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Tim doesn’t really expect to be remembered as Robin.

Sure, he’s devoted nearly his entire life to the mantel in one way or another and he had the second longest run after Dick, (So far anyway. Damian will probably change that soon if he doesn’t die again first.) but he was also nothing more than the third Robin of many.

It sucks, but it’s what he signed up for, and honestly, it could be worse. Jason’s remembered for dying and coming back a few bats short of a cave. Damian… well, to put it shortly, Tim doesn’t envy Damian’s reputation or life. He’d bring up Dick here, but the first Robin is untouchable.

He’s never asked Steph if she wants to be remembered for her time as Robin. Maybe because he still feels guilty.

So he’s the Wednesday of Robins. No big deal. He knows what he did for Bruce and his family. He knows the role he played in creating that family. Who cares if no one else does?

The truth is, Tim’s story has never been about the masks. It’s always been about the people beneath them.

~~~

Timothy Jackson Drake was bred to be perfect.

He wasn’t born to be happy or friendly or any of the other frivolous things that seem so important to regular people. No, he was born to be an heir. Paraded around at galas and placed on a shelf when he wasn’t in use. An accessory to make his parents look like real people instead of sharks. And eventually, if he proved himself, he was destined to take over Drake Industries.

It’s his future. His destiny. His purpose.

Him.

So he sits on his shelf while his parents travel the world and tries very hard not to look out the window too longingly. This is where he belongs. Alone in a dusty manor, waiting for the only people who love him to return from god knows where.

And they must love him. They’re his parents. They taught him how to smile in five different shades of angry, how to lie, how to charm, and all the other important things kids have to learn.

Sure, they don’t express their love like most mommies and daddies, but that’s just because they’re busy, important people. Who needs hugs and “I’m proud of you”s anyway? They’re a terribly wasteful display of affection. His parents are better economists than that.

Instead they express love through approval, and the only way for Timothy to gain that approval is by making himself useful. If he’s a burden, then they might stop loving him.

And he can’t have that, can he.

~~~

“The circus is filthy, who knows what kind of diseases they have.” Mother comments airily, managing to simultaneously make a neutral observation and blame her husband for everything wrong in the world.

Father’s smile doesn’t waver. “Our PR manager says we need to be seen out as a family more. Besides, I hear Bruce Wayne is here.”

One of mother’s perfectly groomed eyebrows flicks upward, but her smile doesn’t waver. It is just as fake and just as convincing as Jack’s. “Bruce Wayne? Interesting.”

Timothy doesn’t totally get why that’s interesting. Dinosaurs are interesting. Spaceships are interesting. The US political debate about tax legislation on the upcoming ballot as it relates to class division is interesting. Bruce Wayne is just another air headed aristocrat who, unlike Timothy’s parents, can’t even run his own company.

Timothy knows better than to ask questions though, so he follows silently as his parents make a beeline for the man in question. Mr. Wayne catches sight of them as they approach and is already beaming when they arrive.

“Hello Mr. Wayne,” father greets cordially, shaking the aristocrat’s hand.

“Nice to see you Jack,” Mr. Wayne says, with none of father’s formality. His eyes turn to mother. “And you Janet, how have you been?”

Mother doesn’t remove her hand from Timothy’s shoulders to shake Mr. Wayne’s. “Quite well. Have you met our son Timothy? He’s recently taken quite an interest in you Mr. Wayne,” Mother jokes, sharp nails briefly digging into Timothy as she softly pushes him forward.

The message is clear. Don’t embarrass me.

So Timothy doesn’t; he lets a childish blush spread across his face and smiles shyly. “Nice to meet you Mr. Wayne,” he says with the kind of perfect diction no three year old should have.

Mr. Wayne laughs loudly and crouches down so they’re eye to eye. It feels less condescending than it should when he sticks his hand out to Timothy and replies, “The pleasure’s all mine, Tim.”

Mr. Wayne’s hands are rough and his gaze is steady, which already sets him apart from most of the other aristocrats Timothy has met, but his clothes scream money and his smile advertises carelessness.

The juxtaposition is, in fact, maybe even interesting.

He rakes his brain for any pertinent knowledge on Wayne Enterprises, but he doesn’t come up with much. “I heard the Martha Wayne Foundation is expanding into food pantries,” he offers.

Mr. Wayne’s eyes go a little wide in surprise, and for the barest second, Timothy tenses. Perhaps Mr. Wayne didn’t want intelligent. Maybe Timothy read him wrong, and he should have aimed more for reverence. Before his thoughts can run away with him, Timothy forcibly relaxes his shoulders. Mr. Wayne doesn’t look annoyed, if anything his smile has only widened. Timothy is just being paranoid. “It is,” Mr. Wayne agrees. “We’re going to do a lot of good for this city.”

Something about his smile is wrong.

It’s radiant and magnetic, but it’s also emotionless. Leeched of all mirth as if it were painted on by an alien; all of the parts are there, and the effect is convincing, but it has none of the quirks that can make a smile genuinely human. The longer Timothy looks, the more he feels like his attention is being deliberately drawn to that smile, as if to distract him from something else. It is only after realizing this that Timothy is able to look away from Mr. Wayne’s perfectly straight, white teeth to see what he’s being distracted from.

Mr. Wayne’s eyes don’t even hold the pretense of joy. They are hollow and calculating, sizing Timothy up while also watching his parents, yet he still insists upon hiding the intelligence in those eyes beneath a supposedly hapless exterior.

Hypothesis: Society cannot function without a blanket of lies and disguises to hide the harsh truth of what lies beneath. To exist within it, Timothy will need to perfect his own mask, then never take it off.

Mother’s hand is once again curling around his shoulder. “Well, we better go find our seats,” she says pleasantly. Timothy wonders what it would be like to live in a world where the smiles are real. He can’t imagine it.

“Of course,” Mr. Wayne agrees. His eyes have already moved on, assessing the next threat.

Timothy pauses, almost tripping over his own feet as he looks over his shoulder at Mr. Wayne even though he knows he shouldn’t stare. Why would a playboy billionaire be looking for threats at a circus? Intelligence and calculation are one thing, but actual threat assessment? Perhaps there’s more to Mr. Wayne’s secrets than hidden intelligence. Timothy can’t stop the shiver that runs down his spine, only conceal it behind perfect posture.

“Come along son, we’re going to take a family picture,” father says steering wife and son towards the spot where the Flying Graysons are doing photo opps.

Every instinct Timothy has is begging him not to turn his back on Mr. Wayne. Warning bells in his head scream danger and excitement. His heart is beating out of his chest and the circus that was moments ago pleasantly lively, is now dauntingly overstimulating. It’s too fast, too loud, too much.

Adrenaline is coursing through his veins and making it a struggle to remain still and outwardly calm when he’s buzzing inside with the thought of puzzles and mystery and danger. He wants desperately to poke at Mr. Wayne until he finds a seam he could use to pry apart his mask and find whatever misshapen secrets lay beneath. He needs to know, to understand.

Even as he thinks this, another part of him is cringing away from those desires. It’s not his business. Mr. Wayne is unlikely to pose a direct threat to him or his family, so he should keep his head down and look the other way. Whatever predatory intent is lurking beneath the surface shouldn’t fascinate Timothy, it should repulse him. He is a gentlemen of the highest caliber, and whatever Mr. Wayne is hiding is not something a Drake should be mixed up in.

Even knowing that isn’t enough to totally stamp out his curiosity though. The best he can do is tuck it into a corner of his mind to marinate until he has time to take it back out for more lengthy examination later.

By the time Timothy feels more or less in control of himself again, they’ve been standing in line for ten minutes. Mother is very obviously not curling her lip as she catalogs the details of their surroundings, and father has taken out his phone to check his email.

When they reach the front of the line, Timothy is led to a smiling boy a couple years older than him. “Hey sport,” the kid says. “You wanna stand next to me?”

Timothy glances at his parents for permission, and today is a strange day indeed because his mother laughs lightly and shoos him forward. “Run along now, we don’t want to take too much of their time.”

Translation: I want to get away from these freaks.

Timothy lets the bigger boy sling his arm over his shoulders and tries not to think about how it’s the most human contact he’s had in a long time.

Once the photo is taken, he expects the boy to be done with him, but he just smiles wide at Timothy and tells him, “I’m gonna do a really big flip tonight just for you okay? So make sure you’re watching. Don’t look away for a second.”

There’s nothing fake about this boy’s smile, and the shock of it almost has Timothy reeling. He tries to muster his own smile in return, but in the face of such unprecedented earnestness, he can’t remember how, so he just squeaks, “I won’t,” and all but runs for the familiar cold of his mother, comfortless as it may be.

Timothy keeps his promise. He doesn’t look away, even when the wire snaps and the Graysons fall. He screams his throat raw, but he doesn’t look away from their twisted bodies splattered on the unforgiving ground.

He’s still looking when Dick makes it down the ladder and throws himself across his parent’s bodies.

He’s still looking when the Graysons are blocked from his view by Batman’s cape as he falls from above; a shadow summoned by tragedy and pain.

~~~

Timothy doesn’t know why he’s crying.

Actually, that’s a lie. He’s crying because he’s a kid and he scraped his knee and crying is what kids do.

So to amend the above: Nobody else knows why Timothy is crying.

“How the hell am I supposed to know Janet? It’s not like the kid ever talks!” Timothy’s father yells angrily.

When Timothy fell, he made a sound. He doesn’t know how to describe it, because he’s never made that sound before. It was like trying to scream while only breathing in, and the second it reached his ears, he’d clamped his mouth shut to keep it in.

The sound wasn’t really all that similar to the noise that Dick Grayson made when his parents fell, but Tim’s mind had made the leap anyway. The thought had distressed him greatly, and unable to express that distress in any meaningful way, he’d burst into tears.

Both his parents had come to see what the commotion was all about, but neither of them had been willing to get within ten feet of him. In fact, they’d started arguing almost immediately about which of them should comfort him, which of them should know how to comfort him, and why a child should need comforting at all for such a small wound.

“Well maybe he’d talk more if you weren’t such a jackass!” Mother screams back.

“How can this possibly be my fault? He got the freak gene from you!”

To say the argument has diverged from its original point since then would be an understatement.

“How dare you talk about my son that way.”

“How dare I? He’s creepy, Janet!” Father looks at Timothy uncomfortably, taking in the sight of his son bawling on the floor, still unable to form words. “He doesn’t blink enough.”

“He doesn’t blink enough?” Mother repeats disbelievingly. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it means! It’s not my fault he’s practically unlovable. He reminds me too much of—” Jack cuts off, his eyes still wide with anger but his mouth shutting with an audible click.

“Reminds you of who, Jack?” Janet’s voice is deadly soft.

Timothy, who is finally beginning to regain control of his faculties as the echoes of Dick Grayson’s screams fade into the background of his thoughts once again, tenses. He knows that voice just as well as his father does.

But father has dug his grave, and now he’s going to lie in it. That’s just the kind of honest man he is. “He reminds me too much of you.”

Mother’s smile could cut glass. (Angry smile number two, Timothy thinks numbly. It means, in no uncertain terms, If you weren’t so useful, you’d already be dead.) “Well isn’t that just horrid for you.”

Father blanches. “I just meant that—”

“It’s not your fault,” mother says. “We’re both tired. It’s probably best if we just get some rest and forget about the whole thing. Goodnight, Jack.” It’s only four in the evening.

She’s still smiling when she turns on her heel and leaves without a second glance at her son, still sniffling on the carpet.

Father stares after her with eyes full of regret. Although regret doesn’t seem like quite the right word to Timothy. Dread for the revenge that is surely coming his way would be a more accurate description.

Finally he sighs, long and loud. “That woman,” he mutters, the words curdling like a foul and worn out curse on his lips. Then he too is gone.

Timothy is still sitting there. Clutching his injured knee to his chest as best he can and staring at the space where his parents just were dumbfoundedly.

This time, when he starts to cry, he doesn’t know why. He also doesn’t know why tears that just a moment ago were loud enough to reach his parents in their studies are now so quiet he’d be able to ignore them completely if it weren’t for the wetness on his face.

The tears don’t stop. Still, no one comes.

~~~

As Tim grows older, (he’s a full seven years of age now) his parents start to go away for longer and longer periods of time.

Tim doesn’t mind. Not really. After all, they’re very busy and important people.

And anyway, as his father has pointed out on numerous occasions, it’s not like Tim ever talks to them, nor they to him, so what’s the difference really if they’re not talking to each other in the same house versus not talking to each other from across the globe?

Plus, the alone time gives Tim lots of opportunities to cultivate his hobbies. For example, obsessing over Batman.

The only time he’s really seen the masked crusader in person was that night at Haley’s Circus two years ago, and now Tim wants to hit his younger self for not taking better advantage of the opportunity. (He also just wants to hit his younger self in general, but he doesn’t understand that urge and he’s afraid that if he dwells on it, it might transform into wanting to hit his present self, so he chooses to ignore it.)

To be fair, he’d been half convinced it was all a hallucination his traumatized brain had developed to restore some semblance of justice to his world view. After all, Batman was a myth. Nothing more.

At least, that had been true until recently.

Over the four years that have elapsed since Tim’s first encounter with the myth and now, Batman’s reputation has spread through Gotham like wildfire. No longer is he a boogeyman good for nothing more than scaring children and amusing criminals; now he’s real with a direct line to the GCPD and more arrests than anyone in the department.

The Dark Knight is a protector of justice and innocents. He’s terrifying because he has to be to command respect, and he’s distant like a deity. By some, he’s worshiped like one too, and Tim wonders what that sort of adoration does to a man.

Something about Batman makes Tim’s blood sing. It’s a familiar song of adrenaline and danger and curiosity so strong it hurts, but Tim can’t place it. If his parents were home to keep him under their watchful eyes, he never would have allowed himself to indulge in this, but they aren’t, and that makes the siren song of a mystery all the more alluring.

And as if Batman weren’t enough, Robin enters the picture.

Tim can’t help but admire the utter genius of Batman having a partner in terms of marketing himself. Batman on his own is a powerful image, and more than enough to cow the vast criminal underbelly of Gotham, but it’s a tightrope act between heroism and terrorism. Without a balancing force, he runs the risk of becoming more terrifying to the average citizen than the criminals he’s locking up.

Robin is that balancing force. He’s yin to Batman’s yang. Batman strikes fear into the hearts of his enemies, but Robin represents hope for the future. He’s the one that makes victims feel cared for and lets the city know that Batman will only ever be dangerous to those who deserve it.

Like Tim said, genius marketing.

The Dynamic Duo is even more interesting than the Dark Knight, and before Tim knows it, he’s lost what was already a losing battle to his curiosity. One way or another, he’s going to pick Batman apart until he understands him.

Step one: research.

He reads the love letters of fanboys concealed in academic vernacular, exposés written by cynics who manipulate statistics to try and prove the Bat is a menace, and even the gossip columns that more or less randomly accuse prominent citizens of being Batman. One particularly amusing one even points the proverbial finger at Tim’s own father. Like he’d ever wear leather.

Not that Batman wears leather. The closer Tim looks at the conflicting witness testimonials (teaching himself to hack filled his time for a solid few months and the first thing he did with those skills was hack the GCPD’s closed cases) the more he’s certain Batman’s been shot. Several times actually.

So either Batman is a meta and just a very hypocritical one, or his suit is made of something a lot stronger than leather.

(Knowing this doesn’t stop mother’s derisive comments about the type of man who would wander the city at night in leather with a young boy who doesn’t seem to wear pants.)

Which brings into question where the hell Batman got his costume from. Tim recognizes professional work when he sees it (he’s met far too many of mother’s fashion designer friends not to) and Batman’s costume is certainly a lot more than a novice’s hobbled together prayer. He had to have gotten professional help with it.

He plays with the idea of Batman working in the fashion industry for a solid week before ruling it out.

Which brings him inevitably to Batman’s weapons.

It’s shockingly easy to buy a batarang on Ebay. Then again, Batman isn’t exactly in the business of picking up after himself, so maybe it’s not all that shocking after all.

It’s an expensive material and perfectly shaped to fit an adult man’s grip. (At this point Tim can narrow Batman’s height down to somewhere between 5’10’’ and 6’3’’—assuming the Bat doesn’t wear heels) One side is dulled for non lethal hits and the other razor sharp.

With a little backyard practice, Tim’s actually not too bad at throwing it.

Tim decides to make a list of things he knows about Batman so far.

1. He doesn’t kill
2. He’s well funded
3. He’s well trained
4. He has a personal stake in Gotham’s well being

Hypothesis: Batman experienced a horrible tragedy early in life (probably the murder of someone close to him that the police couldn’t do anything about) that left him with a jaded worldview, a distrust of the police, and a multitude of psychological issues, including a Messiah complex and a burning desire for revenge.

