Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Honestly, all Jason is looking for is one quiet night to himself. Is that really too much to ask? Just one night. One night to just sit back on the couch in his apartment and have a beer, or bust out the Swiffer and get some spring cleaning done, or crank up his music and lie existentially on his back in the middle of the floor. Y’know, self care and all that. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, the answer to that is yes, it’s far too much to ask for, because just as he’s settling down on a nice, picturesque rooftop with a beautiful, gorgeous, unbelievably sexy bagel from the 24-hour deli, his patrol-use burner phone starts ringing. He sighs heavily, thinking about how he’ll have to deal with getting another one now, and presses the accept call button, lifting the device to his ear.

“What?” He says flatly, because caller ID says that it’s Nightwing and Jason’s not above being the pissy younger brother.

“Hood,” Nightwing says, and Jason immediately stiffens, because it’s actually not Nightwing; it’s Dick, his brother — human, regular Dick, whose voice is tense through the tinny phone speaker, coming out pinched and tight enough to make Jason’s skin crawl.

“What happened?” He asks quickly, because the one word is more than enough to set him on an edge that he’s not about to come off until he knows everything is as it should be.

“Red Robin has missed his last two reports to the Cave.”

Jason’s eyebrow twitches. Why is it always Tim that disappears? If it was any of the rest of them, it would be a lot less concerning. It’s not like Tim can’t hold his own in a fight — he’s a Bat, after all — but the kid has a tendency to form the craziest plans out of all of them, which often ends up putting him in the craziest situations. When Tim goes missing, it usually means he’s in some deep shit, and Tim in deep shit means Jason scrambling every time. Without fail. This fucking kid.

“Where are you?” Jason says, already shoving his food back into the brown paper bag and ignoring the pang of bagel-withdrawal sadness as he latches his helmet around his head. 

“I’m on the outskirts of the Narrows; I’ll meet you halfway from here to Crime Alley on the West side,” Dick says on the other end of the line, sounding a little out of breath, which surprises Jason considering his brother’s ability to run and flip and contort for hours on end. 

“Got it, on my way. Catch me up.” Jason takes off in the right direction, but not before dropping down to street level and leaving his bagel on an empty bench. Hopefully someone down on their luck gets to enjoy a good meal.

Dick obliges instantly. “Red’s been working that drug trafficking case the past few days,” he says, and Jason resists the urge to tell him that he already knows that, because he can’t afford to waste the time. “He told me he was just doing recon on a former location of interest for the ring.”

“Former?”

“Apparently the traffickers vacated it after the GCPD got it on their radar.”

“So why’s Red doing recon on an empty building?”

“He said he wanted to take some samples and see if the creeps left anything behind,” Dick grunts, and Jason can practically picture him launching off of something that definitely shouldn’t be holding his weight. He can tell that Dick isn’t running his standard set of maneuvers, none of the fancy flips and acrobatics that he doesn’t strictly need. No, right now, Dick is just doing everything he can to get from point A to point Jason to point Tim as fast as possible. It worries him more than he cares to admit. They need to find their little brother, now.

Jason nods, but remembers Dick can’t see him, so he grunts an affirmation instead. “Where’s this building?”

“Down by the docks. Red hasn’t activated his beacon or anything, I just… I have a bad feeling. A-And B and Robin are helping Cass in Hong Kong, so we’re the only ones here and I’m worried that someone… found that out or… ”

“I have eyes on you,” Jason says quickly, cutting his brother off, because he won’t let him spiral when Tim needs them. Hell, even if the kid’s fine and totally doesn’t need them, they still need him, because they’re overprotective assholes and nobody is allowed to fuck with Bats except other Bats. Regardless, he isn’t about to let Dick get trapped in his head. Not right now.

Dick looks up and locks eyes with him, and Jason runs harder, heart pounding in his chest and fingers as he makes one last jump onto a rooftop just as Dick lands on the same one from the other side. Jason stands and Dick is already in front of him, clasping a hand briefly over the back of Jason’s neck in a familiar gesture that he’s pretty sure Dick picked up way back in his circus days. “You okay?” Jason asks without meaning to, and Dick gives him a weak smile.

“I will be when we find him. C’mon.”

. . . 

