone. Maybe Dick had done it earlier. Tim didn't have to try to move it with the barely exposed fingertips on his left hand. He just knocked his fingernails against the glass, very gently, and stared through the window at Jason.

"Come in."

And Jason had to do it. He put his hand on the bottom of the window frame and pushed up. It moved swiftly and smoothly, as if the tracks had been greased. Tim stepped back, still not smiling, but with a lightness and relaxation on his face that had been missing earlier. Jason sighed.

"Hey, kiddo."

"Hey yourself."

Jason crawled through the window, then straightened up next to Tim, staring down at him. Somehow he'd forgotten how short the kid was. "I'm sorry."

The simple words were not enough to convey the depth of his feeling.

Tim just shrugged. "'Sokay." He wandered back over to the bed. It was awkward, but he was able to rearrange the pillows into a pile against the headboard by using both hands in a sort of pincer movement. Once the pile of fluff was high enough. He sat down against it and settled in. Then he patted the bed next to him with his plaster-covered hand.

Jason had just been standing awkwardly at the window like a neighbor kid waiting for their friend to come down the stairs, but now he walked over and sat where Tim indicated. It was kind of nice to be sitting with each other sort of like equals, instead of him being in a chair and Tim lying down, unable to move.

Tim looked at Jason's boots, resting on his bedcover, then gave him a wordless look of disapproval. Jason chuckled and sat up to remove his boots, then dropped them over the edge of the bed. He leaned back into Tim's pile of pillows. God, the kid could be just as commanding as Alfred. "Better?"

Tim nodded and leaned back into the pillow pile, his eyes drooping. He did look exhausted. "Thanks for coming."

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

And it was true. Despite everything, despite all of his fear and cowardice and his sweaty palms, there was no way Jason wouldn't have eventually made his way back here. He'd made a promise to a hurt kid, and that overrode literally everything else that had ever compelled him or driven him or held him in thrall.

He wanted to tell him. Wanted to tell him about the search for McDaniels, the possible mistresses he was going to track down as soon as he had a chance. Wanted to tell him about the texts from Dick that had almost pulled him back here, every single time. Wanted to tell him about his fear, irrational but ferocious, about the way he'd spent the whole day convincing himself not to come back here even though he'd known that he eventually would.

At the same time, he somehow felt that Tim already knew it. All of it.

Tim sighed and let his head slide sideways, lolling against the pillows until it landed on Jason's shoulder. His eyes shut fully, and his body went limp. Jason stared down at him and tried to ignore the lump in his throat.

God, this kid. This baby bird, small and wounded but so, so brave. Maybe Cass was right. Maybe he did love him, this little brother he had never chosen, but now found himself unwilling to relinquish.

Now that he was here, he wasn't going to move. Not for the world. Tim was using him as a pillow, and it was basically the most amazing thing that had ever happened. No way he was ever giving this up. Never again.

Chapter Text

Alfred paused outside Tim's door, his hand poised to knock. He reconsidered. If the boy was asleep, he'd prefer that he remained that way. He'd been getting terrible sleep in the hospital, too light, constantly interrupted.

Instead, he shifted the pile of cloth he was carrying and set his hand on the doorknob. He turned it gently and opened the door a few inches, then stepped inside. A sharp intake of breath from the direction of the bed had him raising his eyebrows as he looked over.

Oh. Jason was there, sitting with Tim against an enormous pile of pillows. Tim was asleep, his head cradled on Jason's chest, and Jason's arms were folded carefully around his shirtless torso. Jason grimaced, staring at Alfred like he'd been caught jumping on the furniture, face inexplicably pale, but Alfred felt only warmth in his chest.

"Hey, Alfie," Jason said, sotto voce. "Sorry I didn't come in the door like a civilized person."

Oh, was that what the boy was ashamed of? Alfred glanced at the window, still open, then hummed gently and stepped toward the bed. He allowed a smile. "Not at all, Master Jason. I'm immensely pleased to see you here, no matter your manner of entrance."

He set the bundle down at the foot of the bed, then moved around to the window to close it, shutting out the nippy night air. He did not turn the latch, though, aware of traumatized children and their need for easy escape routes.

"Yeah, okay." Jason dared to raise his voice to a murmur when it was clear that Tim would not be easily roused. He tipped his head toward the clothes Alfred had left on the bed. "What's that?"

Alfred returned to the pile and lifted up the top one to display it. "Just a few of Master Bruce's t-shirts. Most of his children prefer to wear them when they're under the weather, including you, once upon a time. The last time...." He lowered the shirt in his hands. "Well, the last time Master Tim was ill and living here, he wore them for nearly a week. But that was, good Lord, more than a year ago."

He frowned at the boy in Jason's arms. "He's been away too long."

And he was far too thin. Without the clothes Tim usually wore like armor—and the armor he wore like clothes—it was frighteningly apparent just how visible his ribs were, how lean he was from toe to tip. Bruce's shirts had been baggy on Tim before, but now they would be cavernous.

Jason snorted quietly. "I can see what you're thinking, Alfred, old man. He's too skinny." His voice revealed nothing but hearty agreement with the sentiment. "Speaking of last times... Yeah, the last time I was sort of holding him, he was a lot stockier than this. Kids are supposed to get bigger as they age, not smaller."

Alfred's forehead wrinkled. He could not recall a time when Jason might have held Tim like this. More was the pity—they should have been brothers, should have been close enough for physical contact, wrestling on the rug, cuddles on the couch, from the time Tim had come into their lives. The Joker had taken a great deal from all of them in that blasted warehouse in Ethiopia, including from Tim.

Jason looked ashamed again, less rabbit caught in the headlights, more hound dog hanging his head. "You can't remember when I held him because you weren't there. It was... It was when I was holding a knife to his throat, threatening to kill him in front of Bruce."

"Ah." Alfred held up the shirt again. "Well, help me get this on him, would you?"

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hip nearly butting against Tim's, and maneuvered the shirt in his hands until it resembled a ring of cloth. Jason sat forward slightly, shifting Tim in his arms. Between the two of them, they managed to get Tim draped in the soft, warm fabric with very little trouble, then let him lounge back against Jason's chest again.

Jason, who was still wearing his leather jacket and crusty jeans and smelled rather a lot like smoke and alcohol... Alfred looked him up and down, and Jason fidgeted.

"You aren't going to say anything about me trying to kill Tim?"

If he hadn't been weighed down by a sleeping teenage boy, he would have been ready to bolt at any second. He might have already fled. Alfred knew that, and he was grateful to Tim, once again, for helping to save what was lost without even seeming to try. As if it was effortless, though Alfred knew it was anything but. As if it was just what Tim did, who he was.

He looked Jason in the eyes. "I rather think that's between you and Master Tim, my dear boy. He has accepted your presence without reservation. In fact, here he is sleeping against you, without the slightest sign of stirring, and you know as well as I do that that is a grand achievement in a family as wary as this one. I think we can agree that of all your siblings, Tim is the one you have caused the most pain and turmoil. If he has forgiven you so utterly, the rest of us would do well to follow his lead."

Jason relaxed, somewhat, then grimaced and tensed up for another reason. "Actually, could you give me a hand?"

"Of course, my boy. With what?"

"Can you take Timmy for me? Just for a little bit." He looked down at the boy in his arms, then lowered his voice. "I have to pee. I've been needing to for a while, but..." He shrugged. "It's like having a cat fall asleep on you. Moving is basically illegal right now."

Alfred chuckled soundlessly and held out his arms. "Pass him here."

"Whuh... Not like that, Alfie. You gotta, like, sit over here, and we'll just..."

It took some maneuvering, but Alfred was finally positioned to Jason's satisfaction, and Jason very carefully, very gently tilted Tim into his arms. Alfred folded his arms around him, mirroring what Jason had been doing. Tim's head rolled into a sheltered dip on his shoulder, a sleepy murmur stumbling from his lips. Jason stared at him for a second or two, frozen, then relaxed minutely and pushed to his feet.

Alfred tucked his chin over Tim's head and watched Jason move toward the en suite bathroom. "Why don't you go on and shower while you're in there, Master Jason? You can take one of those t-shirts to change into when you're done."

Jason paused and scowled down at the shirts still at the foot of the bed, his eyes narrowed. "I'm not sick, Alfred. I don't need my daddy's old gym clothes to comfort me."

"Don't you?"

Jason huffed and kept walking, then suddenly paused. He turned back and swept up one of the shirts, movements sharp and angry. "This is only because I didn't pack a bag, and the clothes I'm wearing smell like a bar."

Alfred nodded pleasantly. "Of course. I would never presume to say otherwise. I'll stop at your place tomorrow and pick up some supplies for you. You can make a list."

Jason turned to face him fully, his mouth agape. "Who says I'm not going back myself?"

"Why, you did, I do believe. Didn't you declare yourself to be Master Tim's bodyguard? Twenty-four/seven, I believe that was the deal you made."

"Well, yeah, but..."

"But what? Did you change your mind?"

Jason blinked. And blinked. Then he shook his head.

"Then I will help you to keep your promise," Alfred said firmly. "Anything you need, I will be happy to provide."

More than happy. Beyond happy. Ecstatic. The thought of Jason staying in this house again, even for just the period of Tim's recovery or until that monster, Gary McDaniels, was apprehended... Alfred was over the moon just thinking about it, and he would do anything to make sure it happened. Including a bit of gentle manipulation. Or guilt-tripping, as Dick would call it.

Jason continued to look pole-axed for a moment, then grimaced and shook his head. "You're a real piece of work sometimes, you know that, old man?"

Alfred nodded amiably. "I have never pretended to be otherwise." He lifted one hand to shoo him toward the bathroom. "Go on, get that shower. Master Tim and I will be just fine here."

Jason wrinkled his nose, but finally turned on his heel and finished his journey to the bathroom, grumbling as he went. Alfred listened to the door close and the water turn on. He could feel Tim's breathing against his chest, the warmth of his body pressed along his, the tickling of his hair under his chin. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to soak it in.

All too soon, another sound grabbed his attention, and he lifted his head and opened his eyes. Tim's bedroom door had opened again, and there stood Bruce in the doorway, staring at them. "Ah. Hello, Alfred."

Alfred gave him a nod. "Master Bruce."

"I was just going to stop by and check on Tim before going on patrol. I didn't expect to find you here." He looked toward the bathroom and tilted his head, listening. "Is that the shower? Who else is here?"

Still that enormous warmth in his chest, through his entire body, to have his second grandson under the same roof again. "It's Master Jason."

Bruce's shoulders relaxed. "He came back. Good." He looked back to Alfred and Tim on the bed, his eyes passing tenderly over the sleeping boy nestled in Alfred's arms. "You took over for him, I presume?"

"Ah, yes. I came in to find Master Jason and Master Tim...cuddling, I suppose you might say. Master Jason said, and I quote, that it was 'basically illegal' for him to move while Master Tim was sleeping on him. But he needed to use the facilities, so he asked me to take his place for a time."

There was something both dark and light in Bruce's eyes, happy and jealous at once. "I see. I could take over for you, now that I'm here. Let you get on about your business."

Alfred sniffed. "I think not. We're both quite comfortable where we are. Besides, weren't you about to go on patrol?"

Bruce scowled and leaned backward to peer down the hall, as if someone might be listening. "Yes. Dick and Damian are waiting for me. Cass has already gone out."

But then he went back to staring at them, shifting from foot to foot and looking so hang-dog and pitiful that Alfred began to regret his disdain of earlier.

He sighed and tightened his arms around Tim, just a fraction. He took a moment to relish in his weight against him, light as it was. "You know, you could skip patrol tonight. You've been out the previous two."

Bruce hnned. "I suppose. But Tim wants me to go out."

"He might relent, since he's no longer in hospital and the media presence is not quite so oppressive. Besides, he's asleep at the moment. He can hardly argue his case while he's dead to the world."

Bruce made a considering noise.

"But if you did take my place, you would have to deal with Master Jason when he emerges from the bathroom. It might be awkward."

Bruce stood straighter, his eyes sharpening. "I can deal with awkward. I can deal with...Jason." His shoulders slumped at the last, uncertain again.

Alfred softened. "You've been needing to talk to him for quite some time. This might be the best opportunity."

"I don't want him to feel...trapped. Into a conversation with me."

"Then don't trap him. If Jason wants you to leave, leave. But you can at least try. Master Tim needs you. All of you. You owe it to him, if not to yourselves, to try to learn to coexist."

Bruce stood still for a long moment, thinking it over. Then he gave a decisive nod. "You're right."

He moved over to the bed, to the opposite side from where Alfred perched, and lowered himself down to sit against the pile of pillows where Jason had been sitting not long ago. The bed dipped under his weight, and Tim murmured nonsensically in his sleep at the disturbance of his nest. Bruce held out his arms, beckoning impatiently with both hands. "Give him here."

Alfred huffed. He was reluctant to give up Tim's presence despite his arguments to the contrary. Still, any method to begin a conversation between Bruce and Jason was worth trying. He carefully rolled the boy into his father's arms, taking the moment to silently apologize for disturbing him twice in the course of ten minutes. It was a testament to Tim's utter exhaustion that he still seemed to be asleep, despite all of the movement and sound around him.

Tim's eyes did slide open a sliver as Alfred drew back, his hands trailing off his upper arms. "Al...fr'd?"

Alfred smiled. "It's quite all right, Master Tim. Go back to sleep."

"Mm. 'Kay." Tim sighed and turned his head to press his face against Bruce's bicep, and he was out again.

Alfred stood over them for a moment, looking fondly down at his two boys, one too large and one too small, both older than their years though in very different ways. Both scarred, both wounded, but both safe and cared for, at least for tonight. "I'll take my leave then, gentlemen."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said softly as Alfred closed the door behind him.

Alfred stood in the hall for a moment, breathing. Then he turned and walked briskly down to the cave to tell Dick and Damian that Batman would not be joining them tonight.

Chapter Text

Jason walked out of the bathroom, saw Bruce sitting on the bed with Tim, then turned on his heel and went straight back in. Bruce could hear him muttering something under his breath. It was meant to sound angry, but Bruce wasn't falling for that, not anymore.

Jason was scared of him. His son was afraid to be in the same room with him. And it was Bruce's fault.

He shifted instinctively, wanting to get up and go to him. But Tim had managed to turn sideways in his sleep, curling up in Bruce's lap with both arms wrapped around Bruce's right elbow. To move, he was going to have to disentangle Tim and probably wake him up in the process, which would just make Jason even more unhappy with him.

Bruce sighed and settled back against the mound of pillows behind him. At least Tim had found a use for the veritable swamp of pillows that fashion dictated be placed on every bed nowadays. Such a smart cookie, this boy.

"Jaylad," he called softly, his voice at the level Alfred's had been earlier. "Please come back, pumpkin."

Jason's muttering paused. He moved to the edge of the bathroom door and peeked out at him. "What are you doing here? Alfred said he would take Timmy till I got back."

He sounded petulant, like Alfred had broken a promise. Bruce couldn't blame him.

"Sorry, kiddo. I talked Alfred into letting me take him. He was reluctant to give him up, but..." Bruce paused, thinking. He might as well just be up front about it. "He thought that it would be a good idea for you and I to have a conversation. Please come back? I promise, I'll leave if you want me to."

Jason watched him warily for a few more seconds, then seemed to come to a conclusion. He inched his way out of the bathroom and walked toward the bed, and Bruce had to suppress a smile. Jason was wearing boxers and one of Bruce's old t-shirts, like Tim was. Jason's shirt was from a Wayne Enterprises company picnic several years ago, the design a bit faded and cracked but still legible. It fit him almost perfectly, while Tim's shirt, a plain white tee, hung off one shoulder like a nightshirt.

Jason heaved a sigh and sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, watching Bruce with narrowed eyes. "What do you want to talk about?"

And here, Bruce's words jammed up in his throat. "Well, about...us, I suppose."

Jason shrugged exaggeratedly, but Bruce could still see his pulse beating in the hollow of his throat, the tension in his shoulders and the bow of his back. "What is there to talk about? You made your choice. I made mine. We'll never see eye to eye. As long as you don't try to put me in jail, we're fine."

Bruce swallowed thickly. He wanted to say...so much. So many words. It was hard to sort them out. "No..." he finally gasped. "No, we're not fine."

Jason tensed even more, and Bruce raised his free hand, the one that wasn't pinned against Tim's body. "Not...not like that. I'm not going to try to put you in jail, son. We're fine as far as that goes. Dick told me about the deal you made. You would stop killing and keep to your territory around Crime Alley, and Batman would leave you alone. I'm not going to renege on that promise now that I'm Batman again."

Jason stared at him almost without blinking. "But I killed people. I took over the drug trade in my neighborhood. You'll never agree with that."

"No." Bruce's lips felt too thick. "I will never condone killing. And I don't agree with many of your other actions, either. But I'm aware that you were driven by some things that were beyond your control. Trauma. The Pit. You've gained control over some of those now, haven't you?"

Jason looked uncomfortable. "I guess. Mostly."

"Then...in a way, you've already reformed yourself. That's what I want every time I give someone in Gotham a second chance, or a third, or a fourth. That's why I don't kill and never will. Because reform is always possible. And you did it yourself. I'm...I'm proud of you, Jason."

Jason looked floored. "You don't mean that."

"I do. I really do. Good job, son. "

Silence held for a long moment. Jason still didn't seem to believe him, holding absolutely still and blinking with wide blue-green eyes that were a bit too green. 

"I still think..." Jason spoke slowly, cautiously, as if feeling Bruce out with every word. "I still think the Joker needs to die."

Bruce grit his teeth. "So do I. I just don't think any of us should be the one to do it."

Jason blinked and reeled back. "You do? You want him dead?"

Bruce's free hand clenched into a fist, his entire body coiling like a spring. The curled-up ball of Tim rolled forward slightly, and he made a noise of protest at being disturbed. Bruce forced himself to relax, though his fist did not loosen. "Of course I do. He murdered my son. He crippled a woman I consider to be a daughter, or at least a niece. He has killed countless people and wounded countless more. He has caused pain to every single person in my family, including myself. He, above all others, deserves to die."

Those words, oddly enough, came easily. They had churned in Bruce's gut for years, after all. He just never expressed them, because to admit them was to show weakness.

But Jason already knew Bruce's weaknesses, his failures. There was no sense in hiding, not from him.

Jason was leaning forward, almost unwilling, like a child at a slumber party straining to hear a scary story. His eyes were wide, his face pale. "Then...why?" It was near a whisper.

"Why didn't I kill him?"

"Why...why did you choose him over me?"

Why did you cut my throat?

Something close to desperation tightened Bruce's chest and closed up his throat. He hadn't wanted to hurt Jason so badly when he bounced that batarang off that pipe and hit him. He had been hoping for a third way, that was all. Always seeking a way out, a way to circumvent the impossible choice. But as the Joker had proclaimed, laughing in his manic way, all Bruce had done was find a way for both of them to lose. And the Joker won, as always.

"I wish..." he gritted out, "I wish every single day that I could have made a different choice in that moment. Please, pumpkin, you have to believe me. But if I killed the Joker... If I killed anyone... I would not be Batman anymore. And I can't afford for that to happen. The city can't afford for that to happen. If I was..."

He looked up at the ceiling, blinking back tears, then back to Jason. "If I wasn't Batman. If I was just your dad. I would have killed him. Without hesitation. A thousand times. And I wish I could be just your dad. Yours, and Dick's, and Tim's, and Damian's, and Cass's. More kids, too, even. If life was different, if Gotham wasn't the way it is..."

His arms curled around Tim's form in his arms, holding him close. Tim was still and limp, breathing deeply. Bruce couldn't tell if he was still asleep. He might be awake and listening. If so, that was all right. He deserved to hear this too.

Because Tim had always understood. Much better than Jason, or Damian, or even Dick. Tim was the smart one, after all, which meant that he understood exactly where he stood in the order of Bruce's priorities, or thought he did. And that was why he had come to the perfectly logical conclusion that he didn't matter, and Bruce wouldn't miss him if he wasn't around.

"I have to be Batman," Bruce murmured. "But I want to be your dad. I hope there's some way... I hope you can accept me as both. I'm trying to figure out how to be both."

Jason's body was slumped, now, bent almost in half with his elbows resting on his knees. There was sadness and resignation there, as well as remnants of bitterness and anger. "You're not very good at it."

Bruce nodded. "I know. I'm trying to be better. To learn. I know I have a long way to go."

Jason sighed heavily. He turned himself sideways and flopped down on his back across the foot of the bed, his arms loose at his sides. His eyes were wet, though no tears had fallen. "When I gave you that choice... I wasn't making you choose between me and the Joker. I was making you choose between being a father and being Batman."

Of course, Jason was smart, too. Always had been. He might not have understood it at the time, but now, with the benefit of hindsight, with the Pit madness passed, he could see and express truths that even Bruce could only flail blindly at.

"I tried to choose both. I just wanted to make you let go."

Jason chuckled bitterly. "Well, you succeeded."

Bruce said nothing. It didn't feel like there was anything else he could say about this.

Except... "Can you forgive me, Jason? Can you forgive me for being Batman first and your father second?"

Silence fell. Jason closed his eyes and just breathed, lying very still on the bed. Bruce tucked his face down into Tim's hair and tried not to think about anything else. His boys were here. They were both here after being gone for so long. Even if they hated him, even if they couldn't bear to be near him, even if they didn't believe that he loved them, at least they were safe under his roof. He had to concentrate on that, had to accept his blessings as they came.

Tim chose that moment to stir, rolling his head sluggishly against Bruce's chest. His body was still loose and relaxed, but he turned his face toward Jason. And he spoke, raspy but clear. "You don't hafta."

Jason opened his eyes and turned his head to blink at him. "What?"

Tim hummed sleepily. "You don't hafta...f'rgive him. You can still be mad. It's okay to be mad."

Bruce's chest felt heavy, but he nodded. "Tim's right. You don't have to forgive me. Not now, not ever. Just...think about it, that's all I ask. As long as you understand how sorry I am, how much I wish it could be different, that's all I need from you."

"Okay." Jason stared at him blankly. "I'll think about what a shitty dad you are. That works for me."

Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat. "That's fine. You can hate me. I...I'll go."

He started to move, trying to shift Tim off his lap and into the pile of pillows, but Tim grunted in displeasure and hugged his arm tighter, making himself deadweight. Tim looked small and skinny, but he had a lot of muscle, and he was surprisingly heavy.

Jason rolled his eyes. "I didn't say I hate you. I said you're a shitty dad."

Bruce paused, sudden hope lighting in his heart. The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. "But you love me anyway, pumpkin?"

Jason huffed in exasperation and and tossed his hands up in the air before letting them fall down on the bed again. "I didn't say that either, old man."

Bruce was smiling fully now. "It was implied, though."

Jason scoffed and rolled onto his side, putting his back to Bruce. And that itself was a victory of a kind. He wasn't afraid of being attacked from that direction. His body was almost as limp and relaxed as Tim's. "Believe whatever you want to believe, Bruce. You always do."

Bruce buried his face in Tim's hair again, still smiling.

Tim patted his arm awkwardly with his plaster-covered hand. "'Sokay, Bruce-dad. I forgive you. I know how important Batman is to you. It's the only way you feel safe, too."

Bruce felt his heart pierced yet again. "Thank you, sweetheart," he murmured. "I don't know what I did to deserve a son as wise and kind as you, but I'm glad you're here. I want to be a better dad to you, too."

"I know." Tim sighed and hid his face against Bruce's bicep again. "Now shurrup, I wanna sleep."

"All right, all right. Whatever you want." Bruce glanced at Jason. "Is it okay with you if I stay?"

Jason heaved a sigh. He didn't look at him, but his body language remained relaxed. "Sure. Whatever. If Timmy wants you, I'll figure out how to deal."

Bruce would take it.

Chapter Text

Of course Tim couldn't get even one night of peaceful sleep. If any night should have been deep and dreamless, it should have been this one. He was safe in his room at his father's house, with two powerful and loving protectors watching over him. They both had vowed to keep him safe, in body and in heart. They had even reconciled, somewhat, purely out of a need to be with Tim. It should have been enough.

But the dreams came, regardless. At first it was familiar, the images that never quite left his head. His mother's gravestone. His father's body on the floor, surrounded by a pool of blood, a boomerang thrust into his chest. Conner Kent motionless in a pile of rubble. Classmates torn by bullets in the horrific gang shooting at Alamo High, his own hands stained with blood, his shoulders sore from doing unending CPR that would never revive a girl who didn't deserve to die. Stephanie Brown, killed by a gang war she accidentally initiated with no understanding of what she had set in motion.

The body of Bruce Wayne, slack in Superman's grip.

There were other images, too, things he had never seen with his own eyes, only heard of later in reports and stories. The warehouse in Ethiopia, Jason as Robin torn and bloodied and limp in his father's shaking arms. Bart Allen run down by a series of enemies until a final blow took him out. Dick as Batman with a bullet in his head. Damian paralyzed, his spine destroyed.

The images began to mix and mingle. Bruce, laying in the rubble. Dick and Jason on the floor of his house in matching pools of blood. Damian's gravestone. Conner dead on a cot in Leslie's clinic. Stephanie tortured by the Joker and blown up in a warehouse. Bart torn by bullets at Alamo High. It was an endless parade of death and destruction, each image more painful then the last.

He didn't get used to it. He didn't get inured to the horror. He deserved to feel every last second of terror and pain and grief. There had always been something wrong with him, something that people backed away from, and all of this was proof.

Doors closed behind the backs of people as they walked away. Tim knelt on the floor in the empty rooms and echoing halls of his childhood home. He listened to the wind in the depths of the Batcave where he trained alone while Bruce was recovering from Bane's attack and Dick was with the Titans. He felt the sting of loneliness of sitting in a cafeteria or a classroom, trying to pay attention to peers and teachers while his mind buzzed with the latest case he was trying to solve as Robin. The guilt, the unending guilt of never being good enough, never being able to save enough people, always making mistakes that cost lives, cost health, cost the well-being of everyone he had ever cared about...

It hurt. It was an ache spreading through his chest, along his upper back. It moved through his body in waves of fire, so inexorable and all-encompassing that it took him awhile to realize that it wasn't purely grief and sorrow that was causing it. The pain that gripped him was physical, not merely emotional, and he woke with a gasp, his body jerking against a warm, muscular body close to his.

The room was dark, and Tim blinked against it and breathed in harsh, heavy pants. He hurt. He was too hot. Everything was on fire. He spasmed against the arms wrapped around him, suddenly desperate to get away. He writhed, held in place by the arm looped around his torso like an iron band.

"Lemme... Lemme go, please lemme go..." His voice was high and pleading, childish in his own ears, interrupted by frantic gulps of air.

The body restraining him jolted awake. The bed shivered, and a light clicked on. It burned and blurred, and Tim blinked, trying to understand what was happening. He heard voices, words, but his body was shaking and he couldn't make anything rattle into coherence.

"Tim, sweetheart, it's okay, it's okay. I'm here. It's me, it's Bruce..."

A cool hand palmed his forehead, and Tim groaned. He pressed forward, seeking the coolness, then gasped when his ribs burst into lightning bolts of pain again. He shouldn't have slept curled up like this. What had he been thinking, putting pressure on his chest while he drifted off? The painkillers had been masking what he was doing to himself, but now they had worn off, and he was in agony.

Bruce cursed, and the bed shook, and there was another voice. Jason. Bruce said something to him, and Jason's heavy footsteps thundered across the floor. Bruce kept petting Tim's head, trying to calm him as he wept in helpless pain.

"Timmy, buddy, Jason's gonna get your meds, okay? You have a fever again, despite the antibiotics. Hopefully it's just the stress of moving to a different building, all of the anxiety and hurt you were bottling up and finally let out when you told me about Damian. You're gonna be okay. I'm right here."

"No..." Tim moaned, spasming against Bruce's arm again. "Hurts, Dad, hurts..."

There were tears streaming down his face, and he didn't know for sure what was causing them, the pain in his ribs or the pain underneath them.

"I know, I know, son." Bruce sounded close to tears, himself. His big hand swept over Tim's sweaty head. "It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay. I'm here."

"Ah, aaahh, please..." Tim pushed against his arm weakly with his plastered hand, trying to roll over onto his back and get out of his uncomfortable curl. "Hurt, ribs hurt."

Bruce finally seemed to get it. He sat up and leaned against the headboard, carefully maneuvering Tim in his arms so his back rested against Bruce's side. Tim's head lolled on Bruce's shoulder, and he closed his eyes in relief as the pressure eased off his ribs.

He was still heaving for air, but he tried to calm down so it wouldn't hurt so much. Every half-sobbing breath strained at his ribs, and tears continued trickling out of the corners of his eyes. He still didn't know if it was the physical pain or the heartache that was undoing him at the moment. Maybe both.

Bruce wrapped his hand around his forehead and gentled Tim's head on his shoulder, murmuring soothing words in his ear. "It's okay, it's okay. Jason will get your painkillers, and it will calm down soon. Was it just the pain that woke you, or was it something else? Did you have a nightmare?"

Tim moaned, not sure how to answer the question. Or even if he could on a purely physical level with his chest aching like this. "I dreamed... I dreamed..." It was no good. He couldn't get the words out.

Thankfully Jason returned at that moment, stomping across the floor. Tim was peripherally aware of Alfred behind him, standing in the doorway like a silent ghost. Jason was holding a little plastic cup full of pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Tim blinked at him sluggishly, only making out these details when he squinted his eyes nearly shut.

Jason knelt beside him on the bed and poked the plastic pill cup against his bottom lip. "C'mon, baby bird, open up. Alfie told me you don't like painkillers even when you're dying of the plague, but you gotta make an exception right now."

Tim refrained from rolling his eyes and opened his mouth instead, letting Jason tip an uncomfortable number of pills into his mouth. He hadn't said a word to refuse any painkillers up till this moment, so he didn't understand why Alfred had brought that particular incident to Jason's attention. Just a fun little storytime while he gathered the doses from Tim's various prescription bottles?

Kind of funny that in all the images of death that had plagued his dreams, he'd never seen his own. Not the time he almost died of a plague, nor the time he almost bled out on the floor of the Batcave, or in the desert, or probably a half dozen other places. Not even the time he was tortured in a warehouse until he just gave up and waited to die, hoping it would be soon.

Jason held the water to his lips, and Tim took several long swallows, pausing in between to pant for breath. His vision was still tilting oddly, but he didn't try to control it, letting Jason and Bruce hold and position him and pour water and medicine into him until they were satisfied. Eventually his stomach started to swirl with nausea, though, and he closed his lips firmly when Jason tried to press the glass on him again.

Jason sat back with a grunt and set the water aside. "Good enough. We got some water in you, anyway. It'll take time for the medicine to kick in, but are you feeling a little better now?"

His breath was steadier, at least. He wasn't trembling as hard. Tim nodded faintly, his eyes drooping. Bruce still had a hand wrapped around his forehead, and it was starting to feel uncomfortably hot.

Bruce seemed to realize. "Alfred, could you fetch a cool compress?" The shadow in the doorway disappeared. Bruce lowered his hand to Tim's shoulder and squeezed gently. Jason was still kneeling beside him on the bed, watching him with grim intensity. Tim closed his eyes.

"You said you were dreaming." Bruce's voice was a rumbling vibration against his back, deep and calm. "Do you want to tell us about it?"

Tim's breath hitched. "Not really. It wasn't...wasn't McDaniels or anything."

Bruce was silent. Jason just knelt there, staring into his face without a word. Then he reached out and started wiping away Tim's tears with one blunt thumb.

Tim felt a bit betrayed to realize that he was still crying. Why was his body doing this to him? He was usually much better at pushing all of this down.

He was angry, suddenly and inexplicably, at both Jason and Bruce. They were both sitting here, treating him so gently, as if they cared about him. And they had both died. They had both left him behind. They had both featured in the agonizing dream he'd just woken from of dead bodies and empty rooms. They had both abandoned him, one before he met him and the other not long after he'd adopted him.

It wasn't fair, and it wasn't their fault. Neither of them had chosen to die and would have much preferred to stay where they were. But if Jason hadn't died, he wouldn't have come back crazy and beat Tim up in the tower and held a knife to his throat and called him "Pretender," opening entirely new fissures of insecurity and self-doubt in Tim's psyche. If Bruce hadn't died, Tim would still be Robin, maybe, or he would have had time to make a decision about letting Damian have the title while he figured out what he wanted to do next. How could they? How could they do that to him?

It wasn't fair of him. It wasn't fair to think like this. It wasn't their fault. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching. Fresh tears ran down, and he clenched his teeth.

"Timmy." Jason leaned forward, almost but not quite touching him. His voice was gruff and low and soothing. "It's okay. Whatever it is, you can tell us."

Tim opened his eyes, a fresh surge of anger rushing through him and galvanizing his lungs. But when he spoke, his voice came out high and plaintive, not low and furious like he'd imagined. "You're not allowed to die again."

He pressed his head against Bruce's shoulder, almost as if he was trying to punish him, and said it again. "You're not allowed to die. You're not allowed, Bruce!"

His chest ached as he heaved for breath. Jason and Bruce were both very still, just listening to him. He stared at Jason, but he was talking to Bruce. His eyes were blurry and dim, as if he was looking through a pool of water. "We're supposed to be partners. We were supposed to be partners. I was supposed to have your back. And you went and got captured by Darkseid, and I wasn't there. I couldn't save you. I couldn't stop it. You should have taken me with you. I should have been there!"

Bruce's voice was infinitely gentle. "Tim, sweetheart, there was nothing you could have..."

"I know!" If he could have, Tim would have clenched his fist. Since he couldn't do that, he spoke through gritted teeth. He knew he was being stupid and unreasonable. But they wanted to know how he was feeling, and he was telling them. This was what they had wanted, so he was gonna give it to them good and hard.

"I know there was nothing I could have done. Still. Next time take me with you! I'm supposed to be with you! It's why I'm here, it's the only reason..."

He bit his lip to stop himself. Jason's face was pale as porcelain in the yellow light of the bedside lamp. Tim knew he was hurting them, both of them. But now that he had started, he couldn't stop. He lifted his head off Bruce's shoulder and slammed it back. "I can't stand it, Bruce, I can't stand being left behind, don't do it to me again."

"Okay," Bruce said. He sounded shaken. "I'll do my best. I promise."

Tim slammed his head against his shoulder again. He was still crying. It was getting worse, not better. "I can't do this again. I can't go through this anymore. I don't think I can be a hero if I lose my family again. I just keep losing and losing and losing, and I'm so sick of it, Bruce, I'm so, so tired of losing. I tried to keep my distance for a while, and I told myself that it was because you didn't need me anymore. You had Damian as your Robin, and I didn't want to be in this house anyway, didn't want to listen to the poison spewing out of Damian's mouth. But a lot of it was because I'm just so scared, and I'm so tired, and I'm so sick of losing people."

He was still looking at Jason. He had been talking mostly to Bruce, but now he switched to talking to both of them. His voice was cracked and hoarse. His throat hurt, his chest ached, everything was on fire. "And you know what, Jay? You wanna know a secret?"

Jason shook his head. Tim kept going.

"In that warehouse, when I gave up. I thought it was my turn. I was so grateful. Because finally, I wouldn't have to deal with the fallout. I was gonna be gone, and I wouldn't have to deal with it. I could just rest, and it would be fine. But you saved me instead, and everything is not fine. My hands don't work, and everything hurts, and nothing is going to be okay ever again. I can't do anything right, can't even sleep right, just gotta have this parade of dead people behind my eyes, and I am so, so tired of it, Jaybird. I am so, so tired."

"Okay," Jason said. He reached out with both hands and cradled Tim's face between his palms. Tim breathed a shuddering sigh and closed his eyes. "Okay. I get it. I really do, Timmy. I understand. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything I did that contributed to you feeling like this. I know Bruce is sorry, too, and Dick, and even Damian in his twisted little way. We love you, and we're going to take care of you. Everything is not okay, I'm with you there. But we're gonna make it be okay. We're gonna fix it. All of it."

Tim moaned in despair. "You can't promise that, Jay, you can't, that's stupid..."

Jason grunted and pressed his cheeks a little harder. "Nope. You said your piece. Now I get to say mine. We're gonna fix this. We're gonna fix your body, and your hands, and your poor little broken heart. It's not gonna be perfect. You're still gonna have scars. You're still gonna have pieces that are patched and shaky and don't fit together the way they used to. But we're gonna fix it. All of it. And that's a promise."

Tim breathed. He breathed. He felt Bruce at his back, Jason in front of him holding his face. He listened to the rain against the window, pounding and insistent, and he wondered when the storm had started and when it was going to end. He hadn't noticed with everything else that was roaring through him.

He thought about promises. Stupid promises, foolish promises that couldn't be kept, that were impossible. He felt Jason's stubbornness before him and the obdurate wall of Bruce behind him. He thought of Dick petting his hair, calling him "Timbo." Thought about Damian roaming the halls at the hospital to chase away any potential threats. About Cassandra's sweetness, Stephanie's cheerfulness, Alfred's steadfast support.

After a long, considering moment, taking the time to think through all of those things, all of those factors... He nodded.

Chapter Text

The day after Tim came home from the hospital was a Sunday, and Dick planned to spend the whole day hanging out with his little brother. Both of them, if he could swing it, but mostly Tim. It felt like it had been forever since he just hung out with Tim, playing video games or watching TV or going to the skate park. Heck, they didn't even really partner up on cases much anymore, or go on patrol together and practice acrobatic tricks on top of a moving train. Not that Tim was going to be able to do any of that for a few months, but they could at least do indoor activities.

Yesterday had been nice, once things settled down a bit. Tim had rested in the media room, lounging in a recliner while a series of Disney movies played, and Dick had sat next to him in another chair. He had made commentary now and then, but mostly just sat in silence, appreciating the fact that Tim was alive and at home and Dick could look at his face and make sure he was okay whenever he wanted.

The household started stirring around eleven o'clock in the morning, which was average for a family that spent most of their nights working. It had been a while since Dick had sat at the breakfast table waiting for Alfred to present a spread of pancakes, eggs, and various breakfast meats, too, but having Damian at his elbow was familiar.

According to Alfred, Cass had already eaten and headed out to spend the day with Stephanie, Barbara, and the other Birds of Prey. They were probably chasing down leads on McDaniels, but they might also be shopping or something. Dick didn't really know what Babs and her friends got up to when they weren't fighting crime, and he was frankly afraid to ask.

He kept glancing toward the stairs, wondering when the others would make their appearance. "Did Bruce and Jason really both spend the night in Tim's room?" he asked Alfred, wonder in his voice. It wasn't that he didn't believe that Alfred was telling the truth about what had gone on last night when Bruce chose to skip patrol. He just...had a really hard time picturing it.

"Indeed," Alfred said, calmly flipping pancakes. "Being that the mansion is still standing and I heard neither explosions nor gunshots at any point, it seems that Master Bruce and Master Jason have managed to work out their differences at least enough to both be helpful to Master Tim."

He sounded not a little pleased at this development, as well as smug. Dick smiled and leaned his head on his hand, wondering just how much Alfred had been involved in bringing about this miraculous turn of events. If there was anyone in the world that both Jason and Bruce would listen to, it was Alfred. He might be the only one who had a measurable amount of influence on those two stubborn jackasses, come to think of it.

"And Drake managed to sleep for a full night?" Damian asked.

Dick turned his head to look at him, raising an eyebrow. He hadn't expected Damian to express any kind of concern for Tim, at least not yet. But he was sure he wasn't imagining the genuine care under Damian's neutral tone. Maybe it was because Tim wasn't actually present to hear it.

Alfred paused, his brow furrowing. He turned away from the griddle with a light frown and looked at Dick and Damian sitting at the table. "Unfortunately, there was a bit of an...incident during the night. Master Tim woke with a fever, in considerable pain. It seems that he also had a nightmare, but I did not hear the particulars of what it was about. I do know that it took some time before he was able to sleep again, and both Master Bruce and Master Jason were occupied in soothing him."

Dick grimaced. "Poor kiddo. He can't catch a break even for one night, can he?"

Alfred shook his head and turned back to the stove. "It seems not. His recuperation is not off to an easy start."

Bruce descended the stairs first, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt. Jason and Tim made their way into the kitchen a few minutes later, Timmy in sweatpants and socks with one of Bruce's t-shirts hanging off one shoulder, Jason wearing jeans that looked like they'd seen better days and another t-shirt from Bruce's collection. Jason looked a little grumpy, but more concerning was the way he had an arm around Tim's waist as he helped him walk. Tim had been getting around on his own well enough yesterday, even with the brace on his knee, but it appeared that the night had been unkind to him in more than one way.

Tim was flushed and sluggish, moving incredibly slowly. Dick had to almost physically stop himself from leaping to carry him the rest of the way. He had a feeling that it wouldn't be appreciated, neither by Tim nor by Jason. Jason might try to punch him, actually, or anyone else that came close. Dick could read the protectiveness in the hunch of his shoulders, the way his eyes kept darting around to watch for danger.

Dick did jump up and pull out a chair for Tim, though. The chair next to him, of course. Jason gave him a narrow look, but Tim dropped into it with weary gratitude and slumped down, resting his arms on the table. Jason sat on his other side, and Dick found himself leaning toward Tim, away from Damian beside him.

"You okay, Timbo? I heard you had a rough night."

Tim just looked at Dick for a moment, the blank expression on his face and the dark rings around his eyes answer enough. Dick's heart squeezed, and he couldn't help leaning closer to wrap his arms around Tim's shoulders and plant a kiss on the side of his head. "Sorry, buddy." He didn't hold him very tight, or very long, mindful of his various aches and pains. But he was pretty sure Tim leaned into him, a little, and he slumped even harder against the table when Dick pulled away.

Dick instantly vowed to spend the rest of the day cuddling with Tim on a couch, if Tim would let him. The poor kid seemed to want it, for once, and Dick wasn't going to pass up the opportunity thus presented. They could watch movies or TV or listen to music or just sit in silence, whatever. Tim needed rest, and he needed affection, and Dick was going to make sure he got plenty of both.

Alfred brought over the food, as well as some specialized dishware for Tim. There were utensils with thick handles, designed to snap into the notch on his right cast, and thick-walled tumblers with large handles and big straws. One for milk, one for coffee, and one for water, Alfred explained, pointing at each in turn. The coffee was half decaf, but Tim still nodded appreciatively with a spark in his eyes that had been missing before. He was being treated almost like a normal person again instead of an invalid. Though he was pretty much still an invalid.

"We will endeavor to keep your water cup full at times," Alfred said, resting one finger lightly on that one's lid. It was blue, and the walls were lightly misted with condensation. "You'll need to keep your fluids up to encourage your recovery."

Tim nodded seriously and gave him a small smile. "Thank you, Alfred. You always take such good care of me."

"It's my pleasure, lad." Alfred reached over the table to ruffle his hair, eliciting a deeper smile from Tim, then moved back to pick up the platter of pancakes.

Jason leaned over to cut up Tim's food without a word, though Dick had already been reaching for it. Bruce, too, across the table, sat back down after half-rising in his chair. Damian scoffed at the concerted movement from all three men and muttered irritably under his breath about being surrounded by idiots. Tim just blinked slowly and didn't say a word. He seemed too tired to react.

Breakfast was good, as it always was when Alfred cooked. Once they got down to business, there was relative silence for several minutes as each of them plowed steadily through massive plates of food, washing it down with whole milk and orange juice. Each of them performed at the level of Olympic athletes every night, and that meant mighty calorie needs as well.

Only Tim ate relatively small portions, but that was because he was injured and on several medications that messed with his appetite. He frowned lightly when Bruce put more eggs on his plate and nudged the tumbler of milk toward him, but he didn't object. He knew he needed the nutrients for his recovery just as much as the others needed them as a matter of course.

Tim stopped eating halfway through his second plate of food and nudged it away, looking sick. Jason watched him attentively as he continued to shovel bacon into his mouth, ready to help him to the bathroom at any moment if he needed it, and Bruce's eyes were dark and hooded, trained on Tim to the exclusion of all else. Dick knew his own attention must be similarly suffocating. Tim ignored them all, taking deep breaths until the nausea seemed to fade and he slumped back in his chair.

Alfred had been puttering around in the kitchen, cleaning up after the massive effort of making enough food to feed five hungry vigilantes, or at least four hungry vigilantes and one recovering from hospitalization. Now he stepped over to look at Tim, his posture formal but his eyes soft. "Will you be up to seeing visitors today, Master Tim?"