Tim thinks it’s a pretty well supported hypothesis, but not well supported enough to make it on the official list. Plus, it doesn’t explain how Batman developed such strict morals. They had to have come from somewhere.

There’s also his relationship with Robin to factor in. It’s clearly parental to some degree based on Robin’s youth and how protective Batman is of him, but Batman seems a little young to have a son that old. Presumably, they aren’t legally related then. Either way:

5. Batman loves Robin

Tim spends days wording and rewording that one. Batman cares for Robin? Protects Robin? Batman and Robin are a set? Partners? Nothing quite works. There’s definitely a good deal of devotion between them, yet Batman still lets Robin—clearly a child or thereabouts—put himself in danger. It just doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t have enough data.

He does have a theory that serving as Robin is how the kid behind the mask earns the man behind the mask’s love. How he makes himself useful. But Tim doesn’t like that theory, and he doesn’t know why. It is the most logical explanation.

Maybe when he meets them he can ask. Which brings Tim to phase two: direct observation.

Ideally, he’d approach the crime fighters for an interview then get permission to trail them and access to whatever it is they do behind the scenes to fight crime, but the world is never ideal, so Tim goes with curtain number two. Stake out their patrol route.

Cobbling together said patrol route really isn’t as hard as it should be. It’s just a matter of consolidating and mapping out all the ‘packages’ Batman leaves for the GCPD on a given night, then repeating the process and looking for patterns.

Batman actually has four patrol routes that he alternates between on a set schedule. Every third month he changes them, but as far as Tim can tell, no more frequently than that.

He waits until the second month on a new set of patrols to make his move. Gotham is colder than he remembers, but Tim is more graceful. Years of galas have made him adept at slipping through the cracks unnoticed by adults. He’s light on his feet and small enough to fit in tight spaces.

Walking the streets alone is far from ideal though, so whenever he can without a grapple like Batman’s, he traverses the rooftops instead. The closer he gets to the more densely populated, and thus more crime ridden, streets, the closer together buildings are.

Still, it isn’t smart to venture there on the first night, so he sticks to the safer parts of Batman and Robin’s patrol. He finds an apartment building of medium height that he reasons he can claim to be a resident of if Batman finds him, and he settles down behind the air conditioner to wait.

To minimize his chances of being jumped, he came before sunset and he plans to leave after sunrise, so he has to wait for hours. He falls asleep a couple of times, and resorts to counting prime numbers in his head to stay awake before realizing the monotony of it is only lulling him closer to sleep, so he brainstorms strategies to hack the Pentagon.

He wouldn’t, of course. But theoretically—

There isn’t a sound, but Tim feels something shift in the air. He just manages to lean around the air conditioner in time to see the swoosh of Robin’s cape as he jumps off the building on the other side.

Holy shit. Holyshitholyshitholyshit.

That was Robin. And Batman. Batman and Robin. Tim just saw Batman and Robin!

Not a problem. He can be cool about this. It’s not like they’re his heroes or anything. He’s not obsessed.

By the time his heart rate has regulated, the sun is up.

He goes back again the next night. And the next. And almost every night after that.

~~~

6. Dick Grayson is Robin

Tim would have recognized that flip anywhere. It was the flip the Flying Graysons were famous for, it was the flip Dick Grayson dedicated to him the night his parents died. Tim will never forget it.

Which means, by virtue of fact 5 on the list:

7. Bruce Wayne is Batman

It fits with everything else he knows, and once he starts looking into it, the evidence piles.

There are timely disappearances that just so happen to coincide with Batman’s known injuries… donations that seem a little too well placed to have been made without insider knowledge… not to mention timelines that make perfect sense, and of course there’s Mr. Wayne’s parents.

They perfectly fit the bill for the kind of trauma Tim had suspected Batman to have.

The evidence is all there. But even if it wasn’t, the connection between Mr. Wayne and Batman sparks Tim’s memory of a familiar feeling he got from a smile that was a little too blinding from a man who was more dangerous than he seemed.

Knowing is a queer sort of feeling.

Tim’s young, but he’s no stranger to secrets. He knows how they can hide behind smiles and tired eyes. How they build up and let loose like water flowing from a dam. But Tim can’t allow that to happen. This isn’t just a secret, Tim now has knowledge people would kill for.

It’s exhilarating, and he’s not going to give it up to anyone.

People can’t know who Batman is. It would defeat the purpose. Batman can’t be effective if he has to worry about threats to his civilian persona like that. Plus, he’d probably be arrested. Not to mention how much street cred he’d lose if criminals knew he spent his days as Brucie Wayne.

8. Batman’s identity must be protected at all costs

~~~

Tim can feel each individual vertebrae in his spine, and they all ache.

It’s really his fault. Not even a cool story either, he just fell off of a fire escape in his mad scramble to get home before his parents woke up. He’s not used to having such a set curfew for his late night activities, so time had gotten away from him. When he’d looked at the horizon to see the sun was about to rise, he’d panicked, and it had made him sloppy.

Now Tim is sitting in his chair at their overly long dining room table and focusing intently on his posture. Neither Janet nor Jack is looking at him, but the second he allows his shoulders to slump, he knows they’ll zero in on it like vultures, so he keeps his back straight even though the massive bruise covering half of it makes him want to cry out in agony.

They’re having a late breakfast of eggs and salmon that Tim hasn’t touched. He would kill for a cup of coffee right about now, especially since he hasn’t slept in a day or two, but his parents don’t approve of someone his age drinking such a thing.

Speaking of his parents, Jack and Janet are sitting at the far ends of the table, a good four feet away from Tim on either side. He’s spent the last ten minutes picturing in his head how he would line up a camera to capture the perfect shot of them all. It would make quite the striking image, but he’s not sure he’d like the story that image would tell.

Tim is pulled out of his thoughts by a soft sound of interested surprise from Janet.
Jack glances up from his newspaper. “What is it?”

She takes a calculated sip from her water before replying, “Bruce Wayne is adopting another child.”

Tim’s head snaps up. “What?” he asks before he can stop himself.

He knows he’s spoken out of turn and that his tone is insubordinate, but the scolding he’s braced for never comes. Janet just sets down her tablet and studies him like she can see all the cracks where he would shatter if she struck him. At length, she says, “A son. Off the streets, just like the last one.”

A son. Tim knows Robin hasn’t been out in over a month. He also knows Robin has taken longer leaves of absence than this. He had wondered how the dynamic duo might continue when Dick Grayson had moved away from Wayne Manor, but this confirms it. Dick Grayson can no longer be Robin, so he’s being replaced.

Tim rapidly tries to reel in his thoughts. Confirms is a strong word. This suggests Robin is being replaced. Perhaps Bruce is really just taking in another kid because he’s lonely. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll make this new boy Robin.

Janet is still watching him closely. “If you ask me, he’s an idiot. One orphan is good PR, two is asking for a power struggle.”

It takes Tim’s brain a moment too long to realize that she’s talking about Wayne Enterprises. He’s become so entrenched in his new hobby, he’d almost forgotten about the future he’s been destined to have since birth.

Mentally berating himself for his lapse in composure in front of his parents, Tim quickly pulls himself together and replies evenly, “Maybe Richard Grayson proved unfit to take over WE.”

Janet shrugs. ”At his age, Wayne should be finding himself a wife and having a child of his own anyway, not continuing this ridiculous faux-altruism.”

Safely beneath the table where his parents can’t see, Tim’s hands clenched into fists. Bruce Wayne has done more charity work than every other millionaire in this city combined. There isn’t anything fake about his drive to do good, which is more than Tim can say for most of the self-serving aristocrats in Gotham.

Before Tim can pop a blood vessel trying to remain quiet, Jack cuts in with a derisive scoff. “Wayne hasn’t been able to hold onto a broad for more than three days in his entire life.”

Waving a dismissive hand in Jack’s direction, Janet says, “His relationship skills hardly matter. He can get a wife whenever he wants. A partner would be the real challenge.”

A partner.

If Batman doesn’t have a partner, is he still Batman? Technically Batman existed for years before Robin, but the concept of a lighter counterpart has become so ingrained into the Batman brand, that Tim’s not sure the Dark Knight can do it alone anymore. From a PR standpoint, from a physical standpoint, and from a moral one. Without a child to hold him back, will Bruce stick to his perfect code? Will the promise that Batman will never become an executioner ring true without Robin to proclaim and protect it?

Maybe Bruce adopted another child because he had too.

9. Batman needs a Robin

“May I see the article?” Tim’s voice surprises all of them.

Wordlessly, Janet slides her already unlocked tablet down the table to him. Tim nods his thanks before ducking his head to look.

The article is titled ‘THE MORE THE MERRIER. AN OLD PROVERB, AND BRUCE WAYNE’S PHILOSOPHY ON CHILDREN.’ Below is a picture. As always, Bruce is smiling wide and magnetic. His arm is wrapped around a boy just a few years older than Tim. At first glance, the boy bears a striking resemblance to Dick. They share the same raven hair and shockingly blue eyes, but on closer inspection, this boy has a stronger jaw and a crooked nose.

Tim drinks in the picture, noting everything from the tiny fleck of a scar on the new boy’s knuckles, to the hungry look in his eyes that remind Tim of a more feral version of Bruce.

Then he gets to the smile, and he thinks, oh.

Robin.

It’s the kind of smile that burns so bright Tim has to look away, even through a picture, as if he would go blind from just looking at it for too long. It has a harder edge than Dick’s ever did, but it’s unquestionably a Robin smile.

That settles it. There’s no way Bruce can keep this kid away from Robin, even if he tries.

Tim scrolls down to the article, skimming the fluffy writing until he finds what he’s looking for. Two words, and even though they don’t mean anything to Tim yet, they’re going to, and that’s enough to make the corners of his mouth curl up into a smile.

Jason Todd.

~~~

Tim wasn’t ready. He thought he’d prepared himself to see someone new in Robin’s colors, but he hadn’t understood just how different Jason would be.

Dick had always been boundless energy, barely tethered to Earth by a pair of pixie boots. He was almost always chattering away, and when he wasn’t in the air he was still moving, bouncing on his toes or even pacing on the more extreme days.

Jason is filled with just as much energy, but he keeps it all carefully contained only to let it burst out when he’s fighting. Admittedly, Tim’s vantage points don’t provide a lot of fighting coverage, but from what he does see, Jason includes half as many extraneous flips and twice as many punches in his fighting style.

It fits pretty well with what Tim knows of Jason’s background. Gotham’s streets, as he’s come to learn over the years, are far from kind.

Tim has been bringing along a camera to his stakeouts for years, but he only ever got a handful of good photos. That changes with Jason. The new Robin is kind of a perfect model. Besides the fact that he’s simply a beautiful subject, Jason has a tendency to stand perfectly still right on the edge of buildings. It’s the perfect spot for Tim to get photos of him silhouetted against the Gotham city skyline.

The first time Tim catches Jason in one of these moments from the front, it’s strangely intimate. The expression on Jason’s face is entirely serene, as he listens to the sounds of the city, breathing Gotham in like he would a lover. It’s a deeply private moment and for the first time, Tim feels like maybe he’s overstepping.

Silently, he sets his camera down, but he can’t bring himself to leave. Seeing Jason so utterly unguarded is too fascinating to turn away from. It feels like the spark of human connection, of deeper understanding for another person, and Tim hasn’t had that in… ever.

Before long, Tim begins to think of Jason as his Robin. Between his late start, and the adjustment period during which sightings were fairly rare and all of his pictures were of dark walls, Tim had only been able to photograph the last third or so of Dick’s career. For Jason, on the other hand, Tim’s there from the start.

He’s aware of how stalkerish that sounds, but they are vigilantes. The line is a little blurred around them.

Despite how different Jason is personality wise, the Batman-Robin dynamic remains more or less the same. Still vaguely parental and overly fond, but every once in a while they say or do something that makes Tim look at Robin and think soldier. He’s not sure what to make of that.

He supposes what’s important is that Jason-Todd-Robin is just as effective at balancing out Batman as Dick-Grayson-Robin, meaning,

10. Anyone can be Robin.

Not literally of course. There are requirements such as a certain level of intelligence and physical ability, but in a broad sense, Robin isn’t a person so much as an idea. A role or a mantel that can be passed down to a new generation or embodied by anyone with the right spirit.

This revelation opens up a lot of doors, and Tim’s scared of what might happen when the rest of the city realizes it too.

~~~

Jason Todd is dead. Robin is dead.

Tim feels the death like a blow to his chest. He knows he never officially met Robin, and only saw Jason in passing at galas, but he feels like he knew him.

It’s the first real loss Tim has ever experienced and it scares him. Are they all going to hurt like this?

His parents don’t understand. Most of the city doesn’t actually, because they don’t know. Jason Todd’s death was announced as a tragic accident that sent Bruce Wayne into mourning, but Robin’s death is being hidden. Batman can’t afford to look weak.

It sickens Tim. Mostly because he knows he would have done the same thing. Robin deserves to be mourned, but the city can’t do it. Batman must shoulder that pain alone.

Not alone, Tim vows fiercely. I know what happened to Robin, and I mourn with you.

He hardly eats for weeks. Sleep comes to him only in troubled, sporadic bursts (He was always a night owl, but at least he was a night owl who could get in more than four consecutive hours.) and sometimes he wakes up with tears on his face, although he never consciously cries.

His parents lead an expedition to South Africa, and it’s a relief they aren’t around to see him like this.

Weeks pass before he’s able to pull himself from the shock and grief and when he does, what he finds terrifies him, but it doesn’t surprise him. Number seven. Batman needs a Robin. Otherwise…

The hospital is practically bursting with intensive care patients that Batman has put there. Sure the Joker isn’t dead (Jason deserves better but the first rule but Jason butthefirstrulebutJasonbut—) but it won’t be long before someone is.

Tim has to fix this.

He knows what must be done, but it’s arguably the worst idea he’s ever had and in all honesty he just doesn’t want to do it. He’s never wanted to. Not really. Robin’s life is dazzling and fantastical, but it’s not Tim. At least, not this version of him.

But who else is there to shoulder this burden? Most of Gotham doesn’t know what’s wrong, and those who do are trying to take advantage of it, not help.

So Tim packs his bags, and gets ready to play every card he has left to fix this without forfeiting his life (That’s what it would be, isn’t it? Tim may or may not die as Robin, but either way, it will claim his life.) and goes to the one person who can actually do something.

“Where the hell did you get these?” Dick Grayson asks, staring down at Tim’s photos.

Tim readjusts his backpack strap and tries to keep the pride from his voice. Now’s not the time for boasting. “I took them. I know you were Robin and I know Bruce Wayne is Batman, I’ve known for a while. I also know that Jason Todd became Robin after you left, but now he’s gone, and Batman still needs a Robin.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dick snaps, but his knuckles are white around the photos.

“You’re the only one who can help,” Tim pleads, “Batman needs you—Bruce needs you. Be Robin again. Save him. Save Gotham.” He’s categorically appealing to everything Dick values most, sculpting his argument into something Dick hopefully won’t be able to resist.

Except, Dick’s expression doesn’t soften. “Kid, you’re messing with stuff you don’t understand. I can’t be Robin again. Trust me, Bruce doesn’t want me in Gotham.”

That’s not true. Bruce is Dick’s father, of course he wants him around when he’s grieving, but Tim also recognizes the stubborn set of Dick’s jaw and the way his entire body is leaning away from Tim, as if recoiling from his pleas.

Dick isn’t going to help.

Some small, childish part of Tim weeps. Dick had been his hero, yet here he is, refusing to help someone in need.

“Fine.” If he were less stunned by Tim’s acceptance, Dick probably would have stopped him from taking back the photos, but as it is, he offers no resistance. “Fine,” Tim says again, more to himself than Dick.

No voice calls after him when he walks away. He wonders if Dick thinks he’s going to just go home and forget about this whole thing, or if Dick knows what he’s planning to do next. He wonders if it would make a difference.

But those thoughts are only leeching away at his resolve, so he shoves them away and starts mentally preparing to stare down his childhood hero and make Batman blink first.