Okay, so Jason likes this building even less than he expected to. It’s eerily plain in an odd way, just a standard warehouse that anyone would expect down at the wharf, but there’s something about it that Jason can’t quite put his finger on that kind of makes him want to vomit up his small intestine. The windows are cracked but clean, the roof is dented but clean, the walls are old but clean, and damn, that’s totally the problem, isn’t it? The whole warehouse is disgustingly immaculate on the outside, with enough wear and tear to not seem like it was just built, but absent is the grime that should marr the walls from years of pollution and loitering creeps, the blown over branches and bird shit and probably a bra that should be strewn all across the roof, the cloudy grain in the windows that should come from stinging saltwater air. Nothing is there. It’s wrong, twisted and unnatural and demented, and it sends a hard ball of dread rolling through Jason’s stomach.

Fuck, why was Tim always the one getting himself into this shit? 

“It’s-”

“Too clean?” Dick cuts him off immediately, and Jason tears his eyes away from the abomination to focus on the palpable tension crushing his brother into himself, shrinking and collapsing him as it pulls tighter.

Fuck. Jason really isn’t cut out for this.

Nonetheless, they have work to do, so he bites back a sigh and clasps his hand around the back of Dick’s neck, noticing with surprise the immediate shift of his face and relaxation of his muscles. He looks at Jason, at Jason’s arm where it’s reaching towards him, at Jason again, and smiles softly for half a second before his face hardens and he nods. He takes a breath and quickly expels it, as if clearing the remnants of tense air from his lungs. “I’ll take the front, you take the back.”

Jason has to admit, he’s a bit surprised. Dick never suggests going in alone. “We’re splitting up?”

Dick nods firmly. “Yes. We’ll cover more ground with recon, and anyone inside will be forced to split their defenses between us at either end. But Jay—” Jason startles at his name, and his focus zeroes in on the determined fury in Dick’s eyes. He’s dead serious. “If you need or will be needing backup, call for it.”

Jason grins, terrified and wild and invisible behind his helmet, but he’s sure Dick knows it’s there anyway. “Ah, don’t worry, Big Bird,” he says, even as his grip on Dick’s neck strengthens in affirmation. “I already died in a warehouse once; this time, I got this.”

Dick snorts despite himself and squeezes his shoulder. Then he’s gone, disappearing over the side of the building they’ve been crouching on top of, and Jason would feel his absence in the sudden chill in his arm and shoulder, but he’s too busy leaping down off the far side of the roof and touching down silently below, making his way quickly to the back of the freaky-clean warehouse. 

When Jason rounds the corner, he’s met with two armed guards blending into the shadows next to the back door, which means there’s definitely something fucky going on here and this was now super confirmed to not be a vacant building. He takes them both out with two well-aimed pistol whips and kindly lets himself in, noting the perfectly polished doorknob with revulsion. So fucky.

He closes the door soundlessly behind him and immediately has to pistol whip another dude, although this one’s back was admittedly already turned and he didn’t feel at all shitty about knocking out a dude who hadn’t seen him because these people definitely had his brother, and that shit just would not fly. Jason navigates carefully through a maze of wooden crates and metal lockboxes, presumably full of drugs and the money made from their sale. Damn, this is a really, really not-vacated building. Drug rings don’t exactly leave their merchandise behind when they abandon bases, and this was maybe more merchandise than Jason has ever seen in one place. Drug rings also usually don’t stack their crates with the corners lined up perfectly, dead flat and exactly three crates high the entire way down, interspersed every two crates over with stacks of exactly four lockboxes. God, this place is gross.

He doesn’t really have time to think about it, though, because when he emerges from the merch maze (that’s what he’s calling it) he’s met with the sight of about a million things that don’t make sense. 

The inside of the warehouse is wide open and empty except for a large, dark pool of water in the middle, and it almost looks like the traffickers just drilled straight through the ground and into the water off the pier when they got this place. Why they would want or need to do that he can’t imagine, but it’s definitely there, and it’s really just not helping with the fuckiness of this whole situation. There’s a catwalk wrapping around the front half, Dick’s half, of the interior, about twenty feet off the ground, and it’s stocked completely full of goons, dozens of armed men pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, jeering and jostling like vultures at the ready. In the middle of the catwalk, with distinctly nobody pressing against his shoulders, stands a man that kind of looks like a shitty cross between Sportsmaster and the Penguin. His movements are drunken but his eyes are laser-focused on something in front of him, and wow, Jason really doesn’t like the familiar stab of panic he gets from that sick grin on the man’s face. 