Tim raised his eyebrows and looked up at him, mouth slightly agape. "Visitors?"

Alfred nodded. "There's a number of people who would like to see you. They're waiting until the word that they'll be welcome, though. Master Bruce chose to limit your visitors in the hospital for security reasons, and we were all in agreement with that policy while your health was so fragile. But you're home now, and it's up to you if you're ready to see anyone outside the family."

"Who?" Tim asked faintly. "Who wants to see me? And why did you let Ives come yesterday, if you were all so set on keeping visitors away for 'security reasons?'"

"You expressed a desire to see young Master Ives, thus he was summoned. As for who wants to see you, it's quite a long list." Alfred held up a hand and began ticking off names. "There's Tam Fox, of course, but she has been warned that no talk of business is allowed until you're fully recovered. Still, she wants to see you to assure herself that you're on the mend. Lucius Fox, too, for the same reason. He's become quite fond of you while working with you at Wayne Enterprises. A few other coworkers have inquired as well. And of course there's Slim Walker, or should I call him Mr. Fixer? The man who first reported you missing to Master Bruce when you were kidnapped from his home. He's been quite worried, poor man."

Tim nodded, looking dazed. Alfred wasn't done.

"Barbara Gordon has a standing invitation to visit, and she has declared her intention to take us up on it, but Selina Kyle has also called to check on you a few times, as have numerous other allies across the city. Even those who don't know your civilian identity have noticed the relative absence of Red Robin on the streets and have contacted the Cave to inquire after your well-being. Various members of the JLA: Clark Kent, Diana Prince, and Billy Batson have all expressed a desire to see you. Ah, and of course, the most insistent of all are your closest friends with Young Justice. Cassie Sandsmark, Bart Allen and Conner Kent have been...what's the expression...'blowing up the phone' with constant calls asking when they can visit."

Dick perked up at that and turned to Tim with a grin, even while he felt his own heart sinking as he silently waved good-bye to those couch-cuddles he'd been hoping for. "Hey, that's great! I'm sure you'll have a fantastic day hanging out with your best buddies."

To his surprise, though, Tim's face was dismayed, his body slumping heavily against the back of his chair. "I'd really...I'd rather not. Not today. If that's okay. No visitors. Sorry."

Ah, right. He was feverish and shaky, still settling in after being away from the manor for months. Tim's friends were fun and enthusiastic, and they loved Tim a great deal, but they could also be extremely overwhelming. Damian, in his cat-like way, had never gotten along with them at all, and even Tim sometimes had to put on a playful persona that didn't quite match his true self when he set out to spend time with them. It was no wonder that he found the prospect exhausting right now.

Alfred did not seem surprised by the refusal, but simply nodded sagely. "I suspected as much. Please do let me know the instant you are ready for visitors, and I will inform whomever you want to see. In the meantime, perhaps a less pressing expression of well-wishes might be more to your taste?"

Tim gave a slow blink. "What now?"

Alfred nodded to his older brothers flanking him on each side. "Master Dick, Master Jason, if you would clear the dishes?" He turned on his heel and walked briskly out of the room.

Everyone had pretty much finished eating by this point. Jason and Dick stood in tandem and started stacking plates and gathering silverware. They were still picking up the glasses, leaving Tim's tumblers scrupulously alone, when Alfred returned carrying a box. It was one of those file boxes, white cardboard with a removable lid. He set it on the table, and it made a considerable thump when it set down. Tim jumped slightly, staring at the box in mute surprise.

"This is only the first box of three. So far." Alfred set the lid aside and reached into the box. He began to pull out handfuls of cards, letters, and the occasional small stuffed animal, arranging them in front of Tim. "This box is from people who actually know you as either Tim Drake-Wayne or Red Robin. The others are from more casual acquaintances, or those who only know you from the society page or as the youngest Fortune 500 CEO in history. I suspect more may come in as the gossip rags continue to speculate on your health and future prospects."

Dick finished with the dishes and came back to sit next to Tim. He patted the kid's shoulder and smiled warmly at the piles of cards and gifts. "This is great, Alfred. I had no idea. Thank you for saving them. Were there flowers, too?"

He had wondered why Tim's hospital room was so bare of the usual floral arrangements. He would have expected at least the WE board to send something suitably extravagant for their young CEO as he languished in the hospital. Tim hadn't seemed to notice the lack, or at least he never mentioned it, and Dick hadn't said anything so as not to make him feel bad. It was good to know he needn't have worried.

Bruce grunted. "There were flowers. Lots of them. Too many to vet properly. I had them donated to the pediatric ward." He looked at Tim. "I hope that's all right with you. You weren't in a position to accept or refuse them at the time."

Tim shook his head. "I don't mind. I've never been a huge fan of flowers, at least the ones that aren't where they belong on a bush or something. It seems cruel to cut flowers off and kill them just to give them to a human to enjoy for a few days while they finish dying."

Morbid. But fair. Jason snorted in amusement, and Dick smiled crookedly and reached out to drag a pile of letters and cards closer. "Wanna read some of these? I'll open them for you."

Tim nodded, still seeming dazed. They spent a pleasant half hour opening cards, reading the messages, then propping them up on the table. Even Damian got into it, arranging the cards in a system known only to himself and getting pissy when any of them deviated from it. Dick and Jason took turns opening the cards and holding them for Tim to read, sometimes making commentary. Bruce and Alfred watched over it all with benevolent smiles.

Eventually Tim started yawning, though, unconsciously slumping toward Dick. Dick had been leaning close to him the whole time in hopes of encouraging this kind of behavior. So when Tim started drooping at last, he put down the latest card he'd been holding and wrapped his arm around Tim's shoulders to tug him closer. "You wanna go rest, Timbo? We can sit on the couch in the media room and put on something mindless. It'll be nice to just relax."

Tim nodded and let his over-warm cheek rest against Dick's upper arm for a moment before he pulled away. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, Jason already there with a hand under his elbow. Dick followed right behind them. Damian loudly declared his intention to train in the Cave and dragged Bruce after him, and Alfred went about his duties.

And somehow, miraculously, Dick got his wish. Tim let himself be led to a couch instead of a recliner in the nearest media room, and Dick sat next to him with a throw blanket. Jason sat in a chair catty-corner to them, where Tim could see him easily. He read a couple chapters of Treasure Island, then stopped when Tim nodded off, slumping into Dick's side. Dick covered him with the blanket, Jason put on some soft instrumental music to help him sleep, and they sat there in companionable silence.

The day wore on like that. Tim would sleep on Dick's shoulder, then wake and listen to Jason or watch something on the big TV, then fall asleep again at his body's behest. Alfred kept bringing food and drink to tempt Tim's appetite, as well as his meds on schedule. Dick and Jason didn't talk much beyond shallow inanities, but nothing else was needed.

At times Dick felt restless, wishing he was downstairs training with his dad and baby brother, and he knew Jason wanted to leave sometimes, too. Neither of them were used to sitting still for such long periods of time. But Tim was comfortable and relaxed, making up for all the poor sleep he'd gotten in the hospital, and Dick was happy to be his pillow for as long as Tim wanted him. His desire to be with Tim was stronger than his need to be physically active.

He was going to have to leave tonight, anyway, back to Bludhaven and his life there. He had to soak up this chance to cuddle his traumatized little brother to the fullest extent possible. He could run around Bludhaven as Nightwing to his heart's content in a few hours.

In mid-afternoon Tim woke from his latest nap with a gasp, sitting upright and wrapping his arms around his lower abdomen. Dick and Jason both sat up, and Dick put a hand on his back. "Timmy? What's wrong?"

Tim grimaced, face even more flushed than it had been. "I have to use the bathroom."

"Oh." Dick's stomach sank, but he did best to face it stoically. There was no question of Tim taking care of himself, not with both hands wrapped in plaster. He assumed that Bruce or Alfred had been helping Tim since he came home. "Do you want me or Jay to help you, or do you want one of us to get Alfred for you?"

Tim hesitated, then looked at him over his shoulder. "You. Please. Sorry."

Dick shook his head and rose to his feet, already reaching down to help him up. "Nothing to apologize for. I'm happy to help you."

They took care of Tim's business, then returned to the couch. Dick was afraid that Tim would be embarrassed and want to avoid him for a while, but Tim snuggled into his side immediately with a sigh, resting his cheek on Dick's chest. Dick wrapped an arm around his upper back, his other hand carding through Tim's hair. It was as if Tim's forced vulnerability was allowing him to lean on Dick in other ways, too. Dick couldn't help being a little bit glad about it, even through his sympathetic pain for his little brother's forced loss of dignity and independence.

Affection and fondness poured through him and found outlet in words. "God, Timmy, I love you. You're so precious to me. You know that, right?"

Tim hummed against his chest and leaned into him even more heavily. "I love you, too. A lot. I think you were the first person who ever really showed me what it was like to be loved. My parents tried, but they really..." He sighed. "They weren't good at it. At all."

Jay smirked from his distant chair, though his face was pained. "Fever making you talkative again, little bro?"

"Mm, yeah. Probably." Tim moved his head so he could listen to Dick's heartbeat. "Are you going back to Bludhaven tomorrow?"

Dick's hand paused his hair. "Tonight, actually. I'm sorry, kiddo. But I..."

"You have another life. It's okay. I get it. Everyone leaves eventually."

Dick caught his breath, stung. He had a wild vision of calling the station and quitting his job, moving back here to Gotham, to the manor, passing off his responsibilities as Nightwing to some other up-and-coming vigilante, and just staying with Tim. Forever. For a second, it was all he wanted, all he could imagine wanting.

Tim raised his head and looked at him, his eyes sparkling strangely in the dim light. "Sorry. That was manipulative. Forget I said that."

Dick frowned. "Was it manipulative, or was it how you really feel?"

Tim's nose wrinkled. "Both. I've been manipulating you all day, getting you to hold me because I don't feel good and I wanted attention. I'm sorry."

He started to lean back, but Dick firmed his grip around his shoulders and pulled him back. "Nope. You don't get to distance yourself now because you're feeling exposed. Let me hold you. I want to." He chuckled shortly. "And here I thought I was manipulating you, not the other way around."

Tim made a confused noise against his chest, but he relaxed and let himself be held.

Dick sighed and went back to stroking his hair. "It's not manipulative to express your feelings, Tim. So you don't feel good and you want attention. That's normal. I love you, and I want to make you feel better. I want to give you attention. Wouldn't you say that makes us a perfect match?"

"I don't understand." Tim's voice was muffled.

Dick kissed his head. "I know. I saw how confused you were at all of the cards and gifts, too. You really don't understand how much you're loved, do you? It's such a surprise to you every single time someone shows you affection and caring. And there are a lot of people who want to show you affection and caring, little brother." He laughed, misty-eyed. "Heck, Alfred mentioned Catwoman in that list. What did you do to get on her good side, huh?"

"I don't know," Tim muttered.

"Right. You were just yourself, that's all. Your sweet, charming, selfless, infinitely likable and lovable self. I don't know why you can't see that about yourself. God, Timmers, sometimes you're so..." He cut himself off, biting his lip.

Tim shifted uncomfortably, and Jason grinned. "You were about to say 'stupid,' weren't you?"

Dick shook his head and kissed Tim's hair again. "Blind. You don't see yourself the way we see you. I wish you could. You're...brilliant, Timmy, and I don't mean just your intellect."

He paused, sniffling. This was getting too intense. Part of him wanted to dial it back, and part of him wanted to turn it up to eleven. Timmy deserved it. He deserved to know just how precious and important and special he was, not just to Dick but to everyone who knew him.

"And I'm sorry." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry for everything I ever did to dim that light. I wish I could take it all back. Everything. I wish I could fix it."

Tim shook his head, shoulders tensing under Dick's hand. "I don't want to talk about that."

"I know." Dick pressed him a little closer. "Sorry. Forget that part. If you ever want to talk about it, let me know. I just needed to tell you... And I'm sorry I have to go back to Bludhaven tonight. I really am. It's my life, but sometimes I don't want it to be. I wish I could stay with you, too. I wish I could split myself into two people and have it both ways."

Tim chuckled wetly and went boneless against him. "It's okay. Really. I'm just glad I get to have you right now."

"You do, Timbo. You have me. What do you want to do? Watch TV? A movie? Listen to music? Have Jason read again? Anything you want, for as long as I'm here."

Tim sighed. "Could we just stay here? Like this? For a while longer?"

"Of course, kiddo. Of course."

And they did.

Chapter Text

After Dick left, Tim sank into something that looked a lot like depression. Jason definitely noticed, but it wasn't like there was anything he could do about it. He was a bodyguard, not a therapist. He couldn't even handle his own issues, let alone someone else's.

It got harder to get Tim to eat enough. He blamed it on the meds and the fever (which also was not going away), but there was definitely a pyschological component as well. Alfred frowned a lot and started going to greater lengths to tempt him with special food. Tim was allowed to drink more coffee as long as he added milk or heavy cream for the calories. Even that wasn't enough. Tim's tumblers tended to be three-quarters full most of the time, and Alfred would dump them out and refresh them every few hours.

Jason suspected that Tim was drinking less so he wouldn't have to go to the bathroom as often. He hated having to be helped with something so intimate. Jason didn't blame him, but also, dehydration was not the answer. He tried to tell the kid so, but Tim wasn't listening. He didn't listen to much of anything.

He also slept a lot. All the time. Yes, he needed a lot of sleep for his body to heal, but this was too much. Even when Tim was awake, he was sluggish and uninterested in any activity that was offered to him. Jason kept working through Treasure Island with him, slowly but surely, but Tim kept falling asleep even while he was in the middle of a sentence. It was frustrating. Jason didn't stop reading to him, but he very much wanted to, especially when Tim would respond to the suggestion with a mere grunt. The kid just...didn't care. It made Jason not care about it, either. Well, he still cared a little bit. It had been a while since he read Treasure Island, and he was still enjoying it for himself. He just wished Tim was enjoying it, too.

Tim also did not want any visitors. Alfred gave him the list every morning and asked if there was anyone he'd like to see, and Tim just shook his head. They kept working through the boxes of cards and gifts, too, but Tim's expression barely flickered as Jason read them to him. The dresser in Tim's room was now covered with various presents and tokens of well-wishes, arranged with prissy care by Damian.

Jason wasn't sure what to make of Damian. He joined them at meals, but Jason didn't know if that was a requirement set in place by Alfred or Bruce, or if he was genuinely trying to do the whole "normal family" act with them. Outside of meals, he tended to avoid Tim and Jason altogether, spending his free time in the cave or his room or out on the grounds. Every once in a while, though, Jason caught him looking at Tim with a thoughtful little frown that could almost pass as concerned. He never said anything remotely cruel or cutting to Tim, but Jason wasn't sure if that was because of his ultimatum or because Damian was genuinely trying to be kinder.

The only real saving grace was Cass. Tim almost always mustered something like a smile for her. His eyes flickered with life when she came in the room. She would perch next to him wherever he was, lounging in a recliner or on a couch or on his bed, and they would make strange conversation. Cass preferred to speak with as few words as possible, and to Jason it sounded like Mad Libs at least fifty percent of the time, but Tim always seemed to understand what she meant and would answer with complete sentences that actually made sense. It was like listening to one side of a phone conversation.

But Tim didn't want to do anything, not even for Cass. "Come watch? In the cave?" she asked, head tilted to one side. "Steph is coming. We'll spar."

Tim just shook his head with a sad smile. "Sorry, Cass. I don't want to go down to the cave right now. Walking hurts."

She frowned and nudged his shoulder. "I can carry you." She looked at Jason, sitting at his customary angle in easy sight for Tim. "Or Jay. Right?"

Jason nodded. "Sure, princess. I'd be glad to carry the baby bird wherever he wants to go."

Tim shifted uncomfortably and closed his eyes, effectively ending the conversation. "I'm tired. Gonna take a nap now."

Cass made a little growl that sounded distinctly kittenish and nudged his shoulder again, rocking him where he lay, but Tim refused to open his eyes. It would have been cute if it wasn't so frustrating. Cass gave Jason a disgruntled look, and he shrugged. If Tim didn't want to do something, he wasn't going to force him, even though he was getting increasingly disturbed and worried about Tim's lack of interest in basically anything.

Variations on this conversation happened almost every day. Cass never stopped trying to get Tim to do something besides sit around and feel sorry for himself. She did eventually learn to just engage him conversation, though. It was hard for her, Jason could see that, but she was willing to exert herself in order to bring back even a spark of light to Timmy's eyes.

Jason appreciated Cass a lot. He was pretty sure everyone in the family appreciated her, but he was going to appreciate her harder and more, because she was amazing and she deserved it.

Cass was also the reason Jason wasn't going completely stir-crazy. He was here to keep Tim safe. He really was. Twenty-four/seven, that was the deal, and he was going to keep it. But he got tired of being stuck in one room with a recuperating teenage boy who spent most of his time asleep or staring blankly into space, and there was only so much silence he could bear before he started thinking about all the other things he could be, should be doing if he hadn't made that dumb promise as a throw-away line in a stressful situation.

Tim noticed, of course. The night Dick left, he noticed Jason tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair and gave him a steady look. "You don't have to stay, you know."

Jason sat up straighter and gave him a glare. "I made a promise. You feel safer when I'm with you, so I'm going to stay here."

Tim waved a hand lazily in the air. "I release you. Seriously. I should have done that the instant you said it. It's cruel to keep you stuck in here with me when this house makes you so uncomfortable and unhappy and you have so many better things to be doing."

"This house makes you uncomfortable and unhappy, too," Jason said. "Bruce told me while you were sleeping that Damian had been verbally abusing you, as if I didn't already know, and told me watch out for that." He snorted. "The brat won't say a word to you as long as I'm around, I guarantee it."

Tim blinked and ignored all of this. "You don't have to keep a promise you made in the heat of the moment. I'm not going to hold you to it. I'm home now. Bruce and Cass are looking out for me, and even Damian will protect me physically. I'll be fine. You don't have to stay."

Jason crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm going to, though."

Tim heaved a sigh, then grimaced when it shifted his aching ribs. "Fine. You could at least get some exercise, though, work off all that energy. You could train in the cave. Or, like, go check the perimeter or something. You can't tell me that you're happy just sitting here with me all the time."

Jason had to admit that he was sorely tempted by that last one. The Wayne property was huge. Checking the perimeter would take a good half-hour, even at a jog, and it would give him a chance to shake off the nervous energy pricking in his bones. It would also get him out of the house, let him catch his breath.

"I don't want to leave you," he said reluctantly. "Really. Seriously. I don't."

"What if I got someone to relieve you?" Tim asked. His gaze shifted to the doorway, or more accurately, to the shadow just outside. "Cass, would you come in?"

She slid out of the shadows with the grace of a ballerina, gliding into the room, and perched next to Tim with a fond smile. "Hi, Timmy-bird."

Tim's whole face softened, just for her. "Hi, favorite sister."

She giggled and booped his nose. "Only sister."

"The point stands." Tim tipped his head toward Jason. "Would you tell Jaybird that he can go run the perimeter or whatever he wants to do, and you'll watch over me in his stead? He doesn't feel right leaving me alone, not even for half an hour, but he really needs to get some exercise."

Cass straightened up and gave Jason a very serious look. The most serious look he'd ever seen from her, really. "Yes. You go, Jaybird. Timmy-bird is safe with me."

He believed her. Down into his bones. It was not possible to look into Cassandra's face and not believe her. "Okay."

So he went. After that, whenever Tim noticed Jason getting too antsy, or he noticed it himself, they would get hold of Cass and ask her to come relieve him. Jason already had her number programmed in his phone after their first conversation in Tim's hospital room, and Tim couldn't use a phone with his hands in casts, but he could bully Jason into calling her without much trouble. Cass, for her part, never seemed annoyed or put out by the request, no matter what she'd been doing when they interrupted.

So Jason got to know the perimeter of the Wayne estate really, really well. He met the security guards, learned where all of the cameras and sensors were, and started wearing a jogging track into the grass. He ran it at least twice a day, usually once in the morning and once in the evening. It was enough to keep him from going nuts, though sometimes he also wondered what was happening to his territory in Gotham, hoping that the street kids and working girls he looked out for were still okay, wishing he could chase down leads and find McDaniels and punch him in his stupid mouth.

Cass and the others had taken over for him there, too. He'd already given all of his leads to Bruce and Babs, and he knew they were being followed. He got reports every night after patrol. It was actually Steph who had taken over patroling his territory around Crime Alley, which Jason was fine with. She was down-to-earth enough for the folks in that area to trust, even if she was wearing a Bat symbol now instead of her old homemade costume.

Stephanie, too, came over to visit Tim a few times, ignoring his stated desire for no visitors. She didn't really count as a visitor, being practically family. Everyone in the house made that clear, and even Tim seemed happy to see her, though not as happy as he was to see Cass. They had more conversations about her college classes, though not as spirited as the first one Jason had witnessed. She also still enjoyed listening to Jason read Treasure Island. He liked Steph and enjoyed her company, and he continued to call her "firecracker" when it felt appropriate, which was most of the time.

Bruce was busy, but he had not stopped trying to be there for Tim. And Jason. And all of his kids, really. He really was trying to be a better dad, which was both weird and welcome.

Without Tim to keep control at WE, Bruce was going to work every weekday, which he clearly did not enjoy. He came back each afternoon around four o'clock, about when Damian got home from school, and trained with him and Cass (and sometimes Steph) in the Batcave. They generally all had dinner together between six and seven, and then Bruce would join Jason and Tim wherever they happened to end up for the evening.

He would ask Tim whether or not he wanted him to stay with him, or if he should go on patrol with Cass and Damian. Sometimes Tim talked him into going out, and sometimes it was too obvious that he needed his dad, and Bruce would stay. Even if he went out, he would spend at least an hour with them before leaving for the night. Sometimes Jason took advantage of that time to run his perimeter, giving Tim and Bruce time to be alone (and letting Jason get away without having to interact with Bruce).

Bruce had borrowed a page from Dick's book and always tried to manuever Tim into sitting next to him on a couch or on the bed where he could wrap an arm around his shoulders and tug him down into a cuddle. Tim sank into it gratefully, never without a little look of surprise that threatened to crack Jason's heart every time. Bruce's too, he could see that. Tim didn't trust that this new attentiveness and care was real, that it wasn't going to disappear. Jason didn't blame him. He kept expecting Bruce to forget and go back to his old ways. So far he hadn't, though.

And still. Every time. Tim fell asleep. At least Jason could see that he was trying, though. He wanted to stay awake and soak up this fatherly affection for as long as it lasted. His eyes would droop, then open wide, then droop again. He never lasted more than twenty minutes before his head nestled into Bruce's chest, his eyes closed, and he started to drool into Bruce's shirt. Bruce rested his cheek on Tim's hair, his eyes sad, his grip around his shoulders firm but gentle.

One evening, Jason set aside the book (he'd found a physical copy of Treasure Island in his old room and had been reading from that) and watched him sleep with a small frown. His heart was pounding uncomfortably, but he knew he had to talk. He had to say something.

His eyes flicked to Bruce's face, then away. "You know..."

Bruce shifted his gaze over to Jason. "Hmm?"

Jason flapped a hand at Tim. "He's depressed. I'm pretty sure. You can see it, right?"

Bruce grunted and rested his chin on the top of Tim's head. "He is. It's...not unexpected."

His heartbeat eased a little, though it still felt fierce and irregular. "What...what can we do about it?"

"I've broached the idea of therapy with him. He was...not receptive."

Jason blew out a breath, making the tuft of hair above his eyes blow upward with the force. "It's gotta be, like, expected, right? He...he was kidnapped. He was tortured." He hands clenched around the arms of his chair, and his teeth ground together. It still hurt to say that word, even to think it in the same context as this kid he now considered to be his precious little brother. "It would be one thing if it happened as part of his hero work, but he was taken as Tim Drake. Timothy Drake-Wayne, whatever. Any civilian who went through anything remotely like that would be expected to need therapy, and to get it."

Bruce hummed. "Very true. And even before that, he went through plenty of ordeals in his civilian identity that would warrant therapy. The loss of both of his parents to murder. Finding his father's bloody body in his home. Losing his girlfriend to a gang war, which was sadly public as well. Being adopted by one of the wealthiest and most targeted men in the city." He chuckled sadly. "This isn't even the first time he was kidnapped as Timothy Drake-Wayne."

Jason stared at him.

"It was...mostly...on purpose that time. Tim had his Robin suit on him, and he was deliberately trying to be kidnapped in order to break up a criminal operation. We did a special interview to make it clear that he was a viable target, freshly adopted and all. Still, the experience ended up being unfortunately traumatic. One of his classmates was badly injured, and there was this other boy... Well. It's not really my story to tell. Maybe Tim will tell you himself someday. Suffice to say that things went wrong, and Tim blamed himself for other people being hurt, though he performed admirably and completed all objectives with no fatalities."

Jason shook his head. "Yeah, he definitely should have gotten therapy after something like that. Not to mention the parental neglect, all of that. And..." He grimaced, and his voice was almost inaudible. "Suicidal thoughts."

Bruce's face was grim. "That...wasn't the first time, either."

Jason gaped at him in dismay. "What?"

"I was never privy to the details. Tim and Dick kept it between themselves. But I know there was a period where Tim called Dick regularly to discuss his problems. I suppose it was a kind of talk therapy, and it was enough for a long time."

"When did that stop? Or...why?"

Bruce shook his head. "I don't know. I imagine it was...after I disappeared."

Jason frowned at the wall. "When Dick broke Timmy's trust in him by taking away Robin."

Bruce hummed. "Most likely." He was looking at Jason with a piercing gaze. "I appreciate your concern for Tim, pumpkin."

Jason could sense a "but" coming. He narrowed his eyes at him. "Yes?"

"You would benefit from therapy as well."

Jason opened and closed his mouth several times. He wanted to yell. Wanted to jump up and wave his fists, reproach Bruce for daring to suggest such a thing. For insinuating that he was anything less than mentally strong, that he wasn't handling himself just fine without help. Wanted to run out of the room and not come back.

But he had made a promise, and he was going to keep it. More than that, he was smart enough to see what a massive, massive hypocrite that would make him.

Jason knew he had problems. He knew he wasn't handling them well, or at all. He just chose not to think about it. He kept himself busy. He focused on other tasks, other people. Lately, that had been Tim, but he knew his own issues were always bubbling just underneath the surface. Once this ended, once McDaniels was caught and Jason returned to his life, it was all going to roar back again.

Bruce was still looking at him. Not blinking. After a long moment of struggling to breathe, to make himself accept the truth he'd known all along, Jason wiped his clammy hands on his shirt and met his eyes again. "Yeah."

"I think..." Bruce began hesitantly, then sat up a little straighter. "Pumpkin, please don't take this as an accusation or a criticism. I know how hard it is to accept help. There's a reason I haven't gotten therapy, myself. I hold my neuroses too close to myself. I cloak myself in them instead of trying to heal of them. They didn't just make me who I am, they are who I am. But you don't have to be like me." He chuckled lightly. "In fact, I believe you have stated strongly that you do not want to be like me."

Jason nodded numbly.

"So... Let's try to figure out a way to make this work. I will look for a therapist who can assist both you and Tim. I have been looking for quite a while, actually. Someone who can be trusted to treat doctor-patient confidentialty as an iron-clad vow. Someone experienced with the kind of severe trauma you have both suffered, including childhood trauma. Someone who will believe the extremely unlikely stories we will have to share in order for you both to be honest in your sessions. If I can find someone like that, will you help me persuade Tim to give it a try?"

Jason nodded again. It was almost a no-brainer. Yes. Anything to help Tim. Yes.

"You may have to promise to join him, perhaps in joint sessions. Perhaps on your own. But seeing the way he has latched onto you lately as a kind of security blanket, I think he will want to have you with him in some capacity."

Jason was already nodding. "Yes. I get it, yes. Timmy knows I need help. Better than anyone, he knows." He chuckled painfully. "Knowing him, I could tell him that I'll only get therapy if he gets therapy, and he would do it."

Bruce smiled. "Thank you, pumpkin."

Jason had a fleeting moment to wonder if maybe this was what Bruce had wanted all along. Maybe he had manipulated Jason into this agreement somehow. But no, it was Jason who had brought up Tim's depression in the first place. It had all been his idea. Right?

In any case, the promise was made. The die was cast. Jason had made another deal, and he was going to keep this one, too.

Anything for Timmy. It had become a mantra lately, beating in his heart along with his own blood. He was not ashamed of it, and he had no desire to cast it aside.

Anything for his little brother. Including therapy.

Chapter Text

Bruce mopped his face with a towel, watching Damian out of the corner of his eye as he downed a bottle of water. They had just finished their afternoon sparring session. Dinner would be ready soon, but they still had time before they needed to be upstairs. Cass had already skipped up the steps, probably to go talk to Tim. Or pester him, as Tim had started to characterize it. That had become one of her favorite activities since coming back from Hong Kong. Bruce was glad of it.

"Damian." Bruce tossed his damp towel at the hamper Alfred kept in the corner of the training area and shook his head, feeling the sweat spray off. "Have you given more thought to what we talked about?"

Damian went still, his eyes narrowing, then turned to face Bruce across the tumbling mats. "Which thing, Father?" he asked with feigned indifference. "We've talked about many things."

Bruce's nostrils flared, but he refused to show his anger in his voice. Damian was being deliberately obtuse, and it was irritating, but Bruce needed to be the adult here.

"About the consequences for your actions."

"Oh, that." Damian threw his water bottle toward the recycling bin, much harder than necessary. It bounced off the wall and hit the floor.

"Damian." Again, Bruce refused to allow anger. "Go and pick that up and put it in the bin, then come back and talk to me."

He sat down on the mat, his legs folded and hands resting on his knees almost in a meditation pose, and watched as Damian obeyed. Damian stalked to the fallen water bottle, insolence in every line of his body, and threw it into the bin, then walked back to his father.

"Sit down, Damian," Bruce said calmly. "Let's talk."

"I don't want to talk about this." But Damian did as he asked and sat in front of him, scowling up at him, his back ramrod straight.

"I know you don't. It's unpleasant to talk about unpleasant things. And I know it's a hard thing I'm asking you to do. Dick always hated it when I made him choose his own punishment, too. It was probably the worst thing I made him do as a child. But I'm truly at a loss here, son. I don't know how to discipline you for this. I need your input."

Damian snarled. "I don't even understand why I need to be punished."

Bruce drew a breath, and he did not yell. "Yes, you do. We've explained this several times. Me and Dick, for sure, and Alfred has probably tried to discuss it with you as well, though from what Dick said they both gave up on correcting you far too soon. Abuse is wrong. Verbal abuse is also wrong. The way you've been treating Tim since the time you stepped into this household is wrong. I'm glad that you've stopped, now, and that you're trying to be civil, or at least be silent when you can't be kind. But that doesn't excuse or make up for the months and months of mistreatment. You need to be corrected, but I don't know how to do it."

"Drake is fine. They were only words. It's not like I hit him or stabbed him." Damian's face flickered as he realized that he had misstepped.

Bruce frowned deeply. "Well, you did stab him and hit him the first time you came here. I watched the security footage. I saw how he extended a hand to you in friendship, and you rebuffed him in the harshest way possible, then started fighting him with the intent to kill. He even saved your life in the middle of that fight by not letting you fall to the floor of the cave, and you still stabbed him in the side and almost murdered him. You're lucky that you failed. I might not have been able to forgive you if you had succeeded in killing my son, even though you are my son, too."

Damian quailed a bit, then rallied. "Why aren't you punishing me for that, then? Surely it was a much worse mistake than mere words."

"I'm not punishing you for that because you truly thought that you were doing the right thing at the time, or at least the thing expected of you. You grew up in a place where murder was a common means of promoting oneself, of rising in the hierarchy, and no one ever taught you differently. You believed that Tim had taken your rightful place, and in order to win it, you had to kill him. Since then you have learned a great deal, and you have explicitly chosen not to kill anymore. You have rejected the ideals you were taught, and I am very proud of you for that. You still should apologize to Tim for trying to kill him, though. You caused him a great deal of pain. It took him time to recover that he could have spent doing more valuable things."

Damian's lips were flat. "Yes, I understand that. But if you have chosen not to discipline me for those early mistakes, why do you want to discipline me now for words?"

"They weren't 'mere words,' Damian. You keep trying to diminish what you did, but the fact is that you purposefully caused harm to another person. That it was emotional and mental harm rather physical harm does not diminish that in any way. In fact, it might be worse, because invisible wounds are much harder to heal. You abused an innocent person who had done nothing to deserve your malice. More than that, you knew that it was wrong, because it had been explained to you, and you chose to keep doing it anyway."

Bruce took several deep breaths. His hands trembled, and he pressed them flat over his knees. "You had a hand in driving my son away from me, from his family, from the people who should have been supporting and protecting him. It was not entirely your doing, because we were all neglectful and blind. We all treated Tim badly in one way or another. But your role was particularly egregious, because you deliberately chose to be cruel, and you knew you were doing it. Can you truly say that you did not want to hurt Tim and chase him away? That all of that was incidental, just a byproduct of 'mere words?' Or did you feel a sense of victory when he started avoiding us? You had succeeded in driving away your hated rival, after all. You took his place as Robin, as my young son, even as Dick's coddled little brother."

Damian looked away, shame flushing his cheeks, and Bruce knew that he had struck the mark.

"Jigar tala," he said gently. "You understand the wrong you did, the harm you caused. Yes?"

Damian held still for a moment, then looked back to Bruce. His chin trembled as he nodded. "I did it on purpose," he said lowly. "I was afraid of him. I couldn't kill him, so I had to make him leave. I was glad when he did. I believed that my ability to drive him away with mere words was proof that I was his superior. I reveled in my victory. In the proof of my superiority."

Bruce's heart ached. Both Tim and Damian had been in so much pain. And where had he been? Dead. Lost in the timestream. Not there.

Even if he had been there, he probably wouldn't have done much good for either of them.

"All right." There was nothing else to do but move forward. "I'm glad you understand. Now that's clear, what are your thoughts on consequences?"

Damian's lip twisted viciously. "Why don't you just beat me? That was the punishment for my failures with my old trainers."

Bruce shuddered. "No. I will not perpetuate the cycle of abuse."

"It's not abuse. It's discipline. You struck Grayson before in the past. Todd, too."

Bruce gritted his teeth. "The context there was...different." He shook his head. No. No excuses. "But I was wrong to do it then, too. I will not do it again. I will not strike you, or any of my children, outside of accidental hits during sparring and training. And in that context I will do my best to pull my strength. I will never deliberately cause physical pain to any of you. Never again."

Damian thumped his fists down on the mat on either side of him. "I don't know what else you want me to say! A beating is simple. It hurts and then it's done. I understand it. This endless talking...it's so much worse! I don't know what you want from me!"

He was shaking harder now, and his eyes were filmed with tears. Bruce swallowed against the lump in his throat. He scooted closer and reached out, cupping Damian's cheeks in both hands.

"Damian," he said tenderly. "Jigar tala."

Damian shook free and pulled away, staring up at him with his face twisted in distress. Tears ran from his eyes. "Don't call me that. I can't be so precious to you. I hurt your son."

"Damian, you are my son, too." He reached out again, and this time he would not be gainsaid. He picked Damian up under the arms and pulled him into his lap, folding him under his chin into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, baby boy. This was too hard a thing for me to ask."

Damian sobbed into his chest. "I don't know what you want!"

"I know. I'm sorry. I forgot. When I told Dick to think up punishments for his wrongdoing, he had the memories of years with loving parents to draw on. You don't have that. You don't have the context or knowledge of what kind of discipline would be appropriate. I was asking you to speak in a foreign language without so much as giving you a dictionary to translate. It wasn't fair of me.

"You are precious to me. You are jigar tala. I love you. I love you just as much as I love Tim, and Dick, and Jason, and Cass. I'm trying to come up with consequences for your actions because I love you, because I want you to grow and be better. You've done so much, you've learned so much on your own, and with Dick's help, but I want to help you, too. I want to be the father you need me to be. I'm sorry I caused you so much pain with this, jigar tala."

Damian sat stiffly in his lap at first, then slowly relaxed as Bruce continued to talk. His little arms moved between them, then sneaked out to curl around Bruce and hold him back. Bruce held him tighter in response. His eyes and his heart were full. He hadn't realized it was possible to love someone as much as he loved this small boy in his arms.

He hadn't realized he could love someone as much as he loved Dick, either, or Jason, or Tim, or Cass. That he could feel such depths of anguish when they wept, when they trembled, when they struggled with confusion or trauma or just the weight of the world. Every single day his children taught him new depths of love and pain. Perhaps that was what it was to be a father. Love and pain in equal measure, each building on each other, an endless kaleidoscope of heaven and hell.

Eventually they both calmed. Damian drew back out of Bruce's lap and sat in front of him on the mat again, their knees touching. He wiped his face, then looked up at his father. "What kind of discipline measures are appropriate?" His voice still trembled, but he seemed almost curious, now. He wanted to learn, wanted to learn from his father.

The corner of Bruce's mouth twisted up. "Well, in this country, a child might be disciplined by being grounded, or having privileges taken away, or losing their allowance. They might have to do unpleasant chores for a specified period, or participate in some other activity they dislike, like difficult physical exertion. Some parents do spank their children, which is much less severe than the kind of beatings you're used to, but I will not do that. It's too close to the abuse you endured, and I will not perpetuate it."

Damian grimaced. "You don't seem to have any trouble thinking of consequences now. Why ask for my help?"

"None of those seem right as a consequence for months of verbal abuse. They aren't severe enough, and any punishment I can think of that's worse is too severe, or, as I said, something I will not do. Ideally, your punishment should be a sort of reparation. If we had a normal household, maybe I would make you do Tim's chores or something like that. But he doesn't have any chores here, and neither do you, really, since Alfred and the rest of the staff maintain the house and the grounds. I wish I could think of something to require you to do that would be helpful to Tim, or that would help him heal. But you've caused him so much harm that even being in the same room as you seems to be painful to him."

Damian squirmed and looked down at his hands, twisted in his lap. "So I've ruined even your ability to punish me."

Bruce sighed and took his shoulders in a brief, warm hold. "No. Nothing is ruined. It's just difficult right now. Things will improve. They have to."

Damian nodded and looked up into his face. "I'll think about it," he said seriously. "I will carefully consider what acts of service I might be able to do for Timothy. I'm sure there are many. He's very weak and helpless right now."

Bruce huffed something like a laugh. He wondered if Damian realized that he had called Tim by his first name. Better not to draw his attention to it. "All right, jigar tala. That's a start. Let me know what you come up with, and if there's anything I can do to help."

Damian nodded with all the solemnity of an oath. Bruce ruffled his hair, delighting at Damian's shriek of outrage at the way he smeared the sweat around. They took showers before going upstairs for dinner, and both were reasonably composed by the time they sat down to eat.

That night when Bruce sat with Tim in the lounge, Jason decided to go check the perimeter almost as soon as they settled in. Tim relaxed into Bruce's side, breathing long and slow. Bruce held him as close he dared and reflected, again, on how much he could love a child wrapped in his arms.

He hadn't been able to hold Damian as a baby, nor Tim. Nor any of his children. He knew that for fathers, holding their newborn children was an important moment of bonding. It caused physical and neurological changes, preparing the father for his new responsibilities, his new priorities. Bruce had missed out on that, but he felt like he was getting a glimpse of it now as Tim allowed Bruce to hold him every evening.

This was his child, his precious boy, though not so little anymore. He hadn't even gotten to adopt this boy until he was sixteen. It saddened him that he had missed out on being Tim's dad for so much of his life. And then they had barely gotten used to being father and son when Darkseid came and ruined everything.

"Tim, sweetheart..." he started slowly. There was something he wanted. Very badly.

Tim rolled his head on his chest. "Mmm?" He sounded barely awake.

Bruce smiled and kissed his head. "Sorry to bother you. I just wanted to ask something."

Tim sighed and settled against him. "I'm listening."

"I don't know if it's possible. But I want to reverse the emancipation paperwork."

Tim went very still. "Why?"

"It's not because I want to control you, or to take back Wayne Enterprises, nothing like that. I just... I want to be your dad. On more than just a technicality, a legal distinction. I want to take care of you and protect you the way a dad is supposed to. You shouldn't have to be independent. Not anymore."

"Bruce, I'm gonna be eighteen in a couple of months anyway. It would probably take that long just to get a motion through court."

Bruce sighed. "I know. I just... I wanted to ask."

He could feel Tim smiling against his shirt. "Okay."

Bruce rested his cheek on his hair. "Never mind. Just a silly notion of an old man."

"You're not that old." Tim snorted, leaning into him more heavily. "And anyway..."

"Yeah?"

"You are my dad." It was just above a whisper. "More than a technicality. More than a legal distinction. You are."

Bruce smiled into his hair. "I love you, Tim."

"Okay."

It was enough for now.

Chapter Text

Not having a schedule was weird. Not having anything to do was weird. Worse was that Tim didn't actually want to do anything.

He kept thinking about sneaking down to the Batcave to check on what cases Bruce had been working on, trying to do some investigation from the computer. He knew he could do it. It would be laborious, since he could only really type with the exposed fingertips on his left hand. He would probably have to slip away from Jason, too, who would be stupidly overprotective and try to make him go upstairs and rest again.

He could sneak a phone and call Tam for an update on Wayne Enterprises. He kept expecting Bruce to talk to him about work at dinner or in their evening cuddle sessions, but he never did. If Tim didn't want to talk and didn't want to do anything, Bruce would just sit there and hold him. Heck, Tim could tell Alfred that he was ready for Tam to visit and then he could pester her for an update. He knew he could get Tam to give in and tell him stuff, no matter how Alfred would insist on no work until he fully recovered.

But he didn't want to. Somewhere under the gray malaise that had stolen over his senses, he felt guilty for not wanting to. If Tim was himself, he would be defying orders and trying to get work done no matter the consequences. There were so many things he needed to do. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about the next thing, the next five things, the next dozen things that he needed to accomplish or learn or improve since he first started training to be Robin at the age of twelve.

Maybe that was the problem. He wasn't himself. He didn't really know who he was anymore.

He wasn't Robin, that was for damn sure. Damian was Robin now, and he was terrifyingly good at it. Better than Tim had ever been. Better than Jason. Maybe even better than Dick, and Dick had been the first Robin, the real Robin. It shouldn't be possible to be better than Dick. But that was Damian for you, always crashing through and defying expectations, demanding everything and then proving that it had always belonged to him, anyway.

He wasn't Red Robin. That had been a borrowed name to begin with. Robin at least he had earned. He had started to wear those colors with Bruce's blessing, with Dick's blessing (though not with Jason's, more was the pity. How much would have been different if he'd been able to obtain Jason's blessing to wear his colors, his name?). Red Robin had been a vacant suit, originally worn by a villain in an attempt to undermine Tim-as-Robin. He had tried to redeem it, tried to make it his own, and in the end he had felt like he was close to doing that. He'd had his own place, his own role, tasks and goals and allies he had carved out for himself with no permission but his own.

No longer. Maybe never again. Dick was occasionally returning to Gotham to wear the Red Robin suit on patrol so the identity wouldn't vanish abruptly with Tim's injury, confirming McDaniels's suspicions. But that was all. By the time Tim regained full use of his body, if he ever did, even the memory of the hero Red Robin would be faded. He had only been in Gotham for less than year. No one would care that he had disappeared.

He wasn't the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, temporary or permanent. Bruce said he was just keeping the wheels spinning, keeping the chair warm for Tim for when he was ready to return. But Bruce said a lot of things that weren't necessarily true. They would be better off letting the board pick a full successor instead of keeping the company in limbo like this. It could be Bruce or Lucius or someone else. It didn't really matter as long as the board and the stockholders were confident in whoever it was. They had never been particularly confident in Tim. He had been an emergency stopgap to keep Hush from hemorrhaging funds, that was all. Just a place-holder, a fill-in, like all of Tim's other roles.

He wasn't a student. He had dropped out of his senior year of high school to look for Bruce and never re-enrolled. He could get his GED, go to college, but he didn't even know if he wanted to. He already had the equivalent of several master's degrees of expertise in several hard sciences from his training and research as an adolescent. Going to college to get a piece of paper as proof seemed like a waste of time.