Tim’s never met a problem he couldn’t solve, and this won’t be the exception.

~~~

Tim is not a natural athlete.

His slight frame doesn’t stand a chance of putting on any substantial muscle and his prepubescent limbs are spindly and near bone thin. True, he walks with grace, flowing from one place to another with a quiet confidence in his own body, but that’s only from years of training himself to always be in control. His cardio is alright from all his long nights chasing Batman and Robin, but when it comes down to it, Robin may not be possible for him purely due to physical constraints.

At least, that’s what he’s reading in Bruce’s stare. “Again,” he commands.

Tim’s sweat has already soaked through his shirt but he raises his fists and goes through the series again. Jab, right uppercut, left hook, right hand, repeat.

Dick was an acrobat. Jason was built like a linebacker (Yeah, Tim learned football terms just to make that comparison. What of it.) and had already fought on the street besides. Tim’s always known that, but now that Bruce has decided to make Tim’s life a living hell and call it “training,” those facts are taking on a whole new meaning.

Both of his predecessors brought transferable skills to the table that needed only repurposing. They had Robin in them already, but Tim doesn’t. He’s going to have to build himself into a fighter, and fast, because right now his punches are landing about as hard as a strong breeze in mid July.

“Stop.”

Tim hesitates, his fists still up. “I can keep going.”

“I’ve seen enough.”

“I’ll get better.”

Bruce crosses his arms, staring imperiously down at him with a guarded gaze. Tim meets it unflinchingly. “I don’t doubt that you’ll try.”

It would almost be a compliment, if it weren’t so steeped in the silent but you won’t succeed.

Tim knows why he’s spent the past three days working himself to the bone while Bruce does nothing but bark commands and watch. Bruce is hoping to prove to both of them that Tim can’t do this. That there’s no argument to be had, because what Tim is suggesting is completely out of the question. He’s trying to scare Tim away.

Unfortunately for him, Tim knows better than anyone that when circumstances block one path, you find another. “I’m not getting anywhere with this.”

Bruce gives the impression of lifting a brow without moving a muscle. “Excuse me.”

“This isn’t working because I can’t fight like they did, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do this.” Catching his breath, Tim lets his fists drop. They aren’t going to do him any good in this fight. “I can’t absorb or dole out hits like he did—“ don’t use the name,“—but I’m fast. I’ll fight with a weapon to make up the difference, and I’ll learn how to evade hits like Dick does. You’ve fought metas, you know better than anyone that you don’t have to be as strong or fast as your opponent if you’re smarter.”

“Robin doesn’t use a weapon,” Bruce growls.

Tim clenches his jaw, but doesn’t give another inch. “Not yet.”

A long moment passes in dead silence. Then Bruce smiles. The small twitch at the corner of his mouth would never be considered a smile on anyone else, but on Bruce, it’s plenty.

“Why do you want to be Robin so badly?”

Surprisingly, it’s the first time Bruce has asked. All the questions so far have been more along the lines of “What are you doing here?” and “Get out of my cave!” Technically, that second one isn’t a question, but that’s exactly Tim’s point.

It’s hard to keep a triumphant smirk off his face. He’s ready for this one.

“I’ve spent most of my life following your career, I’ve seen first hand and through a wider lens all the good you’ve done. You help people—save them. That’s… that’s everything I could ever want.” He looks at the ground, a carefully calculated movement to make his answer seem uncertain. “I see people in danger and I want to help, I feel like I need to. It’s like this call, drawing me towards something bigger than myself. And I think Robin’s it.”

It’s a careful dance between truth and misdirection. An answer that will evoke empathy and trigger Bruce’s savior complex without making him seem like a martyr risk. Most importantly, he can’t let Bruce know the real reason he’s here yet. He doesn’t think Bruce would take kindly to being told he’s gone coo coo for cocoa puffs and needs reeling in.

He looks up again, staring Bruce down with a determination that isn’t fake at all. “I understand what I’m asking of you, and I don’t take on this responsibility lightly. I have no intention of replacing your son, I only want to carry on his legacy.” Bruce is going tenser by the second. “I want to work with you because I know that by your side is where I can do the most good, so please. Give me a chance and I’ll prove to you I’m worth it.”

This is a part of his strategy that Tim debated hotly with himself for hours on end. Bringing up Jason—even indirectly—is always dangerous around Bruce. If Tim’s not exceedingly careful, Bruce will shut down or send him away for fear of losing another Robin.

But, the deciding factor was simple: Jason may be why Bruce is fighting so hard to stop Tim, but he’s also exactly why Bruce is going to let Tim do this in the end.

“If you were my Robin,” Bruce says slowly, “there would have to be rules. For your safety, I would need you to do a few things.”

“Anything,” Tim swears instantly.

“You will complete every assignment I give you, and you will not take a step out into that city until I decide you’re ready. You will never tell anyone your secret identity.” Tim appreciates that he doesn’t state the obvious about his own identity. “And most importantly, you will follow every order without fail.”

Tim rushes to agree, “Of course, I understand.”

“No,” Bruce suddenly growls. “You don’t. And you’re not going to until we’re in the middle of a firefight, bullets flying from every angle, and I tell you to go.” Tim’s frozen, the words crushing him like a grave full of dirt. “There might come a time when I tell you to leave me for dead, and I need your oath that you’ll do it. If I say, jump, you don’t even stop to ask how high—you do it. I say ‘stay in the cave’ you don’t so much as look at an exit. Can you look me in the eye, and make me that promise? Can you keep it?”

By the end, his voice edges from unrelenting to almost desperate. This is the crux of all of it. The physical exams were a stall for time and everything else is fluff—but this… this is what will tip the scales one way or another.

Tim takes a deep breath, looks Bruce in the eye, and steps over the precipice with a deadly calm he hasn’t felt since Jason. “I promise.”

It’s actually quite fascinating to watch Bruce’s internal struggle play out in the depths of his crystal blue eyes.

He’s so scared of getting hurt again that he wants to turn Tim away, but more than that he feels like he has to. Like it’s wrong and selfish of him to allow another teenager into the field. To lead another kid to what could be their death.

But Tim’s theoretical death isn’t the only factor at play here.

Bruce is hiding it like the star quarterback hides a concussion, but the truth is that beneath the fear and the grief that will never really go away, Bruce is relieved. He’s repressing the hell out of it because hey, an emotion that is not in every way selfless and could even be construed as positive? No way! But Bruce, despite the bat ears and the cowl, is only human, and all humans get lonely.

So Tim watches with baited breath, but he never doubts. He knows that Bruce isn’t going to deny himself this.

Just in case though, he lets desperation sleep into his voice, small ticks of nervousness showing like cracks in armor. “Please, Bruce. I don’t know what I’ll do without this. I… I need to…” He shakes his head, knowing Bruce will understand better if he doesn’t explain. “I need this.”

In response to Tim’s growing agitation, Bruce finally settles. The guilt and shame in his eyes melts to compassion and hope. The tortured lines of his face smooth to certainty.

He sticks out his hand, and Tim takes it. “Partners.”

The grin that spreads across Tim’s face is completely real. “Partners.”

~~~

Tim didn’t know how to feel when Bruce finally okayed him for a patrol. He still didn’t when he was pulling on the costume, or when they tore out of the cave in the Batmobile, or even when he grappled across a real roof for the first time.

It just felt surreal. Like a dream he could wake from at any moment.

But now.

Now Tim is in the middle of a fight, practically doing cartwheels around some petty mugger who thinks he’s special.

“Missed again!” he cries gleefully as he skitters away from a clumsily thrown fist. “Gosh, are you somehow getting slower?”

Idiot #1 just growls in response. “Shut the fu-”

“Language, mister. There are ladies present.” He throws a smile at the woman who’s not quite cowering anymore, but definitely still hugging the alley wall. He’s moving again before she can respond.

He remembers these fights from when Jason was Robin. Or, well, he remembers the sounds of them. The harmonic music of exchanged blows and vulgar snipes. He wonders now if Jason really didn’t feel the burn in his lungs and the ache in his legs, or if he was just that good at hiding it.

Tim catches his opening and pounces. Not just hitting the goon, but launching his entire body into an attack that brings his bo staff down on the idiot’s head with the force of his body weight and strength combined. The guy’s out cold before he hits the pavement.

A vicious rush of satisfaction shoots through Tim’s veins, but he doesn’t let himself linger on it. Instead, he takes a few deep breaths and carefully turns around, holstering his bo staff as he does.

“Hello,” he says gently. Modulating his voice to be low and soothing. “Are you okay ma’am?”

The woman he’s addressing is still pressed up against the wall, but now more from uncertainty than fear. She bites her lip and looks him up and down warily. “You’re skinnier than I remember,” she blurts.

Fun fact about the ocean in winter: on the surface level it can reach temperatures as low as 30℉. Part of Tim’s training had involved swimming in it, and this? This feels like that.

He smiles anyway. “More charming too, I bet.”

It has the desired effect; her lips twitch upwards. She pulls away from the wall and makes her way towards him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that he can clearly make out her earnest expression when she says, “Thank you. I owe you my life.”

“I… ” Tim lights up bright red at her completely sincere words, and despite the grueling hours of training he’s already endured, it sinks in for the first time that holy shit he’s Robin. He’s going to save lives. “Anytime,” he says at last, because to tell her ‘you’re welcome’ feels wrong when there’s a feeling of rightness spreading through his chest.

She smiles, still strained, but more real this time, and nods once before exiting the alley at a clipped pace.

“I guess I should tie him up now, huh,” Tim says, looking at the unconscious figure at his feet.

As he stoops to do just that, Bruce lands silently behind him and says in a gravelly voice that’s somewhere between Bruce and Batman, “You did good.”

The thing is, Batman isn’t huge on praise. Success is an expectation, so it’s only failure that deserves comment. But really, his stoic silence only makes the few pearls of praise more precious.

So Tim lets the high of a successful fight, a life saved, and the praise of his mentor well in his chest until he’s smiling so wide it hurts.

Robin might not have been his plan, might have even been his last resort, but some part of Tim is convinced that he was meant for this. He’s always loved Robin, so maybe now that he is Robin, he can finally start to…

Nevermind. It’s not a thought worth dwelling on. The point is, Tim is happy. Really, really happy, and he’s not going to let it go.

~~~

Guilt, Tim thinks as Dick Grayson strolls into the Batcave, is a hell of a motivator.

Dick only visited the manor a handful of times after he moved out. At first because he was pissed at Bruce and striving for independence, but then because Jason was dead, and on some level, he blamed Bruce for it (when he wasn’t blaming himself, that is). But now Dick’s presence in the cave is almost normal. Regulated to only weekends, yes, but frequent enough that Tim has memorized the way his laugh sounds when it echoes around the cave.

“Hey Tim!” Dick calls as he comes within earshot.

Tim aims one last kick at the punching bag he’s been pounding for the last half hour before turning to greet Dick in response. “Hello.” He wonders if it means something that Dick always calls him Tim. No nickname.

“Wanna spar?” Dick asks, like he always does.

Tim doesn’t, actually. Sparring with Dick, while it sets some younger more fanboyish part of him into excited giggles, is always embarrassing. Dick is an amazing fighter, and the only reason Tim lasts ten seconds is because the older boy is holding back. Generally he learns something from it, so he studies their sparring sessions religiously, but at the same time he hates the experience of being so entirely and painfully out classed. He supposes it’s something he needs to get used to though.

He nods.

Flashing a smile in return, Dick leads him over to the mats, stretching his arms over his head as he does so. As if this will be a real workout for him. It’s laughable. Tim doesn’t laugh.

They square up on the mats and Tim has the barest second to wonder if maybe Dick would have accepted a nice hacking session instead before the older boy yells, “Go!” and Tim’s body jerks to react before he can think twice.

After that it’s kind of a blur. Tim doesn’t land a single hit, but he does get pinned several times. He’s pretty sure he’ll have a rainbow of bruises to show for his efforts tomorrow.

“You’ve improved,” Dick comments in the middle of a back kick he clearly expects Tim to dodge. It’s not completely empty praise, but when said kick catches Tim’s arm as he’s trying to move away, he can’t bring himself to believe it’s completely sincere either.

“Thanks,” he grunts, stumbling back, but not out of his fighting stance, as he assesses the damage to his arm. Nothing too bad, he can keep going.

The fight continues with Dick making occasional comments about Tim’s form or technique until suddenly Tim gets an opening. He drops to sweep Dick’s legs out from under him and to his surprise, Dick doesn’t dodge. He goes down. Hard.

It’s only as he’s replaying the motions in his head and trying to figure out how that happened that Tim realizes Dick didn’t even try to jump out of the way. He’d actually planted his legs more firmly because he was guarding from an attack to his torso.

Tim is about to offer his hand to pull Dick up when he looks at the other boy’s face and it’s pained. Not the pain of his fall, that hardly even registers after so many years of fighting. No, it’s the pain of being hit by grief all over again.

Tim freezes. Dick didn’t guard against his attack because in the heat of the moment he had been anticipating the hot headed frontal assault that Jason would have made. He looks away.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. It is with Dick, but he and Bruce have nearly gotten themselves killed because Bruce was anticipating the wrong response from him in a sticky situation. Usually Tim would quietly excuse himself, and never bring it up again, but not this time.

“I miss him too,” Tim says flatly.

“You… what?”

Tim’s sort of asking himself the same thing. A year ago when he was foolish and somehow much younger, he’d thought that showing himself to Bruce would lead to some sort of mutual support. In his dreams, he had pictured them mourning Jason together, sharing a burden that was too heavy to bear alone, but then he’d met the real Bruce and sharing anything wasn’t his style, so Tim had never mentioned the pain in his own heart. Which begged the question, why was he mentioning it now?

“Jason. I didn’t know him like you guys did, but… ” He wishes he were better at these things. He wishes the words weren’t clogged in his throat and so reluctant to come. But he’s not. He just doesn’t know how to explain to Dick the years of following Robin, of observing Jason in private moments. He doesn’t know how to explain that the person he felt closest to was someone he’d only said a handful of words to, all of them lies.

He’d seen Jason at his most vulnerable, and he knows in a part of himself that values instinct over fact that Jason had been conflicted. Kind and hopeful, but scared. Brave beyond measure, but insecure.

Except that isn’t his to know. Jason didn’t give him that, he stole it. It was wrong and perverse, but Tim couldn’t have stopped himself. Jason was just so human. He was unapologetically himself, even when being so scared him. He didn’t know exactly who he was either, but he’d had so much hope in him, even if it was weighed down by pain. Tim needed to see that. He needed to know such a person could exist. Even if Jason was a star he could never hope to touch.

He can't explain that to Dick.

“Nevermind. Forget it, I’m sorry I brought it up. We should probably call it for today.”

Tim starts to turn away, but before he can, Dick is on his feet and pulling Tim into a bone crushing hug. All the air leaves Tim’s lungs and for the moment it takes his brain to come back online, he doesn’t know what to do. The contact is so foreign. Who was the last person who hugged him when he was in pain? Has anyone?

Finally with a sound not dissimilar to a sob, Tim wraps his arms around Dick. He can feel Dick’s chin resting on the top of his head, and it feels like a blanket of warmth. He’s being surrounded by care and understanding and it’s overwhelming. He melts into the contact, clutching at Dick’s back, and not quite sobbing into his chest, but certainly burying himself there. Dick’s own shoulders are shaking and Tim can feel the droplets of his tears falling into his hair, but he doesn’t care.

“I barely even had the chance to get to know him.” The words are nothing more than a hoarse whisper, but as close as they are, Dick’s voice reaches Tim easily.

Tim holds him impossibly tighter. “I think he was my only friend.”

The confession is muffled against Dick’s chest, and probably doesn’t make any sense to the older boy, but he doesn’t demand an explanation. He just rubs soothing circles into Tim’s back.

“We’re going to be okay. We have to be.”

“But how?” In some distant part of himself, Tim wishes he didn’t sound so lost, but overwhelmingly the sense of safety Dick is radiating is pulling apart at his composure with a gentleness Tim’s never felt before.

Dick takes a moment before replying, “Time. Jason’s always going to be with us, but the pain will fade and eventually you only remember the best parts. For now we honor his memory.”

Tim’s not quite satisfied with that answer, but the reassurance in Dick’s voice is enough.

“You’re honoring his memory by being Robin.”

“I am?” Tim can’t quite keep the shock out of his voice.

“You are,” Dick says firmly. “Jason would be happy that someone who loves Robin as much as we did is wearing the R now. I’m happy you’re Robin. Even if it scares the shit out of me.”

“Thank you.” The words aren’t enough—will never be enough—but Tim says them anyway.

Dick finally pulls away, still holding Tim by the shoulders as he smiles. “Of course.”

Tim smiles back, tentative and a little watery.

“Oh, look at me, I’m a mess,” Dick laughs, wiping his face on his sleeve in a futile attempt to destroy the evidence of his tears.

“I guess we’re probably done sparring for today,” Tim says.

“Yeah,” Dick hesitates, then barrels forward, “Do you wanna go watch a movie? The home theater here is amazing, but I was thinking we could go out. There’s this great diner in town that I want to take you to, and if you want, I could tell you about Jason.”

“Really?” The hope in Tim’s voice leaves him painfully vulnerable, but it’s worth it for the shoulder squeeze and smile he gets in return.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

It’s the start of something Tim wants to tentatively call brotherhood. Dick’s visits stop feeling like guilt mandated training, and start to feel like caring. He checks up on Tim to make sure he’s sleeping, eating, and generally taking care of himself, but he also takes Tim out to see movies, or plays video games with him. It’s indulgent, childish fun, and Tim hasn’t had enough of it in his life.

The promised stories of Jason do come, through staggering words and loaded pauses, Dick tells Tim about his predecessor. Tells him about how Jason stole the tires from the Batmobile and the time he rode a motorcycle down the hallways of the manor. Tells him about Jason’s odd quirks and stupid shenanigans

Tim treasures every cathartic, painful story Dick is able to give him, and with each one, intimacy and openness grows between them. It’s unlike anything Tim has ever experienced before, terrifying and exhilarating and surprisingly comfortable all at once. Bruce and Alfred watch their bond grow with wistful pride, and it’s the fondness in both their gazes that really triggers the realization for Tim.

He’s in way too deep, and he doesn’t even care.