As much as he doesn’t want to, Jason takes two more steps forward, trying to get out from behind the crates to see what they’re all looking at, and when he looks up, he feels ice lock the blood in his veins.

Well. He’d found Tim.

His little brother is there, hanging limply from the ceiling by a chain looped under his arms and wrapped around his chest. His hands and feet are bound with shackles, but there’s also something unidentifiable hanging off the each of the shackles themselves, like a metal bowling ball but smaller, and he can’t bring himself to really pay attention to that because Tim is bruised and bloody and clearly unconscious, and Jason hates it so much he sees green brushing the edges of his vision. Tim’s mouth is duct taped — duct taped — shut, and though Jason can’t hear his breathing, he can see even from here how the kid’s whole body heaves trying to drag in air through his nose with the chain squeezing his chest. His head is tipped forward, long hair falling over his face, and Jason desperately wishes he could really see him, just make sure that he’s really there and really him. His cape is gone, but the rest of his costume there, and considering the insane number of booby traps on all of their masks, he would bet Tim’s domino was still in place, thankfully. 

From the corner of his eye, Jason can see Dick still perched in one of the front windows, jaw set and shoulders shaking with fury. He meets Jason’s eye and nods slowly, and then he’s landing hard on one end of the catwalk, pounding his way ruthlessly through henchmen like they’re made of paper. 

The man in the center starts and shrieks, and then grins widely, viciously, and pulls a device from his pocket. “Oh, Nightwing, you shouldn’t have,” he croons, as if receiving a baby shower gift or some shit. He sighs. “Knew I shouldn’t have kept this one around,” he says, nodding flippantly at Tim’s unconscious form, and damn, this guy is climbing up Jason’s list of most killable people real fast. Who the hell got to talk about Jason’s Replacement like he was some piece of trash under their foot? 

The man’s sigh turns back into that nasty grin. “Oh, but finding him here was just so… shocking.”

Jason blinks. That… doesn’t sound right. Every time some villain emphasizes a word too hard, it means they think they’re being really clever, and that’s never good. Shocking? What would…

Oh.

Oh, shit.

“They’ve been electrocuting him,” Jason whispers into his comm, unable to keep the growl from his voice as he looks at Tim again and realizes that some of the bruises on his body are actually burn marks. Shit, Timmy. “They’ve… we have to…”

Jason is cut off by the freak again, as he clicks his tongue condescendingly and turns the device over in his hand. “But I guess I should’ve gotten rid of him before.” Jason tenses; something in the voice is different, smug. Something is wrong -- wronger than before. “Oh, well,” the man says, teeth chattering despite the heat of a Gotham summer night. “I guess I can just do it now.” He grins and looks around at his men, most of whom are fighting or defending their boss from Nightwing’s rage. Jason realizes he isn’t looking at his men, actually, but rather the places along the catwalk railing where his men had been standing before Dick dropped in, as if they’re all still there watching. Jason doesn’t like this. “Ready, boys? Cannonball!” The man cries, and presses a button on the device, and Jason hears the unlatching ting of a quick-release before Tim is suddenly falling, body limp as he plummets the twenty feet down into the pool of water below him. He slams into it with a splash and doesn’t resurface. Of course he doesn’t; there are cannonballs shackled to his wrists and ankles. Fuck.

Jason cries out, his veins unfreezing with the fire of panic flooding them, and he moves before Dick can tell him to, ignoring everything around him as he shucks off his jacket and dives into the water. The second he touches it, he knows it actually is the water from Gotham Bay coming up through a hole in the floor, cold and dark and murky, but blessedly not too deep. His helmet has a rebreather in it, so Jason is fine, but Tim doesn’t wear a helmet and Jason, like an idiot, doesn’t have any spares on him right now. He curses internally. Didn’t Bruce — and life — teach him better than this? 

He sees a glint of metal and propels himself towards it, spotting a cannonball that he wishes was alive so he could kill it for sinking Tim. And Tim is there, attached to that cannonball and three others on each of his limbs, lying flat on his back  with a combination of those and the heavy chain still wrapped around his chest. The lenses of his domino are narrowed as far as they go, the way he knows they look when the wearer’s eyes are closed, and his mouth is still covered by that fucking duct tape, stark against his skin as his hair sways softly around his face. God, he’s so small. How much air can you hold in such a tiny chest? There are no bubbles coming up from his nose, and he’s worried that if he removes the duct tape Tim will automatically try to inhale. Shit, shit, shit. Hang on, kid.