He wasn't even sure what his name was. What had he told that reporter that one time? Something about how he was Tim Drake when he looked in the mirror and Tim Wayne when he wanted a good table at a nice restaurant. It had been a good line, a nice quip for the cameras. When Dick first took away Robin, and Damian called Tim "Drake" with such utter contempt, Tim had screamed that his name was Tim Wayne and punched him in the face. He was ashamed of that now.

He knew Bruce still wanted him to bear the Wayne name. He had made that clear when he said that he wanted to reverse the emancipation paperwork. He wanted to...double-adopt Tim. It was a nice sentiment. Tim did appreciate the gesture.

Tim didn't know what he wanted his last name to be. He felt detached from both Drake and Wayne. He couldn't shake the feeling that neither family had ever really wanted him, despite late protests to the contrary. He couldn't think of another last name for himself, though. He wished he could be just Tim, nothing else, but he wasn't famous enough for a single-name appellation to stick.

Tim Pennyworth? Nope, too British and weird. Tim Grayson? Ugh. Dick would hate sharing his beloved parents' name with someone else. Tim Todd? That just sounded stupid. And again, Jason would hate it.

Tim guessed he was stuck with Drake-Wayne for now. Maybe if he ever got married he could take his spouse's name. But who would want to marry a mess like this? A depressed, crippled high-school dropout who couldn't even decide what his name was? What a joke.

"Todd!"

And there was Damian, crashing into the sitting room where Tim and Jason were hanging out. Tim's heart jumped, but he turned his head sluggishly to the door. Jason snorted awake from where he'd been dozing in his chair and raised his head, eyes fiery.

"What the hell, demon brat?"

Damian flushed. Tim was surprised to read hesitance in his posture, though his shoulders were straight and defiant. He was holding something in his hands. It was a plastic storage container filled with something white, the lid ajar. He was cradling it as if it was precious.

Damian lifted his chin. "I need you to drive me to the pet store, Todd."

He was trying to be imperious, but there was a little quiver of uncertainty underneath. Tim wasn't sure if Jason would catch it. But Jason sat up straighter, frowning, and narrowed his eyes at Damian and the box in his hands.

"I repeat: What the hell? Why don't you ask Alfred?"

"It's Monday. Pennyworth runs errands on Monday," Damian said haughtily, as if Jason should have already known this. "Will you help me or not?"

"Right, it's Monday." Jason blinked. "Shouldn't you be at school?"

"It's Memorial Day, Todd. Schools and government facilities are closed, as are many businesses. But retail stores will be open, which is fortunate. I need to go to a pet store immediately."

Tim couldn't stand it any longer. The curiosity was too much. He sat up straighter and eyed the box in Damian's hands. "Why? What do you have there?"

Damian looked at him for a moment, then walked over to the recliner where Tim was sitting. He balanced the storage box against his stomach and removed the lid, and Tim peered in.

There were two nearly hairless rodents curled up inside, resting in a nest made of an old t-shirt. They had gray, fuzzy hair on their backs, but their bellies were bare. They had long, skinny tails, their eyes were closed, and their proportions were obviously those of babies. "Rats?"

Damian snorted. "Your animal identification skills are lacking, Drake. These are baby squirrels. Titus found them during our morning walk, lying next to a fallen branch. I believe the mother is dead, probably in the windstorm last night. I watched over them for a few hours hoping that an adult squirrel would come for them, but none has. It is now my duty to care for them and make sure they survive to adulthood, and I do not intend to fail."

He was actually trembling a bit with passion and sincerity. Tim looked up at him. "What do you need? Have you done any research?"

Damian nodded. "There are several helpful websites about the raising of orphaned baby squirrels. I need puppy replacement milk to feed them, as well as various other supplies." He looked at Jason. "Will you drive me to the store? Please."

The last word seemed to hurt him deep down. Jason looked at Tim. "I can't leave Timmy."

"I'll come with you." Tim dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the ache in his knee. He realized with a slight shock that he hadn't stepped outside the manor since Bruce had all but carried him inside two weeks ago. Jason and Cass kept trying to persuade him to at least go outside and sit in the sunlight, and he kept denying them.

Jason jumped to his feet, seeming relieved. He came over to look down at the babies, giving a crooked smile at the sight. "Okay. Fine then. We'll help you out, short stack." Damian gave him a confused frown at the new nickname, but he didn't comment.

They took one of Bruce's less ostentatious cars, grabbing the keys from the board of hooks on the wall next to the door from the house to the garage. Jason had to open the car door for Tim, but he was able to fold himself into the backseat without too much trouble. To his surprise, Damian chose to join him in the back instead of sitting in front next to Jason.

"Which store are we going to?" Jason asked. Damian gave him an address, then settled back, holding the box carefully in his lap. His posture was still stiff and nervous, but intensely determined.

Tim leaned against the door and eyed him curiously. He'd known that Damian liked animals, of course. It was one of Damian's few qualities that Tim found even slightly endearing. Somehow he'd assumed that Damian wouldn't care about "common" wild animals like squirrels and the like, though. Squirrels were basically rats with big tails. Not that Tim had a problem with rats, either, personally. But rodents were like nature's snack chips—if you killed them, God made more.

Damian seemed oddly emotional about the two helpless critters that had come into his care, though. Maybe it was because they had lost their mother, possibly by rejection rather than death, and he was projecting on them. Or maybe he just really cared about animals that much, even common ones.

Tim tried to remember anything he might have learned about caring for baby animals. It had never been a particular interest of his, but he did remember reading up on bats when he first started as Robin, just to understand more about the creatures he shared the Cave with. He seemed to remember that babies needed to eat frequently. As in, very frequently.

"Hey, Damian..." He started cautiously, not sure how Damian would respond.

The kid turned to look at him, his eyes wide and bright. He didn't seem to be rejecting Tim's attempt at conversation out of hand.

"Babies that small... They have to eat often, right? Every few hours?"

"Yes. They appear to be about two weeks old, so they will need to be fed every three hours, at least at first. They will also need to be regularly cleaned and encouraged to expel waste."

"How will you be able to do that with school and patrol and everything? Are you expecting Alfred to feed them when you aren't there? He's already so busy, it doesn't seem fair. Rehabilitating wild animals is pretty much a full-time job."

Damian's lips tightened. "I'll figure something out."

Tim looked at the box in his lap. He remembered the tiny, helpless babies in their little nest. They had been really cute. Like, really, really cute.

His hands twitched inside their casts. He wished he could offer to help, not for Damian's sake but for the babies. But he was useless right now. Completely, totally useless. A bleak wave crashed over him, threatening to bury the thin sliver of interest that had woken in him when Damian crashed into the room where he was lying, almost vanished into gray.

"We can help," Jason said from the front, seeming nonchalant. "Maybe we should keep them in Tim's room, too, to keep them away from the dog and cat. They'll be safe there."

Damian stared forward, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. "You would do that? Why?"

"It's not like we have anything else going on." Jason craned his head backward to give him a brief smile. "No, really. It'll be good for Tim to have something to do. He's really, seriously bored. We'll help."

"But I can't even do anything to help," Tim had to protest, even though his stomach churned with something like desire, something like want. "I won't be able to hold a bottle or anything. You'll have to do all the feeding and stuff."

Jason shrugged, looking forward at the road again. "You can hold some things, just maybe not anything that needs a lot of control. And anyway, I don't mind. They're really stinkin' cute little buggers."

"Very well, then," Damian said stiffly, though Tim could see the way his shoulders relaxed. "I accept your offer. Thank you."

"No biggie, little dude," Jason said.

Damian seemed to be a regular at the pet store. He sought out a worker he already knew, named Brenda, Jason and Tim trailing behind him. "My brothers," he introduced with a sharp wave of the hand, and Brenda gave them a friendly nod.

Damian held up the box in his hands and showed her the contents. Brenda lit up at the sight and immediately led them to the right supplies. They chatted amiably about how Titus, Alfred the cat, and Batcow were doing while Brenda filled up a basket Jason was carrying with everything they would need to care for the baby squirrels.

The trip back was much more relaxed, though they didn't speak much. Damian was eager to get home so he could give the babies their first feeding, staring out the window with his eyes far away. Tim relaxed and dozed a little, worn out by the unexpected exertion. He was even a little hungry, which felt strange after the weeks of little or no appetite. It had taken him a few minutes to realize that the pain in his stomach was not something new and horrible going wrong with his body, but the normal result of not eating enough and then traipsing around a retail store and a parking lot with a gimpy leg and aching body.

They set up at the kitchen table for the first feeding. Titus and Alfred were banished to another part of the house for the duration. Tim relaxed into a padded chair with the box next to him on the table while Jason and Damian mixed up the puppy formula in the kitchen. He removed the loose lid, using both hands to lever it off, then smiled down at the baby squirrels. They were squirming a little and emitting tiny squeaks, maybe smelling the imminent food.

Tim reached in with his left hand and stroked across a fuzzy back with his fingertip. "It's okay," he murmured. "You're safe. We're gonna take care of you."

The babies turned toward his touch, squirming closer. One of them latched around his fingertip and started to suckle. Tim sniffed heavily, determined not to cry.

He couldn't do much. He couldn't hold a bottle or a feeding syringe, couldn't even help with the mixing or cleaning with his hands so clumsy and uncontrolled. But he could be there. He could offer his presence, his warmth. His care and attention.

The babies really did seem to appreciate it, little as it was. It was something.

He wasn't going to stop.

Chapter Text

Dick came home that weekend and was a bit offended when no one met him at the door. He'd been coming home every weekend since Tim got hurt, and he'd usually made it home on the weekends before that, at least for a day, to spend some time with Damian. Now he was doing his best to come home for both Saturday and Sunday, sometimes on Friday night, and was reluctant to leave when the time came.

He'd been heartsore but not surprised when he came home the first weekend after returning to his life in Bludhaven and found that Tim had fallen into a pretty serious depressive period. He'd noticed Tim showing depressive symptoms at the hospital too, but that wasn't surprising considering what he was going through. It was just much more pronounced and obvious once he got home.

At least everyone recognized it for what it was, with the possible exception of Damian, who had been avoiding being in the same room with Tim as much as possible. Dick was glad to see Jason, Cass, and Alfred all trying in their various ways to pique Tim's interest and get him involved in life again, even just for a few moments. Even Bruce tried to engage him in conversation, but was content to fall into companionable silence when Tim rebuffed his attempts.

Dick and Jason were still texting in the middle of the week, so he knew that it actually got better when he came home. Tim still looked up to Dick, still longed for his attention and approval despite everything, and that gave Dick a complicated mixture of feelings he didn't want to examine too closely. Pride, affection, guilt, dismay. He was glad that he was able to lighten the load for Timmy, even a little bit, but he couldn't help feeling that he didn't deserve to have that kind of power, not after what he'd done. Still, he had it, so he had to try to do good with it.

He kept thinking about quitting his job. Quitting everything, moving back to Gotham to be with his family. Not just Tim, but Damian as well, and Jason now that he was living in the manor temporarily, and Cass since she had come home from Hong Kong. Bruce, too, now that he was taking a deeper interest in being a father and spending time with all of them.

Dick didn't know how long it was going to last, but he had a feeling they were on a timer. As soon as Tim was well, or McDaniels was captured, or more likely before either of those things happen, the family was going to fall apart again. He kept feeling that it was all a soap bubble, or a castle made of spun glass. If he gripped too hard, it would break. It was going to break on its own before too long, collapsing under its own weight. He wanted to enjoy this fragile equilibrium for as long as possible.

He wished FMLA leave applied to siblings. He'd been thinking about it, but he couldn't figure out a way to convince HR that his presence was required to help his convalescing little brother when Tim already had a dad, a butler, and a different older brother taking care of him. Dick's presence definitely made a difference, but he wasn't essential to the kid's well-being.

Still, someone usually met him at the door when he came home, often Damian or Cass, sometimes Jason and Tim if they were close enough when the sound of Dick's car came up the drive. The door wasn't locked, so Dick didn't have to use his key. He slipped inside with a frown, tilting his head at the lack of welcome party. He'd come on a Saturday morning this weekend, since Friday night had been busy with busting up a smuggling ring in Bludhaven.

"Hello?" he called, to no immediate answer. He could hear noises from the direction of the kitchen, so Alfred was probably cooking up a big brunch. He might have the kitchen TV up too loud to have heard Dick at the door, otherwise he would have come out to say hello. Dick started to head there, then paused when he heard other noises.

It was coming from upstairs. Multiple voices talking and laughing, muffled behind a door. Dick frowned when he didn't instantly recognize all of them. Still, he shrugged and started bounding up the steps, his feet light. Whatever was going on, whoever was here, he was happy to be home and even happier to hear laughter echoing in these sometimes bereft halls and rooms.

He found Damian lurking in the hall outside Tim's room. The noises were coming from in there, and now that Dick was close enough, he definitely recognized Bart Allen's eager chatter, Conner Kent's gruff laughter. So Alfred had finally persuaded Tim to have his friends over. Dick couldn't help but grin.

"Hey, Little D," Dick greeted, slinging an arm around Damian's shoulders. "Whatcha doing?"

Damian grimaced and glanced nervously at the door to Tim's room, then frowned at Dick. "It's time to feed Ludmilla and Jason."

Dick blinked. "Oh, right. Jay said you guys were taking care of some baby squirrels, and you were keeping them in Tim's room. You named them Ludmilla and Jason?"

Damian nodded. His nose wrinkled. "Todd calls them Fuzzy and Fluffy, but my names are clearly superior."

Dick struggled not to laugh. Such a stinkface on this kid. "What does Tim call them?"

Damian sighed. "So far Drake calls them 'little girl squirrel' and 'little boy squirrel.' He refuses to acknowledge any of the names Todd and I have assigned. He says we have to work it out between ourselves."

"That sounds fair, honestly." Dick shook Damian gently by the shoulders. "So why aren't you going in, if it's time to feed them?"

Another raucous laugh sounded on the other side of the door, and Damian gave Dick an eloquent look.

Dick smirked, but he was actually a bit confused. Before Tim was hurt, Damian would have stridden into any room he wanted to enter as if it belonged to him, even if, or especially if, he was not particularly fond of the current occupants. He would set his feet, demand what he wanted from the situation, and generally get it. It was strange to see him being so hesitant.

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you wanted to come in, bud," Dick said. "Especially since you've gone in there plenty of times in the past week to feed the babies. What's the hold up?"

Damian sighed and slid out from under Dick's arm on his shoulders, turning to face him. He crossed his arms over his chest in a clear quest for control. "Relations between Drake and I have been...awkward. I'm sure that having his closest friends nearby will only compound the issue."

"Are you afraid that they'll reject you?"

Damian narrowed his eyes. "They have before." He shook his head. "And I'm not afraid. I'm just...planning my attack."

Dick's heart ached. He knew Tim's team had disliked working with Damian because of his abrasive personality, not because of any real objection to him as a person. But that was a pretty fine distinction to make, especially for a young person. And Damian was very young, despite all of his protests that he was not a child.

Still, he hesitated, not sure what advice to give. With most kids, he would just tell them to be themselves, and everything would be fine. Certainly those had been his words to Tim when he was anxious about working with other teenage superheroes for the first time. He'd been right about that, too—pretty much everyone liked Tim as soon as they got to know him, and the more you knew him, generally, the more you liked him.

Distinctions between personality and identity aside, telling Damian to just be himself was likely to end in disaster.

"Well... What's your plan so far?"

The look Damian leveled at him was absolutely raw.

Dick drew a deep breath. "Okay. Do you want me to come in with you?"

Damian's forbidding look softened slightly. Then there was a rapid opening and closing of a door, a blur of color, and a rush of air in the hallway that tugged at their clothes and rustled their hair. The blur disappeared down the staircase, and Dick blinked. Damian's arms slid down his chest. Before either could react further, the blur of color and rush of air returned, and Impulse—Bart Allen—stood in front of them, giving Damian one of his wide, friendly smiles.

"Hi! Tim says it's time to feed the baby squirrels. He said you could show me where the supplies are?"

Damian faltered slightly, then regained his composure. "Yes. Come with me." He stomped toward the stairs, projecting confidence, and Bart ambled easily at his side, chattering about how cute the babies were and how he couldn't wait to feed them.

"You'd better not," Damian cut in. "We need to limit their exposure to humans. They need to retain their wariness for when we release them to the wild. So far only Todd, Drake, and I have handled them, and it needs to stay that way."

"Aw, don't be such a downer, kid Robin," Bart said cheerfully. "You have this huge estate that's, like, super safe and super protected. Surely it would be okay if you have a couple of little pet squirrels running around. It's not like they'll have to watch out for hunters."

"They're not pets," Damian said acerbically. "They are wild animals, and their instincts must be preserved as much as possible."

As Damian passed down the stairs, he cast a look over his shoulder at Dick. Dick smiled and waved. He could see how much more relaxed Damian was by the set of his shoulders and the confidence of his stride. He was back in control, discussing a subject he was passionate about with someone he could harangue for their ignorance, and Bart didn't seem to mind it. Damian would be fine, at least for as long as it took to get the feeding supplies.

Dick drew a breath and stepped into Tim's room. Conner and Tim had been deep in a conversation about a TV show they both liked, Cassie Sandsmark sitting on the window seat and swinging her legs with a grin. They stopped talking and looked up when he opened the door, then smiled in greeting.

"Hey, Dick." Tim was sitting on his made bed, lounging against a huge pile of pillows against the headboard, and Conner was sitting cross-legged facing him on the foot of the bed.

"Hey, Timmy." Dick grinned back, happy to see his little brother looking so relaxed and comfortable with his friends. He nodded to Conner and Cassie, too. "Nice to see you guys. Thanks for coming to visit."

Conner's answering grin was a little sharp on the edges. "Hey, now that Rob's finally decided he can stand our presence, nothing will keep us away. We're gonna be here every weekend, just wait for it."

"I already apologized for that," Tim protested. "I didn't want any visitors, not just you guys."

"Well, excuse me for taking it personally when I had to hear from my best friend's butler that he wasn't interested in seeing me."

"I couldn't text or hold a phone!" Tim waved his cast-covered hands in proof.

"Someone could have held the phone for you!"

Dick cleared his throat loudly, and they both shut up and swung over to look at him. "Anyway... Can I see the baby squirrels? Jay's been texting me about them." He'd been burning to ask for pics, but since they were both still using burner phones and hadn't graduated to sharing their personal numbers yet, it hadn't been possible. "Where is Jay, by the way?"

"I think he and Cass are training." Tim gestured toward the desk in the corner of his room. "They're over there. You can go ahead and bring them to me on the bed, so we can feed them when Bart gets back with the milk and stuff."

The babies had been set up in an open-topped half-gallon glass tank lined with soft, shredded cloth. A heating pad rested under half of the tank, providing gentle warmth that the babies could crawl away from if they got overheated. Dick looked down at the two fuzzy blobs curled up around each other in the middle of the fluff, instinctively cooing. "Oh my gosh. Oh my goodness, Timbo, they're gorgeous. They're radiant."

Tim giggled, and Conner relaxed at the sound.

Dick looked over at him, grinning wide enough to split his face. He was itching to touch them, but he remembered Damian's tirade in the hall. "Is it okay for me to touch them? Damian was pretty insistent about limiting their exposure to humans."

Tim rolled his eyes. "It's okay. Conner and Bart and Cassie have already spent like half an hour holding them and cooing over them. We put them back in the tank when it seemed like they were getting over-stimulated, but they'll be hungry soon."

"Awesome. Thank you. You wouldn't believe how much I've been looking forward to this."

Dick reverently reached into the tank with both hands and scooped his palms under the babies, bringing a few shreds of cloth with them. They nestled in his hands, warm and soft and just that right kind of squishy. He cradled them to his chest, grinning down at them, and stroked over their fuzzy bodies with his thumbs. The babies shifted a little with the petting, but seemed too sleepy to react much.

"Oh my gosh. Glory be. Holy moly. I can't stop smiling. They are so cute. I'm dying. I'm dying of cute."

He stepped gingerly toward the bed, unable to tear his eyes off the babies, and only stopped when his knees bumped the mattress. He looked up at Tim, fully knowing that there were tears in his eyes. "Timmy," he squeaked, breathless with love. "They are so cute."

Over in her window seat, Cassie was dying, too. Of laughter. "Oh my God, I can't believe so many people think Nightwing is tough."

Dick gave her a gentle glare. Gentle because he couldn't be anything else with such precious little bundles of love lying in his hands. "Don't be silly, Wonder Girl. Nightwing is very, very tough. But Dick Grayson is schmoopy for babies, I don't mind admitting. Especially baby squirrels, it turns out."

Tim just grinned at him, his eyes sparkling. "It's okay, Dick. I know how you feel."

"What should I do with them?"

Tim considered, then sat up straighter against his pillows and pulled his legs in to make room on the bed. "Here, lie down on your back."

Dick frowned in question, but obeyed without a word, lying across the bed halfway between Tim and Conner. He carefully shifted his hands so the babies were held safely aloft as he moved. "Now what?"

"Now let them rest on your chest."

Dick set the babies down on his chest, where they nosed around until they found the comfiest spot, right in the middle over his heart, between his pecs. They settled into him, and Dick held his hands hovered over their tiny, breathing forms, his mouth open in awe. "This is amazing," he whispered. "This is the best thing. This is the best day. I can't even talk. It's so good."

"I know right?" Tim said warmly. "That's been my favorite thing too, for the past few days."

Dick rolled his head over to look at him. "Tim," he said seriously. "We need to have baby squirrels forever."

Tim laughed. "I don't know how feasible that is. For now, sure. Twelve weeks, then they'll be old enough to set free. They don't really make good pets, so it's not like we can keep them in the house. But for a few weeks, yeah. Cute little baby squirrels."

Dick hummed and rolled his head back to look at the babies on his chest, his chin digging down into his neck. He needed a pillow or something. But this was...so good. So good. He didn't have the words.

But temporary, as Tim had said. Just like everything else that was going on right now. Temporary, fleeting, too easy to crush and destroy.

So Dick was going to enjoy it as hard as he could.

Chapter Text

On Saturday afternoon, Father took Drake to his appointment with Dr. Patel. Todd and Cain were going along for "moral support", and Damian expected that Grayson would want to go, too. He was looking forward to a few hours alone with only his pets and Pennyworth for company, so he was surprised when he went to Drake's room to feed the baby squirrels and found Grayson lying on his back on the bed, the babies resting on his chest. One hand was cupped gently around the babies to keep them from rolling away, and his eyes were closed.

Damian paused in the doorway, blinking, then slowly approached the bed. "Grayson? Are you asleep?"

Grayson hummed, a soft smile playing on his lips. He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling, then rolled his head over to look at Damian when he climbed up on the bed and sat cross-legged next to him.

"I thought you were going with Drake to his appointment. Isn't he getting the casts off today?"

Grayson sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Maybe. He might be getting them off. It depends on how well his hands have healed."

Damian frowned. "I was under the impression that it took three weeks for broken fingers and wrists and such to heal. That's what Drake has been saying ever since he came home from the hospital. Three weeks and then he would be able to start working on his mobility and strength. He was..." He faltered, at a loss to describe just how strongly Drake had been pinning his hopes on this day.

"Yeah, I know." Grayson frowned up at the ceiling. "And I know Bruce and Jason have been trying to temper his expectations, while also doing their best not to crush any optimism he has. But the truth is... The trauma to Tim's hands is really, really bad, kiddo. It might take more than three weeks to heal. It probably will. This is just the first follow-up visit. There are going to be a lot of them."

Damian's head reeled. He'd never thought to question that three-week timeframe. Drake had been so certain of it, and in Damian's experience, Drake was not often wrong.

He focused back on Grayson. "Isn't that even more reason for you to go along, then? He will... If his hands are not sufficiently healed... He will need your presence."

Grayson shrugged. "He has Jason and Cass. They've both been great with him. Bruce, too. I've been gone so much these past few weeks... Those three have really been his support system." He smiled at Damian, his eyes warm. "And I might have mentioned that I wanted to spend some time with you. Tim was fine with that. Sorry, I was gonna find you after they left, but I got distracted by babies." He waved a hand helplessly at his chest.

Damian slumped and reached out to stroke his fingers over the little mound of fuzz. The babies were close to three weeks old now, with soft, fine fur covering their entire bodies, though their eyes were still closed and they still spent much of their time asleep. "Understandable," he murmured.

Grayson reached out to touch Damian's knee and softly pet it, the way he was petting the babies. "It's really kind of you to be worried about Tim having enough emotional support," he said. "When they come back, if the visit didn't go well... We'll both be here for Tim, won't we?"

Damian held still for a few seconds, then suddenly fell backward onto the bed with a gusty sigh. The movement jostled the entire bed, and Grayson cupped his hands protectively over the babies. They wiggled and squeaked a bit at the sudden movement, then settled down. Damian lay on his back next to Grayson, feeling like a puppet with cut strings.

"Damian?" Grayson asked cautiously. "Something wrong, buddy?"

So many things were wrong that Damian's mind snagged for a moment, trying to catch up. He shook his head, but it wasn't in negation. "You think too highly of me, Grayson," he said finally.

"I doubt that," Grayson said lightly. "But what, exactly, are you referring to this time?"

"I don't know how to 'be there' for Drake." Damian raised his hands in the air above his chest and made extravagant air quotes to illustrate his point. "I don't even know how to talk to him. It's extremely irritating." He drew a deep breath. "I want to do something for him. Something big. Something important. Something as...as reparation. That's what Father wants my punishment to be for..." He halted. He'd never said this before, not aloud.

He rolled up on his side, his limbs loose on the bed, and spoke softly, for Grayson's ears only. He didn't even want the baby squirrels to hear this, foolishly. They seemed to have a good opinion of him, at the moment. He didn't want that to change. "For being verbally abusive."

Grayson turned his head to look at him, eyebrows raised. "You truly regret that now, don't you?" He didn't sound shocked or surprised. He sounded proud.

Damian nodded. Tears stung at his eyes, and he forced them away with a disdainful sniff. He didn't deserve to cry about this. He wasn't the one who had been hurt. "I've come to understand that my actions were..." He took a deep breath. "I was cruel. I caused harm. It doesn't matter that I caused harm to someone I didn't like and thought didn't deserve my respect. The mere fact that I caused harm to another person at all is...reprehensible."

Grayson nodded solemnly. "I'm glad you understand that now."

"Tt. That's what Father said, too. Yes, I understand now. But that's not it. It's not enough. I want to do something now, something... Something to make up for it. But I can't even talk to him."

"You said that before." Grayson hummed thoughtfully, then gently scooped up one of the baby squirrels in his hand and passed it over to Damian to cuddle. Damian accepted with a sigh, holding the baby carefully in both hands and stroking over the tiny, fuzzy head with the pads of his first two fingers. "What do you mean? I've heard you talking to Tim several times today, and there didn't seem to be a problem."

"That was about practical things, like taking care of Ludmilla and Jason. But everytime I want to say something more important, I can...I can feel the words going wrong in my head. It's far too easy to fall back into my old patterns, calling him worthless and an imbecile and disparaging everything he says and does. And I don't want to do that. Not anymore." He lowered his eyes to the bedspread and muttered the last part. "Especially not with Todd perpetually nearby."

"What was that last bit, kiddo?"

Damian shook his head and raised his eyes back to Grayson's face. "Never mind that. What can I do to change the way I talk to Drake?"

The look Grayson gave him was full of so much fondness and pride that it almost took Damian's breath away. "Wow. That is so cool that you can even ask that question, Damian."

Damian wasn't sure whether or not he should be offended. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Grayson drew a breath and looked up at the ceiling, still grinning a big, goofy grin. "You've realized something about yourself that some people never recognize on their own, and that's really, really cool. You are so smart and so self-aware, I'm amazed. And you're kind, too, to want to change the way you talk to Tim because you don't want to hurt him anymore, you want to help him instead. That's amazing. You're amazing, Damian. You did that all on your own. Incredible."

Damian felt his face redden and rolled his head over to hide it in the blanket with a loud groan. "Just answer the question, Grayson."

"Okay, okay." Grayson was quiet for a moment, thinking. "It sounds to me like what you're doing is similar to something my therapist talked to me about."

Damian lifted his head, surprised. "You have a therapist."

Grayson gave him a sheepish smile. "I went through some rough stuff back in Bludhaven. It's kind of mandatory to keep my job."

Damian blinked. "You're seeing a therapist assigned by the police department?"

"Yeah. It's been... It's been good for me, kiddo. No foolin'."

Damian didn't know what to think about this. He'd never really considered the idea of going to a mental health professional, though he knew some of his teachers had told Father it would be a good idea for him to see someone to deal with "separation anxiety" or some such nonsense, since their cover story was that Damian's mother had left him with Bruce Wayne after keeping him away for the first ten years of his life. Father had made agreeable noises in his Brucie persona at the suggestion, but nothing had ever come of it, of course.

Some part of Damian had always assumed that only weak people, only broken people, needed the help of a therapist, and of course he himself would never be weak enough or broken enough to require it. But Grayson was by no means weak or broken, no matter how many "rough" things he had been through in his life. And if he thought that seeing a therapist was helpful for him... Well, maybe there was something to it, after all.

"All right, then. What did your therapist teach you?"

Grayson gave him another one of those unexpectedly big grins. "We talked about this thing called 'negative self-talk.' It's like, when things go wrong for you, what's your first reaction? What are the kinds of things you say to yourself? If your mind is constantly down on you, saying things like, 'This is all your fault,' or 'You're stupid, you messed that up,' things like that... That's negative self-talk, and you need to learn to change it so you can be healthier and happier."

"So I've been having... negative Drake-talk."

Grayson laughed. "I guess you could put it that way. When you think about Tim, or try to interact with him, your instinct is to put him down or blame him for things that go badly. I'm really proud of you for recognizing that that's wrong and wanting to change it."

Damian nodded. "How? How do you... How do I change it?"

"Recognizing that you're doing it is the first step. It's great that you've already figured that out. Then the next thing I guess is to...try to gain some perspective. A lot of times this negative talk is very exaggerated. You need to be able to look at the situation objectively. Did Tim really do something wrong? Or was it beyond his ability to control? Even if he did make a mistake, was it really that terrible? Does it really speak to his worth as a person, or was it a small, simple error that anyone could make at any time, even you?"

Damian thought about it for a long moment. Could he look at things objectively? Especially when they involved Drake?

He wanted to. He was sure of that much. "I think I can do that."

"Of course you can. You're so smart and kind, Damian. You can do anything."

The corner of Damian's mouth twisted up. "You have very positive Damian-talk, don't you?"

Grayson grinned. "You bet I do. I have positive Tim-talk and Jason-talk and Cass-talk, too. All of my siblings are amazing. I'm so proud of all of you."

"And positive Grayson-talk? Positive self-talk?"

Grayson sobered, his smile fading, though it didn't disappear. "I'm working on it. I promise."

"Good."

X

The visit did not go well. At least, it didn't go as well as Drake wanted it to. When the group returned, Damian met them at the door, and Drake brushed past him without looking at him and went up to his room, thump-thumping up the steps with his clumsy leg. Damian turned around and watched him go, and from this angle he could only see that Drake still had casts on both of his hands. Cain was already hurrying up the steps after him, and Grayson was already in his room with the squirrels, so Damian knew he would have support.

He turned back to the door, where Todd and Father still lingered, both looking morose in different but similar ways. Father's face was almost blank with displeasure, while Todd was glowering, but their lips were bent in almost exactly the same small frown.

"What happened?" Damian asked.

"They did take off the casts," Todd said, his voice inflecting in a way that indicated humor, even while his expression was bitter. "But then they put them right back on again."

"They were able to remove some of the pins," Father said. "But not all. The cast on his left hand is different now." He held up his own left hand to demonstrate, pointing at the top of his palm. "It stops at the fingers now, so he'll be able to manuever more objects with his left hand. The thumb is still immobilized, though, and his right hand is still completely covered."

Damian looked at the stairs. "Did he fall immediately back into full depression?"

"Not quite." Todd rubbed the back of his head. Damian realized that he looked exhausted, not angry. "But he's definitely in a real bad mood. If you want to stay out of his room tonight, that's okay. I'll feed the squirrels."

Damian shook his head. "Grayson is still there. He can help." In more ways than one, he didn't say. He imagined that Grayson was already holding Drake tightly in his arms at this very moment, while Cain plastered herself to Drake's back. He decided he did not feel jealous of the image in his head. He knew that Grayson would hug him anytime he asked for it, and Cain was also loose with her affections. Damian had been the subject of her brand of physical affection more than once after a vigorous training session. It was annoying, but not completely awful.

He straightened his shoulders and looked back at Todd, remembering the determination he had made during his discussion with Grayson this afternoon. "I will not avoid Drake because he is in a 'bad mood,' either. If we're going to be brothers now, our relationship cannot exist only when we feel like being brothers."

Todd held still, blinking at him in puzzlement. Then he shrugged in seeming acceptance. "Have it your way, little dude. I'm gonna go run the perimeter, okay?" He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "Take care of Timmy for me."

Damian nodded solemnly. "I will."

He took off, and Father smiled and put a hand on Damian's shoulder. "You seem...different, jigar tala. More confident about relating to Tim. Did you figure out a way to make restitution?"

"Not yet. But I have some ideas."

Father squeezed his shoulder. "Let me know if you need anything."

Despite his determined words, Damian did not immediately go to Drake's room. He spent some time in his own room, tidying up, then working on a letter that had been waiting on his desk for several days. He went to the kitchen and made a sandwich, since dinner would not be for a couple of hours. After he finished eating it, he considered for a few minutes, then made another sandwich. He put on gloves to handle the meat. Then he cut it up into small squares and put it on a plate with a fork and went up to Drake's room.

Cain was no longer there. Drake lay on his stomach on the bed, shirtless, his head resting in his folded arms. Grayson straddled his flank, leaning over him to massage his back. Damian set the plate aside on the dresser, next to the arrangement of cards and small gifts, then stepped over to the bed to watch. Drake turned his head to give him a half-lidded look, but he didn't tell him to go away.

Drake's back looked better now, after three weeks of healing, but the marks of torture were still extensive. Red lines criss-crossed his back, thick and corded. Damian had seen enough torture to recognize the work of someone experienced in inflicting pain. That didn't make it any better, of course. It might have made it worse.

A small tub of something thick and creamy rested next to Drake's naked torso on the bed, and Grayson kept dipping into it, then returning to smooth the contents across all of those scars. Damian could smell cocoa butter and wintergreen. The concoction was likely meant to both soothe pain and reduce scarring.

Grayson gave Damian a brief smile, but most of his efforts were concentrated on Drake as he leaned over him, rubbing the cream into his corded back. "Let me know if I'm pressing too hard, kiddo," he said softly. "I don't want to hurt your ribs."

"No, it's good," Drake murmured. His eyes drooped further, and Damian could see how utterly relaxed he was, every knot melting away under Grayson's touch. "Don't stop." He turned his head away from Damian to face the other way, but he still didn't tell him to leave.

Damian climbed up on the bed and sat cross-legged next to Drake's head, continuing to watch as Grayson ministered to their brother. He folded his fingers in his lap, but he could feel them twitching, longing to reach out and touch. To dip into that little tub of soothing cream and press it into his own skin, watch it sink in and disappear.

He wished Grayson had been there after the beatings he'd received for his failures with the League. It would have felt so nice to get a massage like this, to feel Grayson's firm, gentle touch smoothing cream over his welts and bruises. But that time was long gone. He would never need treatment like this again, because Father had promised not to beat him, and Damian was never going back to the League.

And then he had another idea.

"Grayson."

Grayson looked up at him, his hands pausing on Drake's back. "Yeah, buddy?"

Damian drew a breath. "Please teach me how to do that."

Grayson wasn't going to be here every day. After the weekend, he was going to go back to Bludhaven and continue working at his job, living his life. But Damian was going to be here. He could attend Drake in their big brother's place.

Grayson smiled and sat back a little, careful not put too much weight on Drake's legs. "Sure. That's a great idea. Timmy, is that okay with you?"

Drake stirred a bit from the stupor he had fallen into, then raised his head just enough to look at Damian over his folded arms. He stared at him for an achingly long moment, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen, then put his face back down on the bed. "Yeah, that's fine." His voice was muffled in the covers, but clear enough to understand.

Damian smiled. Finally, a service he could provide. And Timothy was accepting it.

Chapter Text

In Jason's experience, Sunday was pretty chill around the Wayne Manor. Even perpetual workaholics like Bruce and (apparently, when he wasn't laid up) Timmy tended to take some time to rest up after the labors of the week. Patrol was usually truncated unless there was some kind of emergency. With Dick there, he liked to rope the entire family into watching a movie together or just hanging out for the afternoon.

Now that Tim had finally started accepting visitors, this Sunday was a little different. Nothing strenuous, though. It was actually pretty cool.

Jason had never met Mr. Fixer before, the minor vigilante Tim had been staying with when he got kidnapped. He went by Slim in his civilian identity, a deceptively short black man with wiry muscles and a gray goatee, wearing a baseball cap and clothes that had seen better days. He didn't seem impressed by the manor, barely glancing around as Alfred led him back to the sitting room where most of the family was hanging out.

Tim was still worn out from the emotional storm the day before, lounging in a recliner and listening to music on his headphones while Dick and Damian played a board game and Cass and Jason spectated. When Alfred and Slim appeared in the doorway, Tim opened his eyes and sat up, using the fingers of his left hand to pull off his headphones. "Slim," he greeted, his voice light with pleasure. "It's good to see you. Sorry for not getting back to you earlier."

Slim nodded with a slight grunt and sat on an ottoman next to Tim's recliner, eschewing the more comfortable seating options. Alfred took his leave after Slim refused any refreshments. Jason watched him, doing his best not to be outright rude, though he could see from the corner of the eye that Cass was watching, too, and she didn't give a single damn about politeness. To Jason's eye, Mr. Fixer held himself with the grace and intensity of a highly skilled martial artist. It wasn't that he saw violence there, just readiness and strength. He wondered what Cass saw.

Cass didn't seem tense or wary. Not at all. After eyeing Slim up and down for a few moments, she went back to watching Dick and Damian's game. She didn't see the guy as any kind of threat, then. Not that Jason had expected her to.

But you never knew.

Slim's mouth twisted a little as he looked Tim over, taking in the weariness, the casts on his hands, the nearly-faded bruises and cuts on his visible skin. "You're healing up, boyo. Good to see."

Tim smiled, leaning back into his chair. "Yeah. You? They told me you had a concussion from that night. Nothing serious, I hope."

Slim's nose wrinkled. "It was nothing. I would have taken worse if I could have stopped them from stealing you away."

"You're not blaming yourself, are you? It wasn't your fault. There were too many of them, and we were both caught off guard. I'm just sorry that I brought my troubles to your doorstep like that. I know what it feels like to have your home invaded, to be unsafe in the place that should be your sanctuary. I would never wish that on anyone else."

Slim grunted and leaned forward to tap his fingernail against the back of Tim's hand, knocking lightly against the plaster cast. "Stop that. If it wasn't my fault, it wasn't yours. You're a kid. I'm an adult. I knew what I was getting into when I chose to keep living in that neighborhood when it went bad. You were a guest in my house, and I should have kept you safe."

Tim smiled. "Let's just agree that it was neither of our faults."

Slim nodded, and they sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, regarding each other gently. Then Slim sat straighter and looked around at the room. Tim understood it for the question it was and gestured around at the people who shared the room. "These are my siblings, Slim. I think you've met my oldest brother, Dick Grayson."

Dick waved from the table, then went back to frowning intensely at his cards. He and Damian were playing a complicated game with resource cards and little wooden road and town pieces. Dick was not doing well, and Damian was getting close to reaching the necessary points to win.

"And that's my baby brother, Damian, playing Settlers of Catan with him." Damian flicked a glance over, but did not otherwise move, too concentrated on his game. "And this is my second oldest brother, Jason, and my sister, Cassandra."

Slim gave them both grave nods. His eyes lingered on Jason. "Your brother, huh? Thought I saw on the news that this was your new bodyguard, Jay Dodson."

Tim flushed, and Slim turned back to face him with a cheeky grin. "Just kidding. You don't owe me an explanation."

Tim shook his head with a wry smile. "I don't know if I could give you one even if I tried."

"There's a lot of weird stuff in the world, boyo. I get it."

Tim nodded solemnly. Slim nodded back. Jason sat there, wondering if he was about to watch two introverts just be introverts in the same room for a while. There were less exciting things to do, but he couldn't think of any at the moment.

But after sitting there in silence for a few more moments, Slim slapped his knee and stood up. "Can you walk on that leg? Got something to show you."

Tim's eyes lit up with curiosity. "I can walk, just slow." He set his headphones aside and climbed to his feet, not without some difficulty. Neither Jason nor Slim offered him a hand, though, aware that Tim would want to do it himself.

Jason went with them, of course, winding through the manor hallways to a side door. Slim led the way, pride and satisfaction in his body language. Then they were outside, and there parked on the concrete of the drive was...

"My motorcycle!" Tim exclaimed, pure delight in his voice. "You fixed it up!"

Slim clapped his shoulder with a grin, and Tim hobbled over to inspect it, bending over to look at the areas that had taken damage during his accident and praising Slim for his good work. Jason stood next to Slim, his arms crossed over his chest, and watched. It was good to see the kid enjoying himself. Jason's appreciation and respect for Slim notched up several degrees, not that it had been low to begin with.

After satisfying himself that everything was as it should be, Tim moved back over to give Slim an impulsive hug, wrapping his cast-covered arms around his middle. Slim looked a little startled, but did the right thing and hugged him back before Tim stepped away, flushing again. "What do I owe you for the work?" Tim asked.

Slim shook his head. "Consider it a get-well present."

"At least let me cover the parts."

Slim looked amused. "No."

Tim looked sour, and Jason knew he was going to figure out a way to pay the guy somehow. Maybe with an over-the-top donation to his favorite charity, or maybe with brand-new, expensive equipment being delivered to his shop. Tim was passive-aggressive that way, and it was also something Bruce would do. For not being biologically related, the two had way too much in common.

Slim shook his head and held out the keys for the bike. "Have fun, boyo. You deserve it."

Slim laid the keys in the cradle of the fingers on his left hand, and Tim looked at them morosely. "I can't drive right now. Don't know when I'll be able to again."

Jason reached out for the keys. "Can you hold on, at least?"

Tim turned toward him, a look of cautious optimism dawning on his face. "Really?" He let Jason pluck the keys from his fingers.

Jason nodded. "Yeah, for sure. We've both been cooped up on this property for too long. It'll be good to stretch our legs." He looked at the bike, his own grin spreading. "Or wheels, as the case may be."

He bounced on his toes, excitement bursting in his chest at the prospect of doing something besides sitting around the manor or running the perimeter or training in the cave. He missed his bike, too.

Tim laughed, a sound of pure, childlike glee that Jason had never heard him make before. It was unexpected and incredibly sweet, and Jason looked at him in wonder for a moment. Who knew this serious, over-burdened young man still had the capacity to sound like a child?

"I'm gonna go tell Alfred where we're going," Jason said, turning toward the house.

"How will you get home?" Tim asked Slim. "You rode the bike here, right?"

"I'm sure I can get a ride," Slim said, his voice still packed with amusement.

Jason found Alfred in the kitchen and told him what was going on. Alfred looked unexpectedly pleased, too. "I'm glad to hear that Master Tim is showing interest in going outside," he said with a gentle smile.

Jason grinned. "Yeah, I was worried about a setback after yesterday, but... Maybe Timmy is more resilient than I thought."

"Master Tim has always been stronger than most people give him credit for, including himself." Alfred's smile widened a bit, his eyes sparkling. "He also has always enjoyed any chance to go fast."

Jason hummed. "The kid is a such a nerd, I never realized he was a speed demon, too."

"Dinner will be in an hour or so. Can we expect you?"

"Yeah. We'll stick to country roads, no going into Gotham or anything. See you soon, Alfie."

Tim was already sitting on the bike when he got back, balanced precariously with two helmets, one on his head and one in his hands. He bounced when he saw Jason and held out the helmet in his hands. Jason laughed as he took it and adjusted the inner straps, then put it on. "You ready to go fast, boyo?"

Tim giggled again, that same pure, childlike sound of delight as before. "Yeah! Let's go!"

Jason hopped on the bike and turned the keys. Tim leaned into him, a length of warmth down his spine, slender arms wrapped around his chest. Jason made a couple of laps of the drive to get a feel for the bike. It was great, purring like a kitten, but he could feel all the power just waiting to be released. With another surge of excitement, he gunned it for the gate.