~~~

Tim doesn’t remember the service. Nor does he remember calling hours. It was a blur of men shaking his hand and women shedding tears as they held him in suffocating embraces. He stood there and let them tell him whatever it was they needed to say, but he just felt numb.

He stands in front of her grave when everyone but his father has gone. His father who sits in a wheelchair, recovering from an almost fatal injury. But they’re together. Tim’s hands on his father’s shoulders as the rain slowly soaks through their jackets. Tim can feel no warmth where they touch. Jack is just as cold as he is.

He’s memorized every detail of Janet Drake’s grave, but he still hasn’t found what he’s looking for. Still doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He just knows that this neat little tombstone would have disgusted the woman now buried beneath it.

She would have hated the boring stone and minimalist engraving. Hated that the only thing left to mark her life is so common.

She wouldn’t have wanted this to be where they grieve.

Janet would have preferred something elegant. She was a proud woman, a self made woman, and Tim knows her legacy was what mattered to her. Drake Industries. Not this stone.

And yet he stands here. Staring at it. Willing the words to change. Wishing the date of death could be just a little bit further away.

The rain is little more than a drizzle, but in true Gotham fashion, it’s bone cold. It’s as if the sky is weeping. Shedding the tears Tim himself has not yet found.

It’s good, he thinks. Janet deserves tears.

Sometimes he wondered if she loved him. On the Christmases she wouldn’t make it home, or during the phone calls that were always more important than him… he wondered why she had even wanted a child at all.

He still doesn’t know. Won’t ever know.

And who’s fault is that?

Jack reaches up and squeezes Tim’s hand. “I need a drink.” It’s what most of his vocabulary has been limited to since he got out of the hospital.

Tim nods even though Jack isn’t looking at him and lets his hands fall to his sides. Jack doesn’t ask if he’s coming before leaving.

He can’t say that he thought about it too often, but Tim would have expected the death of a parent to feel different. He thinks of Bruce, orphaned at the ripe age of seven and forever changed by it. He thinks of the Flying Graysons, who fell to their deaths before his eyes and created the brother he’s beginning to love.

He thinks of Dick Grayson’s scream as his parents fell.

But Tim doesn’t want to scream. He just wants to sleep. He wants to sleep, and sleep, and never wake up.

Maybe it would feel different if his father had died as well. Maybe he only gets half the emotion because he’s only half an orphan. He wonders what it would feel like to stand just like this before his father’s grave.

His mind recoils from the thought, the closest thing to an emotional response he’s managed so far.

Bruce will probably start projecting on Tim. He’ll expect Tim to be as messed up as he was when his parents died, and when Tim isn’t, he’ll treat him as if he is anyway. Which probably means Tim will be benched for a few weeks, or worse if Bruce decides he’s no longer fit for duty at all.

He frowns at the thought.

His mother is dead, but he can’t imagine losing Robin.

“Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.”

Tim doesn’t start. He’s pretty sure the Joker himself could waltz up and hit him over the head with a giant mallet and he wouldn’t so much as flinch. “Edna St. Vincent Millay.”

The rain stops hitting Tim’s face as Bruce draws close, holding his own umbrella over both of them.

Bruce doesn’t say anything more, so Tim says for him, “To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak.”

The pitter-patter of droplets hitting the umbrella is the only sound to fill the silence—to fill the void that surrounds Tim.

“My table has gotten full over the years. I always think there’s nothing else that can be taken from me, and I’m always wrong,” Bruce’s voice is the same gravelly baritone it always has been. A comfort and a curse.

How can so little have changed when his mother is dead?

Bruce’s hand lands on Tim’s shoulder, and squeezes gently. “You’re strong. You can make it through this.”

Anger flares through Tim. Maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s weak. Maybe he doesn’t want to be strong anymore.

The anger loosens his tongue and deadens his heart. “At least now I’m one step closer to becoming you, that’s what you’ve always wanted right?”

Bruce flinches, putting his whole body into the movement and practically jerking his hand away from Tim. Savage satisfaction chases away the regret that will surely set in later.

“I—”

But Tim doesn’t want to hear Bruce’s admonishments. “Forget it.” He tears his eyes away from his mother’s grave for the first time in hours and stomps off to find his father without a glance at Bruce.

Maybe he does have some tears in him after all.

~~~

It’s not that Tim is avoiding Bruce. Of course he’s not. That would be childish and unprofessional.

No, coming to Titan’s Tower instead of the cave was an informed, tactical decision. It just so happens that the information he used to make it involved Bruce being in the cave.

He just can’t help it! Bruce has been acting weird ever since… and Tim just can’t take the perpetual anxiety of being in the same room as Bruce when he keeps opening his mouth like he’s about to start a conversation, then frowning and turning away.

He just wants to get some work done in peace and quiet.

“Tim!”

If Tim had to pick one word in the entire English language to represent the antithesis of peace and quiet, that word would be Superboy. So much for getting work done.

“Hey, Kon.” Tim closes his case report for the drugs bust he’s currently working on to turn around in his computer chair and face the half Kryptonian.

Kon is paused in the frame of Tim’s door like he was just walking past when he noticed Tim was inside. His jacket is on, which for most people would indicate an intent to leave or a recent arrival, but with Kon, it means very little. Tim wonders briefly about what it would be like to be so unaffected by regular temperature changes. Tim is always a little cold, no matter how bundled up he is.

“Shouldn’t you be in Gotham?” Kon asks curiously, head tilted to the side.

Tim considers deflecting with a fake show of offense until Kon drops it, but he doesn’t have the energy for that right now, so instead he pulls his knees up to his chest so he’s completely folded into the chair and shakes his head. “B doesn’t need me there right now. I can do my case work just as well from this computer, and besides, if I weren’t here, who would take care of you ruffians?”

Rolling his eyes, Kon takes Tim’s relaxed sitting position as an invitation to enter the room. “Funny, but not what I meant. Shouldn’t you be at home?”

“Oh.” Tim looks away.

He’s talked to Kon since the funeral, but not… not in the way Kon clearly wants to. He just doesn’t know what he would say. Everything would be too painful, and as Tim discovered at the funeral, his pain leads to hurting others. He doesn’t want to hurt Kon.

The logician in Tim knows better though. He can’t blame what he said to Bruce on his grief. Those words weren’t a fluke, but he doesn’t have the luxury of indulging them just like he doesn’t have the luxury of giving into the numbness that’s taken over his heart, so there’s only one thing he can do. He traps those words behind bared teeth and cold smiles. He tucks them far away into a part of himself that nobody will ever get to see and he lets them turn to acid and bile. They melt him from the inside, slowly hollowing him out until one day he’s sure his heart will fall right through the hole in his chest and splatter on the unforgiving Gotham concrete. Or maybe it will just melt with the rest of him.

Who needs a heart anyway?

If he had a heart that worked right, it would only cause him pain. Better to have his dark places and his hidden things. As long as no one else ever sees them.

“I just want to make sure you aren’t being a stubborn idiot. Some time off never killed anyone,” Kon adds after what has clearly been far too many minutes of silence.

Tim frowns. “I don’t need time off, I already took two weeks and that was too much. I got behind on casework and I was bored anyway. It’s better if I keep busy.”

Kon bites his lip. “Okay, but are you sure you’re alright? I mean, losing a parent is—”

“I’m fine Kon,” Tim cuts in evenly. His voice is laced with warning, but he refuses to snap. “My solve rate since I got back has been excellent, my grades have never been better, and look, I can still smile.” He does so, an even and practiced motion that makes the lines around Kon’s mouth tighten. Tim drops the smile. “See? You don’t need to worry about me.”

“When, in the history of ever, has saying ‘you don’t need to worry about me’ actually stopped someone from worrying?” Kon asks rhetorically. “Not that I’m worrying.”

The corner of Tim’s mouth twitches involuntarily. “Of course not.”

For one glorious moment he has the luxury of pretending that Kon will just move on, and they never have to talk about something as disgraceful as his feelings again. That moment does not last.

“You know, you don’t have to be fine. It’s okay to have emotions stronger than ‘it’s all good,’” Kon says. “Anger, sadness… They suck ass, but they’re an important part of life.”

Tim looks him right in the eye and deadpans, “Wow Kon, you almost just said something really profound. Wish I’d been recording it. Y’know. For the grand kids.”

With an interesting combination of scoff/eye roll/manly shoulder punch that Tim could never pull off, Kon says, “Watch it nerd. I can still beat you up.”

“You can try,” he fires back, settling into the comfort of a debate so well worn it’s become smooth around the edges. “But you won’t succeed.”

Kon offers a hand to pull Tim out of his chair. “C’mon, we can discuss it over Chicken Whizees.”

Tim gives one last glance at his computer before taking the offered hand. He knows fine isn’t great. That okay isn’t happy. But it’s not devastated either, and whatever Kon might say, Tim needs to hold it together. He can’t fall apart. Right now, that means emotions are dangerous.

He’s still operating at peak capacity, so really, what does it matter if all his smiles are surface deep. Things will get better on their own. And if they don’t, then at least he’s still effective as a hero. The Mission comes before everything else. It always has.

~~~

In Tim’s defense, they caught him by surprise. A couple lucky thieves in the wrong place at the wrong time that had gotten the drop on him, and he probably wouldn’t have died anyway. Probably.

That being said, Spoiler’s timely intervention definitely saved him a few broken bones.

“You gonna say thank you?” Stephanie asks him with way too much smug cheeriness. “It’s only polite, after all.”

Tim doesn’t really believe in thank yous. He never has. If he’s really grateful, thank yous just don’t feel like enough. He prefers to display gratitude by returning the favor. This for that. A save for a save. But he also knows that she’s expecting a response, and he doesn’t have anything better to offer her.

“Thanks, Steph,” he says dutifully. “But you didn’t have to hit him so hard. That guy’s going to need surgery.”

“Oh, really? What a shame. Truly, a most unfortunate turn of events,” she deadpans.

He rolls his eyes, even though she can’t see it under the mask, and starts to pull out his grapple.

“Wait!” It’s too urgent to be a suggestion, but not harsh enough to be an order. Tim still follows it like one. “I was just thinking… I mean since we’re right next to a diner, do you want to get some waffles before you go? It’s almost morning anyway, and I know you don’t eat enough.”

Tim can feel the blood rising to his cheeks, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “L-like a date?” he blurts.

Stephanie’s eyes widen, but after a moment she says, “If you want it to be.”

This is unfamiliar territory. They’ve kissed a few times (four—although he’s not sure if the second time counts considering certain events that may have ended in a broken nose) and they’ve been flirting since the beginning, but somehow Tim never expected it to go beyond that.

He’s plenty interested of course, and unless he’s reading all of this very very wrong, Stephanie is too, but who they are and what they do isn’t really compatible with dating. There’s also the tiny insignificant fact that Stephanie was his first kiss and this is about to be his first date. Not that she knows that. (Actually she might have guessed the kissing part.)

“Okay, sure.”

He can’t see her mouth beneath the mask, but he can hear the smile in her voice. “Great.”

A few minutes and one mildly awed cashier later, they’re sitting on top of the diner wolfing down mega sized waffles as the Gotham skyline begins to shift from pitch black to dark grey.

Stephanie has pulled her scarf down and hood back to eat, but Tim hasn’t touched his mask. She doesn’t know yet, and he’s not sure if she ever will. If it were just his identity, he would at least plan to tell her sometime in the future but it’s not. It’s Bruce’s secret and Tim has spent the better part of a decade protecting it. His loyalty runs bone deep, and it isn’t something he can override, even for the girl that makes his heart flutter like it knows no gravity.

“How’s your goldfish?” Stephanie asks out of nowhere between bites of waffle.

“My—what?”

She shrugs, talking around her bite of food in a display that would have made Tim’s mother puke. “I don’t know shit about your day time life so I’ve decided to make stuff up. You have a goldfish now. Her name is Sally.”

Tim’s nose scrunches. “I can neither confirm nor deny the presence of a goldfish in my life, but for the record, any alleged goldfish of mine would be named Brad.”

“That’s disgusting.” If Stephanie keeps smiling at him like that, Tim is going to need emergency medical attention for heart palpitations. “Tell me more.”

“Well, the hypothetical name of this alleged fish is King Bradley the third of Fishlandia, but I just call him Brad because we’re tight like that. Obviously he’s a paragon to his people, a true king among fish if I ever saw one.”

Stephanie tutted. “What would Aquaman say?”

“Aquaman goes to him for advice of course. They’re close confidants. Lots of mutual respect there.”

“Because the King of Atlantis’ most trusted adviser is… a goldfish. Of course.”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Tim catches her eye while trying to maintain his sanctimonious expression, and suddenly they’re both battling to not be the one to break first. A smile is tugging at the corner of her lips though, and Tim knows even before she doubles over with laughter that he will win. He joins her quickly thereafter though.

“So you do have a sense of humor!” Stephanie exclaims, her smile still stretched wide. “Did you get it in your most recent data download? Or is it more of an observe and copy sort of skill?”

“Excuse you, I got my sense of humor from shitty TV just like everyone else.”

Stephanie’s eyebrows shoot up. “You watch TV? I kind of just imagined you plugging into your charging port when you weren’t on patrol.”

He shrugs. “To be fair I didn’t until just recently. My… Nightwing has been showing me Star Trek lately though.”

“Oh? Which one?”

The ensuing conversation is long, taxing, and maybe the most fun Tim has had in his entire life. (He still kind of thinks Spock would make a better captain of the Enterprise, but he’s willing to admit the evidence is on Stephanie’s side and concede that one.)

He’s in the middle of a rant about Bones’ loyalty when he trails off. “What?” he asks. Stephanie is looking at him like… well, he doesn’t know. He’s certain nobody has looked at him like that before, and he doesn’t know what it means.

She just smiles, and shakes her head. “Nothing. Now are you gonna kiss me, or do you want to go back to talking about space doctors?”

Tim doesn’t hesitate to shove the scraps of his meal out of the way, crawling closer to her and bringing their lips together. Stephanie sighs into the kiss, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him in.

He’s still new to this, and sloppy would be a kind word for it, but everywhere Steph touches him sends electric sparks up his spine. He always feels a little lighter around her, and he knows it’s a feeling he could get addicted to if he’s not careful. Hell, he’s been plenty careful and he still feels her like a gravitational pull.

When he pulls away for breath, Stephanie has swung herself to straddle his thighs, and his hands are at her waist. She cradles his face in her hands and the cautious exploration of her fingers is a more intimate touch than anything they’ve shared before.

He turns his head ever so slightly to kiss her palm. “Stephanie.”

She snorts, the harshness of the sound catching him off guard. “Chill it with the ‘Stephanie’ stuff, Rob. You literally just had your tongue down my throat, you can call me Steph. We're there. We've reached that point.”

Tim’s face heats crimson. “I don’t think I—” he starts to protest, but Steph cuts him off with another kiss.

This time when she pulls back, he tries to chase her lips. Steph laughs, turning her head to the side so he kisses her on the cheek instead. Tim sheepishly leans back, giving Steph room to continue her quiet cataloging of his face.

In some distant part of his brain, Tim registers that he shouldn’t be letting her examine him so closely. Even with the mask on, surely this level of observation puts his secret identity at risk? Still, he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“Y’know,” Steph says slowly, instantly gaining all of Tim’s focus. “Your smile looks like you learned it from an instruction manual.” Tim would take offense at the words, but Steph soothes any discontent with a slow kiss before she continues, “But you laugh like you don’t know how to control it.”

Apparently having imparted the wisdom she wished to share, Steph devotes the entirety of her attention to kissing the daylights out of Tim. It’s almost enough for him to forget she said anything at all until much later when he’s staring at the mirror in his bathroom.

He’s never really bothered with vanity for vanity’s sake, but now that she’s said it, he can see the truth behind her words.