Jason reaches down and loosens the chain as quickly as possible, pulling it around each of Tim’s arms one at a time and then over his head. He pauses briefly to feel for Tim’s pulse, and it’s there, albeit a lot faster than he would like. He’s running out of oxygen. Jason curses again and pulls a lockpick from his belt, making quick work of the shackles. He lets the cannonballs and the lockpick drop to the sandy floor and hooks his wrists under his brother’s arms, shoving hard off the ground and kicking for all he’s worth. Halfway up, Tim’s body begins to twitch, his chest shaking oddly against Jason’s hands, and Jason kicks harder, adrenaline pushing him the last few feet to the surface.

He breaks the surface with a startled gasp, even though he doesn’t need it with his helmet, and frantically drags his brother’s head above the water, tilting backwards to pull Tim against his chest and swim backwards towards the edge of the pool. He takes half a second to reach around and angrily rip the tape off Tim’s face, and his mouth falls loosely open, excess water dribbling out with the motion. Tim’s heartbeat is beginning to slow. Jason feels it in his bones and through the too-thin skin of his chest, so close that it feels like his own heart is the one in danger of stopping. It’s horrible. It’s worse than horrible. Jason has seen a million dead bodies in his time, sure, and there was a period where he tried to make Tim one of them, but now, suddenly, the thought makes him sick, makes him shaky with adrenaline and pain. He will not lose a brother today, will not lose Tim . He… he can’t. He won’t allow it.

He reaches solid ground and shoves Tim up before following himself, collapsing on his side and propping himself up on one elbow beside his brother’s chest. He fumbles for the release on his helmet and sets it on the floor beside him, passingly thankful that he remembered to wear a domino under it tonight, but he’s mostly ignoring everything around him that isn’t his little brother, soaked and lifeless on the spotless concrete floor. Jason wants to throw up. He doesn’t have the time.

“Red!” He calls, voice husky and ragged, and he grabs Tim’s face, patting (borderline slapping) his cheek with probably more force than necessary. “Red, wake up.” Jason coughs and drags himself to his knees, leaning to hold his ear over Tim’s mouth and hearing and feeling nothing. “Fuck!” He hisses, immediately turning his brother onto his side and thumping him hard between the shoulder blades, one, twice, three times with no response. He grits his teeth as he keeps pounding. “Breathe, you jackass,” he grunts. Jason’s eyes burn, half from pricking tears and half because he can’t blink, doesn’t want to blink, because he’ll freeze and crumble if he sees the image of Tim’s lifeless corpse behind his eyelids. He can’t do it. He won’t allow it. “C’mon, Replacement. I’m the only Robin that gets to die in a shitty warehouse. God dammit, fucking breathe!”

On this last command Tim jolts and his chest suddenly heaves, unable to drag in any useful amount of air, and he immediately starts throwing up dirty water, shaking and curling up to clutch at his abdomen, and Jason’s own breath bursts out of him in a relieved sigh and he keeps thumping his brother’s back, more gently now, and his other hand pushes the kid’s soaked hair off his forehead and then grips Tim’s shoulder like an anchor point because he really does need it. He’s alive. Tim is alive, he’s breathing, he’ll be okay. Jason got to him in time. Okay. Okay. It’ll all be okay.

When Tim’s horrible vomiting shifts into rough hacking and finally into lighter, shallower coughing, the kid starts to fall limp, and Jason reaches out and gathers him up in his arms before he can come up with an excuse to stop himself. He rests Tim’s head against his shoulder and cradles him carefully, tilting him closer towards his chest and pulling him into his cross-legged lap. “Okay, okay. I gotcha,” Jason mumbles, pushing Tim’s bangs out of his eyes again and leaving his hand there to card through the long black hair. The lenses on his domino are still as narrowed as they go, and he’s lying boneless and shaking with cold in Jason’s arms, but his breaths are coming even and steady, and only a little ragged. Without thinking, Jason sighs shakily and presses his lips to Tim’s temple, his fingers still combing through wet hair. “I’m here, Babybird. I gotcha.”