The gate was already open, probably thanks to Alfred calling ahead. They took off down the country road, accelerating hard. Tim's long, drawn-out "Whooooo!" trailed behind them as they went. Jason reveled in it all: the speed, the rush of the wind, the rumbling of the bike between his legs, the sound of his little brother's unrestrained joy.

The ride was great. Awesome. Perfect. For an hour, they both forgot that there was anything bad in the world. It was just them, Jason and Tim, going fast and watching the scenery fly by.

X

The good feelings didn't last forever. Jason woke up in the middle of the night to the sounds of Tim having another nightmare. They were getting increasingly frequent, as if the gradual healing of Tim's body meant that his mind felt justified in lashing out instead. At this point Jason was sleeping on a cot set up under the window of Tim's room (the cot had actually been set up the first night he arrived, but he hadn't used it for a couple of weeks), but he was so attuned to any sounds of distress from Tim that he woke up before it got to the yelling stage.

Tim was struggling and mumbling, his arms pushing against the blankets wrapped around him as if they were chains. His face shone with sweat in the moonlight, and the bags under his eyes looked bruised. Jason fumbled to his feet, blinking and smacking his lips, and went over to the bed to shake his shoulder.

"C'mon, Timmy. C'mon, baby bird. It's just a dream. Wake up. Wake up, little bro. Everything's okay."

Tim went still with a gasp, though he didn't open his eyes immediately. He lay against the pillows, sweating and shaking as he acclimatized himself to the fact that he was in his own bed, not trapped wherever he had been in the nightmare. He opened his eyes and blinked up at Jason. Tears immediately overflowed and ran down, but he kept his lips pressed firmly shut, unwilling to make a sound.

Jason sighed and dropped down on his butt next to him. He swept his fingers through the kid's sweaty hair, and it didn't even feel that gross to him anymore. He'd done this a bunch of times now, and nothing really mattered to him except making Tim feel better and helping him go back to sleep.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Jason asked.

Tim shook his head. He always did.

"Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?"

Tim breathed raggedly, in and out. "Water."

"You got it."

Jason lumbered to his feet and snagged Tim's water tumbler off the nightstand, then went to the bathroom and filled it up. When he got back, Tim had pushed himself to a half-sitting position, lounging against the pile of pillows at his back. He held out his hands, and Jason gave him the tumbler, keeping a light grip until he was sure Tim's hold was firm. It was easier now that Tim had some fingers he could use.

Jason sat next to him again, and Tim turned sideways and leaned back into his side, sucking down water like it was going out of style. Jason put an arm around him and leaned his head against the pillow pile, his eyes drooping.

"You can talk to me, you know. Whenever you want. About anything. I know it's hard, but I heard it helps."

"Don't like talking," Tim mumbled around his straw.

"Yeah, me neither. But that's what big bird and the old man keep saying, that we should talk about it. I get that you don't want to talk to anyone else, but you can talk to me. I promise, nothing will shock me."

Tim held out the tumbler, and Jason took it and set it aside. Tim rolled his head over, resting it on Jason's shoulder, and Jason firmed his arm around his body and lifted his other hand to stroke his hair again. Tim was limp, letting himself be held, letting himself be caressed. It was something, anyway.

Before this whole debacle began, Jason never would have imagined Tim letting him do this. Never would have imagined that he would want to do it, for that matter. But now it was practically routine. In the daytime they sat in separate chairs and rarely touched, even while Bruce and Dick and Cass and even Alfred, on occasion, all took every chance to cuddle with Tim and give him little touches and forehead kisses. But at night, when Tim had a nightmare, it was his bodyguard who took on the duty to soothe and protect him even from the figments of his mind.

Tim grunted against his shoulder. "'M not worried about shocking you."

"What then? Why won't you talk to me? Are you afraid it will make it worse?"

Tim shook his head. He swallowed, his throat clicking. "Just...doesn't seem fair."

Jason blinked. He had no idea where this was going. "What doesn't seem fair? 'Cause I mean, the fact this happened to you... All that seems pretty unfair to me, I gotta say."

Tim huffed. "It doesn't seem fair for...for me to complain about... For that, when, when... When you went through so much worse."

It turned out that Jason had lied, because now he was definitely shocked. He jolted and pulled back, grabbing Tim's shoulders and turning him to look in his eyes. "You don't want to talk about what happened to you because you think what happened to me was worse?"

Tim nodded, his eyes shining with tears.

"God fucking damn it, you are such an idiot." Jason let go of his shoulder with one hand to wipe the tears away with his thumb. "I don't understand how you can be so smart and so dumb at the same time, Timmy Timmy Timbo."

Tim stared at him, unable to speak.

Jason sighed and pulled him into his arms for a full-on hug, careful not to put pressure on his ribs. "It's not a competition, you bird brain. Just because I've been hurt in my life doesn't mean that your hurts are lesser. You need to get better just as much as I do."

"But, but what happened to you was so much worse." Tim's voice was muffled in his shoulder. "It was just one day for me. You were...you were with the League for so long, and before that you were tortured to death, then blown up, and you had to dig your way out of your own grave, and even before that you had bad parents who hurt you, and you had to survive on your own on the streets, and I've never had to deal with any of that, so it's stupid for me to complain and whine, it's stupid for me to, to..."

Jason felt cold. "Stop it right there." The words came much more harshly than he'd intended, viciously ripping out of his mouth. Tim went still, and Jason pulled back to look into his face again.

They really didn't have time to unpack all of that, but Jason was goddamn going to try.

"Okay, yes. I had a sad childhood. So did you, though, don't think I forgot that. We both had parents who hurt us, just in different ways."

Tim shook his head desperately, and Jason raised a hand to silence him. Tim went still, staring.

"And yes, I had a bad time with the Joker. And a bad time with the League." He shuddered. "I'm not even sure I remember all of it, but what I do remember was..not good. But you've had a bad time, too, baby bird. Even before McDaniels and all of that awfulness, you've been having a bad time. We both went through too much bad stuff, and neither of us deserved it, and both of us need a whole metric fuckton of therapy. We both need to talk about it, and we both..." He swallowed, just as hard as Tim had before. "We both deserve to be healed. Comparison is pointless. We both... We both..."

Words failed him. He wanted Tim to heal. He wanted him to be better. So, so much. The desire filled him, every particle of him, in a flood of sorrow and longing. He wanted it so much that it hurt. It ached and it burned. Seeing Timmy in pain was...awful. It was the worst. He wanted it to stop with everything he had, everything he was.

And for the first time, maybe he wanted it for himself, too. Maybe this was how Dick and Bruce felt when they looked at Jason and saw how much pain he was in, too. Maybe he deserved help just as much as Tim did, despite his faults, his errors, his sins.

Tim licked his lips. "If I went to therapy, would you go too?"

Jason nodded. He had been just about to make that exact offer. Trust Tim, smart Tim, compassionate Tim, to beat him to it.

Tim drew a breath, then another, deeper. "Okay. Let's try it."

Jason hugged him again.

Chapter Text

The day after they mutually agreed to give therapy a shot, Tim noticed that Jason was texting a lot. He knew that Dick and Jason texted each other, and it was often about him, giving each other updates about how he was doing, what his mental state was, if he'd been eating enough. He'd first realized they were doing it when he was pretty deeply buried in depression after first coming home from the hospital. He hadn't had the energy to care, then.

He didn't think he minded it, even now, though a small part of him was irritated that his older brothers were talking about him behind his back, sort of. Mostly, he just felt warmed and pleased that they cared that much. He knew that Dick and Jason had been in some contact before all of this had happened, but it had been mostly vigilante business. Now they were talking about family stuff. Tim couldn't be upset about that. He was glad that his brothers were getting along better.

A small part of him even thought that maybe it was all worth it, if it led to this outcome. Bruce was being more attentive, being more fatherly with both Tim and Damian. Cass had come home. Dick was spending more time in the manor and in Gotham.

Most importantly, Jason was here. It was still awkward, and he and Bruce still barely talked. He had to leave the house and go on his runs in order to blow off steam. But Jason was relaxing more and more by the day. He and Dick were texting. He got along with Cass. Since the baby squirrels had come into their lives, he was even spending some time with Damian that didn't include swords, fists, or guns. And he seemed genuinely concerned, genuinely affectionate, with Tim himself.

So maybe it was okay. Maybe getting tortured and almost dying and losing the use of his hands was worth it, if it led to his family all being under one roof and talking to each other again. Tim didn't really matter, after all. He'd always been the fill-in, the temp. He'd known that from the beginning. He had never been talented, never been a natural. He was a bandaid over a gaping wound, and it was only through sheer effort and sacrifice and pure bloody-mindedness that he had achieved any kind of success at his chosen role.

And maybe it was kind of pathetic, but he was glad that he was good at it. It was pretty stupid for a twelve-year-old to think he had some kind of power to help a grown man through grief and depression after losing a son, but it had worked. Tim had watched as Bruce's emotional state improved, though he was never quite the same person he had been before Jason's death. He had been so proud of himself for contributing to that improvement, though he had never been so deluded to think that it was only because of him. Bruce had always had the strength to pull himself out of that mental pit. He had just needed a push, and Tim had provided it.

So the job was done, right? Bruce had gotten through that awful period of grief and despair, and Tim had been at his side the entire time. Dick was back, too. At first he had only really returned to Gotham to mentor Tim and help him when Bruce was busy, but now he had other reasons to come home, like Damian. Tim had even retrieved Bruce from being lost in time, a job he had never expected to have to do when he first signed up for Robin, but one he was glad to have accomplished. He had protected Wayne Enterprises and Bruce's other interests while he was gone, too. Tim was proud of that, and he felt justified in his pride.

Now Jason was home, too. So the job was done. It was all done. Everyone Bruce loved was safe and at home and finally starting to heal their relationships. Tim didn't have to be Robin, or Red Robin, didn't have to be a hero of any kind, because he'd already met all his goals. It was okay that his hands were crippled and might never heal. It was okay that his body ached with scars and old injuries. It was okay that he didn't have a spleen. It was okay that grief had settled deep in his bones and never quite went away.

It was okay that his dad...

But there Tim's thought process hitched and could not go forward. It was not okay that Jack Drake had died, targeted because he had a vigilante son. It was not okay that Dana Winters had had a mental breakdown and eventually moved away to live with her sister in Oregon. Tim could accept all of the personal sacrifices he had made, of his body, his time, his emotional well-being. But he had never meant to sacrifice them.

That was not okay. It would never be okay. And it was all his fault.

Tim could feel himself starting to sink into depression again. It was so stupid. He guessed he really did need that therapy, if just a stray thought about his dead dad could send him spiraling again.

That night, when Bruce settled down on the couch in the lounge and tugged Tim to rest against his side, Jason did not immediately take off to "check the perimeter." He sat down in a recliner facing them and tried for a smile, nervous and a little off. He was holding his phone in his hand like a talisman.

"Something up, pumpkin?" Bruce asked. Tim was already leaning into him, his ear against his chest. He liked the way Bruce's deep voice rumbled through Tim's head when he talked, a pleasant vibration that wove through the bones of his face like a thread holding a tapestry together.

Jason nodded. "Remember that deal we made that one time? About how I would help you persuade Tim to go to therapy if you found a therapist you could trust?"

Bruce nodded, and Tim blinked. He hadn't heard this deal, but he wasn't surprised that Jason and Bruce had had a discussion like this. He wondered whose idea it had been. He was willing to bet it had been Bruce's, trying to coax Jason into getting help.

"Well, Tim and I made a deal, too. Last night. We're ready to give it a try."

Tim could feel the smile in Bruce's voice, rumbling through his chest. "That's wonderful. I'm so proud of you both."

The corner of Jason's mouth turned upward. "Yeah. Well, I've been texting Dickhead about it, and he said he's already seeing a therapist in Bludhaven. His therapist knows about him being Nightwing and hasn't betrayed him yet. And apparently, she's...helpful. Or so says Dickiebird."

"You think she might be good for you and Tim, too?"

"Dick thinks so. I can't know without meeting her. But I'm willing to give it a shot." His eyes flicked to Tim. "How about you, baby bird? Wanna try this one on for size?"

Tim hummed, surprised at being consulted. "If Dick trusts her, I'm sure she's great."

Jason blew out a breath as if he hadn't been sure Tim would agree. "Okay. Cool. Anyway, Dick says his next appointment is Wednesday at 7 PM. He's going to call ahead and ask her if we can come with him. Sort of as a trial run. Sound good?"

Tim nodded. Now that the plan was more concrete, he suddenly felt a squirming in his belly. But it was too late to back out now. "Yeah. Sure."

Bruce had tensed up, though, as if Tim's sudden tension was transferring to him. "Name? Credentials?"

Jason gave him a crooked smile. "You wanna run like a dozen background checks, don't you?" He leaned forward and passed Bruce his phone. "Here, I pulled up her web page for you. Dr. Anna Thacker. I haven't had time to run any checks myself, but Dick said he checked her out thoroughly before his first visit. Of course, you are welcome to replicate his work."

Bruce grunted, studying the phone in his hand with frowning intensity. Tim craned his head to get a look, but couldn't see much from this angle. He did get a quick glimpse of her photo. A white woman, older, with gray-blond hair and small wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She looked kindly and wise, not that looks really meant much.

He kinda liked the fact that she was on the older side, though. She probably had a lot of experience. She'd probably been around the block a few times and wouldn't be shocked by much.

Still, he couldn't decide if he actually wanted to tell this woman anything about himself. He would have to meet her and see. He tried to visualize what it would be like to sit in a room with Dr. Anna Thacker, talking about his fears, his memories, his losses, the bad thoughts that took him by surprise and roared through him like a storm, leaving him shaken and empty. He couldn't quite make it fit in his head.

Then he imagined sitting with Dick and Jason, listening to them talk instead. That was easier. Much, much easier.

Maybe that would be okay.

Bruce grunted and handed Jason his phone back. "Thank you, son. I think this is a wonderful plan. I appreciate you and Dick putting so much thought into it."

Jason raised his eyebrows, probably not expecting praise for something like this. That was another thing Tim had noticed about Bruce since McDaniels—he was much quicker to offer praise whenever any of his kids had done something that pleased him. Tim knew that it was because he had scared Bruce so badly with that stupid admission as he lay in Jason's lap, disoriented and despondent after a day of torture. Bruce was alarmed by the idea of any of his children feeling insecure, now, and he was trying to stop it before it began.

Jason seemed happy, though, as much as he tried to pretend that Bruce's words meant nothing to him, so Tim chalked it up as another one of his weird accomplishments. It was okay if Tim felt insecure and passively suicidal, if it convinced Bruce to be more open with his feelings. Jason and Damian and the others were going to benefit from it, so it was okay.

Bruce turned his head and pressed his lips into Tim's hair. "Are you really okay with this, sweetheart? You've been pretty quiet."

Tim's heart thudded a little harder at the gentle murmur. How had Bruce known that he was having misgivings? Was Tim really that obvious?

He hesitated, then nodded against Bruce's chest. "Yeah. I'm okay with it. A little... A little nervous. I'm not sure it's really gonna help. But I'm willing to try."

Bruce smiled and kissed his head. "Okay, sweetheart. That's very brave of you."

And that was the problem with Bruce's new openness. Sometimes it was kind of over-the-top. Sometimes Tim wasn't sure it was genuine, and that bothered him. He had always been so good at reading Bruce, at understanding him both verbally and non-verbally. Only Cassandra had been better at it.

But now sometimes Bruce said things, and Tim didn't know if they were true at all. Like...

"I love you, Tim," Bruce murmured, as he did almost every night.

"Okay," Tim said, helpless and out of his depth.

Bruce hummed pleasantly. And the evening went on.

X

The next day, Damian surprised him. Tim was getting a little tired of being surprised by the actions of his fellow humans. It left him feeling like the foundation under his feet was unstable, his world shifting.

Damian had taken to Dick's massage lessons with the fierce intensity he focused on any skill he remotely cared about. On Sunday, he had massaged Tim's back under Dick's supervision, and on Monday and Tuesday, he did it by himself. Tim had to admit his massages felt good. Damian's small fingers seemed to work themselves into Tim's knots and along his scars even more deftly than Dick's did, and he never pressed too firmly or too softly. Damian took the task extremely seriously and was intent on doing a perfect job, every time. It was odd but rather nice to be the subject of Damian's attention like that.

After the massage on Tuesday, Tim lay on his bed, eyes drooping and body utterly limp. His mind was drifting in a warm and pleasant sea, set free of any moorings, and he knew he would fall asleep soon if something didn't wake him up. "Wait here one moment, Drake," Damian muttered as he climbed off him, and Tim heard his footsteps hurrying out the door and down the hall.

Tim continued to lay there, drifting. In moments Damian was back, thrusting a folded piece of paper under his nose. "You don't have to read it right away. Probably best to do it while you're relaxed, though."

Then he took off again, and he didn't return. It was very strange.

Tim took him at his word and let himself continue to drift for a little while longer. Then he rolled languidly onto his side and pulled the piece of paper in front of his face. It was a standard piece of letter paper, folded into thirds but not placed in an envelope or sealed with anything. Tim's name was written on it in Damian's precise handwriting, and for a little while he stared at it stupidly, not understanding what was strange about it.

Then he realized with a slight jolt. Damian hadn't written his name as "Drake" or even "Tim Drake," but as "Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne." True, Damian had casually referred to Tim as his brother in public, but this was the first time he'd given Tim the benefit of the Wayne name, even in writing.

Curious and a bit apprehensive, Tim unfolded the paper, holding it clumsily down on the bed with his right hand so his left fingers could manuever it, then caught the edge between two fingers so he could hold it in front of his face to read it. There were actually a couple of pages, both almost covered with Damian's strangely crisp and clear cursive. It was so neat and tidy that it could have been a font, but Tim could see the ink marks, the way the pen had pressed into the page, so he knew it was handwritten.

Even the greeting was strange. "Dear Timothy," not "Dear Drake" or something. Tim kept reading, his heart in his throat.

Dear Timothy,

I have been advised that I would do well to apologize to you for the many harms I have done you. I intended to give you this speech in person, but everytime I practiced, it seemed to go awry somehow. At last Pennyworth gave the excellent advice of writing a letter instead, so that is what I am doing.

I am sorry that I fought you on our first meeting. I'm sorry that I was arrogant and ignorant and did not take the time to learn the rules and expectations of the new place I was living in, but instead tried to apply the rules and expectations of my childhood. That was a grave error, and I regret it.

I am sorry that I spurned your attempts at friendship. I am sorry that I sought your death. I am sorry that I stabbed you. I am sorry that I left you to bleed out on the floor of the Batcave. I am sorry that you suffered for my error, and that you lost time in recovery you could have better spent in other pursuits, such as increasing your skills. You need all the help increasing your skills that you can get.

I am sorry that I verbally abused you. I was cruel, and I did it purposefully, with full knowledge of what I was doing. I harmed you. It was wrong.

I know that mere words are not enough to recompense you for all the pain I have caused you. I will endeavor to show my regret in more concrete ways, but I'm still working on ways to do that. I will beg your patience as I continue to learn from my errors and do my best not to repeat them.

I understand you may never want to offer your hand in friendship to me again, after the way I so callously rebuffed you. I understand that our sibling relationship may always be strained as well. But I have come to learn that it is good to have siblings, and I think it would be good to be your brother, as well. I hope someday we can relate to each other better.

Thank you for reading this letter. There is no need to respond unless you feel a desire to do so. I will not expect anything that you do not wish to give.

Sincerely,
Damian Wayne

By the time he finished, the pages were almost rattling in Tim's shaking hand. He didn't know what to think. Was it a trick? Was Damian setting him up for something? He couldn't imagine what. He couldn't come up with any reason for Damian to do this. He felt like he'd been clubbed in the face and knocked to the floor, and now he couldn't feel his legs to get up.

After a considering for a moment, he wriggled further up on his bed and stuck the letter under his pillows where he wouldn't have to look at it. Then he just lay there for a while, thinking about it. By the time Alfred called him for dinner and Jason came up to find him, he still hadn't figured out why Damian would write a letter like that.

Unless, maybe, he actually meant it. But that couldn't be true, could it?

No. Surely not.

Chapter Text

On Wednesday, Bruce took the day off work to stay home with Tim. At about ten in the morning, Bullock and MacDonald came to go over Tim's statement and get his signature, and also have him look over some mugshots of the men who had been caught at the warehouse. Alfred and Jason could have been present during the meeting for moral support, but Bruce felt strongly that he should be there, and when he offered, Tim did not object. Rather, he seemed to relax.

Jason made himself scarce, not wanting to spend too much time around the police in any case. Bruce sat next to Tim in the dining room, the papers spread over the table in front of them while Bullock and MacDonald sat on the other side. MacDonald took notes while Bullock did the talking.

Tim was tense from the beginning, and as the meeting went on, it only got worse. Bullock watched him carefully, compassion in his dark brown eyes, and often reminded Tim that they could take a break anytime he wanted one. Tim just shook his head each time.

He just wanted to get it over with. Bruce sympathized, but he also hated seeing his son in so much pain. He rested a hand on Tim's opposite shoulder, his arm laying on his upper back, and held him loosely. Tim relaxed minutely at the contact, but his attention remained fixed on the documents in front of him.

His signature on the statement didn't look quite right, but it was the best he could do. Tim's signature might never look the same as it did before his hands were injured, but Bruce tried not to think about that. Much more interesting were the mugshots, at least to Bruce. When those came out, he watched with fixed attention, memorizing each face that Tim pointed out as belonging to the men who had hurt him.

True, Bruce had already beaten up these men at the warehouse, but he hadn't been paying much attention to what they looked like at the time. He was determined to make sure they never came within two miles of Tim again. Or anyone else in his family, for that matter. For many of them, Tim described specific things they had done to harm him. At first his voice was steady, but by the third mugshot, he was already starting to tremble.

"That one... I didn't hear that one's name, ever. I don't think. But he was one of the ones who burned me with cigarettes. I don't think... I don't think he enjoyed it. But he still did it. He did everything McDaniels told him to."

"That one was just a guard. I only ever saw him in the background. He wasn't even in the room for a lot of it."

"That one, um. That one. He did help beat me up in the beginning. I think he hit my shoulder and arm. But when, uh. When they whipped me. And I was screaming. He was the one who told McDaniels that they had to stop. He said it was. Um. He said it was too much, I was gonna pass out again, and it would be a, a w-waste of time, so then... So then McDaniels t-told them to. Told them to stop."

Tim was shaking hard after that one, and his face was snowy white. Bruce tightened his arm around his back and held him against his side, trying to give him some of his strength. "Tim, we can take a break," he said quietly. Not a demand. Just a reminder.

Tim shook his head. His eyes were glassy. "No. I want this done."

"Drink some water, anyway." Bruce grabbed the tumbler that had been set aside and held the straw to Tim's mouth. Tim drank almost mechanically, still staring at the mugshots.

Bullock cleared his throat and set down another one. "How 'bout this guy?"

Tim shook his head. "I don't recognize that one."

Bullock took it away. Bruce knew they had to show Tim some photos that weren't among the men arrested, like a police line-up. But Bullock had definitely chosen to show that one at that moment as a means of giving Tim a kind of break, and Bruce was grateful.

It went on. When it was done, Tim was limp and exhausted. Bruce moved him to a sitting room, practically carrying him there. He settled him on a couch, making sure his water was nearby. He smoothed his hair back from his face and kissed his forehead and told him he was brave, then went to see the officers out.

When he got back, Tim's eyes were drooping and his head was leaning heavily against the back of the couch, but he had some color back in his cheeks. Bruce sat next to him and pulled him in to rest against him, as he did so often in the evening. Tim sighed and molded into his side, letting his head roll onto Bruce's chest.

Bruce had been hoping that those evening cuddle sessions would eventually lead to Tim opening up and talking to him, but so far Tim kept falling asleep on him. And that was fine, too. Bruce was glad that Tim felt so comfortable with him, and it was strangely pleasant to just sit in silence and listen to his wounded child breathe, safe and at peace.

But it had become something of a pattern, for sure. Bruce sat next to his son, cuddled him, maybe tried to talk to him a little bit. He told him he loved him, and Tim said "Okay." And then Tim fell asleep. It felt a little bit like Tim was trying to avoid him, even while taking advantage of his presence and his warmth to get some good sleep.

Bruce had a feeling Tim was going to fall asleep pretty quickly this time, too. It was certainly understandable that he might need a nap after such a grueling session with the police. Still, Bruce couldn't help wanting more.

"Great job, Tim," he said softly. "I know that was hard. You were so brave. I love you."

Tim shuddered against him, then went still again. "Okay." He rolled his head over to rest in the middle of Bruce's chest, listening to his heartbeat. His body was boneless, dead weight. He was definitely Bruce's favorite blanket.

Bruce raised his hand and rested it on Tim's head, the tips of his fingers gently massaging through his hair. "Why do you always do that, sweetheart?"

"What?" Tim mumbled.

"I say I love you, and you say, 'Okay.'"

Tim went very still. Bruce kept stroking his hair.

"I'm not saying that I want more than that. You don't have to say you love me back. And I certainly appreciate the acknowledgement, since you used to simply say nothing when I told you I love you. But I am...curious. What are you thinking when you say that?"

Tim was quiet. Bruce could all but feel him thinking, his gaze far away. "I don't...I don't really know."

Bruce hummed. He had a feeling that that wasn't the full truth, but Tim wasn't sure how to articulate himself, or maybe didn't even know how he felt. "I understand why you didn't answer the first time I told you I love you, back at the hospital. I had never said that before to you, at least not that I remember, so it must have been a bit of a shock. Plus you had just been through an incredibly traumatic experience, so you were vulnerable and overwhelmed. It probably wasn't the best time for me to lay something like that on you, I understand that now. I'm sorry if it felt like I was pressuring you. That wasn't my intent.

"But that was more than a month ago, now. You've had time to consider it. You've had time to gauge my sincerity in observing my actions since then. Again, I'm not asking that you reciprocate. I'm not even asking if you believe me. I guess I just...I'd like an update on your feelings, I suppose. How am I doing? How are you feeling about it?"

It felt a bit like asking for a job review. He was asking his son to rate how well he was doing as a parent, and it might have been silly and a bit stupid. But Bruce all but held his breath, waiting for a response.

He'd been reading parenting books, especially ones about how to raise traumatized children. He should have picked them up when he took in Dick, or certainly when Jason entered his life at the very latest. He had been foolish not to. He should have taken classes, gotten training. Parenting was one of the most important jobs in the world, and he had botched it. Repeatedly and often.

The books said that there was no real way to "prove" to an abused or neglected child that you truly loved them. There was no big gesture that would do it, no perfect speech to make. Abused and neglected children were used to being lied to by adults in both word and deed. Their caretakers said they hadn't meant to hurt them, then did it again. They said that they would be there, and then they weren't. They said they loved them, then showed themselves liars over and over again.

The only way to prove that you were different was consistency. It took months or years of hard work and persistent, active care that showed itself in both actions and words. That was why Bruce had made the deliberate decision to change his schedule, to change his life and set aside blocks of time that were meant for each of his children, and no one else.

Training with Damian every afternoon, conversations or sparring with Cassandra whenever she had time. Sitting with Tim in the evening, which often included time with Jason as well, as long as Jason allowed it. When Dick came home on the weekend, Bruce tried to spend time with him one-on-one, too, though Dick was so focused on his younger siblings that it was often difficult to catch him alone. All of them choices, carefully made and stubbornly adhered to.

After a long few moments, Tim moved. He rolled over so he was sitting backward on the couch, his legs scrunched between his body and the back of the couch, his head and upper body resting against Bruce's torso still with his ear over his heart. And he wrapped his arms around Bruce, hugging him. Bruce sat forward slightly so as not to crush his hands.

Bruce wrapped his arms around him in return, confused but glad to accept Tim's affection when he could get it. Tim wasn't much of a hugger. He returned hugs when they were offered, but he almost never initiated them. Bruce wasn't great at hugging, either, so he'd always figured they were similar in that way. Tim initiating a hug with him was so rare that Bruce could count the times it had happened on one hand with room leftover.

Tim's voice was trembling, but it seemed to be with passion, not fear. "Bruce, I've always loved you."

The breath left Bruce's lungs in a rush. He hadn't expected that at all. He hugged Tim harder, his throat too tight for speech.

Tim's voice was soft, cracking, but clear and perfectly understandable. "At first, sure, I just loved you as a hero. Batman and Robin were my favorites, always, always. I admired you and I wanted to help. I would do anything, give anything. But when I got to know you, and you started teaching me... Of course I loved you. How could I not? You were so patient with this stupid kid who showed up on your doorstep and said you had to make him a hero, make him Robin. You never got mad when I messed up, you just said we could do it again, over and over until I got it right, and I... I loved you for that. Of course I did.

"And it just got deeper over the years. I got in trouble so many times, I needed rescuing constantly, and you came for me, you got me out, you saved me... Yeah, you told me to be better when I screwed up, you helped me to improve, but you also... You saved me. In so many ways. You cared about me. You wanted to spend time with me. You made me a tuna fish sandwich that crunched, but... You fed me, you took care of me, you..."

Tim drew a shuddering breath. "I don't... Bruce, are you really a detective? Really? How did you not know that before? That I loved you? Wasn't I obvious? Wasn't it just...shining out of my eyes every time I looked at you?"

Bruce chuckled, though it stuck in his throat. Tears were flowing out of his eyes, one after the other, running down the back of his nose. "God, sweetheart, I don't... Yes, it should have been obvious. I'm sorry. I'm an idiot." He kissed the top of Tim's head. "You are so good, of course you..."

He closed his eyes and breathed, remembering the long list of things Tim had sacrificed for him, and only for him. Yes, of course Tim loved him. It was blindingly obvious when you took more than a few seconds to look at his life.

He opened his eyes and kissed Tim's head again. "So why is it so hard for you to believe that I love you, too, kiddo? Why is that such a leap of logic, such a surprise?"

Tim's shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. "I don't know." His breath fluttered. "I really don't, I... I can believe you're happy to have me around, most of the time. I mean, especially when I was Robin, because Batman needs a Robin. I wasn't the best Robin, but I did everything I could, and... I know you appreciated that. I was helpful. I was your partner. I helped you solve cases, and I fought beside you. I was...useful. I can believe that you loved having me as Robin, but somehow I can't... I don't know. I can't make myself believe that you loved me.

"I've been thinking about it, I really have. Every time you say 'I love you,' and I say 'Okay,' I'm trying to figure out why I can't believe you. And I don't know why. I just know that I'm not Robin anymore, and now I might never be Red Robin either. And I might not be able to help you at Wayne Enterprises. I might not be able to do anything. And I don't... I can't understand why you would love me when I can't do anything to help you with your mission. When I'm just a useless burden and a drain on your resources and your time."

Now Bruce was trembling too. He felt almost dizzy with understanding. "Tim..." His voice was so choked he could barely get the words out.

"Tim, I don't love you because you're useful. I don't love you because you're a good partner, a good Robin, though you were. You were an excellent Robin, and Red Robin is wonderful, too, and I'm always happy to see you, in uniform or out, because I know things are going to go better when you're there. But that's not why I love you. I love you because you are Tim. I love you because... Because I do. There really isn't a reason. There's nothing you can do or not do to make that love go away or change. You didn't earn it with your usefulness, and you won't lose it even if you aren't useful anymore. Though whether or not you can be useful without the use of your hands is a topic for another time."

Tim was crying now, too, soaking his shirt. His breath came in shivering gasps. His entire body was shaking.

"Do you... Do you know when I started loving you?" Bruce heard the smile in his voice, sweet and nostalgic even through the tears. "It wasn't when you started being Robin. When you started being useful. I don't think you'd been working with me for more than two weeks. You were just starting your training, and we convinced you to move into the manor and stay there when your parents were away. And one day I came home from WE, and you were in the kitchen with Alfred helping him make something for a charity bake sale. Cookies or lemon bars, I don't remember anymore.

"But the door opened, and you turned around. You had this huge grin on your face. You were holding a spatula in one hand, and there was a streak of something white on your nose, flour or powdered sugar. And you saw who it was, you saw it was me. Your grin got even bigger, and your eyes sparkled, and you said, 'Bruce! Welcome home!' in this high, delighted voice. Like I was the best thing you'd seen all day.

"And I knew right then. I didn't even try to fight it. I loved you, this sweet, kind, brilliant kid who had somehow found your way into my life. I loved you with all my heart, everything I had in me, and I wished I could be your dad. I wished it was simple, the way it had been with Jason, that I could just pick you up and take you home and keep you, because I loved you so, so much. And it had nothing to do with Robin. Nothing to do with the mission. I just loved you, that was all."

Tim turned his face and sobbed into Bruce's sternum. Bruce stroked his hair. His entire body was aching with love and with his need to prove it to this brilliant, precious young man who somehow thought that he could be loved only if he was useful. Who had taught him that lie? His neglectful parents? His indifferent nannies and other caretakers? Or maybe no one had taught him. He'd just figured it out on his own, because it was only through being useful, through being impressive and intelligent and near perfect, that he had earned any positive attention during the formative years of his life.

And no one had taught him differently. No one had taught him that love was not earned. No one had taught him that the love of a father was unconditional. Certainly not Jack Drake, and it had never occurred to Bruce. He wished, again, that there was a big gesture, a perfect speech, something he could offer to prove himself, so Tim would finally understand just how much Bruce loved him.

But all he could do was say it again, and hold him close, and kiss the top of his head. "I love you, Tim."

Tim sniffled, gradually calming down. His muscles loosened until he lay bonelessly against his chest. He turned his head.

"I love you too, Dad."

And maybe. Maybe. Maybe this time, they could both believe.

Chapter Text

Jason didn't even consider taking the motorcycle to Bludhaven. It was far too vulnerable for such a long drive, and despite kind of fucking around a lot, Jason did take his job as Tim's bodyguard very, very seriously. Somehow Tim hadn't figured this out, though, and he started dragging his feet when Jason led him to the garage and he realized that they were taking one of the reinforced but normal-looking cars, not his bike.

Jason hit the button on the car remote to make the car unlock, and it beeped twice, very politely, while the headlights flashed. He moved around to open the passenger side door for Tim, then looked back and saw that the kid had halted in his tracks ten paces back, looking at the car with a very sour expression on his face.

Jason rolled his eyes. "We don't have time for this, Timmy. C'mon."

Tim took a few steps closer, his hands stuck deep in his pockets, which made the fabric bulge around his casts. "I was looking forward to a bike ride."

"Think about it for two seconds, baby bird. Bludhaven is even more dangerous than Gotham, depending on what statistics you read. They just have more gang violence and less madmen in colorful costumes. We still don't know where McDaniels is, and all the leads have gone cold. For all we know, that could be where he's hiding out. I'm not exposing you to anymore danger than I have to." He grunted and kicked the tire lightly. "Ideally, I'd want your therapist to come here so I wouldn't have to take you out at all. If this first meeting goes well, that's the first thing I'm gonna discuss with Dr. Thacker."

Tim made a face, but he finished his journey to the car and got in. Jason closed his door and went around to the driver's side. Inside, Tim was fumbling with his seatbelt. He couldn't quite get a grip on it with his four available fingers with the right leverage to latch it. Jason let him keep trying for a few seconds, then wordlessly reached over. He let his hand hover, silently asking permission, until Tim sighed and leaned back. Jason buckled his seatbelt, then his own, then started the car.

Tim looked out the window as they drove, watching the scenery go by. He seemed tired and drained, which Jason hadn't expected. He kept casting glances at the kid, trying to read him.

After Tim's meeting with the police, he and Bruce had spent hours cuddling in one of the sitting rooms. Jason had found them there later and immediately spotted Tim's red and blotchy face, as well as the large damp patch on Bruce's shirt. Bruce had looked a little red-rimmed, too, and he raised a finger to his lips to warn Jason to be quiet and let Tim sleep.

Jason crept closer and sat in a chair next to the sofa where his dad and little brother were cuddled up. "Rough meeting?" he murmured.

Bruce hummed. "Yes." Then he smiled, broad and content. "Don't worry, these were happy tears. We had a good talk and hashed some things out." His smile got even brighter, which was kind of creepy. Jason couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Bruce smile like that. "I think I finally convinced him that I really do love him."

Jason blinked, nonplussed. "That was a question?" Bruce's love for Tim had always been incredibly clear to him. It was one reason he'd been so full of rage at his "replacement" for a while, after all.

"In Tim's mind, yes. I don't want to speak too soon, but I think we might have finally gotten to a turning point with him. I'm hoping your meeting with Dick's therapist tonight will help continue the trend."

Jason frowned, still staring at Tim as he tried to fit this new information into his perception of his little brother. "Timmy seriously didn't believe that you love him? Not until, like, right now?"

That must have been why the kid always just said "Okay" when Bruce said he loved him during their evening cuddle sessions. It had always struck Jason as weird, but he'd figured it was some kind of in-joke. Like the way Leia and Han in Star Wars said "I know" when one of them said they loved the other.

Apparently Tim was even more messed up than he'd thought. Jason had known that the kid's self-esteem was in the gutter, that he only saw his worth in terms of his ability to serve Batman and the rest of his family. He'd known that Tim had trouble with depression and suicidal thoughts, that he was bad at processing grief and carried too much guilt for a lot of things he had no control over. Jason had been smart enough to figure out that the trauma caused by a day of torture had only compounded and highlighted issues that had been dragging on Tim's soul for a long time, years, possibly his entire adolescence.

But the fact that he couldn't even tell that Bruce loved him... Geez. Apparently the kid wasn't much of a detective, after all.

Bruce just looked sad, though. "Jay-lad... You never doubted that you were loved, right?"

Jason looked at him, his eyes widening. "What are you talking about?"

"I know your childhood was...hard. We never really talked about it, and we probably should have, but I think I learned enough to know the bones of it. Willis Todd was worse than worthless, and sometimes I wish he wasn't dead just so I could go punch him in the mouth whenever I think about how he treated you. And your mother, Catherine, was far from ideal. But she loved you, and she tried. Is that fair, or am I getting it wrong?"

Jason shook his head. His chest felt heavy and hard, like his lungs were struggling to breathe against the weight of cement. "Didn't expect you to start the therapy session early, old man," he managed to gasp out.

The corner of Bruce's mouth turned up. "Sorry. I have a point, I promise. Once you came to live with me, and I adopted you, you knew that you were loved then, too, right? Or did I fail you even then?"

Jason shook his head again. "I knew you loved me. Eventually. The first few months were rough, but..." He took a deep breath. "Before I died, I knew you loved me."

"I still do. You know that, don't you? I love you, pumpkin."

Jason chuckled dryly. "Yeah. I know." This was not the time to get into another argument about whether that love actually meant anything if Bruce wasn't willing to kill the Joker. He knew Bruce felt that he loved him, whether or not he was good at showing it.

Bruce took a breath. "The point I'm trying to make is that Tim never had that. He never had that certainty. His parents might have said the words, but they never showed the truth of them. They made promises, but they broke them over and over again. For the first twelve, fourteen, sixteen years of his life, he had no concept of parental love, not the way it's meant to be, because no one ever showed it to him. Jack Drake tried at the very, very end, but it was definitely a case of too little, too late.

"I didn't realize this, either. Not until Tim was lying in your lap after a day of torture saying that everyone would be better off if he wasn't around. Not until I tried to tell him as he lay in his hospital bed that I loved him completely and unconditionally, only for him to turn his head away and say nothing."

Bruce drew in a breath and let it out. His fingers were wrapped around Tim's head, absently carding through his hair, and now he cuddled him closer and leaned down to press a kiss into his mop of dark hair. "Honestly, it's astonishing that Tim was able to change his view after just a month of me trying to convince him. He's so strong, so good. I was prepared to keep trying for much, much longer. Years, decades, whatever it took. Sixteen, seventeen years is a long time. I'm sure there are a lot of misconceptions and faulty logic paths that are just worn into his psyche. It's going to take time to unravel them, and I don't have the training or skill to do it."

Jason thought about that now as he drove toward Bludhaven, taking backroads and unusual streets with a healthy sense of paranoia. Bruce was right: Jason had never had any trouble believing that he was loved. He'd always known that Catherine loved him, even when that love wasn't enough to stop her from buying another hit, from checking out and leaving him to deal with the cold apartment and the empty cupboards alone. He had missed her parental love when she died, but he had been able to recognize it in Bruce, once he'd gotten over his initial wariness and trauma reactions from being an abused child, then a street kid.

He couldn't imagine never having that. Never knowing that there was an adult who cared about him, no matter what he did. It was such a fundamental foundation in his life, in the life of any kid, that trying to imagine it not being there was almost impossible.

When he got close, though, he felt cold. Cold and lost and desperately lonely. It was horrible.

Dr. Anna Thacker worked in a normal-looking office building on the edge of Bludhaven's downtown. Jason had researched the area beforehand, and he knew that it wasn't terribly crime-ridden, as far as Bludhaven went. Still, he took care in parking the car as close to the building as he could get, then escorting Tim inside with one hand wrapped around his elbow and the other hovering near his concealed holster. Tim bore his caution with grace. If anything, he seemed nervous about being outside and exposed in a city, too. He stuck close to Jason's side without being told, his eyes constantly darting around.

Tim relaxed slightly once they got inside, but not that much, because now there was the whole therapy session thing about to happen. They took the elevator from the lobby up to the floor where Dr. Thacker's office was. Jason stared closely at every person they passed, watching for any suspicious behavior.

Dick was waiting for them in the waiting room outside Dr. Thacker's office. He grinned brightly and gave them both big hugs, then led Tim over to sit in the chairs while Jason checked in with the receptionist. Despite taking the most circuitous route Jason could devise, they were fifteen minutes early for their appointment.

Dick and Tim were sitting in the corner next to a potted plant, quietly talking, when Jason ambled his way over to them. He sat next to Tim, sandwiching the kid between him and Dick. He didn't miss the way Tim relaxed marginally. He was sitting with his back to a wall and a brother on each side. He was as safe as he could get, and he knew it.

Dick kept wiping his hands on his jeans while they sat there, waiting. Jason looked at him pointedly the next time he did it, and Dick smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. Guess I'm a little nervous."

"Cut it out," Jason said shortly. "You're making the kid nervous, too."

Tim snorted gently. His shoulders were so hunched that they were almost up to his ears. "I would be nervous anyway, no matter how relaxed Dick was."

Jason rolled his eyes. He deliberately slumped down in his chair and spread his legs out, letting his heels rest on the carpeted floor and swaying his feet back and forth. "Not me. See? Totally relaxed."

Dick grinned. "That's surprisingly mature of you, Little Wing. I figured you'd be the most wound up of all three of us."

Jason shrugged. "I'm here for Tim, not myself. Being a bodyguard is a pretty easy gig compared to my usual jobs."

This was a blatant lie. He was more worried about and invested in protecting Tim than he'd ever been in any of his previous missions, including ones that had considerably higher stakes. This one kid meant more to him than...basically anything else, at this point. He wasn't going to say that aloud, though. He was trying to help Timmy relax, here.

Tim gave him a wide-eyed look, distracted out of his anxiety for a moment. "You're not going to talk to Dr. Thacker? I thought the deal was that we were both going to try therapy, not just me."

Jason nodded easily. "Yeah, sure. I'll talk if that's what you want me to do. I'm just saying that I'm here for you and not myself, so that makes it easier, okay? I don't care whether or not I get...emotionally healed, or whatever. That would be a nice bonus, but my goal is to help you, whatever that means."

Tim looked skeptical.

Jason looked past him, focusing on Dick. "What's the plan, big bird? Anything in particular that you need us to do in there?"

Dick shrugged. "I've never been in group therapy before, just one-on-one. I'm sure Dr. Thacker will tell us what we need to do. My initial thought was that you could just sit in on one of my usual sessions, but she thought it would be more beneficial if all three of us participated."

Tim looked like he might throw up. "I thought..."

Dick focused on him immediately, his eyes doing that thing where they got all melty with compassion. "What, Timbo? You're looking a little green."

Tim shrugged. He looked even more nervous than he had before, pale and a little sweaty. "I guess I had the same thought that you did. You and Dr. Thacker were gonna talk, and I would just...listen. I don't, I don't know if I can..." His breathing started to get heavier, and his arms fluttered nervously.

Dick sat up straight, alarmed, and reached over to grab his shoulders. Jason straightened out of his slump, too. He reached out instinctively, just like Dick had, but big brother had already taken hold of Tim's shoulders, so Jason laid one big, rough hand over the kid's back instead. He could feel Tim's lungs heaving, struggling for breath as if the air had suddenly gotten too thick to take in.