His smile is perfectly symmetrical and controlled, showing exactly the right amount of straight white teeth to seem genuine instead of forced, but more often than not, it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s only because he’s now aware of it that he notices the subtle shift taking place.

As he spends more time with Steph, his controlled expression is slowly starting to bleed into a crooked smirk. His intentionally aloof language is degrading into teasing snipes as he matches her whit for whit. His laugh comes easier with practice, less like a polite chuckle meant to humor the social elite or an uncontrollable burst that sounds like it was forced out of him, and more like an ugly snort that comes from a place of genuine, belly aching mirth. Even his movements become freer. He stops worrying about the economic precision he usually demands of himself and allows more wasted motion. Gesticulating when he speaks, or pacing while he tries to come up with arguments, or even touching Stephanie when he’s trying to get her attention.

It’s strange to have that kind of looseness with another person. To not have to throw up a facade tailored to their interests in order to keep their attention. For some reason, Steph seems happy to just give him her attention for no other apparent reason than that she likes him.

Tim may not do thank yous, but he does do reciprocity. He doesn’t know what it’s worth, but she has his affection, his attention, and his heart.

He didn’t expect it to feel so good to give something so valuable away, but maybe that’s why people do it so frequently.

~~~

There are times when Tim wishes he could hate Jason Todd.

His life would be simpler if he could resent his predecessor for dying, loathe the street rat for forcing Tim into this position and then lingering as a memory that will always mean more to Bruce than Tim does.

But he can’t.

Jason Todd was many things… young, brash, maybe even foolish, but he was also Tim’s Robin. Tim loved him before he knew what love was, and he mourned him before he was ready to understand the weight of loss.

All the anger that’s simmering beneath Tim’s skin and slowly boiling him alive can never be directed at Jason. Tim just doesn’t have it in him to hate a dead boy.

Unfortunately, that dead boy has no problems hating Tim.

“Replacement,” Jason snarls, his voice more animal than human.

Tim’s mind is whirling a mile a minute as it tries to make sense of what’s going on. His bo staff is gone, knocked away in the first minute of the fight, but he still has his utility belt. Not that that means much when he can’t reach it with his arms pinned to his sides.

Jason’s bigger than him by at least thirty pounds, all of which is muscle and height that’s now pushing Tim further into the concrete beneath them. He’s proud of how well he managed to hold up in the fight so far, but Jason is fighting like a trained killer, not a sidekick.

Yet even as the edge of his vision is beginning to go dark from the lack of oxygen, Tim knows this isn’t Jason at his best. In fact, this is probably Jason at his worst. Whatever is inside him—anger, uncertainty, pain—Jason is at war with himself. He’s inflicting pain on Tim to avoid inflicting it on himself.

Strangely, that’s almost comforting. Tim knows what it is to be a punching bag. Knows what it is to put himself through hell in order to help others. That’s just what love is. And despite the years, and all the change Tim has undergone, he still loves his Robin.

If killing Tim is what Jason needs to heal, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.

~~~

He doesn’t die. It takes a few times reminding himself that’s a good thing before the message really sinks in.

He wakes up to the sound of a heart monitor beeping slow and steady. The fluorescent lights make a good imitation of a hospital, but as soon as Tim turns his head to the side, he sees the partially open privacy curtain, and beyond that, the cave.

His vision is still blurry with what he’s sure was several long hours of sleep, but he can make out a figure silhouetted against a bright screen in the distance. It’s Bruce, of course. Tim wonders if he knows about Jason yet.

The beeping has been getting steadily faster.

Despite being a vigilante and getting injured plenty of times, Tim has never spent much time around heart monitors. They unnerve him. The steady, rhythmic sound of a heart beating lifeblood through a prone body. Broadcasting such a thing had always seemed invasive to Tim. He barely knows his own heart, he can’t risk others knowing it too.

It’s with that thought, still fuzzy around the edges and not fully formed, that Tim pulls the sensor off his finger and the monitor flatlines.

Ah. Perhaps that was not the most well thought out impulse. The flatline noise is even louder than the heart beat was, but still preferable. Tim settles in to go back to sleep, only to be rudely called back to consciousness by the sound of metal rings scraping on a metal bar as Bruce tears back the privacy curtain and strides quickly to his side.

Tim blinks up at Bruce, still curled in a tight ball. Once again he has an overwhelming feeling of being too exposed. His hair is sticking up at odd angles and his normally icy blue eyes are fogged over. He feels like perhaps he should be trying for a more dignified look. If not standing, then at least sitting up right.

Bruce is wearing the cape but not the cowl. His own hair is slicked back and he looks his normal stony self, if perhaps a bit more frantic. But that wild edge seems to bleed out of his expression as he takes in the finger clip Tim had discarded.

“B… ” Tim mutters, trying to pull the hazy shape of his gut feelings into something like coherent thought. “What…?” He’s not sure what to say next. Should he ask what happened? He remembers the flash of Jason’s bright green eyes (Green? He could have sworn they were supposed to be blue.) before his vision went dark. But that doesn’t explain how he got to the cave.

Luckily, Bruce answers without waiting for a real question. “Kon-El found you. He alerted me, and brought you here. Alfred has been treating you.”

That makes sense. A logical story. Kon has a track record of being there when Tim needs him, and considering none of his injuries required surgery or involved brain damage, Alfred would have all the necessary skills and tools to treat him in the Batcave med bay.

As Tim thinks over this new information in his head, carefully slotting it together and filing it away, Bruce continues to just stare at him. It’s not his usual thousand yard stare either. He’s watching Tim like he’s really seeing him for the first time. There’s something like heartbreak on his face and Tim doesn’t know if it’s for him, or Jason. He doesn’t have it in him to ask.

“How long was I out?”

Bruce doesn’t hesitate. “Kon-El found you approximately forty minutes after the fight. The trip here took an hour, Alfred attended you for another hour, and you’ve been resting for an additional seven. All together, around ten hours of consecutive sleep.”

Tim whistles. “That’s got to be a new personal record.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitches up, and he reaches for a glass on the bedside table, wordlessly helping Tim into a more upright position and handing him the drink. Tim nods his thanks and greedily takes a gulp. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the water hit his tongue and suddenly he’s just barely restraining himself from chugging it.

Bruce watches him for another moment before finally saying, “Three of your ribs are bruised, you have minor lacerations along your arms and legs, and your ankle is broken. Alfred prescribes two weeks bed rest and no active duty for at least six weeks.”

Tim nods along while already planning his escape. He can give himself a week max, but only if he has his computer and can work while he’s resting. After that, he’ll have to sneak past Alfred and return to Drake Manor. He’ll need to come up with a convincing story for his injuries before he can go out in public. Probably a car accident.

He can’t help but notice Bruce hasn’t once mentioned Jason or the actual fight. Tim doesn’t want to bring it up first. He has to. “Did you catch Jason?”

The reaction is immediate. The strange look on Bruce’s face that could have been heartbreak or hopelessness or just concern, disappears. His whole body seems to stiffen, leaning away from Tim slightly as if he suddenly smelled rotten. “No.”

Tim licks his lips, taking another slow drink from the glass of water cradled in his hands. “What are you going to do about him?”

“Find him.” There’s a steel to Bruce’s words that he usually saves for the worst of his Rogue’s Gallery. Tim winces.

“And then?”

The silence is longer this time. “Jason has to pay for the crimes he’s committed.”

Normally Tim would be more discreet, but the pain from his injuries is starting to leak through the rapidly thinning haze of whatever drugs are in the IV still attached to his arm, so he can’t find it in him to be more tactful. “He’s your son. He needs help.”

Bruce winces, but it’s not from regret. “I don’t need advice on how to handle my criminals from you.”

Tim keeps his face perfectly blank as he lets the words hit him, and then roll off. Like he let’s all of Bruce’s transgressions slide. Telling himself for perhaps the hundredth time that it’s okay. He can take it.

Changing tact, Tim tries again. “What would you even do with him? You can’t exactly send him to Arkham. It’s been a few years, but people will recognize Jason Todd. Not to mention everything he knows about you.”

You. Not us.

The muscle in Bruce’s jaw twitches. One of the few tells he has. He’s angry because he knows Tim is right. “I’ll figure it out once he’s in custody.”

Tim thinks of the wide array of options available. He thinks of Bel Rev, Lian Yu, and the Phantom Zone. He thinks of the smiling boy he once knew from such a distance curled in on himself and wasting away in some cold dank cell. Put there by the man in front of him.

Tim has never been scared of Bruce before. Not when he was three years old seeing Batman for the first time at Haley’s Circus, not when he discovered Batman’s greatest secret, and not in any of the times they’ve argued over the years.

He never had to be scared. No matter how angry Bruce got, Tim was an ally and a child. Bruce could never hurt him. In fact, Bruce would go to the ends of the Earth to save Tim if that’s what it took. That has always been an unquestionable fact, even when Tim doubted he was worthy of such devotion.

But now Bruce is all but telling him that he has plans to do a lot worse to someone who hadn’t just been an ally, but a son, and suddenly Tim’s security is feeling a little flimsy.

If Bruce can so easily villainize his own son, then what chance does Tim have? If he were the one to go through something too terrible to speak of and come out the other side hurt and lashing out, would Bruce even make a token attempt to save him, or would Tim’s name be on the Justice League watch list the next day?

His expression is still unblinkingly impassive, revealing no trace of the turmoil and rising panic inside him. He merely says, “I think maybe I should get some more sleep.“

Bruce moves as if to reach out to Tim, but Tim flinches away. For a moment Bruce’s hand hangs in the air, his expression almost pained, but then the moment passes and Bruce’s countenance is steely once more. He nods firmly, and exits the med bay, closing the curtain behind him.

Tim can’t find the words, even in his head, to describe what just happened, but he knows deep in his bones that nothing will be the same after this.

It feels like something important has been ripped from his fingertips. Pried away from him and left him with the insides of a scooped out pumpkin. The image of himself as a jack-o-lantern with a smiling face and hollow insides follows him to sleep.

~~~

Tim has spent his entire life seeing the worst in people, and still finding the beauty in it.

Even when he was young and sheltered, he always understood that humans are infinitely complex. They are each unique individuals, and each a mystery he will never fully solve, but it is that unknowability that makes them wonderful. Even the darkest parts of a person are tapestries weaved from experiences and connections and raw instincts. A cocktail of sorrow and anger and jubilation.

Even Gotham itself is beautiful in its darkness. The sun may only shine once a year, but as Tim sits on a rooftop and drinks in his city, the lights from hundreds of offices, homes, and businesses glow in the night.

He’s always loved the lights. Ever since he first saw them when he was chasing Batman and Robin. He thinks it’s the ultimate monument to the resilience of Gothamites. Nature told them they would live in the dark, and they said no, we will light our own way.

Years ago, Jason Todd stood where Tim sits now and he watched the same city Tim watches. It’s impossible not to wonder what Jason might have been thinking. Did he wonder about all the regular citizens going about their daily lives too? Did he wish to understand them? Did he see the beauty and strength that Tim sees?

Did he ever feel the same pain Tim does?

Now that Jason’s back, he wishes he could ask, but the answers are further away than ever, so instead, Tim sits. He watches, and he thinks.

And then suddenly he’s not alone anymore.

“Hello Cass.”

He doesn’t see or hear her coming, but that’s not surprising. She simply appears next to him on the ledge, as if she teleported there.

“Hi.”

Silence falls between them like a heavy blanket, comforting and warm.

Cass didn’t know Jason, Tim remembers. She never met him. In fact, he’s fairly sure she still hasn’t. For some reason, that makes what he says next a little easier.

“The nearest safe house from the location of the fight was likely two miles away. Considering the severity of injuries rendered, that walk should have taken Hood approximately twelve minutes. Based on that time estimation, the rate of blood flow for an adult man, and Batman’s report of the injury, Hood very well could have bled out before he reached it.”

Cass is quiet for a moment. When her answer comes, it is low and carefully pronounced, each word lent importance by her purposeful consideration. “He is… not dead.”

“Does anyone know that for sure? We haven’t had eyes on him since—” since Bruce threw a batarang at his neck.

“Not… dead.”

Tim wants her to be right so badly, he doesn’t have it in him to contradict her again.

He changes tact. “Have you seen Dick since it happened?”

She nods. “Blames himself. Thinks he… failed little brother.”

It’s not surprising news, but there isn’t anything Tim can say about it that won’t make him a goddamn hypocrite, so he doesn’t comment.

“Sorry, I should have asked this sooner. How are you?”

Cass’ head cocks to the side. In most situations, her full face mask with no features but black stitching would be intimidating, but Cass conveys her emotions so well without the use of facial features, Tim barely notices he can’t see any of hers. “Okay,” she says. “You?”

Tim looks away. “My ankle is healed and so are my ribs. I’m just about ready for active duty.”

“Not… an answer.”

He hesitates, before offering, “Maybe he’s dead maybe he isn’t, but whatever he is, Bruce put him there, and it’s so much worse than last time.” He laughs humorlessly. “I didn’t think it was possible to feel any more pain than I already did for Jason Todd, but here we are. And somehow, just like last time, it’s my job to pick up the pieces.”

“How… your job?”

“Because it’s the only reason I’m in any of this in the first place. I became Robin to help Bruce heal after the death of his son. To keep him in check while he worked out his grief. It only makes sense that I’m the one to do it this time too, because god knows he can’t be alone right now, however much he tries to push us away.”

He looks down at his hands, balling them into fists in his lap. “I was supposed to be his support system. My job was to prop Bruce up when he was weak and give him something to fight for again besides the anger. I should have stopped him from hurting Jason. It was my job as Robin to stop him. But when he needed me most, there wasn’t a thing I could do.”

“Not… your fault.”

Tim disagrees, but he keeps his mouth shut. He shouldn’t be unloading on her like this. It isn’t fair and… what if she views him differently? What if he tells her the truth about what he really thinks of himself, and she agrees? What if he opens his mouth and accidentally tells her something she hadn’t thought of before and she hates him for it?

Rationally he knows Cass would never judge him, but the coppery taste of blood is flooding his mouth from where he’s biting his cheek to keep silent.

He’s crumbling. His throat burns like something is trying to crawl its way up and his fists look oddly blurry and far away in his lap, but he doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t know the name of what is in his heart, only that it aches.

Bruce has always been stony. He’s a master liar, and he’s never had qualms about keeping things from Tim if that was what the mission required, but being locked out of the Red Hood investigation felt different. It didn’t feel like being strategically benched, it felt like a family matter that Tim wasn’t invited to because he wasn’t family, and that hurts.

It hurts, but it shouldn’t. Tim’s partnership with Bruce has never been like Bruce’s was with Jason and Dick. They became Robin because they were his sons, but Tim became Robin because he was too perceptive for my own good and Bruce was vulnerable. They were bound together by convenience and stubbornness, not love or trust. They weren’t family.

So why does Tim feel like his heart has been pulled from his chest?

He thought he was fine with how things were. He’d accepted the truth of his situation before he ever put on the cape. His intent had always been to do what he had to, and when another orphan with black hair and blue eyes came along, he was going to bow out gracefully and return to his previously scheduled life. That was the plan.

But… but his mother is dead. That shouldn’t be relevant to this train of thought, but she’s dead and somehow that changes everything. There isn’t any ‘previously scheduled’ life for him anymore. Robin is it now. The future he once thought was inevitable—a company worth millions and a family name he could only ever hope to live up to—died with his mother.

And suddenly ‘bowing out gracefully’ doesn’t seem possible anymore. Just partners isn’t enough. But it’s too late for him to renegotiate the terms of their relationship. He can love Robin all he wants—he can love this family all he wants—but he can’t ever really be a part of it, because they don’t love him. They’re fond of him, sure, but it’s not the same.

Fondness was enough when he was keeping his distance, loving them how he was taught to love people, but now it’s up close and intimate and messy and he is hopelessly lost.

What is so broken inside him that no one can love him as strongly as he loves them?

He’s broken out of his thoughts by the subtlest movement from beside him.

Cass is staring resolutely ahead, as if she knows he would blanch at the thought of her seeing him like this, but her hand is laying palm up on the stone between them. An invitation.

The ache inside him doesn’t go away, but the frenzied quality of his thoughts settles. He feels oddly blank, and suddenly so tired. Usually, he’s self conscious about accepting any form of physical contact, but it’s the simplest thing in the world to gently cover her hand with his and lace their fingers together.

Cass squeezes once, and he squeezes back.

“You are… loved.”

He bites his lip, but this time it’s not enough to stop the words from tumbling out anyway. “How do you know?”

“They let you in.”

Tim laughs humorlessly. “I let myself in. They just didn’t know how to kick me out.”

He can’t tell for sure with her mask in the way, but he’s pretty sure Cass smiles at that.

“All boys… bad at feelings. Doesn’t mean… they don’t have them.”

Tim’s still unconvinced, but she sounds so sure, that it’s easy to let his mind go quiet. He doesn’t answer her, but Cass doesn’t seem to mind. She keeps holding his hand, and together they stare out at the sprawling pattern of stars that live on the ground instead of the sky in Gotham.