With a small, quiet gasp, Tim’s white lenses slide open, though none of the rest of him so much as twitches. He’s exhausted and half drowned and beaten and zapped to hell; why the fuck -- how the fuck -- is he awake? He squints up at Jason, clearly confused by this new development, and Jason doesn’t blame him. The kid lets his mouth fall a bit farther open, eyes fluttering as he tries to figure out what’s going on. Jason can see the familiar gears turning in his mind, and he’s suddenly so grateful for being able to watch them move that he can’t even imagine how some of Tim’s insane thinking has ever annoyed him. 

“J… Jay?” Tim finally whispers, and shit, his voice sounds like his throat went a couple rounds with a cheese grater, ragged and raw and choked, and Jason can’t help but hold him a little tighter.

“I’m here, Babybird,” Jason repeats quietly, his fingers pausing in Tim’s hair to rub gently at his scalp. Tim sighs and relaxes even further somehow, body as heavy as it can be in Jason’s arms, which isn’t heavy at all because the kid weighs less than a two-day-old kitten. “Nightwing is here, too. It’s okay. I gotcha.”

“...Found me,” Tim breathes, eyes drooping closed and a tiny, relieved smile creeping over his face. 

Jason smiles back, even though Tim’s eyes are closed and he won’t see it, because it makes Jason feel a little more stable, a little more real. “Of course. Always will.” Tim’s smile grows slightly before his face slowly relaxes as he falls back into the gentle grasp of unconsciousness. Jason lets him; he needs the rest. He examines Tim’s sleeping face gently; there are some creases of pain, but nothing drastic, nothing deadly. They dodged a bullet this time.

God, Tim is so small in his arms, fits so easily between them that it’s hard to believe he’s only four years younger than Jason. He’s just a kid — a smart, compassionate, 17-year-old kid who should be in school, going to college soon and hanging out with a bunch of friends that are kind and funny and good for him. Tim deserves so much better than to have to be a Robin, and yet Jason can’t help but feel grateful for the fact that he was, because it’s what brought them all together, because without Tim Jason never would have made it back to the family, never would have had that help that never stopped trying to reach out even when it seemed ridiculous and impossible, never would have become a big brother and learned all that that meant. Jason feels guilty sometimes, honestly, because Tim is the best of them but is sure he’s the worst, and here Jason is being glad that he’s stuck in the predicament of being a Bat and feeling that way. But what can he say? Tim is the kind of person who would work double time and go out of his way just to help bring home a person who had tried to kill him (twice). He’s Jason’s bridge, his voice of reason, his favorite person to earn a laugh from. His little brother; his friend. Jason cares about him. And he almost just lost him to a low-key recon mission and a freaky guy with a pool in his warehouse. 

He sighs shakily and cradles Tim closer. Fuck their lives, really.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by the sudden appearance of Dick on the ground level, white domino lenses wide and frantic as he rushes over and drops to a crouch in front of them. His hands hover nervously in the air by Tim’s head. “Is he…”

“He’s fine, Big Bird,” Jason says, a small, reassuring smile on his face. He wouldn’t normally be this calm, or even this nice, but he’s already had his freak-out and he knows that Dick needs this right now. “He’s breathing steady and he woke up a minute ago.”

Dick heaves a heavy breath, letting himself fall out of the crouch and onto his knees, resting back on his heels and briefly pressing his face into his hands. For the first time, Jason notices a good deal of blood on his suit, which is unusual for his fighting style. His eyes widen, feeling another wave of concern flit through him. “Nightwing, are you—”

“It’s not mine,” he says automatically, “and it’s Dick. I don’t… I don’t want to be Nightwing right now.” He reaches up and tugs off his mask, and Jason’s eyes widen further, about to protest when Dick keeps talking. “The freaky dude and his cronies are all knocked out and tied up outside. There are no cameras. It’s fine.”

Blinking, Jason removes his mask, too, and though he’s a bit worried about his rule-following goody-two-shoes brother going so off script, he understands what he means by not wanting to be Nightwing right now. Likewise, Jason doesn’t want to be the Red Hood right now; he just wants to be Jason Todd — Dick Grayson and Tim Drake’s brother. He nods at Dick and slowly pulls off Tim’s mask as well, revealing gently closed eyes and a eyebrows slightly pinched with pain. 

Dick frowns. “Did you check those burns?”