"Timmy, breathe," Dick said gently. He took a deep breath to demonstrate. "C'mon, like this. In. And out. That's good. Let's do it again. In. Out. That's it. You're fine. Everything's okay."

They breathed slowly, together, for a couple of minutes. Jason found himself following the cadence, too, breathing deeply in tandem with his brothers. It was more calming than he would have expected. He could feel Tim's back moving under his hand, and he watched Dick's face along with him, almost mesmerized.

"There," Dick said with a loving smile once Tim had settled. "That's better." He gave the kid's shoulders a careful squeeze, then sat back, still leaving one hand resting on his shoulder. Jason did not remove his hand from Tim's back.

"I think you have a bit of a misconception about what's going to happen today," Dick said calmly. Now that he had talked Tim down from a near-panic attack, his own nervousness seemed to have vanished. "You don't have to jump straight into the most awful, traumatic things in therapy, okay? No one is expecting you to walk into that room and instantly start describing the torture you went through."

Timmy blinked. "Oh." He sounded distantly astonished, and Jason's mouth twisted. Poor kid. No wonder he'd almost panicked.

Dick smiled softly and squeezed his shoulder. "Therapy is... It's for you, okay? Everything goes at your pace. You choose what to talk about. Dr. Thacker might ask questions and prod you to consider things you hadn't thought about before, but you don't have to answer if you don't want to. Pushing it is really more harmful than helpful, if you're not ready. Dr. Thacker doesn't want to traumatize you again by making you re-live your worst memories when you're not ready to, and she'll never ask you to do that."

"Oh." Jason could feel Tim relax under his hand. He sounded steadier now, more in control of himself.

"If you just want to listen today, that's fine," Dick said. "I can do the talking." He bit his lip, then went on. "There's actually something pretty...pretty bad, that I've been working up to talking about for a long time. I was gonna put that on hold so the three of us could have a group session with whatever you two need to talk about. But if you want... I'll talk about that, and we can go from there."

He looked into Tim's eyes, then into Jason's. "I gotta warn you though... This really is bad. Like, one of the worst things that's ever happened to me. I know you both have seen a lot of awful stuff in your night jobs, but I gotta make sure you're okay with this. If you want me to stop, even while we're in there, just say the word."

Jason was shaking his head before the words finished leaving Dick's mouth, and so was Tim.

"No," Tim said. He took a deep breath, only a little shaky. "No matter what it is, if you need to talk about it, I want to listen. I want to help."

Jason nodded, too. He had no idea what Dick was talking about, but if he could be here for Tim, he could be here for Dick, too.

Dick gave them both his sunniest smile, and for once, Jason believed it was sincere. "You guys are the best."

Then the receptionist got their attention and told them the doctor was waiting. It was time to begin.

Chapter Text

Dr. Thacker's office was comfortably appointed, with several sofas and armchairs, as well as a tidy desk with an office chair. The first time Dick came to see her, she asked how he would prefer to be situated while they talked. They could sit in adjacent armchairs, or Dick could lie down on the sofa, or they could even sit across the desk from each other if that would be the most comfortable way for him to talk to her. It was all his choice, his decision.

Today, Dick walked in with his arm wrapped around Tim's shoulders. The kid was still shivering a little, and Dick was worried about him. Jason was right behind them, hovering just a bit too close. Dick kept being afraid that he would step on their heels, but fortunately Jason was more graceful than that.

Dr. Thacker was standing to greet them with a gracious smile, and Dick smiled back, squeezing Tim harder when he felt his tension increase. "Hi, Doc. Nice to see you again. These are my brothers, Tim," he patted the kid's chest with his free hand, "and Jason." He pointed at him with his thumb over his shoulder.

"Welcome back, Dick." She nodded to Tim and Jason. "It's lovely to meet you." She stepped aside and gestured at the room with her hand. "Where would you like to sit?"

Dick looked at Tim. "Wanna join me on the sofa, kiddo? That's where I usually settle in for these sessions." Sometimes he sat, sometimes he laid down, sometimes he perched on the back like a gargoyle. Sometimes he got up and moved when what he was talking about made him particularly agitated. He would pace, gesticulate, even walk on his hands. Dr. Thacker accepted it all with aplomb.

Tim nodded, and Dick led him over to the sofa. The sat as one, practically joined at the hip. Tim almost landed in Dick's lap, he was pressing so close to him for assurance. As in the lobby, Jason sat on Tim's other side. It was much closer than the lobby without separate chairs to keep them apart. Tim was almost squished between two larger, more burly bodies, and Dick's arm was trapped between Tim's shoulder and Jason's side. Jason slung his arm over the top of the sofa, the back of his hand touching Dick's shoulder blade.

Dr. Thacker sat across from them in her usual armchair, holding a legal notepad and a pen. She gave them all friendly smiles, and Dick knew it was sincere, but he could see that Jason and Tim were both eyeing her with suspicion.

"Tim, Jason," she said with a nod for each. "I'm glad to have all three of you here today. I know how much Dick cares for you both. Before we get started, I want to assure you that everything we say in this room is completely confidential. I take notes for my own benefit, but they are kept under lock and key, and my computer is heavily encrypted. Dick has surveyed my security for his own peace of mind, and you are welcome to do the same."

"Dickiebird said you know that he's Nightwing," Jason said bluntly. "You realize that you're in danger just for knowing that, right?"

Dr. Thacker nodded. Her smile was gone now, her expression business-like. "Yes, I am aware. And I am aware of the dangers experienced by everyone who is related to or involved with superheroes, especially in Gotham and Bludhaven. Perhaps you can trust in my security a bit more, then, knowing that I am also guarding myself."

Tim had been looking down at his hands, his casts resting in his lap. Now he looked up at Dr. Thacker. "I know that confidentiality can be broken in some cases. Can you please illuminate us on those?"

"I would only break confidentiality if I had a strong and urgent reason to believe that you were a danger to yourself or to others. Even then, I would only share the details strictly needed to get help, and I would only tell those who needed to know, such as emergency responders and any friends or family members I had reason to believe might be able to help. Even in that extreme circumstance, I wouldn't have any need or reason to share irrelevant secrets, such as the fact that Dick Grayson is Nightwing." The corner of her mouth turned up.

Tim nodded thoughtfully. He looked straight into her face. "Then I'll trust you, too. I'm currently the vigilante known as Red Robin, or I was a month ago. Before that, I was Robin."

Dr. Thacker blinked, but nodded solemnly. "Thank you for trusting me with that secret. I promise I will keep it safe."

Jason cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "And I'm the current Red Hood in Gotham. Before that, I was dead." Tim nudged him with a sharp elbow, and he rolled his eyes. "And before that, I was Robin, too."

Dick smiled. "All three of us used to be Robin at some point. It's a pretty exclusive club."

Dr. Thacker smiled back. "And you're brothers, as well. Your family is remarkable."

"We were all adopted by a remarkable man," Dick said. "But we're not here to talk about that."

She nodded. "What would you like to talk about?"

Dick looked at Tim, then over his head at Jason. Tim wasn't looking at him, but Jason gave him a steady look. Dick pulled in a breath and turned back to the doctor. His stomach was starting to squirm, and his chest felt heavy. "I know we had talked about having a group therapy session, working on some stuff together, but Tim and Jason aren't comfortable with that idea. We decided that it would be better if you and I had one of our more usual sessions, and they can just sort of listen in."

Dr. Thacker nodded, but she leveled a concerned look at Dick. "Are you okay with that? You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with, even to help your brothers. Your well-being is important, too. In fact, it's my primary concern, since you are my patient here."

Dick swallowed. He pressed one hand over Tim's shoulder, feeling his warmth, and wiped his other one on his pants. He started a bit when Jason turned the hand against his back so his palm rested over his shoulder blade, then settled. "I...I think it will be good," he said. "The thing I want to talk about today... It's one of the worst things that's ever happened to me. It's something I've been meaning to tell my family for a long time, and I just couldn't figure out how to do it. So I'm hoping that...it'll be easier here. On sort of neutral ground."

Dr. Thacker leaned back in her chair. "Yes, group therapy can be very valuable as a kind of neutral ground, with a third-party arbiter." She looked at Tim and Jason in turn, watching them carefully. "And you are both willing participants as well? Therapy can be a very intense experience. You may see a side of your big brother that makes you uncomfortable. It may change your perception of him, and that can be frightening and strange."

Tim nodded firmly. "Dick already told us that what he wants to talk about is going to be hard. I told him then that I want to be here for him, and that's still true. Dick has been a huge support in my life for many years. If I can return that support, I want to do it."

Jason grimaced, but he nodded, too. "Whatever he has to say, I can handle it, and I've probably been through worse."

Dick chuckled without humor. "I hope not. I really, really hope not, Little Wing."

Jason gave him a steady look. "Just get on with it."

"Okay. Just... What I said earlier still applies. If it gets too much for you, say the word, and we'll stop."

"If it gets too much, I'll get up and walk out," Jason said. "So will Tim, for that matter. Whatever this is, you obviously need to talk about it with your doctor, and we're not gonna get in the way of that."

Dick relaxed at last, assured that he wouldn't be hurting his little brothers with this.

"But it's not gonna be too much," Jason said again, because he couldn't let well enough alone.

Tim just nodded, his jaw firm.

Dick sighed, but he leaned back into the sofa. Slowly, one by one, he made his muscles loosen. He concentrated on the feeling of Tim's body pressed into his side, Jason's hand on his back. He was safe. He was home, because home had always meant people, not places.

"Okay. This happened soon before that big gang war in Gotham." Tim stiffened slightly against his side, and Dick held him closer. He knew how hard that time had been for Tim. He had lost a lot of people to that war, because it seemed like Tim always lost people no matter what was going on.

He'd almost lost Dick, too, before it even started.

"Blockbuster found out that Nightwing was Dick Grayson, and he came after me. Hard. He hurt people, and he was going to hurt more. It finally came down to a confrontation in an apartment building where Blockbuster had just killed a woman in front of me, just for being associated with me. I fought him with everything I had, but... It wasn't enough."

He could feel Tim tensing beside him, Jason's hand pressing harder. They would have heard about Blockbuster, of course. He had been a fairly major player in this part of the country. But they didn't know all the details; they couldn't have guessed.

Dick swallowed hard, feeling even more like he might be sick. "He threatened me. Not me, but everyone I know. He said he would kill everyone I loved, everyone who knew me, everyone who even had a passing knowledge of me. 'Anyone who passes you on the street,' I think that was his exact phrase. And it would never stop. It would never end. He knew my secret, and I would not be able to escape him. I was filled with so much...despair. Because I knew he was right. And I couldn't stop him. There was no way to make him stop."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jason's jaw bunching, and he shook his head. This wasn't going where Jason thought it was. He turned his head, caught his eye. "I didn't kill him."

Jason looked surprised. "But he's..."

"He's dead. Yes. But I didn't kill him." Dick pressed his lips together. "Not directly."

He looked back to Dr. Thacker, grateful for the stillness of her face. As he had suspected, telling this to a neutral party was making this much easier than if he'd tried to tell his family face to face, or even over a phone call or a written message. "Catalina showed up. Tarantula. She's another vigilante who... I guess she admired me." He swallowed against the nausea in his stomach. "More than that. I guess."

Dick pulled in a breath, then another one. "She told me she would take care of it. She told me to stand aside and just let her handle it. That she was going to protect me, I guess. I don't remember the exact words. At this point it all gets fuzzy in my mind. But she shot him. And I let her.

"I could have stopped her. I could have saved Blockbuster's life. That what B taught me, us, that's the principle I always lived by. Life is sacred, even the life of the most lowly, the most dangerous. We don't take life, because it's not our place. But I let her do it. I let her kill him.

"I was...in shock, I guess. She took me up to the roof. It was raining. She kept saying it was okay, that everything was okay now, because she'd taken care of it, and I was safe now. She called me baby, I think. I don't..."

He couldn't sit anymore. Every inch of him was crawling as if he was covered with insects. He stood up abruptly, tearing himself away from Tim and Jason, who sat there on the sofa watching him in mute surprise. He closed his eyes, bounced on his toes, wrapped his arms around his chest, paced back and forth.

He was sweating. He felt clammy and sick. Everything hurt.

Dick stood still and looked at his little brothers, saw their pale faces and serious expressions. Jason had wrapped his arm around Tim without Dick there to touch, and Tim was resting his casted hand on Jason's stomach. It was sweet, and Dick almost smiled. But he couldn't. His mouth twisted, but he couldn't smile.

His eyes were blurry, and then they cleared, and they blurred and cleared again, and there were tears on his cheeks. "I told her no," he gasped out, and it hurt. It was spikes in his head, in his chest, in his heart. "I told her not to touch me. I said I didn't want it. But she didn't listen, and I... I couldn't fight her. I didn't have any fight in me, not after what just happened. I don't..." Every word burned. Every word caught and tore at something inside him. He was being shredded.

Dick covered his face with his hands. He was shaking. He felt like scum, like the lowest thing on earth. What kind of man was he that he couldn't fight off a woman? What kind of man was he to dump this on his little brothers, who had problems of their own, much worse, much more painful problems?

"She used me," he whimpered. "And I let her. Just like I let her kill Blockbuster. I should have stopped her. Both times. But I just lay there and let her do it."

Rustling, hard steps on the floor, and there were arms around him. From two sides. Jason, tall and broad and strong, holding him from the front like a pillar stuck deep in the earth. Tim, shorter but still strong, wiry and tough, wrapped around his back with his face pressed between Dick's shoulder blades. The back of his shirt started to get damp.

"She raped you," Jason said roughly. "That's the word you're looking for, the word you're afraid to say. She didn't just take advantage of you. She didn't just force herself on you while you were having a moment of weakness. You were in shock. You were in no condition to accept it even if you had consented, but you didn't even do that. You said no. And she did it anyway. That's rape. She raped you."

Dick's hands fell away from his face and wrapped around Jason in return. He buried his face in his shoulder. "I know," he whispered. "I know. I just didn't want to say it."

"I think you should," Jason said. "I think you should say the word." He turned his head as if talking to someone else. "Right, Doc?"

Dick had almost forgotten where they were.

"Only if Dick is comfortable expressing it," Dr. Thacker said gently. "He doesn't have to. It's a big enough step even to share his story, in whatever words he's able to use."

Dick swallowed back the tears and raised his head from Jason's shoulder. "She raped me," he said, barely louder than a whisper. "How could she? I trusted her. And she... How could she do that to me?"

"I don't know." Jason held him harder. "I'm so sorry, Big Wing. You didn't deserve that. No one does, but especially not you."

Dick hid his head in Jason's shoulder again. And he wept.

Chapter Text

Eventually, Jason, Tim, and Dick settled back onto the sofa. This time Dick was in the middle, and Jason and Tim were both touching him. Jason settled for a hand on the back of Dick's neck, and Tim had an arm wrapped around his front. Tim wished he was bigger, so he could wrap Dick up in his arms the way Jason, Dick, and Bruce all did for him. But he was seventeen, almost eighteen, unlikely to get much bigger.

Besides, there were advantages to being on the small side. Like the aforementioned ability to get wrapped up in the arms of someone bigger and broader. Over the past few weeks, Tim had truly come to appreciate that aspect of being his size.

Dick had stopped crying, though he wasn't back to his normal upbeat self. Dr. Thacker watched all three of them calmly. That seemed to be her default expression: calm. Tim honestly found it soothing. It made him feel like she knew what she was doing.

"Thank you for sharing your experience with us, Dick," Dr. Thacker said now. "I know it was hard. How do you feel about it?"

Dick drew in a breath and let it out. "I feel...relieved. This has been such a huge weight on me for such a long time. It feels good to have that out there now. I'm glad it's not a secret anymore. But I still feel pretty awful about the...the incident itself."

Dr. Thacker nodded. "That's normal. And we will certainly talk about it more when your brothers aren't here, if you'd like. For now, are there any symptoms that you believe came from that event that you'd like to discuss, so I can give you some coping strategies to work on?"

Dick shook his head. "I've actually already discussed most of my symptoms with you, I just didn't tell you where they came from. The coping strategies you've given me work great, like the stretches and the breathing exercises. They're not a cure-all, but they help."

"I'm glad to hear that." Dr. Thacker looked at Jason, then at Tim. "I know you don't really want to treat this like a group therapy session, but is there anything that the two of you would like to add? Anything you want to talk about, related or not to what Dick just told us?"

Tim's throat felt dry. He could... But no, this was about Dick, not him. He was here to support his big brother, not dump his own issues out for everyone to deal with.

Besides, he didn't want to talk about himself. He wasn't ready. He didn't know when or if he ever would be ready.

Jason cleared his throat and patted Dick's back as he turned his head to look at him straight. Dick looked back at him, and Tim craned around Dick's torso to watch. Jason looked borderline smug. "I just want to reiterate, once again, that it totally wasn't too much for me to handle, you big dork."

Dick laughed, a sharp, short sound that seemed to burst out of him in a moment of shock. "Okay, I guess that's good to know. Is it true that you've been through worse?"

Jason looked serious. "Actually, no. I mean, there was the time Talia and I got it on. And I was technically underage, and still kinda messed up from the pit. But it was consensual."

Dick made low gagging noise. "You had sex with Damian's mom?"

"Well, I didn't know she was my little brother's mom at the time. And I'm still not sure I'm ready to claim that little brat as my brother. But yeah. I had sex with Talia al Ghul."

Tim felt nauseated. "Jay, statutory rape is still rape."

Jason frowned him. "I was under eighteen, but I'm pretty sure the age of consent was lower in the country we were in at the time. I never actually looked it up, to be fair."

The nausea was not going away. "Yeah, but you said you were still messed up from the pit, too. That's...dubious consent, at best. And she was like...sort of looking out for you at the time, right? Sort of a weird mentor relationship where she protected you and gave you resources? That's abuse of power, too."

Jason looked away, his jaw going stubborn. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. Besides, you're still a virgin, right? There's no way you could get it."

Tim felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

"Low blow, Jay," Dick murmured.

Tim stared away, looking at the floor between them and the chair where Dr. Thacker was sitting. He felt dizzy and sort of frantic, like he was standing on the edge of a precipice. Dick and Jay were still talking, sounded irritated with each other, but Tim didn't try to understand the words.

Then he raised his face and looked directly at Dr. Thacker. "Something like that did happen to me, though. I'm still a virgin, yeah, but it almost got taken from me."

Both Jason and Dick shut up. Tim didn't dare to look at them. He kept watching Dr. Thacker's face, trying to judge whether or not this was something he could or should talk about.

Dr. Thacker still looked so, so calm, but Tim thought he read sympathy in her eyes. Then she nodded slightly, giving him permission, and he took it.

"It was another al Ghul. She never even told me her name. I'd been captured, and I was chained up and couldn't move. She exposed herself to me, and she started to take my clothes off. Kept talking about how I was worthy to provide an heir for the al Ghuls. Someone who could rule the world. I knew Cass was on the way, but what if she hadn't shown up when she did? Even half an hour, fifteen minutes later, and..."

He sucked in a shuddering breath, then finally looked over at his brothers. They were both watching him with absolute horror on their faces. "I'm fine. All that happened was the collar of my uniform got torn. But I almost wasn't fine. I was almost..." He swallowed. He sympathized even harder with Dick's reluctance to use that word. "I was almost raped. I was definitely underage, and I definitely wasn't consenting."

"Oh my God, Tim," Dick murmured, and then he was dragging Tim into his arms and rocking him slightly where they sat. And yeah, it was really nice to be wrapped in the arms of someone bigger and stronger, and Tim definitely appreciated it.

He closed his eyes and hugged him back, pressing his face into Dick's shoulder for a moment. He could practically feel Jason vibrating with a need to hug him, too. It was all so messed up. But the story was out there, now.

After a bit he gently pulled away from Dick and faced Dr. Thacker again. "I'm fine. Really. I don't have nightmares about it, and I'm not afraid to be around women or anything like that. My nightmares are about...other things. But yeah, it happened, and it was awful, and I hate the fact that I feel lucky that it didn't go any farther. Especially now that I know that it did go farther than that for both of my big brothers."

He turned to look at Dick and Jason, his teeth clenched. He was quivering, waves of anger and sorrow and frustration rushing through him. "So I don't want to hear either of you minimizing what happened to you, okay? I can see how upset you are at just the idea that I was almost assaulted, because you love me and you want to protect me."

He looked straight at Jason. "What if it was me, huh? What if Talia had taken advantage of me and not you? What if I'd been murdered and then resurrected, and then I spent years trying to make myself stronger so it would never happen again, and Talia was guiding me and giving me money, and then one day she had sex with me? Would that be okay? Would you be okay with that? Would you say it wasn't really rape just because I went along with it?"

Jason's face was pale, and his voice was shaken and subdued. "No, Timmy."

"Okay, then. So you get my point then."

Jason nodded. "I get it."

Tim turned his attention to Dick. "And I can see you thinking that you should have been stronger. That's always how you think when something goes wrong, when something goes bad for you. You think that you should been able to fight Catalina off, stop her somehow, maybe make it more clear that you didn't want it. But you were chained too."

He held up his hands and shook them as if he was still wearing chains, as if they could hear them rattle. "Mine were literal chains, but you had just been through one of the worst experiences in your life. You were in shock. You weren't in control of yourself or the situation. You said no, and she used you. She raped you. It wasn't your fault. If you ever even think that it was your fault again, I'll...I'll punch you in the nose."

Dick sucked in a gasping breath, his eyes sparkling with affection and...was that respect? Along with a generous mixture of amusement at the ridiculous threat. "Okay, Timmy. Thank you."

Timmy huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, then turned back to face Dr. Thacker and threw himself back into the sofa, slumping like a moody teenager. His face was flaming, all of a sudden. He felt really dumb, but also really good for getting all of that out there.

It wasn't that Tim didn't understand the sort of things that a therapist was likely to say when discussing these sort of matters. He'd read books. He was prepared to talk to people who wanted to jump off skyscrapers, to the victims of the crimes he investigated. He had friends and even teammates who had been through awful experiences, including abuse and assault. He was just really bad at applying all of that book-learning to himself, mostly because he had trouble acknowledging that he both needed and deserved it.

But for his brothers... Yeah. He could see it. He could understand it. He could say the right words, and he meant them with every iota of his being.

For some reason, the image of Damian suddenly flashed in his mind. Damian had been through horrible things, too. Tim had tried to see that the first time Damian visited them, but his initial sympathy had died a quick death when Damian tried to kill him and almost succeeded, then started verbally abusing him until Tim had to run away to escape it.

But Damian was...different now. He was trying. He and Tim were actually getting along, especially when it came to the baby squirrels. And he seemed to be genuinely trying to help Tim with the massages and stuff. What if that letter had been sincere?

What would Tim say to Damian if he was here?

He shook his head, dispersing the thoughts. It was a good thing Damian wasn't here. There was no way the three of them could talk about sex with their eleven-year-old brother in the room. Never mind that Damian had probably read the same books Tim had to prepare to handle victims of assault.

It was different when it was your brother who was a victim. Or two of your brothers. Or three, if you counted Tim's almost-rape. Dammit. He really needed to get in the habit of acknowledging that he was a victim, too.

Their family was so messed up.

Dick put his arm around his shoulders and leaned his head on top of Tim's, and Tim took a deep breath and let it out, slowly calming down.

"God, I love you, Timbo," Dick said, his voice jam-packed with affection.

Tim hummed and tilted his head, tucking himself under Dick's chin. "You know I love you, too. I wouldn't yell at you if I didn't."

Dick chuckled. "I know." He looked at Dr. Thacker, one of his big, sparkling grins spreading across his face. "Aren't you glad that you got to meet my little brothers, Doc? Aren't they just the best?"

And for once, Dr. Thacker didn't respond with calm. She smiled back, a really big one that wrinkled up her entire face and made her eyes almost disappear. "Yes. They're both wonderful. Everything you said about them is completely true."

Dick laughed. Jason grumbled. Tim turned his face to hide against Dick's chest so Dr. Thacker couldn't see just how red he was.

All in all, Tim and Jason's first therapy session went pretty well.

Chapter Text

"Have you and Jason come to an agreement on the names yet?" Timothy asked.

"Tt. Todd hasn't said anything for several days, so I assume that he has acquiesced to my superior choices."

Timothy laughed.

They were sitting at the desk in Timothy's room, watching the baby squirrels crawl through the tiny landscape of rumpled towels and cotton balls they had set up there. Afternoon sun streamed in the window, adding shadows in the dips and crevices. Ludmilla and Jason's eyes were open now, and they were beginning to move around on their own recognizance, though they still spent the majority of their time asleep. Damian and Timothy had just finished a feeding, and now they were letting the babies roam around a bit before putting them back in their tank for safekeeping.

Timothy let his arm rest in the middle of the desk, and one of the squirrels—probably Ludmilla, though it was honestly hard to tell without actively checking—came to a wobbly stop next to the large pink log that suddenly landed in the path. The squirrel gave Timothy's forearm an inquisitive sniffing, then determinedly started climbing over it. Timothy laughed again, a fond and gentle sound. That was twice in the last minute.

"Are you feeling better?" Damian asked. "Did the therapy help?"

Timothy sobered and looked sideways at him, his eyes slightly narrowed. "It was just one session, and most of it was for Dick anyway. I think it's gonna take more than that to clear up a psyche as screwed as mine is."

Damian frowned and bit back the negative comment that sprang to his lips. "But it did...help?" he repeated cautiously.

Timothy sighed and ran the fingers of his left hand through his hair. "I dunno. I guess? Maybe a little. Jason and I are gonna keep going, anyway. We actually, uh... We're gonna do individual sessions on Tuesday afternoons, and keep joining Dick for a group session on Wednesday evenings. Dr. Thacker thinks it will be...um...productive."

"You seem happier, though."

Timothy smiled. He turned sideways in his chair and let his hands rest in his lap, looking at Damian more fully. Damian turned to face him, too, though he kept half an eye on the squirrels in case one of them wandered too close to the edge of the desk.

"I guess I am a little happier," Timothy said. "Mostly because of a talk I had with Bruce before we even went to therapy. But yeah. I am feeling better. Thanks for asking."

Damian nodded solemnly. "I'm glad to hear that."

Timothy watched him thoughtfully for a moment. "I thought about you, actually."

Damian blinked rapidly. "What? Why?"

Timothy shrugged. "It occurred to me that therapy might do you good, too. You could join us sometime, like in the group sessions on Wednesdays. I'm sure Dick would be glad to have you."

"I'm not broken," Damian scoffed. He almost added like you, but held off, barely. He hoped Grayson would be proud of him for working on his Drake-talk.

"I didn't say you were," Timothy said. "But you've been through rough stuff, same as the rest of us. Isn't that what you keep saying? You've been through enough training and enough difficult missions to qualify as an adult, even though you've only been on this planet for eleven years. Well, any adult in this business could do with some therapy. Or a lot of therapy. We're going to talk to Bruce about it, too, maybe this weekend."

"Father isn't broken either," Damian said, even more insulted on his father's behalf than he was on his own.

He expected Timothy to get angry and fight back, but instead he just chuckled and raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, okay. It was just an idea."

Damian huffed and turned back to watch the squirrels, throwing himself around in his chair hard enough to make it creak.

He started to feel bad almost immediately. He'd been trying so hard to try to get along with Drake, to be helpful, to show his genuine concern for his health and well-being... And here he went and screwed it up the first time Drake tried to talk to him about anything with any kind of depth.

He looked at his brother out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge his reaction. Timothy looked tired, now leaning on the desk with one arm and gently nudging one of the babies with his cast-covered hand. He didn't seem angry or frustrated, though.

Damian sighed and slumped down, folding his arms on the desk and letting his chin rest on them. Being a good brother was so hard. And he was so bad at it. He wanted to apologize for his rudeness, but he couldn't get the words out. Couldn't even start them.

"Damian, there's something I've been wondering..."

Damian turned to face him again, practically giving himself whiplash. "Yes?"

Timothy hesitated for a moment, then spoke. "Did you really mean that letter you wrote?"

Damian blinked. "Yes. Did you doubt me?"

"I don't know." Timothy looked away. "I thought and thought about it, but I couldn't figure out a reason for you to do that."

Damian leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his stomach. He felt a little sick. He supposed he should have expected that Timothy wouldn't trust his letter. Why should he?

"And I know... You've been trying lately. You've been trying to be nicer to me, and, like... Be helpful."

Damian looked at him sharply. "Yes. I've been trying to...make restitution."

Timothy nodded slowly. "Right. And yeah, after thinking about it for the last few days, I still can't think of a reason for you to write a letter like that. Unless you mean it."

"I do! I did mean it!" Damian sat forward, jolting in his chair. The squirrels started at the noise and backed away toward the safety of their tank. Damian sighed and reached out to gather them up. "Sorry, Ludmilla, Jason," he muttered. "Sorry. I shouldn't have yelled."

Timothy hummed and stood up to help him clean up the desk. They got the squirrels back into their tank and made sure the hotpad was on under half of the tank so they could seek the heat if they wanted to. They put the towels and cotton balls into a basket kept for that purpose, and put the feeding supplies away in a small cooler that Damian would carry down to the fridge later.

Timothy went to his bed and lay down on it sideways on his back, looking up at the ceiling. He didn't tell Damian to go away, and it didn't seem like their conversation was finished. So after wavering for a few seconds, deciding what to do, Damian went and laid down next to him.

"I meant it," Damian said after a long moment of staring and saying nothing. "I meant every word."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Timothy nod.

"Yeah, I figured. It was the only thing that really made sense. I'm sorry I doubted you. It was just...kind of a surprise. What made you change your mind about me?"

Damian sat up on the bed and looked down at him. "What do you mean?"

Timothy blinked up at him, completely blase. "All the things you said. About how I was worthless and a waste of space and didn't deserve to be Robin or Bruce's son or anything, really. You can't tell me you didn't really believe the things you said. They rolled off your tongue with absolute conviction. You were completely convinced of my inferiority, and you took every chance to make sure I knew how little I deserved to be alive. So what changed your mind?"

Damian narrowed his eyes and looked away. He didn't want to talk about this, but he felt like he owed him.

"For a while, I did believe that I was better than you. It was what Mother taught me, after all. That I was better than anyone else in the world, except for her, and Grandfather, and Father. And I proved it to myself by beating you in the cave. I didn't finish the job, though. I didn't kill you. So that was a point against me.

"Still, I told myself that it didn't matter. I was better than you, and you deserved to fade away. In the League, you move ahead through assassination. You prove your authority and your birthright by killing others. And I did. I killed a lot of people, Timothy. Surely that was proof of my superiority.

"But then you saved me from Grandfather, even though you didn't have to. You would have been better served to kill me then, when I was vulnerable, but you never raised a hand against me. You almost died in my place, instead. Grandfather acknowledging you as my...as nearly my equal... That hurt a great deal. It was another point against me.

"Then I became Robin under Grayson, and... I think that was when my thinking truly began to change. I began to see that blood didn't mean as much as I thought it did. I came to respect Grayson and to long for his approval. And he approved of you. Highly. I don't think you comprehend how much he respects you and loves you. He talked almost constantly about what a good Robin you had been and about all of your adventures together and how much he missed you and hoped that you were well. It's not that he ever compared the two of us, Grayson would never be so gauche, but... I did not refrain from comparing myself to you in his stead. And I found myself wanting."

He dared to look back at Timothy. His brother was still lying there on the bed, looking up at him with his hands resting on his stomach. Watching and not speaking, nothing but attentiveness and understanding in his face. Damian flushed and looked away again.

"That was when I began to be afraid of you. But I couldn't show that. So when you returned from your trip abroad, I continued to speak to you the same way I had before. In fact, I got much worse. I was cruel and cutting and...and abusive. I couldn't physically attack you, not and retain Grayson's approval, so I had to drive you out with words. I was ecstatic when I succeeded.

"When Father returned, I felt that I had won. I was afraid at first that he would demote me and make you Robin again, but he chose to let me stay on. And you stayed away. I was victorious. I had everything I could want, and I was determined to keep it. So I kept abusing you whenever I saw you, and you stayed away, just as I wished."

Timothy moved then, slowly sitting up and angling toward him on the bed. Damian turned to face him, feeling somehow compelled. They needed to speak face to face. Now, as never before.

"And then McDaniels happened," Timothy said softly.

Damian nodded. He took a breath. "I spied on your interview with the police in the hospital. Father had left his pad with his security feeds in the hallway where he left me, and I discovered his password and listened to the whole thing."

What was another confession in a long line of them?

Timothy winced. "I didn't want you to hear that."

"I know. But I did not look down on you for being a victim. I was enraged on your behalf. I think that was the first time that I began to think of you as my brother, instead of a rival. It hurt me that you had been hurt like that. That you had been treated like...like common trash to be kicked around and stepped on."

Timothy managed a stiff smile. "You didn't see me as your inferior, and you weren't afraid of me. This was something else. Something new."

Damian nodded. "And then you came home and Father...had a conversation with me. He said you had opened his eyes to the way I'd been treating you, and he was ashamed of us both: me for treating you that way and himself for not realizing it. He was so...so very gravely disappointed in me. He explained to me the error of my ways, and for the first time, I truly felt it.

"I tried to resist it, of course. I didn't want to admit my wrongdoing. I didn't want to admit that I needed to make amends to you. You, whom I had always despised, or acted like I despised. It took more time and more conversations for me to truly, fully change my mind, and also try to change my actions."

He drew a deep breath and looked deliberately into Timothy's eyes. "But I have. I've changed my mind, and I'm trying to change my actions. I want to repair the harm I've done you, at least as much as is possible. And if... If you'll allow it, I would like another chance to be your brother. I don't deserve it, but that's what I would like."

Timothy was quiet for a long moment. Damian all but held his breath. Then Timothy smiled, much more genuinely than before. He held out his right hand, still covered with a cast.

"Okay. Let's give it a try."

Damian stared at him. "Are you sure?"

Timothy nodded.

"I might hurt you again." Honestly, there was nothing Damian was more afraid of.

Timothy shrugged. "If so, shame on you for taking advantage of my kindness. But also, that's kinda what family does. Sometimes we hurt each other, with or without meaning to. As long as we try to make up for it, everyone's allowed to make mistakes."

"Even me?"

Timothy laughed then, broad and genuine. "Of course. You're a human, aren't you? More than that, you're a Wayne. We're all kind of just big bundles of issues. It's who we are."

Damian chuckled, too, breathy and uncertain. "All right. Thank you, brother."

He wrapped his hand around Timothy's cast, and they shook on it.

Afterward, they fell down on their backs on the bed, side by side, grinning up at the ceiling.

After a moment, something occurred to Damian. "Will you tell Todd that he can stop watching for me to make a mistake so he can take you away to a safehouse in the mountains or something?"

"Sure. Wait... What?"

Chapter Text

About two and a half weeks after Tim and Jason started going to therapy, Tim got his casts off. There had been other visits in the meantime, more pins taken out, more interim casts that freed more of his fingers. But this was the big one. The last one. Finally done.

Well, sort of. They all knew that this was just the beginning of Tim's recovery.

Tim would be off the painkillers now if it wasn't for his hands. His ribs and knee were healed, and he'd started physical therapy and training to work on rebuilding his strength. The bruises and cuts and burns were long-healed, though they'd left him with a bunch of new scars.

His back had the worst of it, of course. Damian was still giving him massages every weekday, and Dick on the weekends, both doing their best to break up and soften the bumpy ridges that criss-crossed Tim's back. Jason had sat with him and counted up those whip scars a few times. There were twenty-two, maybe twenty-three depending on the overlap in a couple of places. In any case, there were too many, and it never should have happened, and it sucked. Those scars were going to be with Tim for the rest of his life, and he didn't deserve it and never had.

But yeah. The broken hands had always been the worst of Tim's injuries, the most stress-inducing, the most uncertain to heal entirely. And now the casts were coming off.

"I'm not going to be disappointed," Tim said as they drove to the hospital on a crisp mid-June Saturday morning. As usual, it was Bruce, Jason, and Cass joining him for this visit. Dick was stuck in Bludhaven for some bust or other, but he was going to come later. Damian and Alfred were keeping the homefires burning.

Cass was sitting up front while Bruce drove, Jason in the back seat next to Tim. At this declaration from Tim, Cass turned around and looked at him soulfully. "It's okay to be sad."

Tim shook his head vigorously. "No, I know already it's not gonna look great. My hands are gonna be weak and weird-looking and too-pale and shriveled, and it's gonna look gross. I get it. I got glimpses at the earlier visits when they changed the casts. I'm not gonna be, like, thrown into despair or anything." He looked straight at Jason, blue eyes wide and earnest. "So stop looking so worried, okay? Stop trying to lower my expectations. They're already low. You don't have to brace yourselves for my disappointment, because I won't be disappointed."

Jason couldn't help but smile, soft and fond, and ruffle his hair until Tim squawked and ducked away. "Okay, baby bird. If you say so."

Tim nodded firmly. "I do. I do say."

"Okay. I already agreed with you. You don't have to keep repeating yourself."

And yet, when the casts finally came off and Tim sat at an exam table with his hands spread out, just looking at them... Maybe even his low expectations hadn't been met. Tim said nothing, did nothing, just sat there blank-faced and stared at his hands.

They really did look awful. Not only pale and shriveled, like any limb after an extensive period trapped in a cast, but also still slightly swollen in weird places, with little bumps that shouldn't be there and thin red lines where the pins had come out. More scars, more disfigurement. When Tim lifted his hands in the air a couple of inches, they shook like maracas. So he lowered them back down to the table and just looked at them some more.

Dr. Patel was talking in the background, explaining things to Bruce. She sounded pleased and satisfied. Everything had gone well, from her perspective. She was proud of a job well-done. Yes, Tim might never regain full function in his hands, but he would get most of it back, and that was a near miracle considering how mangled and mutilated they had been back at the beginning of this mess.

Jason sat next to Tim, pressing his shoulder to his, and didn't say a word. Cass took one glance at Tim, then slid in behind him on his chair and wrapped herself around his body from the back. She held him close and warm and tight, then buried her face in his hair and rocked him gently, swaying them in the chair.

"It's okay to be sad, little brother," she said.

"I'm not sad. I'm not disappointed," Tim said dully. "I'm not. I expected this."

"Yeah, sure you did," Jason said softly. He ruffled his hair again, much more gently than he'd done in the car. He had to pick his spot to avoid poking Cass in the eye. Tim blinked slowly, but otherwise didn't react.

There was more talking, more appointments for physical therapy being made. Tim was given a piece of exercise equipment to take home, sort of like a rubber band with separate rings for all five fingers. Tim was supposed to put his fingers in the little circles and then stretch them apart against the resistance to build up strength in his hands. He tried it a couple of times on each hand as the PT specialist watched to make sure he was doing it right. He couldn't make the bands move more than a fraction of an inch.

"That's good," the therapist said. His name was Brandon something, a young guy probably not long out of college. He gave Tim a toothy grin, broad and encouraging. "You'll get it in no time."

Tim nodded grimly. He worked his fingers out of the bands and left the exerciser on the table. Bruce picked it up without a word and put it in his pocket.

The hospital had a little rock garden outside the front entrance. When they left the building, Tim started walking toward it, still with his eyes faraway as if he wasn't paying attention to where he was going. Jason hurried to keep up, keenly aware of how exposed they were out here.

They were in the heart of Gotham on a busy street, skyscrapers all around. Jason hadn't been able to bring his guns into the hospital, and he hadn't had time to get them from the car, so all he had right now were his fists and a souped-up taser. Bruce went to fetch the car from the parking garage, and Cass remained nearby, keeping an eye out on the passersby and surrounding buildings. Jason was grateful for the backup. He just wished he could count on Tim to watch out for himself, too.

Tim paused to look at a placard next to some little blue flowers, and Jason slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. If someone sniped at them, they had a decent chance now of hitting Jason instead of Tim. "Hey, baby bird. Don't wander off, okay?"

Tim shook his head, then distractedly raised a hand to run it through his hair. He paused, looking at his hand as it trembled in midair, then dropped it back down to his side. "I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me."

"Yeah, okay. I'm still gonna though."

Tim's nightmares tonight were gonna be bad, Jason knew that. They were always worse after a follow-up visit for his hands. This was going to be the worst of all. Jason wondered if he could rope their siblings into a movie marathon night so he wouldn't be alone, trying to comfort Tim all by himself. Yeah, he was awesome at it by now, but Tim deserved more. He deserved everyone surrounding him, keeping him safe.

"We should go get some ice cream or something," Jason said. "Celebrate you getting your casts off, finally. That'll be fun, right? You'll even be able to hold your own spoon."

Tim smiled mirthlessly. "It's gonna shake so bad the ice cream won't stay on it, though."

Jason shrugged. "So get a milkshake. You deserve a treat."

"I don't really feel like it."

"Okay." Jason blew out a breath. "I was thinking we could do a movie marathon when we get home. What do you like? Star Wars? Star Trek? I know you're a little nerd. Don't hold out on me."

Tim looked up and gave a ghost of a smile. There might have been a hint of sparkle in his eyes, too. "My choice? Really?"

"Yeah. Of course your choice. This is for you."

Tim turned his head to look him in the face, fully smiling now. "All three Lord of the Rings movies. Extended edition."

"Oh. I see how it is." Jason grinned and squeezed his shoulders. "Trying to out-nerd the nerd, are ya?"

Tim shrugged. He started walking back out of the garden, and Jason kept pace, still with an arm around his shoulders. "I've always loved Lord of the Rings. I used to read the books once a year or so."

"Oh yeah? Me too."

Tim actually grinned back. It was beautiful. "Of course you did, you giant nerd. Have you ever played Warlocks & Warriors?"

"I haven't, actually. I never had nerdy enough friends." Jason tried not to sound sad over that.

"So would you want to play it, if you had the chance?"

"Are you offering?"

Tim looked wistful. "I don't have a group anymore. I used to, though."

"Hmm." Jason raised his head. Bruce had pulled the car up to the curb and was standing there waiting for them. "Hey, old man!" he yelled. "We gotta get Timmy a Double-W group!"

Bruce looked brutally confused. Cass just laughed. They made it safely to the car, though Jason couldn't help doing the hand-on-the-head thing as he guided Tim into the back seat. Weight Watchers? Bruce mouthed to him over the roof of the car, and Jason laughed harder.

Once they all got inside, Jason explained. Tim sat beside him in embarrassed silence, cheeks flaming and lips pressed firmly shut. Bruce, though, looked thoughtful, from what Jason could see from the oblique angle he was sitting at.

"You know, I think our family is big enough to accommodate a roleplaying group," Bruce said several blocks later. "You need, what, about four people?"

Tim nearly choked. "Well, I mean. Four is the classic adventuring party. A wizard, a rogue, a fighter, and a cleric. And then one person to GM. So five people, technically. But the game has expanded a lot since the first edition. There are a lot more classes now with overlapping skills, so you can make a lot of different parties with different numbers of people work."

To Jason's shock, Bruce nodded seriously, like this was a business meeting discussing the particulars of a merger and not the utterly ridiculous conversation that it was. "Okay. So, say... Seven people. Six players and one GM. That would work?"

"I mean...yes? More is better. To a certain point. Once you get to, like, eight players and one GM, it's probably time to split the table. It's really hard to balance encounters when the firepower gets too high."

"So, up to eight players," Bruce said musingly, like he was seriously considering making this happen.

"Stephanie," Cass said.

Bruce nodded. "Yes, we can invite her too. I'm sure she'll enjoy being a fantasy princess or something."

Tim gaped, then squeaked out, "Well then, we gotta have Ives."

Bruce looked at him over his shoulder to give him a smile. "Of course we'll have your oldest friend. I wouldn't dream of not including him."

Tim grunted and crossed his arms over his chest. "And I suppose you'll expect me to GM?"

Bruce shrugged, and this was rapidly becoming a foregone conclusion, not a hypothetical discussion in the car. "Since you're the most familiar with the game, I imagine you'll be the best at it. But after we have a few sessions under our belts, we can start trading off. I want you to have fun playing, too."

Jason stared back and forth between them, his head swiveling like he was watching a ping pong game. It was all too surreal. But if it really was happening...

"I call wizard," Jason said sharply.

Tim grinned at him. "Ah, yes. The nerdiest class. That makes total sense."