~~~

“What is this.”

Tim freezes in the entryway of Drake Manor, his father's tone immediately setting him on edge. His mind concocts and discards a hundred possible threats he could be facing before his eyes fall to the object in Jack’s hands and suddenly he knows exactly what he’s facing.

“Where did you find that.” It’s not a question because Tim knows exactly where his father found the Robin suit. His closet.

“I’m more interested in why the fuck you have it!” Jack yells. His cheeks are a dark ruddy color and spittle flies from his mouth as he speaks. Tim can smell the alcohol on him from ten feet away.

A different kind of warning siren starts ringing in Tim’s head and he caves in on himself to look as small and non threatening as possible. He needs to de-escalate this situation before things get worse. “It’s just a costume.”

“Just a—” Jack cuts off abruptly, turning around and stomping further into the house. Tim’s still frozen in place, unable or unwilling to move as he hears the sounds of Jack fumbling around in his study followed by muttered cursing until he comes back out and Tim’s heart stops.

He’s carrying a gun.

Tim’s plenty familiar with people pointing guns at him—he knows how to talk them down, how to negotiate in a hostage situation, how to take them out before they can fire, and every other skill Bruce saw fit to teach him (plus a few he didn’t)—but the sight of his own father red with rage and waving a gun around like he doesn’t care if it goes off effectively scrubs Tim’s brain clean of that information.

But Jack doesn’t point the gun at Tim. He points the gun at the Robin costume and pulls the trigger. Tim feels the bullet anyway.

His ears are still ringing from the shot when Jack says, “You expect me to believe a costume can withstand a bullet at point blank range? I’m not stupid, boy!”

The erratic beat of his heart pounds in Tim’s ears as his breathing starts to pick up. He knows he’s on the edge of a panic attack, but he can’t stop it. There is no way out of this. No clever escape or tricky plan where he ends up on top. This is it. It’s the end.

“I’m Robin,” he finally blurts. He doesn’t know what else to say.

His father’s nostrils flare and if it were possible, Tim’s sure he would burst into flames right there, but instead, he nods. “How?”

So Tim walks him through the abridged version: recognizing that Robin had died and just wanting to help out, receiving extensive training, and then starting in the field.

He doesn’t mention the years he spent following the Dynamic Duo before he’d received any training at all. He doesn’t mention any of the times he almost died or was deliberately targeted. He doesn’t mention the Teen Titans or Young Justice.

Jack listens, his expression cycling between horror, anger, and disbelief. When Tim finishes, he only asks. “Who is Batman?”

Tim hesitates. This might be his end (—please don’t take it away from me—I need it—I’m nothing without it—) but he can’t sell Bruce out. He’s never told. He can’t start now.

But he doesn’t have to. “Is it Wayne?”

Tim can’t keep the shock off his face, and he’ll never forgive himself for it.

Jack nods. “I’m going to kill him.” Then he’s walking away.

It takes precious minutes for his words to register. Jack has already climbed into his car and is tearing out of the driveway at entirely too fast speeds by the time Tim takes off after him.

He’s still drunk, Tim thinks distantly as he breaks out into a sprint towards his own bike and climbs on. Neglecting his helmet in favor of revving the engine and taking off after his father.

Jack is going to kill Bruce Jack has a gun he can do it one clean shot he might even kill Alfred first if he gets in the way what do I do whatdoIdowhatdoI—

The ride is far too long and all too short and then he’s stopping in front of Wayne Manor where Bruce already opened the door and Jack has his gun pointed at his face and Tim is running towards them and—

“You dragged my son into this,” Jack growls, eyes wild and arm shaking.

Bruce of course looks completely calm. “To what are you referring Mr. Drake.”

“You know what I’m talking about Batman.” He spits it like the word tastes foul in his mouth. “You trained him to—what, fight your battles for you? Trained him to lie to me? And then you put him in the line of fire to die. I could have had to bury my son and you wouldn’t have even told me how he died just so you could keep your precious secret.”

“I promise you, Tim’s safety was always my first priority,” Bruce placates, but it only enrages Jack further.

“If that were true he wouldn’t be Robin!”

Tim hates that his father’s words echo so many of his own fears. Hates that the madman with a gun has a valid argument. Hates that he doesn’t know who he’s trying to protect when he steps between them.

“Dad, it’s not his fault. I asked for this. You can’t kill him.” Tim’s voice cracks and he can feel the tears gathering in his eyes. He hates himself for that weakness. He hates himself for how useless he’s been ever since he saw his father holding the Robin suit. “Please, dad. Put down the gun.”

Jack wavers. His eyes dart between Bruce and Tim, assessing their similar stances, the way Bruce is finally showing concern now that Tim’s in the line of fire, the gun in his hand that’s pointed at his own son.

He blinks. Drops it. Steps back.

They all stare at the gun.

Tim picks it up, takes out the clip, and tosses it away.

“Get in the car.”

Tim looks up at Jack’s order, but his father only has eyes for Bruce. He hesitates. “I—“

“Get. In. The. Car,” Jack grits out. “I need to talk to Mr. Wayne. Alone.”

Tim spares Bruce one glance before complying.

The time he spends waiting for his father’s return is the longest wait of his life. Including all the stakeouts he’s been on, some of which ended up being days in a row of living in a car.

He can’t help but wonder what they must be saying. These two men from the two sides of his life finally meeting. Tim’s spent years keeping them apart, running interference and lying so that neither of them would ever know the whole truth, and now they’re alone together talking about him. It’s the stuff of nightmares.

How much will Bruce reveal about Tim’s nightlife? What will Jack reveal about his upbringing? Worst of all: what will they decide about Tim’s future?

He’ll probably lose Robin. Bruce was fine with his parents not knowing about his vigilantism (then again it could have just been that known orphan Bruce Wayne didn’t even consider the possibility of asking Tim’s parents’ permission) but helping Tim defy his father outright is another matter.

Except it’s too early for that. Bruce still needs Tim. And maybe… maybe Tim still needs Bruce too.

If they take away Robin, take away Tim’s purpose and his work and his only connection to his friends, what’s left? There is no inner core to him. If they start chipping at what he’s built, they’ll cut him down to just the emptiness that’s been inside since his mother’s death. Maybe since long before that.

He doesn’t know who he is without Robin anymore.

Tim closes his eyes and starts to go through every breathing technique he knows. Carefully, he spools all the uncertainty and fear into a tight coil. He places that coil into the box where he keeps all the bad things and slams the lid shut.

When he opens his eyes again, his heart rate has slowed and a familiar numbness has settled over him like a veil.

Whatever his feelings on the matter, Robin isn’t his anymore, but Bruce still needs a Robin, so Tim needs to find his own replacement.

Dick isn’t any more of an option as he was the first time Tim faced this problem. Jason of course is even worse. Relying on chance would be foolish. Bruce already got lucky twice, a third time would be a red flag for cosmic meddling.

Tim could start a city wide search to identify the ideal candidate. It would take time, but once he set the parameters he could probably use Oracle’s network to narrow the list down considerably.

Of course, there’s another option, but Tim doesn’t want to consider it. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the luxury of ‘want’ so he grits his teeth and plunges in.

She has the foundations to be a good vigilante. Tim has taught her some about detective work and she already knows who Batman is. Her free spirit might chafe against the red, yellow, and green, but Tim has to admit she’d make a great Robin. If she can get along with Bruce for more than five minutes, that is.

Like a stone dropping into a pond, ripples of pain disturb Tim’s numbness, but he ruthlessly crushes them as he starts drawing up the plans in his head. Convincing Steph to be Robin shouldn’t be too hard, and convincing Bruce to accept her will be the matter of a few minor manipulations. The trick will be keeping them together.

Their loneliness will do most of the work for him (which—hey, isn’t that the story of Tim’s life) but it’s best to have a safety net set up.

Now that he has a clear course of action, Tim can finally feel himself start to relax. This is going to be okay. Gotham will survive Tim’s absence. Bruce might not even be bothered by it.

So Tim will keep quiet, he’ll do whatever his father decides he needs to, and he’ll keep being okay.

There isn’t another option.

~~~

Tim’s phone falls from nerveless fingers and hits the hardwood floor with a resounding crack that rings through his skull, an appropriate soundtrack to the shattering of his thoughts.

Despite the fall, the line is still open, and he hears Bruce’s voice as if from the end of a miles long tunnel.

“I’m sorry, Tim.”

The words are meaningless. All he can hear is the same phrase, ringing over and over again.

Stephanie Brown is dead.

All he can see are his own hands, clean and well manicured but at the same time covered in blood he knows isn’t actually there. Those hands might as well have tied the noose around her neck.

He was the one who convinced her to become Robin. He was the one who stepped back and let the woman he loved face monsters and demons alone.

In this moment, it doesn’t matter that they’re broken up or that Steph hasn’t been speaking to him. He doesn’t remember that it was never his choice to make and that she never wanted his help. Even when their relationship went from molten lava to explosive volcano to desolate wasteland, he still loved her. Always. And now she’s dead.

And it’s his fault.

~~~

Tim becomes Robin again, but only in name. Only in action.

In spirit, he’s not sure he’ll ever feel the youthful hope of Robin again. In mind, he’s as distant as he needs to be to hold back the tears that never seem far away.

After that first, horrible night, his memories of Steph and the pain they hold are locked in his box and shoved to the back of his mind where he doesn’t have to look at them, but they’re there, looming over him like a harbinger of doom.

Being Robin lets him run from the inevitable, but for how much longer? When will the pitying looks from his friends and family finally send him over the edge? When will the hinges on his box come loose and the chaos he’s tried so hard to bring to order overtake him? When will he break?

And the worst one of all. Who will still want him when he does?

~~~

Tim’s in a graveyard again, and it’s starting to feel like he never leaves.

After Steph, it’s his father. His stubborn old man who once seemed like a giant to him. The corpse he clung to like a lost child.

Then it’s his best friends. Bart and Kon, gone far too soon. Too close together. Two of the best people Tim knew, snuffed out like candles in a breeze.

The days between losses seem to dwindle and shrink, passing him by unnoticed. His body moves on auto pilot, absorbing the shock of each new loss like a kevlar vest being peppered with bullets.

Nothing penetrates the walls he’s built around himself, yet everything still hurts.

The only moments that he truly feels present are here. Standing in this place of grief and loss.

Nothing else is real. Nothing but these slabs of stone, and the ghosts that seem to hang in the air around them, crying out to Tim and beckoning him closer.

Too many funerals. Too many graves.

He could add one more. What difference would it make?

No.

No.

There are still people who need him. Tim’s not done yet. He can’t be.

He’s still Robin, and he’s still helping people by soldiering on. As long as that’s true, he can do this. He can keep fighting. Keep holding the walls up and the ghosts at bay.

Tim wasn’t made for happiness, he was made to get the job done, and that’s what he’s going to keep doing.

~~~

It’s an unfortunate fact of being an orphan (one of many) that Tim has been living at Wayne Manor full time since Bruce adopted him. Or, full time when he’s not desperately making an effort to be anywhere else.

It’s not like Tim has anything against Wayne Manor itself, but he’s not fond of having to be on constant guard against an attack, and ever since the arrival of Damian Wayne, the Manor has been a battle ground. There isn’t any safety when the guy living one room over wants you dead.

So as often as he can, Tim sleeps at the tower or not at all.

Last night was one of those few nights where it couldn’t be helped. He was out early into the morning on patrol, and Alfred refused to let him leave on pain of disappointment, so Tim actually spent the night in his own room.

Damian didn’t find out for a couple of hours, and Bruce’s firm stance against his sons fighting where he can hear it kept the demon brat at bay a little longer, but eventually Damian decided to break the locks on Tim’s door and pounce. Luckily, Tim had prepared for this, spending the entire night with both hands wrapped tightly around his bo staff.

He’s still groggy and in his sleep pants, but at least he didn’t get impaled on the katana that Bruce definitely confiscated last week.

He has to admit, Damian is talented. His movements are smooth, and come with an ease that borders on carelessness though Tim knows it’s anything but. Fighting with Damian reminds Tim a bit of Jason, which when he thinks about it makes sense.

They both have the well rounded edges of training that’s been drilled in by both unrelenting practice and fear. They fight with control and honor, but without lines. Damian is ruthless, even through the awkward transition he’s undergoing from deadly to merely dangerous.

Luckily for Tim, he already knows most of the styles Damian uses intimately from his own training in how to defend against them. His extra foot of height doesn’t hurt either.

“You fight like a fumbling child,” Damian spits between slashes with his katana.

Tim would answer, but he’s busy backing into the hallway. Yeah, he’s losing ground to a ten year old, but in his defense, he hasn’t been hitting back. It just doesn’t feel right.

“I find it impossible to believe you’ve trained with father when your skill is so lacking.”

“Believe it. I’ve trained with him longer than you’ve known him,” Tim growls as he catches another of Damian’s strikes on his bo staff. God it’s too early for this. He hasn’t even had coffee yet.

“Tt—Clearly you’re simple then,” Damian says. “It’s the only explanation for your inability to learn from your betters.”

Tim flips away from the edge of Damian’s sword just in time, landing precariously at the top of the stairs, but managing to keep his footing.

Damian smirks, enjoying having Tim on the run. He pauses for a moment to bask in what he clearly expects to be an easy victory now that Tim is backed up against the steps. “You’re stupidity would explain quite a bit actually. Including my father’s misplaced pity for you.”

Tim hadn’t really been paying much attention to Damian's snipes earlier, but now his eyes narrow, glinting with something he never lets out of its cage. “Pity?”

He realizes his mistake as soon as Damian’s smirk widens. The things he’s said so far were generic, small jabs to test Tim’s armor, but now he’s found a chink and Tim just painted a target over it.

“Of course. What else would compel such a man as he to allow a useless ignoramus like you to follow him around like a mutt. Clearly it’s not any talent or skill, both of which you inherently lack, so it can only be pity. Perhaps he sees some shadow of a sliver of himself in your dead parents and ruined life. Yes, that would be enough for him to adopt you in a fit of compassion. Mother always told me it remains father’s only weakness.”

Tim’s knuckles are white on his bo staff. Words are his weapon, how dare this intruder turn them against him with such deadly precision.

“Now that I’m here, I’ll show him that such pity was misplaced,” Damian continues. “He needn’t bother with scum and cheap reproductions when he has his one and only blood son.” His voice is gaining in fervor and intensity, taking on a sort of prideful certainty that reminds Tim of a priest blessing an execution as divine will. “I am the one and only true Robin. And with your death I will soon take my rightful place at my father’s side and bring honor upon the al Ghul and Wayne bloodlines.”

Tim has never known certainty that absolute, and he’s suddenly grateful for it. Despite the anger curdling in his veins at how the words strike home, and the fear beneath that maybe Damian’s right—Tim can’t hate this child. Because that’s what Damian is. For all the murders he’s carried out, and all the times he’s quite genuinely tried to kill Tim, he’s a child. Scared and misled, but a child nonetheless who just doesn’t know better.

Tim sighs, his bo staff falling to his side as he straightens up. “Yeah, whatever. I’m gonna go eat breakfast, you can spew your manifesto to your stuffed animals.”

Damian sputters. “What? Y-you can’t just walk away from me! Stop this instant, and fight me like a man! Where is your honor?!”

Stretching his back, Tim yawns so wide his jaw cracks. “Somewhere still in bed I think—where I should be I might add. Duels to the death are really more of an after food kind of thing y’know?”

Damian is still staring at him, his jaw agape.

Ignoring the younger, Tim starts down the stairs, idly using his bo staff to scratch an itch on his back. “You coming or what? Smells like Alfred made eggs,” he throws over his shoulder.

He hears an animal growl of frustration behind him, but no katana suddenly pierces him through his stomach, so he doesn’t pay it much attention.

He’s not quite as successful at ignoring the nagging feeling that his grasp on the one thing keeping him sane—on Robin—is getting more precarious every minute Damian Wayne spends under this roof.

~~~

Bruce Wayne dies.

Bruce Waye dies, and Tim’s not sure why he didn’t see this coming. He’s spent his life recognizing patterns and this was the most obvious progression.

Except this is the one loss Tim can’t accept. Batman can’t be dead, it’s just not possible. If Tim’s father was a giant, then Bruce was simply immortal; he was meant to live forever.

And Tim. Tim can go on without his heart (—JanetJackStephBartKon—) but Bruce was the glue that held him together. Bruce represented everything Tim was—is.

Without Bruce, without all of them, Tim isn’t anyone at all. He simply ceases to exist.

So Tim doesn’t accept Bruce’s “death”. It’s not real. It’s—it’s a hoax, or a misunderstanding. Bruce is hidden away somewhere just waiting for the perfect moment to stride back into their lives and chastise them for not finding him sooner.

Well, joke’s on him because Tim is going to find him. They’ll come together as a family and use everything Bruce taught them to find their lost mentor. And once he’s back, Tim will settle in with a bucket of popcorn to watch Dick and Jason kill him all over again.

Only there’s a few flaws in Tim’s plan.

“He’s gone Tim.”

Tim would have thought that out of everyone, Dick would have been the one to understand. “No, he isn’t.”

Dick looks like he’s aged twenty years since Bruce died. Dark half moons stamped beneath his blood shot eyes, and messed up hair that hasn’t seen a comb in days. Physically, he looks more like Bruce than ever, but the costume will never fit him quite right, even now that Alfred’s altered it.

It hurts seeing him like this, but some part of Tim is comforted to know he’s not alone in his pain.

“You’re grieving,” Dick says with a finality that borders on anger, and it takes visible effort for him to soften his tone. “I get that. But the sooner you just accept he’s dead and let this… this wild goose chase go, the sooner we can all move on. You’re acting crazy right now.”

The words sting like a slap to the face. “I’m not crazy,” he breathes, the words coming out as more of a plea than a statement of fact. His voice is louder when he goes on, “And I’m not grieving either, because there’s nothing to grieve! He isn’t dead.”

“Tim… ” Dick says his name like he’s in pain. Like Tim’s hurting him and he just wants Tim to go away.

Normally Tim would take that hint. Not today. “I’ll find proof. We can find proof. We’ll investigate together as Batman and Robin—” Dick flinches. Flinches so hard that Tim cuts himself off. His next words come out much more quietly. “Dick, what is it?”

Dick doesn’t meet his gaze. Instead his eyes dart around, looking at everything but Tim as he searches for the right words. He never gets a chance to find those words because before he can say anything, a new voice joins the conversation.

“How do I look?”

Tim’s back goes ramrod straight as his mind races to put together the available clues, comes to a conclusion, then so violently rejects that conclusion that Tim is momentarily frozen in place.

Dick’s guilty look confirms what Tim already knows even before he can make himself turn to look at Damian.

Damian who’s wearing the Robin costume.

“It will need a few altercations, of course, to better befit a master warrior such as myself, but I think it suits me.” His voice oozes smugness with an expression to match.

“You didn’t,” the words push themselves out of Tim’s mouth as little more than a gust of air as he turns back to Dick.

Dick is rubbing the back of his neck in a very un-Batman-like gesture. “Look, Tim, you have to understand, Damian just lost his father and he really needs this right now—”

“What about what I need?” The roar shocks all of them. Tim has never— ever—spoken to Dick like that.

Besides a look of surprise, Dick continues as if Tim hadn’t said anything, “You could never be my Robin.” Tim barely hears the rest of Dick’s explanation over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. “We’re too evenly matched. You’re my equal Tim, and I can’t treat you as less.”

Tim thinks about this thing he’s given his life to. This nebulous, multi faceted, core belief that has dragged him through life and through pain. The Mission, Batman and Robin, heroes and helping people—whatever you want to call it, and he says softly, “This is all I have left. Dick, please— don’t do this.” His voice breaks at the end and he doesn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed.

Dick doesn’t answer his plea.

Damian gleefully does so for him. “He already has. Robin is mine. Now, can you find your own way out of our Batcave,” his lips twist into a cruel smirk, “or must I summon Titus to take you out like he does with all the trash he finds discarded on the floor.”

“Damian… ” Dick sounds less reprimanding and more exhausted. He doesn’t add anything else.

And Tim—Tim can feel a burning behind his eyes and a tightness in his throat that means he’s going to cry. He knows he can’t give Damian that satisfaction of seeing him weak like that, but his feet are rooted to the spot.

Damian must smell Tim’s weakness in the air, because he steps forward until he’s well past the invisible barrier marking Tim’s personal space and says, “He doesn’t want you. Just like father didn’t want you.”

Tim snaps.

A second later (2.43 seconds actually) Damian is on the ground and blood is spurting onto his new Robin costume. Tim’s face is wet with the tears he can no longer keep down and his knuckles already hurt, but all he can think is: worth it.

“Tim!” Dick yells, rushing to Damian’s side. “That was uncalled for.”

And suddenly the injustice of it all is too much for him. He can’t stand to look at them—either of them. He needs out. Out of this situation, out of this place, out of his own damn skin.

There’s so much he wants to say and so much he can never say. He wants to beg Dick to reconsider. He wants to finally—finally defend himself. Stand up to everyone who’s ever taken him for granted just because he let them. He wants to scream his rage to the world and tell Dick exactly what he’s really thinking, but he’d be here all night, and every second he spends here is a second he’s not looking for Bruce.

In the end, all he says is, “I’m going to find him.”

Then he’s leaving. Turning on his heel and fleeing to his room.

Tim hurtles past Alfred on his way through the manor, brushing past the butler without a word.

“Sir—”

“Not now,” Tim snaps unthinkingly.

He doesn’t want to be comforted. He doesn’t want platitudes and niceties about how everything will be better one day because it won’t. What just happened is irreversible.

He finally reaches his room and slams the door shut behind him, throwing himself against it. He takes in a rattling breath that’s more wobble than air and he holds it. He stands frozen in time, the final calm before the storm. Unseeing, and unhearing as the pain in his chest grows.

Just for a moment, he thinks about never letting the breath go. Of just holding it in—holding everything in until he dies from it.

His vision starts to go black around the edges.

If he’s not Robin, who is he? Is there anything left? He tore apart everything he once was to become what he is now. There isn’t a whole lot left of the boy who first went to Haley’s Circus well over a decade ago.

Maybe he’s already a ghost. Maybe he died the moment Damian Wayne put on the cowl. Maybe he’s been speeding towards this since Bruce—

Bruce.

Tim lets out the breath.

A sob wrenches from his throat, his already labored breathing becomes difficult then almost impossible as he takes great gasping gulps of air in an effort to cool the burning in his lungs. The burning in his chest. His heart.

Somewhere deep within himself he hears a deafening crack as the hinges of the box where he’s put every bad thing that ever happened to him rip open and all the horrors within it finally come loose like humanity's evils flooding from Pandora’s Jar.

He almost cries out with the imagined pain of it all ripping through his chest; the sword of an avenging angel burning him from the inside out.

He feels feverish and hot. Empty and overflowing. Full of adrenaline and so, so tired.

He’s back at his mother’s grave, staring at her headstone like he can’t quite believe it’s real. He’s clutching his father’s broken and bloody corpse to his chest, begging some non-existent higher power to please have mercy on him. He’s putting on the Robin costume for the first time after Steph’s death. He’s watching Kon die, knowing there’s nothing he can do to save him. He’s avoiding eye contact with everyone at Bart Allen’s funeral—closed casket.

He’s—breaking.

This time Tim does scream. It tears from his throat like no sound ever has, more animal than human, and when it’s over, his cheeks are still wet and his eyes are still puffy and his throat is already feeling sore and he grabs the first thing he can get his hands on and chucks it across the room.

Whatever it was makes a satisfying thunk when it hits the wall, so he picks up the next thing, winds back and lets loose.

Fucking parents who couldn’t stay alive.

Crash.

And friends who kept leaving in all the worst ways.

Bam.

And so called brothers abandoning him when he needs them the most.

Shatter.

Tim freezes. Slowly, uncomprehendingly, he looks down at his hands. Just as he’d thought, there’s a gash along his palm, slowly but surely leaking fat drops of dark red blood onto his pale skin.

He looks back up again, finally seeing the picture frame he just shattered.

He doesn’t know why it’s important, why the jarring sound of the glass breaking shocked him so greatly that the maelstrom of emotions tearing through him has quieted to a dull roar, but Tim isn’t the world’s second greatest (if Bruce is really dead, he’s going to have to update his business cards) detective for nothing. He trusts his gut.

Tim carefully maneuvers his way across the wreckage of his room until he’s close enough to pull the photograph from it’s broken frame and stare at it.

And keep staring at it.

He picks it up and examines it more closely, theories and ideas already spinning around in his head. It’s a photograph of Bruce Wayne, dressed as a pilgrim. There’s no date on it, but just looking at it Tim can tell it’s old. Too old for Bruce to look that age.

This could be it. This could be his proof.

It won’t be enough to convince Dick, though.

Tim bites his lip, eyes going dark and unfocused as he considers his options.

Put it down, forget he saw it, continue throwing things at a wall until he stops feeling.
Take it down to Dick and run the risk of getting rejected again. (Tim can’t stand the thought of this one. Doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop himself at just a punch next time. Doesn’t know what it would do to him if Dick called him crazy again.)
Follow this lead on his own.

It’s not really a question. Dick will try to chase him down, pull him back into the fold. Or worse, he won’t. Maybe he’ll write Tim off as a casualty of grief and focus his attention where it’s clearly needed more.

Tim forces himself to put down the photograph so he doesn’t accidentally crush it in his suddenly shaking fists.

The empty pit inside him is howling, screaming at him to throw something else, to scream again, and break down crying. He doesn’t. Instead, he grabs the tether a clear plan of action offers him and he pulls himself out of the storm.

But pulling himself out isn’t the same as dissipating the storm and it’s all still just there. Like a gaping chasm was torn open inside him and he’s teetering on the edge. He’s got his footing, but for how long?

Whatever it is that he is now, it’s not okay. It’s not fine or good or any of the other gray words Tim has hid behind for years.

He can’t dwell on that though. All he can do is keep moving forward. Follow this lead and solve the case. Make a plan, execute the plan.

Fix the problem at any cost.

Tim doesn’t bother putting his room back in order. He has a feeling he’s not going to be back in it for a long time.

Instead he steps past the broken glass with care and into the bathroom. The first thing he does is take a shower. Then he cleans and bandages the cuts on his hands, puts on a fresh button down and slacks, and fixes his hair. Comb, dry, gel.

He looks at himself in the mirror, staring long and hard. It’s been a while since he took the time to really look at his reflection. He looks… well he looks like the ghost he almost convinced himself he was a few minutes ago.

His face is gaunt, and if he’s not mistaken, paler than he remembers. The bags under his eyes are pronounced, and even after a shower, his eyes are a bit red. He probably needs a haircut. His body is thin, but still wired with muscle.

Your appearance is the first thing the world will judge you on. Take care of it.

Tim hasn’t heard his mother’s voice like that in years. She would probably hate to see what her son has become.

Still, I can honor her in these small ways, he thinks as he straightens his shoulders and loops a tie around his neck. A few careful swipes of eyeliner and concealer later, he’s looking almost human again.

Finally, Tim forces the corners of his mouth up. Forces his face into a smile. It rings hollow, so he keeps trying until he can almost believe it. Until everyone else will believe it.

He pictures the particular quirk of his mother’s eyebrow that meant he’d exceeded her expectations. It makes him feel a little bit better somehow.

That taken care of, Tim makes a quick circuit of his room, slips on a pair of black oxfords and gathers up everything he thinks he’ll need into a gym bag that’s pitifully light.

With one final glance, he leaves.

He makes no effort to mask the ringing sound of his shoes against the hardwood floors. There wouldn’t be a point. If they want to, they’ll stop him, and if they don’t, then they’ll be in the cave anyway.

He doesn’t look at Damian’s bedroom door as he passes it.

Or Bruce’s office.

Or the kitchen where he spent hours in the gray hours of dawn talking to Dick about anything and everything.

Or the bay window where he used to curl up and work on his laptop during lazy days.

He strides down the hallways like they’re enemy territory and he expects to be ambushed. He keeps his shoulders straight and his gaze forward, just like his father taught him.

But the manor might as well be a mausoleum for all the life he sees, and the tension between his shoulder blades is just starting to loosen when he rounds the last corner and sees Alfred.

Well fuckity shit fuck, that’s so much worse than Dick.

Tim’s composure slips for just the briefest of seconds before he regains it. “Alfred.” His voice is strong, but muddy. Hope, fear, and pain all mix together until he can hardly tell one from the other.

“Master Timothy,” Alfred replies wearily, “Going somewhere?”

Despite everything that’s happened in the last few hours—months really—Tim can’t help but feel like a kid with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. “I… uh, yeah.”

“Dare I ask how long you’ll be gone?”

Tim doesn’t answer.

Alfred sighs and in one rattling breath, he seems to age decades. “I… expected as much.” He casts a critical eye over his appearance that’s more warmth and concern than judgement. “I had hoped to keep you all close after… but I suppose this was inevitable.”

Tim tenses involuntarily.

“You were always brighter than he gave you credit for, and he gave you quite a bit of credit. I knew you’d eventually strike out on your own as the others did, but I wish it were under better circumstances.” Alfred smiles at him, but it’s strained. “It has been an honor and a pleasure watching you grow.”

A marble lodges itself in Tim’s throat. “This isn’t goodbye forever.”

“Of course not.” The sad look in Alfred’s eyes fills in the rest. The you don’t know that and the I’ve already lost too much. “I’d ask you to be safe, but it would be an exercise in futility.”

Tim chokes out a laugh. “I’m going to miss you.” Just about the only truth he’s certain about right now.

“And I you.”

Despite years of minimal human contact during his childhood, Tim has learned a thing or two about hugs throughout his teenage years. Enough, at least, that he doesn’t even feel self conscious when he flings himself into Alfred’s arms.

Alfred holds steady, wrapping Tim up in a warm embrace and holding him close.

They stand like that for god knows how long until Tim finally pulls away. He thinks about telling Alfred that he’s going to bring Bruce back. Thinks about promising not only a safe return, but a triumphant one.

He doesn’t say anything.

Alfred looks away first, bending slightly to pick up a bag that Tim hadn’t noticed previously. “I had hoped you would take these with you,” he says, offering Tim the bag.

Tim takes it, carefully undoing the zipper and peeking inside. He nearly chokes on air when he sees the Robin R looking up at him. “These are—”

“Yours. You designed them, and you should take them. I can make a new one for… ” Alfred falters, as if sensing that hearing his name would drive Tim over the edge.

It’s too much. His hands are shaking and his breath is speeding up and he’s losing the thread—where is it? The storm is picking up again and he can’t find it.

The bag falls from his numb fingers and hits the floor with a muted thump. He throws his arms around Alfred again, this time mostly so he can hide his face.

Bruce. He’s leaving for Bruce.

When he pulls away, his eyes are dry. “I’ll see you soon.” Please don’t be a lie.

“I look forward to it, Master Timothy.”

Tim picks up his bags, and leaves the manor that is no longer his home for what might be the last time.

~~~

Tim wakes up alone. He opens his eyes to an off white popcorn ceiling far closer than he’s used to and he has to remind himself that he isn’t sinking, the mattress below him is just soft.

He lays there as his senses slowly return. He smells cleaning supplies, hears the soft thump of movement in the room next to his, tastes his own stale breath. The pain comes to him like a tide coming to shore. It spreads from his ribs to the more mundane bruises that litter his body until he can catalog every hit he took last night in a registry of reckless behavior.

No one tells him to get up. No one demands he make himself presentable because he has somewhere to be, or calls him to request his presence. He has to leave the bed of his own accord.

A more imaginative part of his brain projects a future where he chooses simply not to, but it’s only childish petulance. Or at least, that’s what he decides to call it. Anything else would make that daydream dangerous.

Eventually, he gets up. It makes every muscle he overexerted and abused last night—and every night before that—cry out, but he stands. The coffee maker is three steps away and the shower is six more. His new life has suited him well in most respects, but he’ll never get used to living in such a small place. He’s spent too much time in cavernous silences to ever be comfortable with the muted buzz of other people going about their lives just a wall away.

He turns on the shower and brushes his teeth while he waits for the water to warm before slipping inside the stall. The hot water beats down punishingly on his back, but the pain has become an old friend. A reminder that he is still himself, still working towards a goal, and still making progress.

Tim has always thought of himself as a loner, but he hadn’t understood what truly being alone would be like until now. Even when his parents were on the other side of the globe, he felt their presence. Now, each decision he makes is his own, and no one else’s approval matters. There’s no one to please, no one to perform for. His movements are for the first time unhindered by the weight of another’s gaze.

After all, everyone who’s opinion he cared about is either dead or already thinks he’s crazy.

He has to admit, the new found freedom makes him writhe in discomfort. He doesn’t know how to be himself. Is only just beginning to learn what ‘himself’ is. But even as lost as he is, it’s the greatest relief he’s ever felt. This is probably the most important case he has ever or will ever be faced with, yet he’s relieved. The pressure is on, but the expectations are off.