Jason barked out a laugh and bowled him over against the car door, holding him down to ruffle his hair into a giant bird nest. He had to undo his seatbelt to do it, but it was totally worth it. Tim squealed and fought at first, but quickly gave in and let Jason have his way, hunching his shoulders and giggling under the assault. It only stopped when Bruce ordered Jason to sit back and put his seatbelt back on, already.

Back home, they had to start the first movie right away to have any chance of ending the marathon before sunrise the next day. Jason sent Dick a text. Hurry up and come home, moron, or you'll miss the lotr marathon. The best one will definitely be done by the time you get here. Also, what class do you want to be in w&w?

Dick responded with a series of question marks. Jason didn't bother answering. Dick could figure it out when he got here. Cass had already texted Stephanie and gotten both an affirmative to the movie marathon and dibs on rogue. Jason didn't know where Bruce had gone. Maybe on patrol, maybe to go read all the Warlocks & Warriors books he could find in order to choose the optimum class and build. Bruce was over-the-top like that.

Damian came downstairs when Jason hollered up to him that they were going to start the movie, not bothering to explain what movie it was. The baby squirrels, now five weeks old and looking like fully formed miniature squirrels, were riding on his shoulders, and Titus trotted dutifully behind. Jason didn't know where the cat was, but he assumed that Damian was keeping him separated from the baby squirrels in case the hunter instinct kicked in too hard. Titus was universally chill and could be trusted around other animals, but not Alfred the cat.

Damian was grumpy about being shouted at, but forgot his indignation when he saw Tim sitting in the corner of the sofa, laboriously texting Ives with his pale, lumpy, shaky hands. Damian cuddled up next to him and put a squirrel on top of his head while Titus settled on the floor in front of him, laying half over Tim's feet.

Damian waited patiently until Tim finished his texting and set his phone aside, then took Tim's right hand in both of his. "I've been researching hand massages," he said, then immediately began to demonstrate. Tim's eyes fluttered closed, and he relaxed into the sofa.

It was...ridiculously adorable. Jason took a picture and sent it to Dick and Bruce. Everyone was happy about Tim and Damian's new ability to get along, but those two were the happiest.

It was a good evening, which turned into a good night. Dick showed up halfway through The Two Towers, and Bruce even joined them after patrol for most of The Return of the King. Alfred kept bringing snacks that were much too bourgie for a movie marathon, but all of them thanked him politely. Stephanie turned out be a lot of fun to watch movies with, since she sat next to Jason and snarked back and forth with him over the worst departures from the books.

And when Tim inevitably fell asleep, then inevitably woke up with nightmares, they were all there to take care of him and tell him it would be okay.

Chapter Text

Jason's text was typically curt. Hey old man, are you at home?

Bruce was not, in fact, at home. He was in a board meeting. Another one. Since Tim had been out, he'd been forced to spend a lot more time at Wayne Enterprises.

He did not like it.

Bruce glanced at the clock on his phone. It was about half an hour after when Tim's PT appointment should have ended. Jason had been ferrying him to and from those appointments, of course, as well as to see Dr. Thacker down in Bludhaven, and on occasional motorcycle rides to blow off steam. All in all, Tim was getting out of the manor a lot more these days, which was good, but also put a lot more stress on Jason as his bodyguard and 24-hour personal worrywart.

Bruce tuned out the talking going on at the table and tapped out a reply. No, I am not at home. Should I be?

The answer came much more quickly than he would have expected. Yes. Timmy's gonna need some serious cuddle time.

PT went bad?

Something like that. You should get the story from him. He'll be embarrassed if I tell you.

Understood.

Bruce stood up from the table. Whoever had been talking cut off to glare at him. Bruce offered a bland smile. "I have to go. Family emergency."

"You've been having a lot of those lately," someone said acerbically.

Bruce's smile increased in blandness. "Yes. It's been a rough couple of months for my family. I'm sure you've read the news."

Then he walked out. He felt a little bad for abandoning Lucius there to smooth all of the feathers he'd just ruffled, but any small amount of regret he felt was completely overridden by his concern for his third son. And maybe a little bit of anticipation, looking forward to cuddle time himself.

Since Tim's ribs and knee had healed, and especially since the casts had come off his hands, their evening cuddle sessions had unfortunately gone by the wayside. Tim always had something going on—his rather aggressive training schedule, feeding the squirrels, going out with Jason, hanging out with Cass and Steph or his friends. It was good that Tim was recovering and no longer needed as much sleep, good that he wasn't depressed or confining himself to the manor, yes, all of that... But Bruce definitely missed getting to hold his kid every night.

Back home, Jason was waiting for him just inside the door that led from the garage, fidgeting from foot to foot. His face relaxed in relief when he saw Bruce. "Hey, Dad."

Bruce's heart felt as soft and gooey as fudge. Jason rarely used the "D" word, and when he did it was usually deliberate, trying to get something out of Bruce, or at least get a rise. This seemed to have come out without him noticing. Bruce went in for a hug, and for once Jason allowed it.

"Hey, son. You okay?"

"I'm fine." Jason put up with the hug for a few seconds, then shrugged out of it. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "Tim's in your favorite lounge, just sitting in the dark. I offered to put on some music for him or something, but he just shook his head. I think he's waiting for you."

"Did you tell him I was coming?"

Jason shook his head. "He saw me texting you, though. He probably figured it out."

"Okay. Thank you, Jay-lad."

"Yeah. I'm gonna go...work out or something. Take care of him, yeah?"

"Of course."

Tim didn't raise his head when Bruce entered the lounge, scuffing his foot on the floor so Tim would hear him coming. He just curled up tighter, like he was trying to hide in the corner of the sofa. Bruce raised the lights just enough so he could see his expression without straining, then sat next to him and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him into his side. Tim was stiff and tense for a few seconds, then melted into him. He kept his hands curled up against his abdomen, though, not turning them to grab onto Bruce.

"Hey, sweetheart." Bruce kissed his head. "Rough day?"

Tim hesitated, then nodded into his chest.

"Did PT not go as well as you were hoping?"

"PT went fine," Tim mumbled. "It was what happened afterward."

"Do you want to talk about it? You don't have to. We can just sit here." Bruce turned his head to rest his cheek on Tim's hair and wrapped his arm more securely around him, tacitly declaring his intention to stay here for the rest of the day if needed.

Tim was silent for a minute or two, slowly relaxing into Bruce's presence. Then he turned his head so his mouth was free. "I thought I saw him. After PT. Just...on the street."

Bruce was starting to understand. His heart ached. "McDaniels."

"Yeah. Jason went to get the car, and I turned a corner and bumped into this guy, and... I thought it was him. I ran so fast... I probably seemed like a crazy person. Good thing Jason caught up with me, and then... I guess it's called an anxiety attack. Anyway. It wasn't fun. Jason had to talk me through it and then hold me for, like, ten minutes."

Bruce wrapped his other arm around him with a heartfelt sigh. "I'm so sorry, kiddo. It's okay. It's over now."

Tim trembled in his arms. "That's the thing, though. It's not over. It might never be over."

Ah. This was why he'd needed Bruce. "You mean McDaniels."

"Yeah. And I mean, it would help if we caught him."

"We're working on it." Bruce knew his voice was too deep and grumbly, the Bat invading the upstairs world. Fortunately Tim seemed to find it comforting, relaxing in his arms.

"I know. I know we're gonna get him, eventually. But even when, or if, we do... What if I react like that every time I see some guy who vaguely resembles him?"

"Then we'll deal with it. It's a perfectly reasonable reaction. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Yeah, I know. At least, I'm trying to believe that. Jason told me. Like, five times. He said my brain is just trying to protect me and it's normal, blah blah. Whatever. But my point is, how can I ever go out and fight criminals again when there's, like, this minefield in my head? When at anytime I might see someone who looks like McDaniels out of the corner of my eye, or see a cigarette light in the dark, or hear the crack of a whip, and I get another attack like that?"

Bruce drew a deep breath. He hadn't considered that Tim might have so many triggers after his ordeal, and that they might affect him so powerfully. He probably should have, but that had always been a problem for the future. Well, it was the future now.

"First off, we don't know that those things will affect you like that when you're in uniform," Bruce said. "The context would be different. You were kidnapped and tortured as Tim Drake, not Red Robin. You were helpless and constrained, not only by your circumstances but by your identity. As Red Robin, you will have armor and tools and equipment, and you will have the freedom to use every single one of your skills. Yes, you still may have triggers and issues that will need to be dealt with, but we don't know that, and even if you do, you'll have different tools at hand to compensate.

"More than that, you'll have back-up. Lots of back-up. All the back-up you could want or need. I never liked you and Dick going solo without a partner, without a team. Jason, too. Wasn't it you who said that Batman needs a Robin? Well, maybe Robin needs a Batman, too."

Tim snorted into his chest.

"In any case, one of the changes I'd like to come from this fiasco is that we always buddy up. No matter what. Even if it's supposed to be a simple mission. I want you to have back-up directly at hand. And of course you'll also have Oracle and all of her resources at your fingertips. And me. Always. Just a call away."

"Like today?" Tim murmured.

"Yes, like today." Bruce kissed his head again. "If you do have triggers that affect you in the field, we'll figure out how to defuse them. I know it's only been a few weeks, but do you feel like therapy is helping?"

Tim hummed. "Yeah. I know I have a long way to go, I can feel it, but I also feel like I've taken a few steps forward. It feels good."

"Good." Bruce rocked him in his arms. "I'm so proud of you."

Tim sighed, then pulled away and sat next to him on the sofa. Bruce frowned but let him go. Tim looked him earnestly in the face and held up his hands as if putting them on display. Still pale, still slightly misshapen. Still shaking slightly, always, a continuous tremor that never quite went away. "What about these?"

"What about them?"

Bruce took Tim's hands in his and pulled them down to rest in their laps. He let go of Tim's left hand for the moment and concentrated on the right one, beginning the steps of the hand massage Damian had taught him. Damian was still the best at these, but they'd all learned how to do them. Cass took particular relish in being able to comfort her favorite brother without words.

Tim huffed and leaned sideways into the sofa, letting Bruce work on his hand. "What if they never get better?"

"Then we'll find ways to compensate. You can develop a fighting style that relies more heavily on kicks instead of hand strikes. We can design gloves that compensate for the tremors. You can deploy small remotely controlled drones instead of using batarangs if your aim is consistently off. We can make a grapnel gun that locks into your gloves and gauntlets so there's no risk of you losing your grip. Same thing with your bo staff."

Tim gaped at him. "You've been thinking about this. A lot."

Bruce nodded placidly. "Almost constantly." He switched from Tim's right hand to his left. "But all of that depends on what you want, of course. I've been wanting to talk to you about that, but the right moment never seemed to come."

"What I want?" Tim echoed, sounding baffled.

Bruce nodded. "What do you want? Do you want to be in the field? Do you want to take a position that's more centered on support, instead? Do you want to retire from the vigilante life altogether? Whatever you want, I'll support you. I'll help you make your life whatever you want it to be."

Tim looked away, staring blankly across the room. "What I want..." It seemed like the thought had never occurred to him.

Bruce felt a prick in his heart, but he just nodded. "Same thing with Wayne Enterprises. Do you like being CEO? Do you want to keep that job? Or would you rather step back from that, have more freedom and time to yourself? I am not going to take anything away from you that you want to keep, I want that to be crystal clear. If you don't want it, if you don't like it, I will gladly take the burden from you."

Tim looked back to him, eyes slightly narrowed. "You hate all that business stuff."

Bruce smiled. "Not as much as I hate seeing you in pain. Not as much as I hate you being overworked and sleep-deprived, carrying the world on your shoulders."

"Okay." Tim stared at him thoughtfully. "What do you want for me? And don't just say 'I want you to be happy,' you giant cliche."

Bruce chuckled lightly. He pressed Tim's hands together, palm to palm, and folded them between his larger ones. "Yes, I want you to be happy. As for my personal ambitions for you... I would like you to go back to school. You can get a GED, or you can finish your senior year, either way. You could go to college, if you want. I don't care what you major in: business or engineering or theatre lighting, for all I care. As long as it's something you want, something you want to learn. You're so smart, you have so much to offer the world, and sometimes I fear that it's going to waste with the way you've devoted yourself to me and my mission instead of pursuing your own."

Tim's eyes softened. "Bruce... This is my mission. It always was. I love Gotham just as much as you do. I want to save her, protect her. Just like you."

Bruce smiled. His heart was warm and overflowing. "Yes. I knew that. Just...as long as it's what you want."

Tim looked away again. His voice went wistful. "I loved being Robin. I think those were the best years of my life. I wish I had enjoyed them more while I had the chance."

Bruce squeezed his hands. "Oh, no, sweetheart. Those weren't the best years of your life. Not a chance. Your best years are still ahead of you. I guarantee it, because I'm going to make it so."

Tim smiled at him, sad, but with a tinge of optimism. "No matter what?"

"No matter what."

Tim took a deep breath, then carefully pulled his hands out of Bruce's and stood up. "Okay. I have a lot to think about."

Bruce stood next to him. "You'll let me know what you decide?"

Tim nodded. Bruce pulled him into a hug, and Tim leaned into him. They wrapped their arms around each other and held on tight. It was so nice to be able to hug his son without fear of hurting him.

"I don't want to be Red Robin anymore," Tim murmured into Bruce's shoulder. "That was never me. It was just something I borrowed." He shuddered. "If my time as Robin was some of the best years of my life, I think being Red Robin was the worst."

Bruce pulled back and held his shoulders. "Okay," he said solemnly. "If you want to keep fighting, we'll make a new identity for you. We'll design a new suit, new colors, whatever you want. Something all your own, with no strings and no baggage. How does that sound?"

Tim smiled, the flesh around his eyes crinkling up. "That sounds awesome. Thank you, Dad."

"Anytime." Bruce chucked him under the chin. "Anytime at all."

Chapter Text

Two weeks after his discussion with Bruce about choosing what he wanted, Tim went to Wayne Enterprises to clean out his office.

He wasn't quitting, not entirely. After a lot of thought, he'd decided that he didn't want to stop working at WE. He liked feeling useful, liked using his intellect in the daytime, liked knowing what the company was up to and having the power to guide it, such as his initiative to create the Neon Knights. He didn't want to give that up entirely.

So he had asked for (and instantly received) Bruce's approval to step down as CEO and take a position that was closer to his interests and skills: Vice President of Research & Development. After a lot of discussion and a couple of meetings, and a PowerPoint presentation that Tim had hastily thrown together with Bruce's help, the board voted in favor of the move. Tim still held controlling stock of the company, which would act as insurance against Bruce "going rogue" again, as he apparently had done when Hush had impersonated him while Bruce was lost in the timestream.

Bruce would be WE's President, responsible for strategy and long-term goals, with Lucius Fox as his CEO in charge of day-to-day operations. Honestly, Lucius had done most of the work when Tim was President and CEO, anyway. Tim had just been needed to sign off on a lot of documents and make presentations to the board and meet with other CEOs, things like that. He had had to work his butt off even to understand what he was talking about, which was the main source of his stress and near constant sleeplessness, but he'd always known that Lucius was there to back him up.

Tim had been the face of the company, the very, very young face, while Lucius actually made things work. Now Bruce could go back to being the face, while Lucius continued to be the real power of the executive office. And Tim could do something fun instead.

He knew he would still have a voice. He could keep his eye on the entire company, and if he had suggestions and ideas, he would go to Bruce. And Bruce would listen. And then Lucius would make it happen.

Plus, Tim liked the idea of seeing Bruce during the day, being his sort of silent partner again, getting to have lunch with him and hanging out in his office when neither had something more pressing to do. It wasn't quite being Robin to Bruce's Batman again, but it was better than what they'd had before Tim had been kidnapped. He knew Bruce was happy with the new arrangement, too, with the way he kept smiling, looking at Tim with warmth and pride beaming in his face.

So Tim was in his old office, which was actually next door to Bruce's current one, getting rid of things he wouldn't need and packing up boxes to take down to R&D. Jason had come along, still insisting that he was Tim's 24-hour bodyguard until McDaniels was caught. He had gone to the security office to satisfy himself that the building was secure enough and the security personnel were well-trained, but he expected Tim to call him to come back when he was ready to actually start moving boxes.

Tim was currently sitting on his very comfy leather couch, which he intended to have moved down to his new office, going through a cardboard box full of get-well gifts and cards that had been accumulating for the past two months. Most of the tokens like this had been forwarded to the manor, where Alfred had vetted them and eventually started passing them on to Tim, but apparently some had been missed, or had been sent through non-official channels directly to his secretary, who had just dumped them into a box for his return instead of sending them on.

Tim took the time to read each card before dumping them into the trash can at his feet. The well-wishes were all politely worded, but it was hard to judge their sincerity, and he certainly wasn't sentimental enough to want to keep them like he wanted to keep the cards and letters from his personal friends and acquaintances. (He'd gotten a get-well card from Superman. Superman! Well, Lois and Clark. Still, he was never going to throw that little piece of folded cardboard away. It was going to stay on his dresser in a position of prominence forever.)

Some of the gifts were not appropriate for a seventeen-year-old CEO, like the bottles of booze, so he set those aside in a smaller box to give to Bruce later. Others, like the boxes of high-end chocolate, would go home with him for later consumption with his friends and family. There was a fruit basket which had gone rotten, which Tim sadly dumped. He loved strawberries, and these were the really good, expensive ones from that place in California. It was too bad they hadn't made it to the manor.

Then there was a small, leather-bound box about the size of a hardback book, closed with a strap and buckle. Tim frowned and rested it on his lap, running his shaky fingers over rich, supple dark brown leather. There was no card on the outside to indicate the sender. Even amongst all of the other expensive gifts that had been sent to him, this one stood out.

He undid the buckle and pulled back the strap to open the lid, then gasped when a vial of glowing green liquid came into view, nestled in a black velvet impression inside the box. He slammed the lid shut and held the box closed with both hands, knuckles turning white, his heart pounding and breath gasping in his throat. That shade of green... It almost reminded him of Kryptonite, but not quite.

He knew what it was. He should throw this box out the window.

His hands were shaking viciously now. Tim took a deep breath, then slowly opened the lid again. The vial of glowing green liquid was still there. Tim gulped, his eyes darting back and forth over the contents of the box. There had to be something else, some sort of message... This time he saw the cream-colored paper folded against the velvet interior lid of the box, held in place with a long pin.

He pulled the pin free, though it took a couple of tries with his fingers shaking so badly, then set the box aside on the couch and held the folded letter in both hands. He opened it carefully and began to read, holding it against his knee to reduce the trembling. Still, it was not easy to read.

Dear Little Detective,

I was so very distressed to hear of your capture and wounding at the hands of common criminals. It is a shame that your mentor and his allies took too long to find and rescue you. If you had been in my protection, as I have offered to you so many times, I would have found you and retrieved you within an hour.

But all is not lost, even so. I offer you this gift as a token of my goodwill: a vial of water from the last remaining Lazarus Pit. It will not cure the injury to your hands entirely, but it will help. Simply rub it over your wounds, and the pain and weakness will be reduced.

Then, if you would like to be fully cured, all you must do is accept my offer. I will give you my kingdom, Timothy Drake, for you are my worthy heir. You have caused a great deal of harm to my organization, you naughty, wayward child, but I will forgive all if you only come home to me and accept your place at my side. I will give you the world, and I will prepare you to rule it. Naturally, for you to do so, your body must be perfect and without blemish, and I will make it so.

I will love you as my own, which is more than your arrogant and obsessed "father" has ever done for you. He will never be able to protect you and care for you the way I intend to. He will never be able to give you what you need. But I can, and I will.

Please consider this offer carefully, dear detective. I will not make it again. Next time, I will not offer, I will take.

You know how to contact me. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Yours Sincerely, Ra's al Ghul

Tim stood up, his legs shaking like jelly. The paper fluttered to the floor. He stumbled over to the glass wall of his office, through which he could see his secretary, Karla, and knocked on the soundproof glass. She looked up, then did a double-take when she saw how pale and shaky he was. It occurred to him that he could have used the intercom. Then again, maybe not. He wasn't sure he would have been able to walk all the way to the desk. Why was this stupid office so big?

Karla stood up, eyes wide and perfectly drawn eyebrows raised as she tried to figure out what to do. "Get Bruce," Tim mouthed, then pressed his lips shut. He could feel bile surging at the back of his throat.

"You want your dad?" Karla asked, pointing toward Bruce's office. Tim could read her lips. He nodded shakily.

"Be right back," she promised, then hustled away. Tim turned away from the glass and sat back down on the leather couch. His heart was pounding so hard that he could feel it in his eyes.

Between one blink and the next, it felt like, Bruce was there, kneeling in front of Tim and holding his upper arms with both hands. "Tim, Tim. Can you look me, son? What's wrong? Did you have a flashback?"

Tim blinked, then blinked again several times in row. He took a deep, shuddering breath, then shook his head and flapped his hand at the paper on the floor. "B-Bruce..."

"I'm here, sweetheart." Bruce let go of him with one hand and scooped up the letter. He held it to his face, and Tim watched his expression as he read it. He went from confused to incensed, then disgusted, frustrated, and grim. When he finished, he flung the letter back on the floor and held Tim's arm again, rubbing up and down as if to warm him. Tim shivered, realizing belatedly that he did feel kind of cold.

"Where's the vial?" Bruce growled, the voice of the Bat in the shiny, pristine offices of Wayne Enterprises. Tim tipped his head to the box next to him on the couch, and Bruce snatched it up and hid it away somewhere.

"I'll take care of it, kiddo. I assume you don't want to use it as the sender intended?"

Tim shook his head, tasting bile in the back of his throat. The temptation was there, though, and God. It was strong. To reduce the pain and weakness even a little bit, even temporarily...

Bruce huffed in relief, and again Tim saw that warmth and pride. "I thought not. I'll get rid of it so you won't be tempted, okay? There's nothing wrong with you for wanting to try, but... We don't know what even short-term exposure to a single limb might do. That stuff is insanely toxic."

Tim nodded. He knew that. He knew it.

Bruce kept rubbing his arms. "It's okay, Tim. It's okay. Do you need something? What can I get for you?"

Tim opened his mouth. His teeth chattered. "Jay. I want Jay."

"No problem. Right away."

Bruce stood up, abandoning him for a moment, and Tim felt even colder. Bruce only stepped over to the desk and hit the intercom button, though. "Karla, call Jay Dodson back from the security office, please. We need him immediately."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne," came Karla's breathless voice, before Bruce let go of the button and went back to Tim.

He sat beside him on the couch and wrapped his arm around him, holding him close to his side. "That was quite a shock, huh?" he said kindly. "You felt nice and safe in your comfy office, and then that bastard intruded on you like that. I don't blame you for being scared."

Tim nodded, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. "I'm not...r-ready."

Bruce looked down at him, frowning. "You mean your identity?"

Tim nodded. "I took him on before. I won before. But I...I am too weak now. I haven't trained up, I don't have a new suit, I can't..." He dropped his voice and his eyes, ashamed. "I can't fight him right now."

"That's okay." Bruce turned toward him on the couch and wrapped his arms around him fully, hugging him against his chest. "You're allowed to need time to recover. You don't have to fight, not until you're ready. The rest of us will protect you. We won't let him touch you. We won't let anyone touch you."

Tim closed his eyes. He knew this was about McDaniels, too, as well as Ra's. Still, he couldn't stop the shame from burning up the inside of his chest. "H-hate being so weak."

"I know, buddy." Bruce kissed the top of his head. "Remember when I broke my back? I felt exactly the same way you're feeling now. Too weak, too useless. I hated having to rely on others when I believed I should be the one doing the protecting, myself. I hated having to retreat and heal and start over practically from scratch. But you took care of things for me then, even though you were far too young and inexperienced to have to deal with all of that. Let me return the favor now, okay? Let us all return the many, many favors you have done for us, all the gifts you've given and the sacrifices you've made."

They sat there on the couch, indulging in impromptu cuddling time, until Jason arrived, bursting into the office with a feral growl. "Where's the threat? What's going on? Is it McDaniels? I'll tear him apart!"

Tim pulled away from Bruce's chest and gave him a shaky smile. "It's okay, Jay. The threat isn't...immediate. I just... I wanted you."

"You got me, kid." Jason came over to the couch to ruffle his hair, though he was still tense and held one hand near where Tim knew he had a hidden holster. Wayne Tower had metal detectors on all the entrances, of course, but Jason had taken advantage of his time around the Batcave to design and fabricate a pair of ceramic guns. They wouldn't hold up to lethal ammunition, but they worked with the non-lethal pellets and darts Jason had taken to using in deference to the Code.

Bruce, meanwhile, had picked up the letter from the floor. Now he offered it to Jason, his lips pressed together as if to keep himself from speaking. Jason snatched it from his hand and read it even more rapidly than Bruce had done earlier. Unlike Bruce, though, he only really had one emotional response to it: rage, then more rage, then even more rage. By the time he finished, his lip was curled in a snarl, and he was practically salivating with need to go take out the threat himself, personally, this instant.

He lowered the letter, crumpling it in his fist, and looked at Bruce. "Mr. Wayne, we need to increase the security detail on your son."

Bruce smirked at the formal language. "Agreed, Mr. Dodson. It needs to be at least doubled. You have anyone in mind?"

Jason nodded curtly. "The Black Bat. I hear she's in town."

"Will she agree to that?"

"I think she will. She can keep an eye from more of a distance while I keep guarding Mr. Drake-Wayne at his side."

"Sounds good." Bruce looked at Tim. "What do you think? At least for a while."

Tim shuddered, remembering the words from the letter. Next time, I will not offer, I will take. "I... Yes. I would appreciate that."

Jason ruffled his hair again, so hard that Tim's scalp tingled. "I'll get it set up. Don't worry. Everything will be fine."

The way he spat the words, it wasn't just a platitude, an empty reassurance. It was a promise.

Everything was going to be fine, because Jason would make it be fine. He would personally get out and push the world back into place if he had to.

"Thank you." Tim managed a smile. It didn't even feel forced.

He didn't feel cold anymore. He was warm, and safe, and loved.

Chapter Text

In the week after Tim found the message from Ra's al Ghul, the Wayne family dug in. Tim did indeed know how to contact Ra's—a relay station in Greenland that was still standing even after Tim had burned down half of the League's bases. He did indeed send a response. It was only two words. The first word started with F and the second word started with Y.

Dick worried that it might be unnecessarily confrontational. Bruce and Damian both said it was up to Tim how he wanted to respond. Jason and Cass were heartily in favor of the message. Alfred did not weigh in verbally, but Tim felt the warmth of his approval in the way Alfred kept making him his favorite tea every time he saw him, even if Tim didn't ask for it.

Alfred was maybe the most bitter of them all about the way Tim's "year abroad" had gone down. He seemed to take it as a personal affront that Tim had lost his spleen and Alfred hadn't been there to treat him, but some "scoundrel in a cave" had done it instead. If anyone hated Ra's more than Bruce for what he and his had done to their family, it was Alfred.

Changes were made. Tim's physical therapist was paid extra to come meet him at the manor instead of Tim venturing out into Gotham. He talked to Dr. Thacker over video chat instead of in person, and Jason and Dick joined him in the manor for their Wednesday group session. Fewer visitors were allowed, though Tim's closest friends were still encouraged to come to see him, and Stephanie came over pretty much every night anyway. His plans to go back to work at WE were put on hold until the current situation had been dealt with.

Tim knew it was all postponing the inevitable. Wayne Manor was a veritable fortress, but Ra's had invaded it successfully before. Tim had weakened the old goat's organization as much as he could during his year abroad, but Ra's still had a lot of resources and a lot of fanatical followers. If he wanted something, he would get it. And right now he wanted Tim.

But it was okay. Tim had a plan. Kind of a bad plan that could go wrong very quickly, but... He had one.

He didn't say any of that. It felt...good to see all of his family gathering around him like this. Bruce was in Batman mode more often than not, growling around the manor like the molding had personally offended him. Damian had taken to carrying his katana across his back and sticking near Tim's side, pestering him to play games with him and trying to bribe him with animals. Jason and Cass were never more than ten yards away at any given moment. Dick had even taken a few days off from his job to hang out, just in case Ra's chose that narrow window of time to strike.

It took almost a full week for Tim to start feeling suffocated by the constant attention and concern. He loved his family, and he loved knowing that he was loved (God, he loved it so much, especially since before this debacle began he'd been almost entirely convinced that no one cared about him at all), but they were just so, so over the top. At all times. Always.

So today he was down in the Batcave, working on cases. His fingers were still shaky, but he could type just fine. His handwriting continued to be awful, which made it harder to take the kind of physical notes he had always liked having. Something about the physicality, the tangibility of a notebook or a legal pad with all of his scribbles had always seemed to help him rearrange things in a different light. Even the old conspiracy board had been an asset at times. He'd cracked more than one case while in the middle of scribbling out facts he'd already considered and turned over in his head a dozen times, and he missed having that tool.

He was keeping his notes in a word processor instead, which wasn't the same. It felt like working with gloves on, just slightly removed from the evidence and the facts. But he could still work this way. He could still help. He could still be useful.

The thought made the corner of his mouth turn up. That had been Bruce's main objection to Tim starting to work on cases again, even though his health and strength were steadily returning and there was nothing else he'd rather do than be himself, be a detective again.

"I don't want you to feel obligated to start working again when you're not ready," Bruce had insisted, his tone straying dangerously close to that of the Bat. "I don't want you to feel like you have to be useful to earn your place here. That's not why you're my son. That's not why we all love you."

Tim had smiled. "I know, I know. I know I don't have to earn anything. I just...I'm bored, okay? I've been cooped up in the manor for a long time, and it feels like it's going to stretch on even longer now with this whole Ra's thing going on. So just...let me do something to help, even marginally. I'll feel better."

"Okay." Bruce sighed dolefully and pulled him into a hug. "Pace yourself, okay? When you're tired, stop. Make sure you eat and drink enough. Listen to Jason when he decides to drag you away. Let Cass give you hand massages. Your health has to be your top priority, and if I find out you're relapsing or wearing yourself out, I'll make you stop."

"What, are you gonna ground me?" Tim teased.

Bruce squeezed him tighter. "I absolutely will," he growled. "I'll ground you till you're thirty. Don't test me."

"Sure, Dad." Tim patted his back condescendingly. "It's not like I'm already emancipated or anything."

Bruce huffed, but he finally let go and ruffled Tim's hair so hard that he giggled and ducked away. "Shut up, brat. Go have fun in the cave."

"Okay." Tim laughed and all but skipped off, nearly running into Cass where she was lurking just around the corner. She grinned and hugged him tight around the ribs, knocking the breath out of him for a second, then raced ahead down into the cave to secure the area. Jason followed behind, grumbling.

Just before Tim went downstairs, Damian ambushed him with a squirrel. "Timothy! Take Ludmilla with you. Perhaps you will be reminded to take a break when she becomes hungry and gnaws on your ear."

Ludmilla sat up in Damian's hands, looking at Tim expectantly. Tim held out his elbow without thinking about it, and Ludmilla jumped gracefully to the proffered perch and climbed up his arm to sit on his shoulder. She chittered in his ear, which was strange but pleasant.

The baby squirrels were almost old enough to release now, just a little smaller than full-grown adults. They had a very large and lavishly furnished wire cage on the patio near the kitchen, but spent little time in it. Most hours of the day they could be found riding around on the shoulders or heads of various family members or visiting friends, or climbing the furniture in areas Damian deemed safe for them. It was not Alfred's favorite thing, to say the least, but he allowed it with only a mild glare each time.

Even Bruce had been known to offer a squirrel or two a ride on his arms, which they preferred whenever he made himself available. It was probably because he was so tall and tree-like. The only person the squirrels had liked better was Clark Kent, the day he came to visit with his family for a Sunday dinner. That had been a surreal scene, and a memory Tim would always treasure: Batman and Superman in their civvies, chatting in a sunlit room, each with a squirrel on his shoulder that he periodically offered little bits of seeds and nuts.

"I'll take her," Tim told Damian now, "but I won't be responsible if she goes wandering off and chews some wires or something. It'll be your job to tell Bruce about that if that happens. You know I'm going downstairs to work, not play around."

Damian sniffed. "I've taken Ludmilla downstairs before and she's always stuck close to me. She's a very proper young lady."

Tim stared at him. "She's a squirrel. She's a wild animal. No matter how tame they seem, you know they're not really pets. You were the one at the beginning who told us all not to handle them too much so they would keep their wild instincts, remember? I know that ship has sailed now, but they're still wild animals."

Damian set his jaw. "Then you will need to keep at least half an eye on her, won't you? Perhaps that will also prevent you from becoming 'lost in the sauce,' as Richard says. You need to keep up your situational awareness even while you're doing your work."

Tim's heart kinda melted at that. "Aww, you're worried about me."

Damian humphed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Of course I am. You are famously bad at taking care of yourself, even in your own home. If I must send a squirrel along to babysit you, so be it."

"You could come down with us, too, if you're that worried."

Damian sighed like the young kid he was. It was a rather startling sound. "I have...homework."

"Aw." Again, Tim was improbably charmed. This wasn't the first time over the past few weeks that he'd gotten a glimpse of just why Dick was so fond of this weird kid, but it was a good one. He reached out and ruffled Damian's hair, quickly, before he could see it coming and jerk away. "Don't worry, kiddo. I'll be fine. I'm just going downstairs to do some paperwork, not to the moon."

Damian scowled and flattened his fluffed-up hair with both hands. "You'd better be."

Finally, Tim went downstairs. It was the first time he'd been in the Batcave for...months, hadn't it been? At least two months. Everything was exactly as he remembered, but he still felt strangely nostalgic, descending the stairs into the space that had become his gym, his workplace, his sanctuary, his home. This, more than the manor, than the houses where he'd lived with his parents, had always felt like a place where Tim belonged.

Until Dick kicked him out of it, of course, metaphorically if not physically. But that was in the past now. All of that was behind them.

Jason and Cass patrolled the perimeter of the cave for a while, then started sparring once they were satisfied that the space was as secure as ever. The background sounds of flesh on flesh, the occasional shout, the sound of a body hitting a mat (always Jason's, never Cass's) was a familiar music. Tim smiled as he worked. He dug into the details of a series of murders that seemed disconnected, but he felt certain there was a common thread somewhere. He was going to find it, no matter how long it took.

Sometime later—it could have been hours, could have been minutes—Tim started when Ludmilla jumped onto his shoulder. She had been roaming around, and he'd only been paying just enough attention to make sure she didn't climb into something dangerous. Now he blinked and turned his head to look at her. Ludmilla was sitting straight up, tail bushy and ears pricked, staring at the corner of the cave where they kept old uniforms.

Tim yawned and pushed back from the computer, stretching his stiff arms and back. "You see something back there, girl? Or hear something?"

Ludmilla turned her head to look at him and chattered in a way that seemed affirmative, then went back to staring at the corner. Her tail waved rapidly up and down, which Tim knew was a warning in squirrel language, like a dog barking.

Tim stood up from the desk and took several steps toward the corner, then paused and looked behind him at the training area. "Hey, Jason, Cass!"

His older siblings were locked in a wrestling match on the mat. As Tim watched, Jason flipped out of the headlock Cass had trapped him in and reversed their positions. "Yeah, Timmy?" he called, voice strained, while Cass grinned wolfishly, eyes sparkling as she contemplated her next move.

Tim shrugged. "Might be nothing. Might be something."

Jason and Cass disengaged and sprang to their feet, both instantly ready and wary. "Hold up, we'll check it out," Jason called.

But Tim was already moving toward the corner again, head tilted to the side as he tried to see if there was anything out of place. Whatever had caught Ludmilla's attention, it was probably harmless. A bat that had gotten separated from the colony deeper in the cave, or one of the various other creepy crawlies they shared this space with.

He reached the edge of the cases full of suits, and then he saw something move. At first he couldn't figure out what it was, his mind not able to piece it together. One of Bruce's old Batsuits was moving by itself. It was one of the ones with a gray leotard and a dark blue cape, and it made Tim unaccountably nostalgic to see it. But no, it wasn't moving by itself. There was someone inside, someone who didn't fit the suit at all, bulging in the wrong places, shorter than Bruce had ever been, the cowl only loosely laying over his head...

Tim stood there frozen, unable to react, and then the moving suit reached him. The cowl fell back, a hand grabbed his, and it was McDaniels.

It was McDaniels, in the cave, wearing a Batsuit like a sagging skin. He was grinning like a maniac, like a demon. He was holding Tim's hand in a vice-like grip, squeezing so hard that Tim felt the recently healed bones creak together. Tim screamed.

Ludmilla jumped at the man's face. He swept her aside with a casual swipe of his other gauntlet, sending her flying across the cave. Tim couldn't see where she landed. He prayed she had survived the fall. Squirrels landed on their feet, right?

There were tears in his eyes, on his cheeks. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move. His knees were bending. He heard shouts that seemed to come from far away, traveling through miles and miles of water to meet his ears. Jason, Cass, bellowing and shrieking in rage.

A stomach-turning wrench, and Tim was pulled around, his back to McDaniels's chest. One of the man's arms was wrapped around his chest, holding him still, and the other was still holding his hand up in the air like the trigger of a bomb. He saw Jason and Cass rapidly approaching. Jason was holding a gun. Cass was murder incarnate.

"Stop!" McDaniels yelled, giving Tim's hand another squeeze in his hard, gloved fist. Tim squeaked in pain and sagged against him, sparks flying across his vision. He could barely see for the tears. No, not again, not again. Please, not again. "I'll break his hand! Do you want that?"

Jason and Cass stopped. They were seething, grinding their teeth, too far away. Tim could feel their rage and determination, but they were too far away. Jason couldn't get a shot with McDaniels using Tim as a shield. Cass couldn't get closer without risking his hand being broken again.

McDaniels laughed in Tim's ear. He felt the hot breath and cringed away from it, shaking in every limb.

"Don't worry!" McDaniels called. "I'm taking him, but it's not for me. I've got a friend, see. Someone who told me all your secrets. Someone who told me how to get in, how to hide and wait. Tim Drake, Red Robin... My new friend wants him, and I'm taking him."

New friend... Tim blinked hard, fighting against the black pressing in on his vision. "Ra's al Ghul," he grated out through his tight throat, his aching lungs.

McDaniels nodded, his chin brushing Tim's ear. "That's the one. You're a smart kid. But not smart enough."

Tim didn't bother trying to respond. He could barely breathe, let alone talk.

McDaniels spoke to Jason and Cass again. "I'm taking him! Don't try to follow, or I'll hurt him. I'll hurt him real bad. My new friend doesn't care how damaged he is when I get him there. He just wants him, one way or another." He started to back up, dragging Tim with him.

Tim didn't fight. He could barely breathe, but somehow through his blurry vision he could see Jason standing there frozen with his gun at his side, his face wrenched up in anger and terror and despair. He couldn't see Cass anymore. Maybe she'd already left, bounding up the stairs to get the rest of their family, or circling around to get McDaniels from the back.

"Tim!" Jason yelled. His voice filled the entire cave. Bats squeaked in the distance. Tim's ears rang. "We're coming for you, buddy! Don't forget that! We'll always come for you!"

Tim nodded, his chin digging into McDaniels's arm. McDaniels growled and squeezed him tighter, his arm around his neck choking off his breath.

If Tim could have, he would have yelled back. He would have told Jay not to worry. He would have told him he had a plan.

McDaniels was pulling him back into a passage Tim hadn't known was there. Maybe it was new, dug by Ra's and his men as a secret entrance into the lair of his nemesis. Tim's lungs were on fire, and McDaniels hadn't let up the pressure on his hand. Before his vision went out entirely, he had time for one last thought.

He hadn't needed Jason to tell him that his family would come for him. He'd already known. He would never doubt again.

Chapter Text

Tim woke up with a heaviness in his limbs, in his eyelids, in his everything, that told him he'd been drugged. It probably said something about his life that even half-conscious he could recognize the way his body felt post-sedation, but it wasn't important, so he didn't waste any time thinking about it. The strongest impression he held in his heart was warmth, stronger than the heaviness, the confusion, the nausea that pulsed in his stomach and the headache pushing at his temples, just waiting for him to wake up enough to feel it.

Someone was coming for him. He knew that. It didn't matter where he was, how far away he'd been taken from his home. Plans were already in motion, steps had already been taken, and someone was coming to take him back. More than one, even. A lot more.

So it was okay. Everything was okay. No matter what happened to him, no matter how badly he was hurt or torn or manipulated, his family was going to come and reclaim him and put him back together again, and everything was going to be okay.

"Timothy." A voice. Cultured, smooth. A hand brushed the hair away from his forehead and trailed over his cheek. "I know you're awake, or almost so. You can open your eyes. There's no point in pretending to be asleep."

Tim knew that voice. He turned his head away from the hand, though he didn't actively try to pull away. His heart beat a little faster, though he still felt mostly calm. He tugged at his hands, only then realizing that they were bound to something above his head.

The voice chuckled. "It's temporary, my boy. Open your eyes and look at me. Face your new circumstances. You cannot hide from me."

Tim hated the smugness in that voice. The superiority and certainty. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut in response. The small act of defiance felt good, as fruitless as he knew it to be.

The hand slapped him lightly, leaving a stinging band across his cheek. The voice was hard now. "Timothy. Open your eyes. I confess to finding your stubbornness charming in some contexts, but I've had enough of it. You cannot escape me. There's no use in pretending."

That was true enough, for the moment. Tim huffed out a breath through his nose and opened his eyes, though he deliberately did not turn his head and look at Ra's al Ghul, the owner of the voice. His captor, once again.

He was lying in a bed in a sumptuous room, the cushions beneath him soft and luxurious. He was covered with a warm blanket up to his armpits. He wiggled his fingers and twisted his wrists, testing the bonds. They were supple, not painful, but very strong. He would not be able to break them at his current level of strength.

He was looking toward a door, and he couldn't see any windows on that side of the room. Still, the quality of the air and light told him that he wasn't underground, and there most likely was a window or two behind him. The air was not overly hot and dry, but had a tang that spoke of a cooler environment. Tim also felt the familiar light-headedness and near breathlessness of being at high altitude without proper time to adjust. He was in one the League's mountain hideouts, then.

"Timothy, that's quite enough. I command you to look at me." Ra's grabbed his jaw and turned his head so he was forced to face him. Tim blinked. Ra's was leaning over him on the bed, dressed in warm clothes, fur at his collar and cuffs.

At the sight of Tim's face, Ra's smiled. It could almost have been mistaken for something warm and welcoming.

"There you are." Ra's patted his cheek. Tim refused to flinch. "It's lovely to see your eyes again, Timothy. You've been healing quite well since your stay with that fool McDaniels, I'm glad to see."

At the name, Tim tensed up and looked around the room. He'd almost forgotten that it was McDaniels who had captured him and brought him to Ra's. Where was he now? He felt sick at the thought that he might still be in the room and Tim somehow hadn't noticed.

Ra's grabbed his chin again to hold him still. "Don't worry," he said in that faux-soothing voice that made Tim want to throw up. "He isn't here. After he fulfilled his purpose in bringing you here, I had him thrown into a cell. Would you like me to have him killed? Tortured, as he tortured you? Say the word, and it will be done. I'll even let you watch."

Tim tugged at his bonds. He didn't want to think about that, or he might be tempted. "Let me go," he said hoarsely.

Ra's smiled, pleased, as if he had won something. "Ah, it's good to hear your voice. I will release your hands, but we must have a discussion first."

Tim forced himself to relax back into the bedding, watching Ra's without blinking. He had an idea about what this "discussion" would entail. His stomach felt sour. "You want me to promise not to escape."

Ra's patted his cheek in that creepy way again, like an alien trying to be parental without know what a parent was. It made Tim long even harder for his dad, for his family. "That's my boy. Such a clever little detective. Yes, if you promise not to try to escape, I will release your hands."

"What if someone comes to rescue me and takes me away? I can't prevent that."

Ra's laughed. "No one will find you here."

Tim bit his tongue to keep from retorting that they definitely would. "I'm not going to be who you want me to be. I won't be your heir. I won't be your..." It felt wrong to say this word to this man. "...your son."

"You will." Another laugh, calm and unconcerned. "I understand that it will take time. Centuries, perhaps. But eventually, with training, with discipline, you will come to accept your new place in the world. You are mine, now, and I have unlimited time to show you what that means."

"You'll punish me if I defy you."

"Yes." Ra's stroked his fingers over the cheek he had slapped. "Eventually, you will learn not to defy me."

Tim closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. His hands were trembling, but they were always trembling. Internally, he was still calm, though he couldn't help his physical reactions to Ra's's proximity and actions.

"You won't try to have me raped again?"

Ra's looked surprised, eyebrows rising. Tim couldn't tell if it was fake. "What makes you think I would do a thing like that?"

Tim swallowed against his nausea. "Because you did. The...the daugher of Acheron. She was going to rape me, then murder me. All to get my seed, my offspring, for your use. The only reason it didn't happen was because my sister saved me."

"I would never do something like that to you, my child. Whoever made that attempt was not doing so under my instructions, though they may have thought it would please me. I do not want your offspring. I want you. And I have you now. I would never order your death, only your pain."

Tim closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. He wasn't sure what to believe, but at least Ra's wasn't threatening him with sexual assault.

Ra's stroked his face, and it almost felt genuinely comforting this time. "Nothing like that will ever happen to you again. You are under my protection now. I am going to keep you safe and heal you. I will teach you ancient mysteries. I will give you the world someday, once you are fully and completely mine. It will take time, and it may be hard for you, but that is fully under your control. I will only punish you if you disobey me. So be a good boy, bow to my teaching, and all will be well."

Tim hated Ra's. He hated him. He hated being bound here, helpless and subdued, being stroked and cossetted like a dog on a chain pulled to its master's heel. He hated the false kindness and affection in that smooth, cultured voice. Hated most of all that a few months ago, this might have worked.

Ra's didn't love him. He wanted to possess him. But his affectation of parental love and caring was almost good enough to be believable. Tim had been so lonely, so desperate for connection not all that long ago. He might have been taken in. He would have told himself that he was only agreeing to Ra's's control in order to take him by surprise, to work against him from within and destroy his organization. But there was every chance that he would ended up falling under the sway of the Demon's Head in truth instead of fiction.

Not this time, though. That was not how this story ended. Tim would not be kept here for long. He just had to go along for a little while.

He opened his eyes and looked at Ra's, doing his best to steady his trembling. "I will not try to escape."

Ra's smiled, wide and pleased. "I'm glad to hear it, Timothy."

He took a dagger from his belt, and Tim flinched back, but Ra's only reached above his head and sliced the leather thongs that held his wrists bound to the ornate headboard. Tim sat up slowly and brought his hands forward into his lap, flexing his fingers. He hadn't been bound tightly enough to cut off circulation, but his hands still felt stiff and cold.

He held his right hand in his left and started to go through the steps of a self-massage. He longed for Damian to do this. Or Cass, or Bruce, or Jason, or Dick, or Alfred. They had all gotten good at it, and it was much harder for him to provide the right pressure with his weakened fingers. It did feel better after a few moments, though.

Ra's watched him curiously. "Your poor hands," he said softly. "Don't worry, my boy. We'll get them restored for you soon."

Tim shook his head, his heart jumping. If Ra's tried to force him, before he could be rescued... "I don't want to go into the Lazarus Pit. I don't want to sacrifice my soul for my body."

Ra's laughed like he'd said something funny. "You don't have a choice, my child. Will you truly start your time under my tutelage with an act of defiance? Do you wish to discover immediately just how harsh my punishments can be?"

Tim froze, his heart in his throat, shoulders hunching around his ears. He hadn't considered that Ra's might begin his captivity with pain. He'd figured that he would have at least a few days to settle in before Ra's decided to hurt him. He had counted on being rescued before that could happen.

He was so, so sick of being hurt by men who held power over him.

Ra's made a noise like Tim had done something cute and reached out to stroke his cheek again. It took everything Tim had not to flinch away from his touch. "Don't worry, Timothy. I'll give you some time to consider it. For now, you need food and refreshments to recover from your journey. I'll send some in for you."

He rose gracefully from the bed and walked to the door. Tim watched him go, hardly daring to believe it. At the door, Ra's turned back and gave him his most charming smile. "I'm glad to have you here, my chosen heir. I'm so pleased that you've agreed to be mine. Don't be afraid. You will come to love me and love your place with me. Just give it time."

Tim held his breath until the door shut. Finally, he was alone in the room. His head swam, and he closed his eyes and breathed slowly and carefully.

Once he had himself under control, he scrambled out of the bed and stood on the floor. He was no longer dressed in the comfortable sweatshirt and pants he'd worn down to the Batcave, but an outfit that was similar to the one Ra's had been wearing. He ran his hands over the silky material of his shirt as he looked around.

Yes, there were windows on the far wall, two of them. They were open to the air, which was crisp but not cold. He caught a glimpse of a mountain peak, a blue and pink sky.

He crossed to the window and looked out. Below, he saw other buildings in the compound, people walking to and fro, a courtyard where a few dozen soldiers of the League were training with staves. He was indeed up in the mountains somewhere. The architecture put him in mind of something Eastern, but he couldn't tell what country he was in.

It didn't matter. No matter where Tim was, his family would always come for him. No matter where he was, his plan was still going to work.

Speaking of, it was time to put his plan into motion. Tim stared up into the bright sky, his heart pounding. He leaned out into the air a little, even though it wasn't necessary. And he screamed, even though he didn't have to. The plan still would have worked even if he'd said this in a normal tone of voice. Or a whisper.

"Kon! I'm here! Koooooon!"

A few people in the compound looked up at his bellow. Tim smiled and waved at them. He felt jubilant, triumphant. Ra's hadn't gagged him, hadn't even tried. Everything was fine. Rescue was coming.

He went back to his bed and sat down to wait.

The first time his Young Justice friends had come to visit him at the manor after McDaniels, Conner had been upset. He had taken Tim aside and talked to him privately while Cassie and Bart were cooing over the baby squirrels. He couldn't stop looking at the casts on Tim's hands, and Tim was surprised to realize that there were tears in his eyes.

"Why didn't you call me?" he asked, his voice hushed. "You know I'm always listening for you. You could have said my name, and I would have come. I would have saved you from this. Why didn't you call?"

Tim hurt. He hurt so much, not for himself but for his friend. He hated seeing Conner in such distress. "I was kidnapped as Tim Drake, not Red Robin. Tim Drake can't call on a Superman. Or a Superboy. I had to keep the secret. McDaniels was trying to prove that I was Red Robin and had connections to the superhero community beyond Wayne Enterprises and Batman, Inc. I couldn't give that to him. So I had to be quiet. I'm sorry, Kon."

Conner's head was lowered, his shoulders trembling. "I hate this. I hate that you got hurt like this, and I couldn't do anything."

"I'm sorry," Tim said again, helplessly. "I really am. I...I didn't realize it would hurt you, too."

"Yeah, well, it did." Conner raised his head and swiped his hand over his face, getting rid of the tears. "You never get it, do you, Tim? You never realize how many people care about you. How many people hurt when you hurt. But I'm telling you now, okay? Don't let this happen again. If you ever get kidnapped again, if someone is hurting you... I don't care if you're Tim Drake or Red Robin or something else. It doesn't matter. If you can talk, if you can even whisper, you call for me. I'll come and get you. I'll bring Bart and Cassie. Hell, I'll bring the whole JLA."

Tim smiled, a little shakily. "You'll bring Batman?"

"And Nightwing, and Black Bat, and Robin, and Spoiler. I'll even bring Alfred if you want me to."

"Don't forget Red Hood. He cares about me too."

"That's new, right? I thought things were still shaky with him."

"Yeah, things have changed." Tim grinned. "You met my bodyguard downstairs, Jay Dodson?"

Conner blinked. "Oh. Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

"Okay. I'll bring him too." Conner shook his finger in Tim's face. "Remember when you spoiled all of Ra's al Ghul's plans, and you said that this was what made you different from Batman? That you had friends? Well, you do. Don't forget it again, okay? Never again."

Tim nodded. "All right. I promise. Next time I get kidnapped and tortured, or just kidnapped, I'll call you."

"You'd better."

And then Conner hugged him. It was really nice.

After Tim found the "gift" from Ra's in his office, he called Conner and told him that he might be yelling for him soon. He told him to bring his family and not come by himself. Conner promised to do so.

So now everything was done. Tim had fulfilled his part of the plan. All he had to do now was wait and trust Conner to follow through.

He knew he would. Everything was going to be fine.

Chapter Text

"There. The call came from right over there."

Conner stood in the cockpit of the Batplane, pointing out the windshield. Batman sat to his left, piloting the vehicle while Nightwing sat on the right. Batman adjusted the plane, steering toward where Conner pointed. They were close, Conner knew it. They should be able to see the place where Tim was being held in just a few seconds....

And there it was, a complex of buildings tucked halfway up the side of a mountain. Nightwing unbuckled as soon as the place came into view and started heading back to the rear of the plane. He was going to parachute down, Conner knew, along with most of Tim's family. Cassie and Bart were back there, too, waiting for their turn to go.

The plane was in stealth mode, but as soon as they started jumping in, things were going to kick off. Batman pointed the plane for a small landing strip about a mile further up the mountain from the compound, frowning thunderously. It was going to take him some time to get down to the buildings from that landing, but someone had to take care of the plane, and Batman had the most experience as a pilot.

Conner dared to clap his shoulder. "I'll save your son. Don't worry."

Batman nodded shortly, and Conner turned on his heel to follow Nightwing back to the cargo area.

He almost ran into Red Hood. Jason. He was decked out in his full anti-hero glory, including the blank red helmet and the guns at his side. Conner took a half step back.

"Kid, Superboy. You can fly, right?" Red Hood's voice was freaking intense, even filtered through the voice modulator on his helmet.

Conner nodded. "Well, it's actually TTK, but..."

"Whatever. You can take a passenger?"

Conner nodded.

"And you can follow Tim's voice. You hear him now?"

Conner's shoulders crept up nearer his ears. "I can't hear him at the moment, no." It was seriously creeping him out. Tim had to know he was coming. He should be talking, even reciting the alphabet, something so Conner would be able to track him down. He couldn't hear his breathing or heartbeat, either, the unique signature of biometrics that was Tim and only Tim. "But yes, I can follow his voice."

"Okay. Take me with you when you jump out of the plane." Red Hood paused. "Please."

Conner looked him up and down. He knew Tim trusted this guy now. He talked about him the way he used to talk about Nightwing: his big brother, admired and respected and beyond question. But Conner hadn't spent a lot of time with Red Hood himself. Forgive him for being a little paranoid when it came to Tim's safety right now. Conner's favorite little twerp had been betrayed and hurt by way too many people in the last year.

Red Hood spread his hands. "Please," he emphasized. "That's my little brother down there in the clutches of the monster creep who has caused nothing but pain and misfortune to my entire family, including me personally. I told Tim I was gonna keep him safe. I promised him. And then I just stood there while that bastard McDaniels dragged him away, right out of the Batcave where he should have been safe. I just want to make up for that now. I want to be Tim's bodyguard, like I said I would be. Please help me do that."

Wow, that was quite a speech. Far more than Conner would have expected from a dude he had expected to speak in monosyllables like a tough guy. "All right. You've convinced me." He ducked past Red Hood and headed toward the back. "Come on, let's go."

In the back, the belly doors were open on the plane, and they were just reaching the compound. Nightwing and Robin had already jumped, and Black Bat was on the edge. She flashed a smile at Conner as she leaped, all ballerina grace and poise. It was hot, Conner wasn't gonna lie. Cassie and Bart were waiting, with Bart perched on Cassie's back, ready to go. He gave Conner a wave when he saw him coming.

"See you down belooooowww!" Cassie jumped, Bart clinging to her and whooping with delight.

Conner looked at Red Hood. "I'm gonna just...grab you. Okay?"

"Whatever." Red Hood bounced on his toes. "C'mon, we gotta save Timmy."

Conner grabbed him by the back of the shirt with both hands and shoved him out, following right after. The familiar warm envelope of his TTK surrounded them, and Conner bulleted directly to the spot he'd heard Tim calling him from. They sped past Cassie and Bart, Black Bat, Robin and Nightwing, and into a large open window on the second floor of the main building. Below, people were reacting to their arrival, pointing and yelling.

Conscious of his passenger, Conner brought them to a careful stop that wouldn't break Red Hood's bones and set them down feet first on the floor. The room was a bedroom, covers rumpled on a big bed with a huge, elaborately carved headboard. A tray of pastries and fruit and a pitcher of water with some cups were resting on a table. A chair next to the table was overturned.

The room was empty. No Tim, no Ra's al Ghul, nothing. Red Hood stomped over to the table. He grabbed a pastry and held it up to his helmet, probably to some sort of analyzer.

"No poison or anything," he reported, then spun to the window when Cassie and Bart crashed through, instinctively drawing a gun though he didn't point it. Bart was still yelling.

Conner stood still, his eyes closed as he listened. He was aware of Tim's other siblings arriving in the room as well, gliding down on their bat-shaped parachutes. Footsteps pounded in the hall, al Ghul's minions coming to stop them. They didn't matter. Further out, other voices, the echoing of hallways, the rustle of cloth, the ring of steel unsheathed. Below, farther down, farther, through the rock, faint, almost hidden, but he heard it: the bubbling of liquid, the taunt of a cultured voice, Tim's ragged voice raised in denial. "No, no, no no no! Stop it, I won't, you can't make me!"

Conner opened his eyes. "I found him." He grabbed Red Hood and lifted him with his TTK, and he ran.

Conner bulled through the minions trying to rush them, heedless of swords and fists and shouts of outrage. Red Hood cursed, clinging to his shoulder as Conner pulled him along like a balloon on a string. Conner heard a bullet or two being shot, Red Hood trying to take out targets even at the ridiculous speed Conner was moving them. He heard screams, too, so Red Hood was just as good a shot as Tim had boasted.

He could still hear Tim fighting with Ra's al Ghul. Al Ghul was trying to drag him, feet scraping across the floor, and Tim punched and kicked, but his strikes lacked their usual power. He was still recovering, still weeks away from being ready for the field. There was the resounding sound of flesh on flesh as al Ghul hit him, and Tim gasped and spat out liquid. Blood. He was making Tim bleed.

Conner found a stone staircase and took it down into the mountain. He felt the rush of air that meant Bart had run up to him, then past and back again. He would be reporting on where he was going to the rest of the team. They would all arrive within minutes, Conner was sure. But they might not have minutes. He needed to get to Tim now.

The path was blocked by a huge iron door set into the mountain. Oh, and six ninjas. Red Hood was already shooting before Conner came to a momentary stop. The ninjas swarmed them, and Conner and Red Hood split apart. Red Hood fought like a dervish, whirling and punching, occasionally getting off a shot. Conner was invulnerable to the sword slashes. He threw off the hands that tried to grab him with zero effort and strode to the door.

He got the fingers of both hands into the seam of the door and pulled. The iron doors peeled back with a shriek of metal and a clamor of falling rivets. Now he could smell the Pit, sharp and toxic, and he could hear Tim's voice as if he were standing right beside him.

"Let me go, let me...!"

Ra's al Ghul and Tim were only feet away from the glowing green Pit, locked together in their struggle. Al Ghul had grabbed Tim by arm and was trying to throw him in, while Tim fought to get away, leaning away from al Ghul with all his weight, feet scrabbling at the bare stone ground, fists clenched and flailing. Blood dripped from his nose, flying through the air in drips and splashes, and his shirt was torn.

Conner was there in less than a blink. He grabbed al Ghul's wrist and crushed it, forcing him to let go. Al Ghul screamed and stumbled back, his eyes wide with agony. In a flash, his sword was in his other hand, and he leapt forward, face drawn in an insane grimace of hatred and glee.

Conner wrapped his arms around Tim and turned his back, taking the sword slash to his shoulder blade. It did nothing.

Then Jason was there, roaring. He took al Ghul on, screaming. "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY BROTHER."

Tim huddled against Conner's chest, breathing in shuddering gasps. He was shaking all over, and there were tears in his eyes. "Kon, Kon... You came..."

Conner held him tighter and ducked his face down into Tim's hair, just breathing. It felt like he hadn't breathed since he first got the call from Alfred that Tim had been kidnapped. Again.

From the second he knew, it felt like he'd been holding his breath, waiting for Tim to yell his name. Hoping he'd be able to hear him. Hoping he wouldn't be gagged or underground or taken to outer space. Just...hoping. Hoping he would be able to save his best friend.

Then it happened. He heard him. And he couldn't go to him instantly, the way he wanted to, because he'd promised. He'd promised to bring Tim's family to him. So he went to Wayne Manor, just showed up at the front door. He must have looked crazy, eyes wide, teeth clenched, yelling that he knew where Tim was and they had to come with him.

Fortunately, they'd listened. The Batplane had been loaded and flying in five minutes, it felt like, though it must have taken longer than that. He'd had enough time to call Cassie and Bart, at least, and they'd raced to join the flight.

Now Conner was here, and he could breathe again. Tim was safe in his arms, and Red Hood was fighting behind them, keeping al Ghul away. No one else would touch Tim. No one else would hurt him. Conner wouldn't allow it.

Tim gasped suddenly and pounded on Conner's chest with his trembling fist. "Let me go, Kon, I gotta... Jason!"

The sounds of the fight behind them had stopped. Conner spun then around, still keeping his arms around Tim, locking him in place within his protection. The fight between Ra's al Ghul and Red Hood was over. Al Ghul was on the ground, panting, his sword kicked far out of reach, his crushed wrist flopping limply on the stone. Red Hood stood over with a gun pointed at his head.

"Jason, don't!" Tim called.

Red Hood looked up at him, his creepy red helmet blank and featureless as ever. Conner saw the tension in his shoulders, though. Saw his finger tightening on the trigger.

"Why shouldn't I?" he grated. "This bastard deserves to die. So does McDaniels, but he's not here. I'll take what I can get."

Tim gasped, leaning back against Conner's chest for support. He wrapped his hands around Conner's forearms, which were still locked against his chest. Conner didn't like to look at those hands, the way the fingers were bent and misshapen, all the little scars that hadn't been there before Tim was kidnapped and tortured in his own hometown.

"Jason, you've come so far," Tim pleaded. "Don't throw it away. Please. Dad will forgive you, he always will, but please don't. Please don't break his heart again."

Jason scoffed. "B? I don't care about his opinion. It doesn't matter, not here."

"Yes, it does. You know it does. You've always cared. You try not to show it, but you do. You care so much. Please, please, Jay. You don't have to do this."

Jason had been wavering, the gun starting to lower, but now he snorted and raised it again, sighting down the barrel at Ra's al Ghul's head. "No, I don't have to. But I want to."

Tim clenched his hands around Conner's forearms, then gave them a light smack. "Please, Kon, let me go. I'm safe now, I swear. You don't need to protect me anymore."

That wasn't true. That was never true. Conner Kent would always need to protect Timothy Drake-Wayne, his Robin, always his Robin. But he released his hold on Tim and stood back, letting him to do what he needed to do.

Tim walked toward Jason and al Ghul, steady on his feet now. The blood from his nose splashed down on the stone, leaving a trail behind him. "Jason, it's okay," he said calmly. "It's all okay now. You don't need to shoot Ra's. He'll never have any power over me again."

Jason's head tilted. "How do you figure?"

Tim had finished his walk over to where al Ghul lay on the ground, staring up at him with hatred painted over his craggy features. Tim gave him a grim smile, confident and unafraid. "This was part of my plan."

The room felt frozen. No one moved. There was only the bubbling of the Pit.

Tim looked up at Jason. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to watch me get kidnapped out of the Batcave, especially after you had promised to keep me safe. I know that was hard on you. And to be fair, I hadn't expected Ra's to send McDaniels to kidnap me. I had anticipated a lot of possible scenarios, but not that one."

He laughed painfully and looked down at al Ghul. "You could never resist that last sadistic twist of the knife, could you? It's just who you are. It's your nature to be cruel. I'll never trust you, and I'll never love you, and I'll never be yours. It doesn't matter what you do to me. Not that you'll ever be able to do anything to me. Ever again."

Tim looked up at Conner and smiled. "Kon, come here."

Conner's forehead wrinkled in confusion, but he went. He crossed over to where Jason and Tim stood over al Ghul and joined them in staring down at him. Al Ghul was smart enough to be still and quiet, just watching them. The glee had faded from his face, replaced with wariness.

Tim smiled at him. It was, weirdly, a happy smile. The kind of pleased, smug smile Conner got to see on Tim's face when he beat everyone at some kind of game, using a strategy they hadn't expected. That had happened a lot in their Young Justice days, so Conner had seen this smile often back then. But not for a long time. Not for years.

Not since he died and came back to find everything changed.

"I knew you would kidnap me," Tim said. "Especially after I answered your kind gift with a 'Fuck you.' I figured that would speed things along, and I just wanted to get it over with. I was right, too. I knew you would take me to one of your little cult compounds and try to brainwash me. I wanted to show you how futile that is. How impossible."

He looked up and gave Jason a sheepish smile, Conner a more triumphant one. "Again, I'm sorry. I kind of used you, a little bit. This was all...a demonstration."

He looked down at al Ghul. "Do you get it now? I did my best to show you in the most vivid way possible. You are a man of the past. You have been stuck in your traditions and your hoary old goals of world domination for far too long. You haven't kept up. You don't understand what the world is like, not anymore. Because there are Supermen now. They arrived on the planet when you weren't paying attention, and now there are more of them. Your plans will never work. They never had much of a chance, but now that chance is reduced to zero.

"I tried to tell you back in Gotham when I thwarted your plans to take over Wayne Enterprises. I'm not the Batman, and to be fair, Batman isn't the same as the man you fought ten years ago, either. We've both grown. We've both adapted. We both have friends."

He flashed a grin at Conner, then looked back to the man on the ground. "I have friends, Ra's. I have allies. I have family. You will never be able to touch me again, not in any meaningful way, because I am protected. I am beyond your reach. If you try to take me, if you try to hurt me, if you try to control me, all I need to do is call. All I need to do is whisper. It doesn't matter where I am, on earth, in the sky, under the sea. Kon-El will always hear me. Kon-El will always come for me. He will bring my family. He will bring my friends. And we will burn your kingdom down."

Ra's al Ghul was panting now, his face drawn in a grimace of distaste. "Foolish child," he spat. "I have allies, too. I have weapons! I have ways! I can fight the Supermen. You know nothing! You are a brat who needs to be taught a lesson, and I will, I will...!" He tried to sit up, and Jason casually put his foot on his chest and pushed him back down, then stood there resting his foot on him. His gun had fallen to his side, though he hadn't put it away.

Tim shook his head sadly, like al Ghul was a stupid student who didn't understand the easy concepts he was trying to teach him. "No, you weren't listening. Kon-El has allies and friends and family too. You can try to fight one Superman, but he'll have a speedster, and an Amazonian, and a Bat to back him up."

Conner felt a ruffle of air as Bart arrived, and Cassie was not far behind him, complaining loudly about Bart outpacing her.

"Hey guys!" Bart jogged in place, giving them all a brilliant grin. "What's up? I see you caught the bad guy. Good job! We've been catching bad guys too. Like, all over the place. Nightwing sent us to check up on you, though. He figured Superboy and Red Hood could handle one old man, but he just wanted to make sure."

Tim grinned back at him. "Good timing, Impulse. Yeah, we're fine. Thanks for checking. You can tell Nightwing we're just wrapping up. We'll be out soon."

"Comprehendo, el jefe!" Impulse gave him a jaunty salute, then took off again, back up the staircase.

Cassie paused to give Tim a quick hug. "You okay, Rob? You look a little rough." She touched his bloody nose with a frown, then scowled down at al Ghul, guessing correctly that he'd been the one to cause it. "Want me to kick him for you?"

Tim smiled and shook his head. "No, I'm fine. Everything's covered, no worries."

"Okay. See you later, short stuff." Cassie ruffled his hair, then jogged up the stairs after Bart.

Tim looked at Jason. "You see? You don't have to shoot Ra's. There's no point. He's already been defeated, now and for all eternity. He'll never be able to touch me again. He'd be an idiot to try." He grinned down at al Ghul. "And I know you aren't an idiot."

This was said in such a cheerful and condescending tone that Conner half-expected al Ghul to jump up and try to fight Tim again, just on principle. He was fully ready to slam him into the ground if he so much as twitched a finger. But he just lay there. Scowling.

Tim shook his head and held out his hands, one to Jason and one to Conner. "Come on, buddy. Come on, big bro. Let's get out of here. I want to go home."

His hands were trembling, misshapen, marked by what had been done to them. They would never be the same again. But they were steady in the air, outstretched in confidence and love. Conner took the hand reached toward him, and Jason took the other one.

Jason put his gun away.

They walked out of the chamber, leaving al Ghul on the floor. They didn't look behind them. Ra's al Ghul didn't matter. He would never matter again.

Chapter Text

Damian took Dick by the wrist and led him away from the press of the fighting. Black Bat and Wonder Girl were both fighting behind them, more than enough of a match for the ninjas that swarmed the hallways. The minions were thick enough to prevent them from following directly after where Conner had headed with Jason in tow, but Dick knew they would fight their way through eventually.

He followed Damian willingly, figuring that he might know a secondary path through the compound to get down to the Lazarus Pit where Tim almost certainly was. They had to knock out a few ninjas on their way, but most of them still seemed to be heading to the bedroom where'd they landed. Then Damian ducked around a corner, and they were in a hallway that was completely empty.

Damian walked briskly, his head down and shoulders tense. Dick had to hurry to keep up. Now that they were relatively alone, he finally leaped ahead a bit and caught Damian's shoulder, pulling him back to look at him. "Robin, where are we going?"

Damian's eyes flicked away. "All of Grandfather's compounds are laid out in much the same way. I can lead us where we need to go."

"Yes, I figured that. But please tell me where that is. I thought there had to be another way to get down to the Lazarus Pit, but if this was it, there would still be goons guarding the way, and this hallway is completely empty. You're taking me somewhere else. Where?"

Damian looked him straight in the eyes. "Trust me. We need to go where I'm leading you."

Dick huffed out a breath and ran his fingers through his hair. "Aren't you worried about Tim? Don't you want to find him?"

"I'm sure he'll be fine. Hood and Superboy are going after him. Superboy is invulnerable, Hood is a capable fighter, and both are very protective of Timothy."

Dick held still, trying to think. Wherever Damian wanted to go, it must be important to him. And he had tacitly asked Dick to come with him, by taking his wrist and leading him here. He was probably also right about Tim being fine with both Conner and Jason going after him. As much as Dick wanted to rush straight down to the Pit and carry Tim to safety personally, those two were more than capable of handling it.

Still, he hated that once again, he was having to choose between his loyalty to Tim and his loyalty to Damian. Yes, it wasn't quite the same thing as when he gave Damian the Robin mantle, inadvertently wounding Tim in the process. But his heart still protested at the similarities. He wanted to prove to Tim that he would never abandon him, that he would always come for him. If he followed Damian now, he would lose his chance to do that.

Damian looked up at him, his little face solemn. "Please, Richard. I promise that this is to help Timothy, too."

Dick sighed, shoulders slumping, and swept his hand forward. "Lead the way."

He shouldn't forget that Damian had changed since those tumultuous early days. He had shown in a myriad of ways that he cared about Tim, that he was doing his best to make restitution for the harm he had done to him. Dick had to trust him now. He had to show Damian that he believed in the change he'd made in himself.

They traversed the hallway, slipping through a door halfway down its length. Damian took them on a staircase, narrow and hemmed in by rock. There was a rush of air, wildly whipping through their hair, and Impulse stood below them, bouncing on the steps. He spoke so rapidly that it was difficult to keep up.

"Hey guys! I'm just doing a run through, keeping an eye on everyone. Superboy and Red Hood are heading down some stairs, too. There's a big door and some ninjas ahead of them. Black Bat and Wonder Girl are still fighting on the second floor. A bunch of their bad guys have been knocked out, but more keep coming. Batman is on his way down from the landing strip, and he's been taking out some bad guys, too. You good?"

Dick nodded. "Thanks for the report, Impulse. That door ahead of Superboy and Red Hood probably leads to the Lazarus Pit, which is where they'll find Ra's al Ghul and Tim. I'm sure they can handle Ra's, but please feel free to keep checking on them and bringing me news."

Impulse flicked a jaunty salute. "You got it, big bro!" He took off again, moving so quickly that it was like he'd turned invisible, there then gone.

"'Big bro?'" Damian echoed scornfully.

"I'm his friend's big brother. I suppose it makes sense for him to call me that, too."

Damian shook his head and headed down the stairs again, quicker than before. "Let's get this over with."

Damian took out his sword, holding it ready in his hands as they stopped on a landing and went through a door. The area felt cold, the stone walls thick. Heavy metal doors were dug into the rock, each with a window crossed with iron bars. It was a prison, and Dick had an inkling who Damian expected to find here.

No one was guarding the prison. Perhaps any guards had already been called above to fight the invaders, or perhaps there normally weren't any. The cells certainly looked very thick and secure, and Ra's was arrogant enough to assume that no one could escape from him. Damian took a ring of keys off a hook on the wall and handed it to Dick, then started walking down the row of cells, eyes darting back and forth as he searched for his prey.

They heard him first, though: a loud, angry voice speaking English with an American accent. "Ra's! Ra's! Let me outta here! You said we were partners! What the hell am I doing here?"

Dick had never heard McDaniels speak, except in old news clips from his union days, but he knew who he was immediately. He swung around to the cell and found McDaniels standing at the window in the door, holding the bars with both hands, red face pressed against them. When Nightwing swept into his view, he startled and moved back slightly, then forward again. His face twisted up in rage.

"You! Let me out! I shouldn't be in here!"

Dick almost laughed. No, Gary McDaniels shouldn't be locked up in a cell in Ra's al Ghul's mountain compound. He should be locked up in a cell in Gotham, awaiting trial for kidnapping and torturing an innocent seventeen-year-old boy. A sharp-toothed grin crossed his face as he looked at the man, the keys shaking together in his fist. They'd found him. They had him. He wasn't going to get away.

Damian moved up next to him, sword pointed toward the cell. "Nightwing, open the door."

Dick looked down at him, still grinning. "I'm impressed, Robin. How did you know he'd be here?"

Damian tilted his head. "It was what Grandfather would do. I spend a lot of time thinking about what Grandfather would do and then choosing to do the opposite."

"Of course you do, you little genius." Dick ruffled his hair, then stepped up to the cell door, flipping through the keys. Each one had a number engraved on the head, which he matched to the number on the cell door. Surprisingly efficient for a megalomaniac who still believed in minions trained in medieval martial arts as a path to taking over the world. "Step back, McDaniels. We'll let you out."

He opened the door, but McDaniels did not step out. Instead, he had backed up into the cell, watching them warily. "What are you going to do with me?"

And suddenly, it occured to Dick that he had a choice. They were alone down here, only Dick and Damian as witnesses to each other. He didn't have to take McDaniels back to Gotham for trial. He could do anything.

He stood there, frozen, staring at the man inside the cell. The man who had kidnapped his little brother, tortured him, crippled him. The man who still featured in many of Tim's nightmares, though Dick wasn't supposed to know about those. Jason had taken his place as the big brother Tim turned to for comfort when he woke up distraught and crying, and that was fine. That was good. They both needed each other.

Dick knew what Jason would do if he was here. He wouldn't hesitate. There would be no question of morality, of Bruce's code. This man deserved to suffer. To die. If Jason had taken Dick's place as the brother who could offer comfort, perhaps Dick should take Jason's place as the brother who could bring down righteous vengeance.

His eyes locked with McDaniels as the man cowered in the cell and Dick stood outside it, back straight and shoulders squared. The more he stared at him, the more his rage rose and rose. He had always done his best not to imagine what it must have been like to be Tim on that awful, awful day, tied to a chair or hung from a ceiling, beaten and burned and flogged and broken, with McDaniels in the background laughing at his pain and egging on the ones who were inflicting it.

But now he was imagining it, and he couldn't stop. He saw Tim forced to sit at a table, his hand held down by the wrist, fingers spread and tendons standing out. McDaniels standing over him with a hammer. The hammer raised high in the air. The hammer coming down. Tim screaming, convulsing against the hold on him as he tried to escape the agonizing pain.

Then McDaniels had run away, fleeing the sinking ship like the cockroach he was. He'd probably gone into hiding far away from Gotham. They might have never found him if it hadn't been for Ra's al Ghul. Perhaps they should be grateful to Ra's for dragging him into the light and leaving him trapped like the insect he was.

But Ra's had told him their identities. He had given him the ability and opportunity to sneak into the Batcave, to steal Tim away from the one place he should have been safe above all others. Dick hadn't been there to witness it, but he had heard the despair in Jason's voice when he described it, saw his hands trembling with rage. Watching as Tim was dragged away by the man who had tormented him, who haunted his dreams, and being unable to do anything, had been absolutely horrific for Jason. It was horrific for Dick just to know it had happened.

Yes, there were ways to remove the knowledge from McDaniels' mind. The Justice League had the tools, and Batman had access to them. But that wouldn't stop Ra's or any other villain from using McDaniels in the future. The only way to make sure they were safe, to make sure Tim was safe, was to kill him.

It would be deserved. It would be justice. And most of all, Dick wanted to do it.

He had been quiet for too long. Damian shifted from foot to foot, his gaze flicking to Dick, then back to McDaniels. The sword in his hand didn't waver, but Dick could feel his mounting nerves.

"Nightwing."

Dick looked at him, then went back to staring at McDaniels. "Robin," he said grimly.

"What are we going to do with this man?"

Dick blinked, coming back to himself. He looked down at the boy at his elbow, who was looking up at him, steady as a soldier, face serious but open. And he realized why Damian had brought him here.

Damian trusted him to make the right choice, as he didn't trust himself. If he had come after McDaniels alone, as he easily could have, he would have been tempted to kill, or maim, or inflict pain. He knew himself well enough to know that he needed someone to keep him in check, and he had brought Dick to do that for him.

Hot shame flooded through Dick's belly and up into his throat, and he looked away, his face burning. He put his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes, struggling to master himself. He still wanted to hurt McDaniels so, so badly.

But he couldn't. It wouldn't be right. Even if Damian wasn't here, watching, it wouldn't be right.

He took a deep breath and turned back, letting his hand fall on Damian's shoulder. He gave him a firm squeeze, comforting and thanking him in a single gesture. "We're taking this man back to face justice," he said firmly. "We are not going to hurt him, or kill him, or cripple him, even though he richly deserves it."

Dick looked into McDaniels's face. "Unless you fight us, of course. If you try to get away, or try to injure either of us, we will be justified in defending ourselves and putting you on the ground. Understand?"

McDaniels nodded shortly, his face twisted up in hate. "You're not gonna be able to hold me. My new friend will get me out."

"Your new friend? Ra's al Ghul?" Dick waited outside the cell as Damian went in to prod McDaniels out with his sword. "He left you here to rot. He doesn't care about you. After you served your purpose, my guess is that he was keeping you as a bargaining chip with Tim. He probably offered to have you killed or tortured at Tim's request. We'll ask him later."

They'd better be able to ask Tim later. Jason and Conner had better succeed in rescuing him.

Dick almost laughed at the confused look on McDaniels's face as he stepped out into the hall, Damian poking his back with the tip of his sword. "Oh, didn't you realize? Ra's didn't have you kidnap Tim because he hates him. No, Ra's loves Tim. In a really creepy, ugly, obsessive way, but still. He wants Tim to be his follower. His heir. You were nothing more than a pawn to get Tim under his thumb. Now your usefulness has passed, and Ra's doesn't need you or want you anymore."

"You are a fool and a coward," Damian said with satisfaction. "As well as incredibly fortunate not to be dead already or locked in a torture chamber, screaming in agony."

Dick flashed him a grin. Maybe they couldn't hurt McDaniels physically, but they sure could tell him just how much of an idiot he was. Dick found a pair of manacles and bound his hands, then led the way back up the staircase. Damian followed behind, still with his sword at their prisoner's back, while he told him in detail and with relish what his grandfather would have happily done to him if Tim had allowed it. McDaniels trudged in silence with nothing to say for himself.

It was brutal, but no one could say Gary McDaniels didn't deserve it.

Chapter Text

By the time Bruce reached the compound, most of the fighting was over. He'd knocked out a few ninjas who tried to get in his way on the way down here, but not that many. Most of the fighting must be taking place inside the walls, where all the kids were.

He really shouldn't think of them as kids. Most of them were legally adults and had been competent crimefighters for years. But he couldn't help it. Those were his kids in there, most of them, and the three that weren't his were still under his care for the duration of this mission. So if he maybe knocked out the stray ninjas who got in his way a little too hard, he figured he could be excused by whatever deity was watching.

He reached the courtyard just in time to watch Jason and Conner emerge from a doorway that seemed to lead directly into the mountain, both with an arm around a much smaller figure in between them. Bruce stood stock still, his breath deserting him for a moment as he tried to take it in. Tim. Yes, it was Tim. He was safe. He was fine.

Was he fine? His clothes were torn, and dried blood trailed across his upper lip and cheek. But he was standing, seemingly on his own strength. He caught sight of Bruce across the courtyard and stood still for a second, staring at him.

Then he was running, tearing himself out of Conner and Jason's hands as he sprinted pell mell toward Bruce with his arms outstretched. "Dad! Dad, Dad, Dad!"

Bruce opened his arms just in time for Tim to run into them. Tim leaped onto him, latching his arms around his neck and his legs around his waist, and clung to him shamelessly. Bruce held him back just as hard, closing his arms around him in a vice grip. He leaned his cheek on Tim's hair and breathed, hard. He kept his eyes open, watching the courtyard for any threats, but ninety percent of his awareness was focused on the boy in his arms.

Tim had been gone for less than forty-eight hours, but it felt like an age.

"I was so scared," Tim whispered into his neck. "I didn't know if it would work. I was so scared it wouldn't work. I was scared you wouldn't find me in time."

Bruce wrapped his arms even tighter around him and closed his eyes for a bare second, allowing himself to acknowledge his own fear. "We did, sweetheart. We found you. It's okay. Everything's okay. You're safe now."

Conner and Jason walked toward Bruce much more slowly, both also keeping an eye on the surrounding area. Conner's eyes were bright and he had an oddly triumphant expression on his face, while Jason looked wary and a bit beaten down. Bruce caught Conner's eye and gave him a questioning frown, and Conner grinned.

"Dude, you... I can't believe Tim had his plan worked out that far ahead. That was...that was incredible. I can't believe it."

Tim gripped Bruce a little tighter, his fingers digging into the fabric over his back. Bruce understood that this meant that Tim's plan, whatever it had been, really hadn't been as well thought-out as Conner believed. Tim was good at rolling with the punches and using whatever resources were available to him, and sometimes that made him look like a Machiavellian genius to anyone watching from outside, while internally he was screaming at the way he had barely scraped by on a wish and prayer.

Bruce rubbed Tim's back in commiseration and made a non-committal humming sound. "I take it that Ra's al Ghul has been captured, then?"

Conner and Jason both drew up short. "Um, actually, we sort of just left him by the Lazarus Pit," Jason said.

Bruce looked at Conner. "Superboy, please go see if you can catch him before he gets away."

Conner left instantly, leaving only disturbed air in his wake. Jason still stood next to Bruce and Tim, his body language tense. He craned his head, trying to get a look at Tim, but Tim kept his face firmly buried in Bruce's chest, refusing to show himself.

"Baby bird, you just did whatever it took to get me out of there without shooting that bastard, didn't you?"

Tim said nothing, but his shoulders hunched slightly. Bruce looked at Jason, careful not to frown, though he didn't smile either. "What happened, son?"

Jason looked at him, then away. Shame curled his shoulders and tilted his head. He reached up and released the catches of his red helmet, then lowered it to his side. It was easier to hear the boy inside the man without the voice modulator distorting his voice. "I was gonna shoot Ra's. Shoot him dead, no recovery, no resurrection. Tim talked me out of it by, uh, basically by saying it was all part of his plan and Ra's was totally defeated anyway so there was no point. It was a lot of pretty words, and it made a lot of sense at the time, but looking back I'm pretty sure it was at least half bullshit."

"Hmm." Bruce looked down at Tim, still clinging to him like a toddler. The corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. "And Conner thought you had a truly amazing plan, one you must have worked out far in advance. You must have been very convincing."

Tim finally peeled his face away from Bruce's body far enough to speak. "Yeah, I think I rolled a natural 20 on my intimidation check."

Bruce's chest shook with laughter. Since they'd started playing Wizards & Warriors as a family, a lot of nerdy slang had entered the family parlance. He'd even heard Dick and Stephanie congratulating each other on rolling high damage and getting high dexterity checks during their fistfights with common thugs. Bruce vaguely approved, though he never joined in the in-jokes, himself. It was good see all of his kids getting along so well and having fun, regardless of the source.

"You did have a plan, though, right?" Jason asked. "Even if you didn't really let yourself be kidnapped, like you told Ra's. Conner said you had a plan when he showed up at the manor. That was why he was waiting for you to yell for him."

"Well, kind of," Tim said reluctantly.

He finally let go of Bruce with his arms and legs and stood next to him on the ground, though he made no attempt to escape from the arm Bruce kept curled around his shoulders. Bruce made sure his cape was lapped around him, protecting him from any stray shots in its heavy, kevlar-lined folds. Tim leaned into him, accepting the protection.

"Plan A was just not to be kidnapped at all. If that worked, all to the good. Ra's would have found out that I was safe under the concentrated protection of my family and allies, and that would have been it. That would have taught him to leave me alone.

"But yeah, I'll be honest, part of me always expected that he would get to me somehow. I didn't expect it to be in the Batcave, though, and I didn't expect him to use McDaniels to do it. That was..." Tim shuddered, and Bruce held him tighter. "That was truly, truly horrible. And I really am sorry that you had to watch that, Jay. Cass too. I'll have to apologize to her later."

"It doesn't matter as long as you're safe," Bruce murmured. "So what was your Plan B?"

"Plan B was Superboy. As long as I wasn't gagged, or underground, or underwater, or in space... Basically, as long as I could talk into open air, as soon as I could I was gonna call for him and hope that he was listening. That was legitimately my plan, and that's what I told him. After I got the vial and letter from Ra's, I called Kon and told him that I might be yelling for him. And if he heard me, he was supposed to get my family and bring you all. I'm really glad he did it that way instead of trying to come by himself or something."

"I'm glad he brought us too," Jason said slowly. "But that's... You realize that's not a very good plan, right? It's more of an emergency stopgap than a plan."

Tim nodded. "Yeah, I know. I really was hoping Plan A would work out. There were a lot of ways for Plan B to go wrong. And it did go wrong, a little bit. I was a little too loud and enthusiastic when I yelled for Kon, and Ra's figured it out. That's why he dragged me to the Pit and was trying to throw me in when you showed up. Earlier he'd told me he'd give me a few days to consider it, but when he knew someone was coming, he tried to force me right away. If Ra's had had access to kryptonite instead, or some other way of fighting Kon..." Tim went silent and leaned harder into Bruce, shaking.

Bruce rubbed his shoulder. "And if Superboy had come alone, as he clearly wanted to, and Ra's had had a way to fight him... Yes, it could have gone much, much worse than it did. We were all lucky today."

Bruce felt even more blessed and fortunate to have his third son in his arms again. He already knew he wouldn't be able to sleep tonight, too many ways it all could have gone badly chasing one after the other through his head. He was already trying to ignore the bad thoughts and just live in the moment.

Jason was still looking at Tim. "So what if Plan B failed, then? What if Ra's had gagged you, or hidden you under the mountain as he very easily could have? Did you even have a Plan C?"

"Plan C was to wait for you guys to come for me." Tim's voice was oddly confident. "I knew you would still find me, no matter what. It just would have been a matter of time. So if I called for Kon and he didn't show up in the next couple of days, I was going to pretend to go along with whatever Ra's wanted from me and just wait."

Jason stared at him, his face stricken. "That's... Really? You're that sure of us."

Tim nodded. "Yeah. I am. Why, shouldn't I be?"

Jason shook his head. "Of course you should. I just..." He looked away and covered his mouth with one hand, lost in some memory.

He turned back and sidled closer, almost hiding under Bruce's cape with his younger brother. He lowered his head to speak closer to Tim's ear. "I just... I can't help remembering you in that warehouse, baby bird. The one where B and I found you after McDaniels... Yeah. You know what I'm talking about."

Tim stood very still. His voice was barely audible. "I said things that scared you. I don't quite remember what they were. I was really out of it. But I remember how scared you looked. The way you held me like you were afraid to let me go."