Never again will he have to live up to a dead boy. Never again will he spend his days trying to prove himself to a mentor who always seemed to have something more important to attend to. Never again will he wear another’s clothes and pretend to be enough.

He’s Red Robin now. He belongs to himself, he serves himself, and he answers to no one.

He shuts the water off, drying himself with a pleasantly fluffy towel and wiping the mirror of steam so he can make out his reflection.

There’s a ruthlessness to him that wasn’t there before. An edge he always dulled so as to appeal to others. It’s not murderous or cruel, just determined. He’s ready to go to almost any length to achieve his goal, and he’s finally not bothering to hide that.

Bruce always taught him to fight more or less fair. To uphold his moral values at all times, even if it meant disadvantaging himself. But that’s not going to work anymore, and Tim knows it.

His new identity finally gives him permission to get his hands a little dirty, and he’s taking it. When he started down this darker path, he promised himself that there was a line in the sand he would not cross, but everything short of that has become fair game, and he can trace his path through Europe with a trail of broken bones and results.

Yet the map of bruises standing out against his unnaturally pale skin chart the other side of that coin. With no one watching out for him, and no one to watch out for, he’s become rash.

He doesn’t know who he is yet, but he doesn’t think he’s the type to value his physical well being over success. That much, at least, hasn’t changed.

He leaves the bathroom to pour himself a cup of coffee. The mug radiates warmth into his hands, and he isn’t cold, but he cradles it close anyway.

He feels… centered. Old. It’s as if all the poison he’d been carrying around inside was drained the night he left. This is a clean slate, and he’s never felt more focused.

There are moments when the doubt creeps in. Moments that tend to come late at night after he hits a dead end in the case when thoughts of his tragedies leak in. His losses feel so heavy in those moments it’s hard to believe he’ll make it to morning. He thinks that he can’t possibly accomplish what he’s set out to do. He isn’t strong enough, smart enough, or talented enough to save anyone.

But even in his darkest moments, Tim never waivers in his conviction. It’s true, he might not be enough. But if that’s the case, then he’ll die trying because Bruce is alive god dammit and someone has to save him.

There will be time to confront the skeletons in his closet in earnest when Bruce is back safe and sound, until then, he’s content with the clarity he’s finally gained.

He’s done trying to be good enough for everyone else. He’s going to finish this job, and he’s going to do it his own way, on his own terms. After that, he’ll figure out the rest.

~~~

Somehow, tea and chess wasn’t how Tim thought this meeting would go.

When the ninjas broke into his hotel room, pulled a sack over his head, and dragged him out to a helicopter, he’d sort of assumed this would be more of a fire and blades type of event. Instead, he’s sitting in a wing back armchair in front of the most exquisite chess set he’s ever seen.

He’s completely unbound, but the only weapon on him is a few shuriken that happened to be in the lounge wear he was wearing when they took him. It’s a little odd that they didn’t search him, but he supposes it means they just don’t see him as a threat. Insulting, but underestimation has proven time and again to be one of Tim’s greatest weapons, so he keeps his expression serene and doesn’t bother trying to bluster his way out with empty threats.

He could, of course, attack the ninja standing guard at both exits, but he doesn’t know where he is. It’s entirely possible he’s in the middle of a 30 mile wide base filled to the brim with enemies. No, fighting would be stupid, and these men were undoubtedly trained to keep silent no matter how much he screamed at them. So he waits, and considers pouring himself a cup of tea from the set left on a table beside him. Odds it’s poisoned are hovering around 76%.

An immeasurable amount of time later, the door behind Tim’s chair opens.

His instincts scream at him to turn around and see who entered, but to do so he’d have to twist his whole body to peer around the high back of his chair. Effectively, he’d look like a kid checking to see if his parents were home yet. Not the image he’s hoping to project.

Instead he adopts a bored expression, even going so far as to lean sideways in his chair and rest his chin on his hand.

Even though Tim figured out who captured him hours ago and had plenty of time to brace himself, he still can’t help the small stutter of his heartbeat when Ra’s al Ghul enters his field of vision.

Ra’s pauses, sweeping electric green eyes over him once in bemusement before taking his seat across from Tim. “I hope your trip here was pleasant,” he says with a voice like velvet.

“Right. Pleasant.” Tim glances pointedly at the guards visible around the room, before leveling his gaze on Ra’s. “Why am I here?”

Ra’s takes his time answering. “Recently, a great tragedy has befallen all of us. The detective, father of my grandson, is dead.” He’s watching Tim carefully as he speaks, clearly hoping for some sort of reaction to the words. Had he caught Tim a few weeks earlier, he probably would have gotten one, but not now. Now Tim knows the words are false, so there’s no grief to pull from him. Only steady determination.

Ra’s notes Tim’s silence with a shrewd narrowing of his eyes. “Yet you do not seem to me a grieving son.”

Tim shrugs, plucking one white and one black pawn from the board as he answers, “You hardly appear the grieving stepfather yourself.” He shuffles the pawns behind his back before presenting both fists to Ra’s.

Without breaking eye contact, Ra’s reaches out and taps Tim’s fist. Revulsion curls in his gut at the tiny brush of skin on skin, but he merely opens his palm, presenting Ra’s with the black pawn.

Ra’s plucks it from his hands and they both place their pieces. “Perhaps we both know something that the rest of the world does not.”

Tim moves his queen’s pawn forward before speaking. “Or perhaps I’ve merely become as heartless as you.”

The corner of Ra’s’ lip curls up. “Perhaps.” Several rounds of their game pass before he speaks again. “I am a patient man, but clearly you have no intent to be forthcoming, so I will choose the direct route to my goal. Is he dead?”

For a moment, Tim is put off. It was the question he was expecting, but from such an unforeseen angle that he’s suddenly forced to second guess the entire game they’re playing. He moves his bishop as he bids for time. “What makes me qualified to answer that?”

“You were his protege at the time of the incident were you not?”

He frowns. “Yes, but I wasn’t even there.”

It’s Ra’s turn, but he’s not looking at the board. His eyes are boring into Tim’s, stripping him bare. Ra’s may be a mad man, but he is old and Tim feels every century of the weight behind his gaze. “We are intelligent men, Red Robin,” the title seems to roll off his tongue like golden honey, “do not do me the disservice of pretending otherwise.”

Tim’s eyes widen in shock before he can control the movement. It wasn’t a direct answer, but Tim can read between the lines. He’s here because Ra’s al Ghul, Demon’s Head and leader of the League of Assassins values his opinion for some reason. It’s… flattering. Intimidating. Sad.

Sad, because despite all Tim’s new found independence, Ra’s telling him he’s intelligent means something to him, even though it shouldn’t. Ra’s is a deplorable man who has committed atrocities. His respect or attention or whatever this is, isn’t something Tim should want.

It does, however, make it easier for Tim to harden his expression and reply, “He’s alive. I don’t know where—or more accurately when—but he’s out there.”

A slow smile spreads across Ra’s face as the old man sits back in his chair. The feeling that he’s passed some sort of test writhes and twists Tim’s stomach into knots, but still, a big part of him knows, this could be it. This could be my way to find Bruce.

“Then I believe you and I have much to discuss.” Ra’s moves his queen to take Tim’s knight, and Tim knows at that moment that he’s going to win. He could almost declare checkmate now.

But what would be the fun in that?

~~~

He’s falling, but that doesn’t matter. This is a moment of triumph, and the sweetest victories come after the greatest sacrifices.

He’s never felt like he was enough before, but now he knows. Someone will tell Bruce his story, and Bruce will be proud of him. With his death he will accomplish the one thing he never could in life. After all, Bruce’s first and greatest love has always been his own grief.

Months of planning and lying and manipulation have led him to this moment, but despite the less than heroic methods he used, this was his stand. When it mattered, he didn’t compromise his morals. He didn’t have to cross the line to find Bruce and beat Ra’s.

Turned out, he’d had what he needed with him all along.

His mind, and his friends. Because for all “love” is still a foreign word in many ways, Tim has never had a problem with “fond.”

His chest is tight with emotion. Nothing has ever felt as good as when every single one of the people he called for answered his summons. All of them followed his instructions without question, and with their help, he saved the lives of everyone Bruce loves and stopped Ra’s al Ghul.

Is that love?

He closes his eyes as the wind whips past his ears.

It is love. What a realization to come to seconds before his death.

It’s sort of nice to die feeling so fulfilled. He’s served his purpose. A lot of heroes can’t say the same.

There’s a thought itching at the back of his mind. Nagging and insistent. I’m not done yet.

It’s disturbing his peace. Making his chest tight with panic instead of satisfaction. And it’s getting louder.

I don’t want to die. I just got them all back.

Part of him still thinks that’s exactly why now’s the time to go. Before the fragile peace shatters and he loses someone again. Better they mourn him for a few weeks than he mourn them for the rest of his life.

But then maybe he’s only thinking that because he doesn’t want to die scared.

Suddenly his eyes are open and he’s twisting in the air, some irrational and inexplicable impulse urging him to live. To find a way.

Yes, this would be a good way to go, but he doesn’t want to. He’s got too much life ahead of him. He wants to take every second he can steal from death, not just the next breath before he hits the pavement.

Tears slip from his eyes, from panic or frustration he doesn’t know. His grapple is gone and there’s no way anyone could get here in time to save him, not even Kon. He can slow his fall but he can’t—

Something slams into Tim from the side, knocking the air from his lungs and redirecting his fall. There’s an arm around his chest and he is saved.

Tim looks to the side to check his hunch, and sure enough. It’s Dick. For a moment, Tim forgets about everything between them. The months of writhing anger and the harsh words. All he feels is a swell of affection and gratitude he’ll never be able to express.

Dick came for him.

And that matters.

~~~

Tim is in Gotham when Kon finds him.

“You know B would castrate you for being here,” he says into the night. Kon hasn’t shown himself yet, but Tim has developed a sixth sense for knowing when he’s being followed, and a seventh specifically for tracking a certain clone.

Kon sheepishly lowers himself onto the ledge at Tim’s side. He’s long since passed the point of trying to ask how Tim knew he was there. “I don’t think he would, actually.”

“Why’s that?‘

“I’m good for you.”

That makes Tim startle. “What?” He looks at Kon, but his friend is staring off into the distance, a smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s not important. How much longer is your patrol?”

Tim doesn’t want to let it go, but he also knows Kon’s not going to budge, so he moves on. For now. “However long it takes me to clear those two blocks,” he says, with an accompanying gesture.

Kon scrutinizes the distance before nodding. “Want to catch a midnight snack after?”

A small part of Tim halfheartedly asks what’s the catch? but it’s easy to brush away. Kon is still his best friend, and he doesn’t need ulterior motives to hang out. Not everyone has to want something from Tim to pay him attention. It’s a lesson that seems to be getting easier by the day to learn. “Sure.”

Kon picks them up some food from an all night diner, and half an hour later they’re at the top of a skyscraper settling down to eat.

The weather has been unusually warm, and Tim’s uniform is insulated, but he still shivers when the wind blows particularly strongly. He likes the view from up here though, so he doesn’t ask to go somewhere lower.

For a long time, they talk about nothing. Gossip and jokes folding over one another lazily as they catch up on their lives and laugh at the absurdity of them. Kon tells him that he and Cassie are still broken up, but things are finally warm again. His eyes light up when he talks about the team, and it warms Tim’s heart to see his friend so happy. He says that the Teen Titans feel emptier without Tim, but they’re managing.

In return, Tim tells him that he’s been talking to Steph again and they too have reached a good place. He lays out all the gory details of a recently closed case that could easily be the inspiration for a mystery novel. He even whines about how Jason kept mocking his haircut during their last team up. (Kon agrees with Jason, the traitor.)

It feels good to be young again. It seems to happen so rarely, even though Tim is only seventeen.

God, seventeen. He’s not even old enough to vote (although his birthday’s right around the corner), yet he’s carried the weight of worlds on his shoulders. He’s saved lives, and lost them too. Endured more than anyone ever should.

The last of their meal has been gone for some time when Kon impulsively lays down flat on his back, rolling up his jacket and shoving it under his head as a makeshift pillow. The gravelly rooftop and whistling wind hardly make for a comfortable bed, but of course Kon can’t feel either.

“Damn clone,” Tim mutters as he lays down parallel to Kon with his feet in the opposite direction. Kon snickers, but doesn’t comment.

Once he’s settled, Tim finds the ground is warmer than sitting was, and he can hardly feel the pebbles through his armor anyway. If he were someone else, someone who did such things, he could almost fall asleep here.

The sky above is less sky, and more heavy clouds and darkness. The moon, like the sun, doesn’t shine in Gotham and the Batsignal is dark tonight, so there’s nothing to light the dark underbellies of clouds that are unlikely to rain. It’s just inky black and dark greys overlapping to form the faintest imprint of an image.

“Hey, Tim,” Kon says.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I died.”

Whatever Tim was expecting, that wasn’t it. “It wasn’t your fault.” He’s consoling his best friend for having been dead. His life really has reached a new level of strange. “You didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” Kon hesitates before plunging on. “It’s just, I left you alone. I wasn’t supposed to do that—not ever—but I did. And then you went through something terrible, and I wasn’t there to help you. I guess I feel like I didn’t just die and make you mourn me, I also wasn’t there to help you when you were at your lowest.”

Tim takes a moment to process that. Guilt isn’t something he’s new to—after all, self flagellation is practically a Batfamily prerequisite—but hearing it like this from Kon is new. And for Tim’s pain no less.

“To be honest Kon, I don’t think there was much you could have done. I won’t lie, losing you wrecked me. I… I went a little crazy. But after Bruce died, nobody could have gotten through to me. Not even you.”

They’ve been quiet for so long that Tim’s starting to think Kon is going to drop it when the half Kryptonian finally says, “But maybe if I could have been there when it was happening, I would actually know how to help you now.” Tim’s eyes are still closed, but he hears the shift of gravel that indicates Kon has risen onto his elbows. “Some days, it’s like you’re just a ghost, half stuck in a past I don’t remember. I don’t know how to reach you then, and it kills me to know I had a hand in causing that, even if it was an unwilling one.”

Tim doesn’t say anything. He hadn’t realized he’d been so obvious.

“Where do you go?” Kon pleads. “When your head is a thousand miles away and you don’t answer your personal lines? How can I reach you?”

That’s the big question isn’t it? Almost everyone that was dead is alive again like it never even happened. They seem to have moved on, and everyone else has too, so why can’t Tim?

“Tim, please. Help me understand.”

It’s the note of desperation in Kon’s voice that finally makes Tim move. He sits up to find Kon is in fact on his elbows and watching Tim with wide, earnest eyes. With eyes like that on him, it’s easy for Tim to do what he does next.

First he pulls down his cowl, because he’s fairly sure they’re safe up here and right now he just needs to look Kon in the eye. Then he quickly and efficiently strips the upper half of his body, placing his gear carefully on the ground next to him.

Kon’s beseeching look turns quickly to shock, then confusion, then curiosity.

In a matter of moments, Tim is half naked and Kon is sitting straight up. “Do you know what this is?” Tim asks, pointing to a neat stitch in the center of his abdomen. When Kon shakes his head, he continues, “I got it when I was trying to find proof that Bruce was alive. Basically, the League removed my spleen while I was unconscious after being stabbed.”

Kon’s eyes go wide, but Tim holds up a hand to silence any comment he might make. He needs to get everything out before he’s interrupted.

“The way I feel about the time when you were all dead is like that. Mourning all of you took something from me. It changed me. Sure, you’re all back and the wound is stitched up, but I’m not the same anymore and no amount of family dinners with Bruce and eating shit take out with you is going to change that I lost you both and it broke me. No matter how many years pass, no matter how healed the scar becomes, my spleen will still be missing.” Tim swallows against the emotion in his voice, willing himself not to cry. He can’t do that in front of Kon. Not when Kon already feels so guilty.

“I’m trying to move on Kon, I really am, but some days are just so hard. I’ve been through so much trauma that everyday I’m able to smile is a small miracle. I consider myself incredibly lucky that that’s still most days.”

Kon is quiet for a long time, his expression heartbroken as he processes Tim’s words. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Is there anything I can do?”

Tim shrugs, a sardonic smile pulling at his lips. “Maybe don’t die again.” Kon doesn’t laugh, but he does manage a halfhearted eye roll. “Seriously Kon, just, keep being you. If I need help, I’ll let you know.”

“Will you?” Kon asks sharply.

Tim swallows. “I will. I promise.” Honesty feels like a breath of fresh air at the bottom of an ocean that’s getting shallower everyday.

Kon takes a long moment to search Tim’s eyes before letting his shoulders slump and managing a small smile. “Then put on a goddamn shirt, and let’s get out of here.”

Tim grins.