Jason nodded. His voice was hushed. "You weren't expecting to be rescued. You didn't think anyone would come for you. You thought I wanted you dead. And you said..." He stopped. He looked up to Bruce pleadingly, almost as if asking for permission.

Bruce nodded. His heart was near bursting with pride. Tim deserved to know. He deserved to know just how far he had come. How far they had all come.

Jason looked back to Tim. He reached out and cupped his gloved hand around Tim's cheek, cradling him as near as he could get to a hug with Bruce still holding him against his side. "You said everyone would be better off if you weren't around," he near-whispered. "Yeah, it scared me. It scared me so bad. Not just how hurt you were, how fucking damaged you'd been by what that animal and his men had done to you... But how messed up you were in the head that you could think something so obviously, glaringly untrue."

Tim stared at him. He barely breathed. "That was what scared you?"

Jason nodded. A tear leaked out from under the mask, and he reached up and wiped it away. "I didn't realize... I didn't understand until that moment, until I held you in my arms after you'd been tortured nearly to death... I didn't know you were my brother until right then. I didn't let myself know. And then to hear you, my little brother, my baby brother, saying that you thought you were better off dead... So yeah, it scared me. It fucking terrified me, Tim." He shook his head. "You scared me so, so bad. And ever since that moment, I've been doing everything I can to make sure you don't scare me like that ever again."

"I'm sorry," Tim said in a small voice.

"Don't be sorry." Jason's voice was harsh, though Bruce knew it was only the strength of his emotion that made it so. "Don't be sorry for saying it. And don't be sorry for feeling it. You can't help how you feel, and a lot of, a lot of us, contributed to you feeling that messed up. If you're feeling that shitty, it's good to say it out loud. So someone knows. So someone can figure out how to help you, how to fix it."

He looked up at Bruce. "Right, Dad? After you heard Tim say that, you changed. Like, overnight. Abruptly. You started being more careful. More open. More present. You were desperately trying to fix what had gone wrong in your kid's life that he would say something like that, feel something like that. You made a lot of changes in your life, big changes that took a lot of effort and a lot of time. Believe me, I noticed, and I appreciate it. And it was all because of Tim saying aloud just how awful he was feeling."

Bruce's heart was full. He swallowed. "Yes," he admitted, voice low, just for his two boys. His boys who had once been so estranged from him and the rest of the family, who had slowly come closer and closer until now they both stood pressed against him, talking about their feelings and calling him "Dad" with no hesitation.

He looked down at Tim. "After you said that, in the warehouse... While you were in surgery, then recovering, then sleeping in the hospital, I spent hours thinking about what you had said. Analyzing it. Trying to understand what would make you say that. What would make you believe it. I came up with so many ideas, so many plans to try to fix it. To fix you. I was... Yes, I was desperate. My precious son, who I loved so much, thought that no one cared about him. And I knew it was at least partially my fault that things had gotten that dire for you."

He rubbed his hand up and down Tim's shoulder. "I was treating it like a case, in hindsight. The most important case of my life. I had to understand what went wrong and how to correct it. I had multiple branching paths for dealing with problems I foresaw in the future. And it all went to hell that first morning, when I tried to tell you what I thought you needed to hear from me, and you didn't believe me."

Tim leaned his head on his shoulder. "When you said you loved me, and I thought you were just saying it out of obligation, or pity," he murmured. "You're right, I didn't believe you. I thought you were just saying what you had to say, the kinds of things you would do for any other victim."

Bruce smiled sadly. "That was true, in a way. I did think I had to say it. But I also meant everything I said. You were more than just another victim. You were, you are, my son, and I was desperate to heal you. I love you, Tim, with my entire heart, and I always will."

Tim nodded into his upper arm. "I know. You proved it. Thank you. Thank you for putting in all that effort. I love you, too."

Bruce turned to Jason, still standing so close they were almost sharing breath. "You too, pumpkin." He reached his free hand forward, slowly in case Jason shrank back, but he just stood there. Bruce wrapped his hand around the back of Jason's neck and pulled him closer so he could kiss his forehead. "I love you with all I have. I always will."

Another tear leaked out beneath Jason's mask. He didn't wipe it away. "I know." For once, he didn't back away from the affection. He put one arm around Bruce's back and the other around Tim's shoulders, and he let his head tip forward until the top of his forehead rested on Bruce's shoulder.

Bruce put his arm around him in return, pulling his cloak around both of his boys, his middle sons. He kept his head up, watching for danger, but there was none. There were flickers in the corners of his vision that might have been super speed, Conner or Bart keeping the area clear for them, but only the breeze moved them, only the sun touched them.

There was work to be done. Ninjas needed to be rounded up and packed down to the nearest magistrate for justice. This mountain base needed to be leveled, the Lazarus Pit filled in. If Conner had managed to catch Ra's, he would need to be dealt with. McDaniels as well.

But there was time for that later. Bruce was busy right now. He had two of his sons in his arms, holding them close, feeling them breathe. There was nowhere else he wanted or needed to be.

Chapter Text

There was a lot of clean-up to do afterward. Tim wasn't really aware of everything that went on. When he started sagging in Bruce's arms, eyes drooping in exhaustion, Bruce told Jason to escort him back to the plane and guard him there while the rest of them took care of business in the mountain compound. By the time they got up to the landing strip, Tim was barely keeping his feet. The stress of being kidnapped, drugged, creepily threatened while tied to a bed, then dragged down to a pit of toxic chemicals and almost thrown in with rescue arriving just in the nick of time had definitely caught up with him. He felt like he could sleep for days, and no, being sedated didn't count.

In the end Jason was practically carrying him, his arm wrapped around Tim's torso under his arms, while Tim leaned into him like a drunkard stumbling home. Jason got him to one of the more comfortable seats in the plane and poured him into it, then reclined it practically flat and hunted up several blankets to pile on top of him. Tim was asleep almost immediately. His last sensation was of Jason's gloved fingers stroking along the edge of his hairline, just another symbol that he was fine, he was home, he was safe. Big brother was there and he was watching out for him.

He woke up a couple of times on the flight home, just for a few minutes at a time. He had an impression of Cassie and Bart staring at him with naked relief on their faces, until Damian told them acerbically that they were being "creepy" and they needed to get into their own seats. Later, Cass made him drink a bottle of water, propping his head on her shoulder while she fed it to him like she was feeding a baby. It was weirdly comforting, so he didn't even try to resist. He felt Dick holding his hand, too, and sensed Damian perched nearby like a watchful little gargoyle.

"Is Ludmilla okay?" Tim asked, his voice a little garbled with fatigue. He tried to sit up and look into Damian's face, but Cass held him tighter, trapping him against her side with no effort.

Damian nodded. "She landed on her feet. No harm was done."

"Okay. Good. Good." Tim sank into Cass, his eyes drooping. He fell asleep again not long after.

Jason never left his side. Drowsing, sleeping, or wide awake, Tim was sure of that.

Later they told him how it all went down. Ra's had gotten away, which Tim did not find surprising at all. He had known Ra's would heal himself, then escape, before he even persuaded Kon and Jason to leave the Pit chamber with him. But it was worth it to get Jason out of there without another act of vengeance on his soul.

Most of Ra's's minions had been captured, though some of the more skilled and wary had fled when they caught on to how the wind was blowing. Superboy had flown most of them down the mountain to the nearest hint of civilization to be detained by the authorities. Some of them were unlikely to be charged with anything, just naive trainees of a cult, but others had records and warrants out for them, including internationally for various assassinations. Batman fully intended to help connect as many of them as possible to unsolved cases before they could be prematurely released.

Before they left, Wonder Girl and Superboy brought down the Pit chamber, burying it under tons of rock. Superboy sealed it with his heat vision as thoroughly as possible, as well. Ra's had said in his note that that was the last the Lazarus Pit in the world, but Tim had his doubts about that. There were probably more out there somewhere, and Ra's probably knew about them. Even if there weren't any known ones, natural ones could still pop up at any time.

Tim also had his doubts about how well his threatening little speech would work to keep Ra's off his back. Conner was completely convinced that Tim had put him down for good, but Jason knew that he'd been at least partially bluffing. It hadn't taken him long to figure it out, either. There was a good chance Ra's would figure it out, too, once he had time to get away and think. Tim knew very well that Ra's was going to brood on this failure and his resentment of Tim for a long time to come. But maybe he would leave him alone for a while. If nothing else, Tim had proved that he could be rescued within forty-eight hours of being kidnapped, no matter where in the world Ra's took him. That had to count for something.

The most surprising news, really, was that Dick and Damian had brought in McDaniels. It made sense, of course. Ra's had been keeping him as a bargaining chip to use with Tim. He'd said it right to his face. But Tim hadn't let himself think about it, nor had his mind wandered back to that little factoid later when he had a chance to breathe. It was definitely a blind spot, but not one Tim felt any need to exorcise. He didn't want to think about McDaniels, so he wouldn't.

It was fine. His family was taking care of McDaniels for him. He didn't have to do a thing.

He would have to later, probably. McDaniels would go to trial, and Tim would be a star witness. There would be meeting after meeting with lawyers, prosecutors, legal aids. He would be prepped over and over again, forced to tell his story again and again in a hundred different ways until he could recite it in his sleep. Tim was not looking forward to that in the slightest. He still hadn't even told Dr. Thacker exactly what had happened to him. She had the basics, and that was enough to be going on with for now.

But that wouldn't be happening for months, anyway. The legal system was glacially slow, especially when a half-decent defense lawyer got in the works. McDaniels could afford a more than decent defense lawyer. This trial was going to take years. Hopefully by the time Tim had to talk to anyone about his testimony, he would have had time to heal at least partially and get enough therapy that he had the skills to handle it.

So yeah, Tim wasn't thinking about that. For now, he was home, and he was safe. Ra's and McDaniels were both out of the picture for a good long while. He was allowed to just enjoy his family and recover and train and heal, and that was what he was going to do.

Before they turned McDaniels over to the Gotham police, Bruce took him up to the Watchtower so Martian Manhunter could remove his memories of their identities. Tim was not around for that happening, either, finally tucked up in his bed at the manor and getting a full night of sleep under the watchful care of Jason and Alfred. The next morning at breakfast, Bruce told him what was going on and asked him if he wanted to see McDaniels before he was taken in.

"His mind is malleable right now," Bruce explained. "J'onn said that for twenty-four hours he'll be in an in-between state as all of the memories that were taken from him fade away and the suggestions J'onn made take their place. If you want to talk to that man, if there's anything you have to say to him while he knows you as both Tim Drake-Wayne and Red Robin, now is the time. He won't remember your conversation, but it's a chance for you to get closure, if you want it and think it will help you. You could even get into costume and drop him off at the police yourself, if you want."

Tim thought about it for a long moment, staring down at his plate of scrambled eggs. He couldn't think of anything he wanted to say to McDaniels, but that might be because his mind was blank. He hadn't even considered that he might have a chance to do this. He didn't know if he wanted to.

Jason sat next to him, crunching on a piece of bacon. "You don't have to," he pointed out, just in case Tim didn't know. "If you don't want to see him, it's fine. Totally optional. Your call, dude."

Tim nodded thoughtfully. Then he raised his head and looked at Bruce. "I don't know if I have anything to say. But I guess I do want to see him. The last time I saw him, he was coming at me out of the old suit collection, dressed in one of your Batsuits and grabbing me by the hand like he was going to break it again. I guess I would like a chance to replace that image with something else before I see him in the papers."

Bruce nodded. "Of course. Jason and I will come with you."

Technically, everyone could have come. They were all still in the house, though Dick and Cass hadn't gotten out of bed yet, and Damian was out walking the dog. But it felt right to have just Jason and Bruce along, the ones who had been with him both at the beginning and the end of this ordeal. So Tim finished his eggs, and they went down to the Batcave.

McDaniels was in one of the glass cells, dumped unceremoniously on the cot. He looked dazed and semi-concious. He looked like a man. Just a man.

Tim's hand was moving before he thought about it. He grabbed onto Jason's sleeve just above his elbow, fingers digging in. Jason went carefully still, standing there rock-steady as Tim clung to him. Tim's eyes were affixed to the man inside the cell. He couldn't look away.

He felt Bruce behind him, and then he stepped closer. Tim could feel his heat, his presence. Bruce was a wall of pure muscle protecting him from any attack from behind. Tim leaned back slightly, and his head bumped into Bruce's chest. Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, engulfing him, covering him.

McDaniels was a man. Just a man. He wasn't an alien or a monster or a god. He wasn't even a meta. He wasn't preternaturally skilled with unusual weapons. He didn't have magic powers or the following of a cult. He didn't have access to mystic resources or near immortality because of strange substances no one understood. He wasn't a ruler of a totalitarian regime or a dictator with an army at his call. He wasn't a genius scientist or a crazy engineer or a billionaire with hundreds or thousands of people researching his whims. He was just a man.

But he had hurt Tim more than anyone who could have matched those previous descriptions ever had. He had led his half-dozen minions to kidnap Tim, then ordered them to torture him. He had stood by while Tim was beaten and burned and whipped and shocked. He had taken pleasure in Tim's cries of pain and laughed when he pleaded for it to stop. He had encouraged his men to hurt him more, to make him scream and cry and beg for mercy, then give him none.

And he had held the hammer himself. That hammer still featured in most of Tim's nightmares and some of the flashbacks he had during the day. He could still see McDaniels standing beside him, raising the hammer into the air and bringing it down on Tim's hands and fingers. He could still feel the agony of it, the aching, wrenching feeling of wrongness, of brokenness, of being shattered and left to bleed out and die.

He could still feel the echoing loneliness, the certainty that no one was coming. No one knew. No one cared. That he was going to die there in that cold, dirty warehouse, for the sake of secrets that were only half his with only his own stubbornness to blame. The police would find his broken body days or weeks later, and no one would mourn him. Just a tool to be used and discarded, that was all he had ever been, and now he was worn out. Done. Nothing left. An empty wrapper to be thrown in the trash.

Then Bruce and Jason had come, so soon after the hammer came down that it was like Tim had barely blinked. He might have passed out, he still didn't know. Perhaps that was why it felt like there was no time between when his hands were broken and when he found himself cradled in Jason's arms, huddled on the concrete floor while Bruce beat the men who had hurt him with a brutality Tim hadn't seen since the days after Jason's death.

And then Tim's life had changed. His family had surrounded him, pouring everything they had into comforting him, protecting him, helping him heal. Some were family he hadn't even known cared about him, who even considered him family. But Jason had latched onto him like a tiger with a cub, and Damian had slowly, over the course of weeks and months, proven himself to be a true ally and brother. Everyone had given him so much. Everything they had.

Tim's life was so much better now that he couldn't even compare it. It wasn't just the difference of night and day, it was like two entirely different worlds. Before McDaniels, Tim had been so used to being alone that it didn't even register as loneliness, as isolation. It was just the medium he lived in, as a fish lived in water. He didn't know he was drowning until he got a breath of air.

But now he could breathe, and he knew the difference. He never, never wanted to go back to the way things used to be. Fortunately, he knew his family wouldn't let him. They loved him too much. They wanted him too much.

He had the crazy thought that maybe he should be thanking McDaniels. Without him, this wouldn't have happened.

But no. Tim shook his head at the thought. McDaniels had meant only harm to him, never good. If he hadn't hurt Tim like this, broken him like this, it might have taken Tim's family a little longer to realize just how lost and alone he felt. But surely they still would have reached out to him and done whatever it took to bring him back, eventually. McDaniels had only accelerated the process, and he had broken his hands and his body to do it.

Tim could still feel his hands trembling, one wrapped in Jason's sleeve and the other clenched around Bruce's hand on his shoulder. That tremble might never go away. And it was McDaniels's fault.

He felt himself blink back tears. He wasn't even eighteen yet, his birthday still a few weeks away. And his hands would never be the same. He was always going to be a little bit broken, a little bit crippled, because of this man and his cruelty and his pride.

He took one step closer to the glass. Bruce and Jason moved with him in perfect sync. Then another, and another, until his nose was almost pressed against it. McDaniels blinked slowly, aware that he was being watched. He pushed himself up to sit up on the cot and look at them, his expression vacant and dazed.

His hair was going thin on top, ginger and gray. His face was dusted with reddish stubble, and spit crusted around the corner of his mouth. He had a beer belly hanging over his unbelted pants, big meaty hands and spindly legs. There was no intelligence in his dark eyes and blank expression, nothing of the viciousness and petty rage Tim had seen on display in that warehouse.

He was nothing. Just a man. Just a man who had hurt Tim badly, permanently, but couldn't hurt him anymore.

"Damn you," Tim whispered. He did not mean it as a curse. He meant it as a promise of a religion he did not fully believe in. His voice strengthened, and he spoke in a firm and steady murmur. "You deserve to burn in Hell for what you did to me and to the countless others you hurt with your trafficking ring. I hope you do. I hope the devil pays you back for your sins, because I'm not going to. I could, but I won't. I'm not going to do a thing to you. You're not worth it. You don't deserve a single second of my time."

McDaniels blinked. He said nothing. He did nothing. He just sat there.

Tim backed up a step and spat on the ground, then walked back to the elevator. Jason and Bruce went with him.

Upstairs in the study, he started to cry. It wasn't noisy, just a steady stream of tears and a few hitched breaths. Bruce wrapped him up in his arms and held him close, and Jason put a hand on his back. They both said a few things, reassuring nonsense of the "You're okay, it's going to be okay, it's okay, just let it out" variety. Tim barely heard the words. The sounds of their voices was enough.

He settled down before long, and he and Jason went to the lounge while Bruce dressed up as Batman and took McDaniels into Gotham, making one of his very rare daylight appearances. Jason wanted to watch Muppet Treasure Island, and Tim had no objections. After they read the book together, they had watched all of the movie Treasure Islands they could find, borrow, or pirate, and they both agreed that the Muppet version was the best and their favorite. It was oddly faithful to the book, for all its silliness, and it was the most fun.

Afterward, something occurred to Tim. He turned to Jason while the credits played, and Jason raised his eyebrows at the serious look on his face. "What's up, baby bird?"

"Bruce just handed McDaniels in to the police."

"Yeah, so?"

"So your job is over. You said you would be my bodyguard until McDaniels was caught. Now he has been. You can go back to your life."

Jason's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I know. Trust me, I'm looking forward to getting back out on the streets on a regular basis. Cass and Steph have been doing their best to watch my turf for me, but it's not the same thing as being there myself."

"So why are you still here?"

Jason stared at him. "Are you kicking me out? This is Bruce's house. You can't kick me out."

Tim flailed a little. "No! I just... I thought you would want to. Go, that is."

Jason shook his head and reached out to ruffle Tim's hair, grinning. "Naw, you're not getting rid of me that easily. I'm still gonna stick around and look out for you, little bro. I'll just go out on patrol with the rest of the Bats now that I can be reasonably sure you're safe here at home. Okay?"

Tim ducked away from Jason's hand when it got too rough, smiling back a little tentatively. "Yeah, okay. That sounds good."

"And when you finish training up and get your suit finished and your new identity and all that, we'll buddy up, right? I've been looking forward to having a partner out there. I'll be waiting for you, no matter how long it takes."

Tim's smile broadened. "Yeah, okay."

"Okay."

Jason grabbed him into a hug. It felt great.

Everything felt great, for the first time in forever. Tim wasn't going to let anything ruin that.

Chapter Text

Today was Tim's birthday. He was finally, officially eighteen years old. Many, many times over the last year, he had doubted that he would make it to this day. Over the course of the year he had lost a great deal. He had gained much of what he'd lost back, though not all. Idols had fallen and relationships had broken, and some of that had never been restored and probably never would be.

But other relationships that had begun broken had been pieced together and remade into something new, enriching Tim's life in innumerable ways. A lot of people had put a lot of time and effort into Tim. He felt both humbled and uplifted by it. He had started the year utterly convinced that he was alone, rejected and disbelieved by everyone who meant anything to him. He ended the year certain that he was loved and cherished, with family and friends who would cross oceans and lift mountains to protect him and save him and help him heal.

It felt like he'd been seventeen for twenty years. But finally, finally, this interminable year was ending, and a new one was about to begin. Tim felt like he could finally breathe. This was his New Year, far more meaningful than January 1.

His family was gathering at the manor for a birthday dinner, and then Tim was going to go out into Gotham in the new identity he'd spent more than a month crafting. Only Bruce knew about his new name and costume, since he'd helped Tim design and fabricate everything. Jason and Damian kept pestering him for clues, and Tim kept refusing. He couldn't wait to show them, though. He was a little nervous, wondering what their reactions would be, but he was pretty sure they would like it.

The only reason Dick hadn't pestered him was because he hadn't spent as much time at home, and when he was there he was having too much fun being with everyone to be a brat. That alone had elevated him to favorite brother status, which Tim informed Jason and Damian of everytime they picked on him again. Cass had probably already figured everything out, if not by reading Bruce and Tim's body language, then by being the sneaky, silent ex-assassin she was.

Today, Dick arrived at home a couple of hours before the birthday celebration was set to take place. Damian met him at the door and demanded his usual hug, then let him come in and greet Tim, too. He picked Tim up in a giant bear hug, squeezing so tight that Tim lost his breath for a moment. When he set him down, both were laughing. Tim clung to his arms and grinned, face flushed and breath rushing.

His heart beat faster, and his fingers tightened on Dick's shirt sleeve involuntarily. He'd been thinking about Dick coming home for days now, planning what to say. There was still one more conversation he wanted to have before his new year began. One more relationship he wanted to mend, or try to.

"Dick, could I talk to you in private?"

Dick's laughter faded at the seriousness in Tim's voice. He gave him a careful nod, then turned to Damian with a plastic grin. "We'll be back in a bit, okay, little buddy?"

Damian nodded and made a shooing motion with his hands. "Go on. Don't take more than two hours. Dinner is going to be magnificent."

"I know." Dick ruffled his hair, then turned back to Tim and slung an arm around his shoulders. "Where to, Timbo?"

Tim led the way to the back patio where the squirrels' cage was, two foot square and as tall as Bruce, furnished with several nest boxes and criss-crossed with branches and climbing ropes. The squirrels were ten weeks old now, two weeks away from being old enough to release. They were getting wilder by the day, as if they were chafing at their continued captivity and couldn't wait to be free. Tim could sympathize.

He made sure the door to the house was secure, then opened the cage so the squirrels could come out and climb on them. Ludmilla chose Tim's shoulder, and squirrel-Jason chose Dick. Tim offered Ludmilla a couple of the shelled nuts he habitually carried in his pocket, then gave Dick a few as well when he held out his hands and waved his fingers. Dick gave a walnut piece to Jason, grinning when he held it in his paws and noisily ate it right next to ear.

"They're still so adorable," Dick said, wistfulness in his voice. "But gosh, remember how cute they were when they were babies?"

Tim nodded. There was a lump in his throat now, and his stomach felt tight and hot. He didn't know how to start.

Dick gave him a gentle smile. "I think I can guess what you want to talk about."

Tim nodded again.

"I said I would wait to talk about it until you came to me. I wasn't going to pressure you or force you when you weren't ready. But you're ready now, huh?"

Tim nodded. "I want...a clean slate," he rasped out.

Dick nodded slowly. There was pain behind his eyes now, though he maintained that gentle look on his face. He gestured toward the patio chairs against the wall. "Should we sit down?"

Tim nodded, and they moved over and sat in neighboring chairs. Ludmilla and Jason clambered over their shoulders and heads and leapt between them, then scampered down to run around on the floor and climb the walls, bored with their stillness. Tim watched them move and tried to breathe.

"Should I start?" Dick asked.

Tim thought about it, then shook his head. He looked into Dick's face. "I don't need to hear your justifications."

Dick blinked as if he'd been struck, his lips tightening. Then he nodded. "That's fair."

"I understand your reasoning. I know why you did it, why you felt you had to. At least I can guess. Just...stop me if I'm wrong, okay?"

"Okay, Timmy." Dick's voice was subdued.

Tim winced. "Don't do that."

Dick raised his eyebrows. "Do what?"

"Call me 'Timmy' like that. I don't mind it when you call me that out of affection, but like this, it isn't fair. When you know that we're getting into difficult territory, and I'm upset with you, with or without reason. You call me 'Timmy' then to remind me that you're older than me. That I'm the kid and you're the adult. You're trying to gain an emotional high ground on me, and it's not fair."

Dick blinked. "I didn't realize I did that." He sounded truly contrite. "I'm sorry, Tim. I'll try not to do that anymore."

Tim nodded curtly. "Okay. Thank you." He looked away, trying to put his thoughts back in order. "But what I was saying. About your reasoning."

Dick nodded. He kept his lips pressed shut.

"I know why you decided that Damian needed to be Robin. You tried to explain your reasoning to me, you were just wrong, that's all. Not about Damian, about me. You were right about Damian. Damian needed Robin. At least, he needed something to tie him to you, and making him Robin was the easiest way to do that.

"I know you were stuck. Damian had run away from his mother and come here expecting to live and learn under his father, the Batman. But Darkseid had just taken Bruce away from us, permanently we thought, so the person Damian was looking for wasn't here anymore. He was running wild, taking cars and doing whatever he wanted and almost getting himself killed. You knew you couldn't be his father, but you could be his Batman. He needed a reason to stay, a reason to follow your lead. So you started off your relationship with him by giving him something big, something important. That let you instantly jump into his good graces. You earned his trust and his loyalty in one fell swoop.

"Again, I'm not saying you were wrong about that. It worked. You did a great job with him, or as good as you could with the resources you had. I have nothing but admiration for the way you showed him what a better life could be, then made him want that life. It was a truly Herculean effort, and you made miracles happen with that kid. I'm happy you did, too, because it turns out that Damian is a pretty cool kid and a pretty great brother when he's not, you know, abusing me every five minutes."

Dick winced. "I'm sorry, Tim."

Tim shook his head. "I'm not done talking. Am I right so far?"

Dick nodded. He made a gesture of zipping his lips shut, then locking them at the corner and throwing away the key.

Tim looked away and took a deep breath. He'd been doing a good job of keeping it together so far. He wanted to keep it up. He'd spent so, so long thinking about this conversation and what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it.

He looked back to Dick. "Like I said, you were right about Damian. But you were wrong about me." Damn it, despite all of his preparation, his voice cracked anyway on the last word. Tim blinked hard and kept going. "You said that you couldn't work with me as Batman and Robin, because you couldn't see me as a subordinate. You said that we were more like peers, and you wanted to partner with me instead. But you immediately proved that to be false, because you didn't treat me like an equal. You made the decision to take away Robin from me, which Bruce had promised I would have as long as I wanted it, without even talking to me about it."

Dick nodded. His eyes were full of pain. He kept his mouth shut.

"I had to find out about it when Damian came into the cave wearing my uniform, my colors, my identity, crowing and preening and declaring to my face just how much better he was than me. Do you have any idea how much that hurt? How betrayed and rejected I felt? I had lost so, so much. My best friends, my girlfriend, my dad, my home, my security, and then my second dad. Robin was one of the few things I had left that I could feel proud of. That I was glad to be. Pretty much everything in my life sucked, except for that. And you took it away and gave it to a boy who hated and despised me, who'd tried to kill me more than once and never missed an opportunity to make me feel weak and worthless and unwanted, and you didn't even ask how I felt about it."

Dick nodded. Tim could see how much he wanted to talk. Still, he kept his promise and did not unseal his lips.

Tim rubbed his thumb and index finger over his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to cry; he'd told himself he wouldn't cry about this. But just talking about it was bringing back all of the despair and agony and helpless rage he'd felt in that moment, watching Damian tramp around in his colors and knowing with a final ringing certainty that he was not wanted and never had been. The way Dick tried to justify his decision, sitting at the Batcomputer as he worked on something else and not even looking at Tim, not even acknowledging his pain and his anger, had not helped at all.

"You said I was going to be okay," Tim said shakily. "You obviously wanted to believe that it wasn't that big of a deal to me. That I would get over it soon enough and continue working with you, maybe make a new identity the way you had done. Maybe you even thought you were doing me a favor. After all, when you were my age, all you wanted was freedom. You chafed under Bruce's rules and leadership. You couldn't wait to get away and make a new name for yourself and form a new team of your own. But I'm not you. What I needed at the age of seventeen was not the same thing you needed at the age of seventeen. And I was not okay."

Okay, these tears were not going away the way Tim wanted them to. Dick still didn't say anything, but he held out his hand, open between them. Tim looked at it, then at Dick's face. Dick gave him a small, painful smile and shook his hand in the air. So Tim put his hand in it. Dick folded both of his hands around Tim's and held it close and warm. And he kept watching Tim's face and listening to the words he said.

"I was really, really not okay," Tim admitted. "I guess I don't blame you for not believing me when I told you that Bruce was alive. For thinking I was crazy. I felt kind of crazy. I was definitely unstable. I was in so much pain, so hurt and confused and beaten down by everything that had happened to me. But I really, really needed you to support me, and you didn't, and I just... I had to leave. I couldn't stay. Not just because I wanted to look for evidence of Bruce being lost in the timeline, but also because it hurt too much to be around you.

"And sometimes it still does."

Dick's eyes widened, and he started to open his mouth, then closed it again. There were tears in his eyes, too.

"I keep thinking about what you could have done differently, or what I could have done differently, to keep us from breaking apart like that. I keep thinking about why, why you did what you did, why I reacted the way I did. Like I said, I'm pretty sure I understand your reasoning. Was I right?"

Dick nodded.

"The part about how you thought I needed freedom, like you did when you were my age, too?"

Dick nodded, more hesitantly. A tear flowed down from the corner of his eyes, and his lips were pressed tightly together.

Tim took a deep breath. "Okay. That's the part you didn't understand about me. To be fair, it's something I didn't really understand either, not until recently. Dr. Thacker and I have been talking about my childhood, see. It's easier than talking about...more recent events. And it's actually been really helpful. You know my parents neglected me?"

Dick nodded, then tilted his head. So he'd only learned that recently. Tim had figured as much.

"Yeah, before talking about it with Dr. Thacker, I didn't realize just how bad that was for me, or for any kid. How much it damaged me. I'm still learning to accept it. Since my parents are dead now, I've had kind of rose-colored glasses on when I look at my memories of them. I only want to remember the good things, never the bad. And they did do some good things with me. But those were far and few between, and I'm still in the process of understanding just how much they hurt me.

"One thing they taught me, through their neglect and absence from my life, was that I had to earn their love. I had to earn their presence. I had to be a good boy. I had to be useful to be worthy of their time and attention. So of course I carried that attitude with me into adolescence, into Robin. I tried so, so hard to be a good Robin, which to me meant being independent and always being an asset, never a liability. I didn't want Bruce to worry about me. I didn't want to be a burden on Batman. I had to be perfect and never cause trouble and never be a problem and never need help or rescuing. I became Robin in the first place in order to rescue Bruce from himself, after all. I was there to save him, not the other way around. As long as I could be useful, it was okay. I could earn Bruce's trust and be his partner.

"But of course, perfection is not possible. I failed the lofty goals I set for myself time and time again. I got in trouble, I got kidnapped probably as often as you did, but I couldn't depend on Batman to save me. I rescued myself a lot, solved my own problems a lot. And whenever Bruce praised me or said he was glad he could depend on me, that was more proof that my perception of myself and my role was correct. I had to be useful, I had to be worthy, I had to take care of myself.

"Then my dad died, and Bruce adopted me, and things were so, so different than I expected. He was so worried about me basically all the time. He wanted to spend time with me, in uniform and out. Did I ever tell you about the time he almost crashed my date with Zoanne just because he couldn't stand being apart from me even for a few hours? He was so clingy, I swear."

Dick chuckled softly and shook his head. Tim smiled back.

"I'll tell you more about it later. But the point is, I'd never had a dad like that. A parent like that. Bruce loved me so much, though I didn't recognize it as love at the time. I was more confused than anything else, because I'd never experienced anything like it before. But it made me feel good. He made me feel wanted. I'd never felt like that before. It was so, so nice. I didn't think I would ever get used to it, and I didn't want to."

Dick's eyes filmed with tears again. He knew what was coming next.

"And then Bruce died," Tim murmured. "Or so we thought. And you rejected me. You didn't want me. My world crashed down again, and all I could do was try to claw back even a piece of it. So yeah, I was irrational about the idea of Bruce being alive. I needed the only adult in my life who had ever wanted me, who had never rejected me. I needed him so, so bad. I needed to be useful to him, since I was useless to everyone else. I would have done anything to get him back. I would have thrown myself away without hesitation. I almost did."

Dick held his hand tighter.

Tim drew a breath and looked straight into his face. "At the age of seventeen, I didn't need freedom, Dick. I needed security. I needed to know that I was wanted and needed, that I could be useful. Even if you had to give Robin to Damian, you could have kept me as Robin, too, especially after you saw how much it wounded me to have that taken away. There have been more than one person with the same identity before. It might have helped Damian learn how to share, too.

"Barring that, you could have talked to me. You could have been honest with me. You could have not lied to yourself that I was going to be okay. You could have listened to me instead of dismissing me when I tried to tell you how much I needed Bruce to be alive. You could have put even half as much effort into helping me as you put into helping Damian.

"I understand why you didn't do any of those things. Probably too well. You were basically a kid, too, grieving your father and flailing as you tried to cope with all of the burdens that had suddenly crashed onto your shoulders. I was so good at seeming like I was fine, even when I really wasn't, that when I finally had an emotional outburst it must have seemed fake and exaggerated. You were able to convince yourself that I was going to be okay on my own because I'd always been okay before.

"You don't have to argue your case to me, because I've already made all the arguments in my head, all right? It's easy for me to justify your actions to myself. But that's probably just another symptom of how low my self-esteem really is, that I keep trying to brush away the wounds that have been dealt to me. There's a part of me that really wanted to forgive you for everything you've done without even talking about it with you, but that wouldn't be fair to me. And I really, really need to learn to be fair with myself.

"And maybe it had to be this way. If I hadn't felt so hurt and rejected, maybe I wouldn't have gone on my trip and figured out how to get Bruce back. But I have to believe that there could have been a better way. That we could have found out Bruce was alive and gone to retrieve him without all of the suffering I went through, without having to side with the League of Assassins temporarily and losing my spleen and all that. I really want to believe that there was a way we could have fixed things without the relationship between me and you, my first big brother, being so twisted and broken."

Tim felt like he'd hit a wall. He'd run out of words. It wasn't that there was nothing else to say, but he was done saying it. He'd poured everything out. He felt exhausted, but also strangely light and free.

Dick squeezed his hand, and he looked up and caught his eye. Dick smiled, then raised his eyebrows. Tim blinked. "Oh. Yeah. You can talk now. Sorry."

Dick took in a breath. He kept holding Tim's hand, though Tim expected him to let go. He looked away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, then back to Tim. He smiled. It was complex, sad and guilty and proud and relieved all at once.

"Thank you for telling me all of that, Tim," he said. "I know how hard that was for you. I really appreciate you taking the time to explain your feelings to me. There was a lot of stuff in there I didn't know, though some of it I should have figured out on my own. I'm sorry about that.

"Yes, you were correct about me, in large part. Just one thing you were wrong about, really... If you had let me talk at the start of this, I wouldn't have tried to justify myself. I have no arguments on my own behalf. I'm impressed that you came up with arguments for me on your own. I hadn't even thought of most of them. It's a testimony to how much you love me, I think, that you wanted to excuse me for the enormous hurt I did to you.

"Well, and yes, also your own low self-esteem. I'm glad that you recognize that about yourself and you're working on it with Dr. Thacker. You are so, so worthy, and so, so loved, and if there was something I could do to prove that to you, I would do it a hundred times over.

"I'm glad you told me not to speak, because I needed to hear everything you had to say, and you needed a chance to say it. But if you had let me talk, I wouldn't have even dreamed of trying to justify my decisions to you. All I would have done was beg your forgiveness."

Tim had thought he was done with tears, but he was wrong, because here they came again. He tried to keep his eyes on Dick's face, even through his blurry vision and suddenly running nose, but it was hard.

Dick's voice was cracking, too. "I'm sorry, Tim. I know I hurt you, I hurt you badly, and I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry for ignoring your pain and pretending that you would be okay because it was easier for me not to have to worry about you when I had so many other things to worry about. I'm sorry I didn't make you a priority in my life when you needed me so badly. God, Tim, you deserved so much better.

"I know your parents never made you a priority, never, and Bruce did, and that was why you clung to him so desperately. There was a time when I used to make you a priority, too, but somehow I let it slip when Bruce disappeared, when Gotham went crazy, when Damian demanded absolutely everything, and I've never regretted anything more. Of course you needed me, after losing your dad twice in less than a year. Of course you weren't okay. Of course I should have talked to you before I even thought about giving Robin to someone else, especially a kid who had caused you so much pain. I treated you so, so badly during pretty much the worst period in your life, and I'd give anything to be able to go back and change that and treat you with the kindness and consideration you deserved.

"But I can't. All I can do is say I'm sorry, over and over again, and acknowledge my mistakes, and try to do better in the future. Please forgive me, Tim. I don't deserve it, but I'd do anything to earn it. I love you so much, and it kills me to know how badly I hurt you and not be able to take that pain away. Please forgive me and let me try to be the brother you deserve."

Tim was sobbing now. He was pretty sure Dick was too. He stood up from his stupid flimsy patio chair, still tethered to Dick by the hand. He tugged, and Dick stood up next to him. Tim threw his arms around him and sobbed into his shoulder. Dick held him back, just as tight, just as hard.

"I forgive you," Tim choked out between sobs. "Of course, of course, you didn't even need to ask."

"I did, Timmy." Dick sniffled, pressing his cheek against his head. "You deserve that and so much more. I love you, and I'm going to do my best never to hurt you like that again. You, and the whole family, you're at the top of my priority list now, okay? Always. I would do anything for you."

Tim nodded into his shoulder. "I know. I know. I love you, too. Thank you for listening. Thank you for understanding."

"Of course, kiddo. Always. I'm always happy to talk to you, to listen to you. Anything you need to say, I want to hear it. Anytime, day or night. We used to be so good at talking to each other, and I'm so sad that we lost that. I want it back. I want you back, my sweet little brother, my precious little buddy. I missed you so much."

"I missed you too. I want that too. I'll work on getting it back with you."

Eventually they ran out of tears and just stood there, clinging together. They laughed when Ludmilla and Jason jumped up on them and climbed to their shoulders. The laughter was a little awkward, a little watery, but it broke the tension.

Dick backed off and held Tim's shoulders in his hands, giving him a gentle smile. "Happy birthday, Timbo. I'm so proud of you for making it to eighteen years."

Tim smiled, too, slow and broad. "You know what? Me too."

"I know you're debuting your new identity tonight. I can't wait to see it. Can we go train surfing together, for old times' sake?"

Tim grinned, then laughed, bright and ringing and sincere. "Yeah, definitely. That would be great."

Dinner was wonderful. Alfred wanted to make Tim's favorites, in honor of his big day, but he honestly liked everything. So he requested steaks and steamed broccoli for Bruce, crab-stuffed mushrooms for Dick, chili dogs for Jason, tabbouleh and flatbread for Damian, and ham and pineapple pizza for himself and Cass. Oh, and whatever Alfred wanted for dessert, which turned out to be some kind of chocolate mousse thing with crispy little cookies that tasted like caramel. Alfred thought several of the food choices were abominations, but he acquiesced to Tim's desires. Everyone ended up having a little bit of everything, which was the best way to enjoy food, anyway. The dessert was the best part, but that was never in doubt. Alfred had even put a little candle in Tim's mousse cup so they could sing Happy Birthday to him.

Afterward, they all headed down to the cave. It wouldn't be dark for hours yet, but no one could wait any longer to see Tim's new costume and identity. Tim's heart beat faster as he headed back to the locker rooms to suit up, officially suit up in preparation of going out, for the first time since he'd been kidnapped by McDaniels. It had been longer than that since he'd suited up in the Batcave, since for months before that he'd been working out of his own places, or no place at all. He honestly wasn't sure when the last time was that he'd gotten dressed for the night in the Batcave. Before Dick gave Robin to Damian? Surely it hadn't been that long.

In any case, he was home now. Bruce had moved the costume, previously kept under lock and key, to Tim's locker while the rest of them had been eating dessert. Tim could hear the others chattering as he opened the locker and grinned at the pieces within.

It always took a little while to put on a vigilante costume: lots of pieces, lots of layering. Lots of armor, more to the point. But he and Bruce had designed the fastenings to be large and easy to use for his shaky fingers, and he was able to dress himself without much more effort than putting on his own clothes in the morning. All the strength training had built him up enough to carry the weight of the armor and all his equipment, though he would always be more wiry than bulky.

He slung the heavy, segmented black cape over his shoulders, then pulled on the thick gauntlets with the tiny servos built in to compensate for the tremble in his hands, the locking rings to snap onto his collapsible bo staff, which was clipped to his belt like a baton. He checked the grapnel, the shuriken launcher, all of the little gizmos and tricks packed away in his utility belt. Then, finally, he pulled on his mask over his small black domino. The mask covered the top half of his face and stuck up above his head into two small points.

He grinned and spun, letting the cape fly out with the movement, then finally went to the main cave to greet his family. He was practically skipping. He couldn't resist doing a little twirl when he came into view, throwing out his arms like a showman.

They hadn't planned it, but Bruce's voice boomed out into the cave in perfect time with Tim's twirl: "Introducing... The Flying Fox!"

Tim stood there with his arms outstretched, grinning as he took in expressions on everyone's faces. Dick was smiling like a lunatic, his eyes sparkling. Jason's eyes were wide as he looked Tim up and down and side to side, nodding in approval when he registered the thickness of the armor and all of the other safety features they'd built in. Cass was smiling sweetly, just happy to see Tim happy. Damian's mouth was wide open, though he snapped it shut abruptly when Dick leaned over and teasingly tapped on the bottom of his chin. Alfred looking quietly approving, as expected, with a faint curl to his lips that told Tim exactly how pleased he was with the whole affair.

And Bruce... Tim had never seen Bruce look so proud. It made his own heart swell with pride, too.

Tim's cuirass and leggings were a burnished reddish-gold, much like his namesake, the flying fox, which was actually one of the biggest bats in the world. A stylized bat symbol crossed his chest, black as night, and his utility belt was the same black. The arms of his costume were a dark brown that was almost black, and the cape was ebony, hanging down around his body in heavy folds. His boots were the same brownish-black as his arms, with red-gold accents to match the main body. His mask was reddish-gold, sculpted into the shape of another stylized bat, with two pointy ears sticking up above his head.

And for the pièce de résistance... Tim hopped up on a crate Bruce had set for this use and spread his arms, locking the segments of the cape into place. Two rods snapped out from the sides, then down in front of his chest, and locked together. They created the grip of the cape, which was now a hang glider. The inside of the cape was the same reddish gold as his body, but much shinier and more polished than the dull color of the main costume. The light glinted off the interior of the cape, and Tim could see the reflection points on the faces of his family. As he had hoped, there were several gasps of wonder and blinks of dazzlement.

Then Jason started to clap, and in seconds, everyone was applauding so hard their hands must be going numb. Dick put his fingers in his mouth for a piercing whistle, and Cass whooped in glee. Even Alfred shouted out a genteel, "Bravo! Bravo!" which almost made Tim fall off the crate laughing.

His face was flaming, probably brighter than his costume. But he was smiling, grinning, guffawing. Then he was gulping back tears. It was all just so much.

Tim hit the button on the grip of the hang glider to make it retract, then jumped off the crate and ran into the arms of his family. Jason caught him and lifted him in his arms, yelling in joy. Tim gasped and laughed, wrapping his arms around Jason's head to hold his balance. He cried, too, a little. Others were crying, as well, so he wasn't alone. Dick, not unexpectedly. But he saw Bruce wipe a tear, too.

He was so happy. He was so happy. He hadn't believed that it was possible for him to be this happy. But he was.

Tonight, he was going to go out into the city and fight crime as the Flying Fox, a name and colors he had created for himself, no one else. He was going to save innocent people from danger and protect his beloved city from the evil men who meant her harm. He was going to surf on a train with Dick and play rooftop tag with Damian and Cass. He was going to stand beside Jason, both taking aim with their weapons. He was going to listen to the instructions of Alfred and Oracle and share information in return.

Most of all, he was going to fly with his dad. Tim had always loved flying through the city with Bruce, with Batman. From the very beginning, that had been one of his favorite things. And now he was going to get to do it again.

He was never going to stop.

The End