“Not yet,” Jason says, carefully feeling across Tim’s ribs and chest for anything unusual. He’s at a weird angle, but Jason isn’t a stranger to this procedure, and he’s sure as hell not about to put the kid down anytime soon. He flinches when he remembers something he really doesn’t want to tell Dick. “I… just got him breathing again.”

Dick freezes, his face flitting between terror and confusion and relief for several seconds before he finally sighs and settles on a combination of relief and exhaustion that Jason understands pretty damn well. He readjusts himself so that he’s sitting cross-legged, too, facing Jason with their knees pressed together, close enough that he’s practically in Jason’s lap with Tim. He reaches out and pulls one of Tim’s hands into his lap, holding it gently but with a twitch of desperation. He sighs heavily, and it’s shaky and wet, and Jason has to force himself not to wince sympathetically at the rawness of it, at the vulnerability as Dick holds Tim’s hand to his forehead and bows his head, resting his elbows on his calves. He’s mumbling to himself, a mantra of something like he’s okay, he’s okay, it’s okay. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It twists Jason’s heart painfully to see him like this. Dick looks like he’s… grieving. But that doesn’t make sense; they saved Tim, he didn’t lose his br—

Oh. 

Jason reaches a tentative hand to clasp the back of Dick’s exposed neck, and watches the tension drain from his shoulders as a few wayward tears fall into his lap. “Dick?” Jason says quietly. “...Are you okay?”

His brother doesn’t say anything for a while, a full two minutes of sitting in silence, Jason’s hand gently resting on the back of Dick’s neck. When Dick does finally speak, he doesn’t look up, eyes trained at something invisible and horrible inside his head, something that’s been haunting him for years. “Jason, I… I’m so sorry I d-didn’t… didn’t save you. I-I didn’t even know, I didn’t even… I’m so sorry, Jason, I’m so sorry.”

Jason is shocked, but he can’t jolt or leap to his feet or run away, because he’s got an entire Tim in his lap holding him here, forcing him to talk to his brother and reconcile with emotions he doesn’t want to face, because of course he is. Fucking Tim. Even injured and unconscious, he’s still busy being Jason’s bridge. What a jackass he is; Jason has taught him well.

He holds back a sigh for fear that it’ll sound exasperated and makes his voice as gentle as possible. “It wasn’t your fault, Dick,” he says, and that finally makes his brother look up, wide, watery blue eyes meeting his own with pinprick pupils. Jason levels his gaze in return, forcing himself, for once in his life, to just come out and say what he’s thinking, no jokes, no scoffs, no sass. He swallows hard. “You… you were the first person who ever treated me like family, you know? You were the first good thing I had. I mean, sure, I had Robin, but Robin was me; you were the first thing that wasn’t just… just me, all alone. You were the… the first person who cared even though you didn’t really… I mean, have to. Dick, I need you to hear me: what happened in Ethiopia was not your fault. It wasn’t B’s fault. It was the Joker’s fault, okay? No-one else. I know that you would do, and always would have done, anything to save my life, and I really, really hope you know that I’d do the same for you. Look, I know that this family is full of deranged masochists, but just for this one, can I ask you not to blame yourself?”

That last line earns him a watery chuckle, and Jason feels a genuine smile creeping over his face. Damn, he’s gotten all soft. Can’t let this get out to Crime Alley or he’ll totally lose his badass rep. But… for here, for now, he’s pretty sure this is okay.

Dick smiles back and tousles his hair, sniffling a little pathetically, but Jason will give him a pass for this one. “I… I can work on doing that,” Dick says, and Jason feels his chest lighten. 

“Good.” He looks down at his little brother in his arms and smiles worriedly. This fucking kid really brings all the mushy stuff out, huh? He gently cradles the back of Tim’s head and pokes him in the side. “Hey, Timmy,” he says quietly. “You in there, Babybird?” Tim, of course, doesn’t reply, body relaxed in Jason’s arms as he pulls air past his lips like he’s been wandering the desert for days and finally found water. Jason immediately sees the painfully fresh image of Tim hacking up lungfuls of water onto the pristine concrete floor of this super fucky building and decides he no longer likes his desert metaphor. He also decides he doesn’t want Tim, Dick, or himself anywhere near this super fucky building for like, the rest of time. 

“Alright, Hood wants out,” Jason says, pushing himself to stand. Dick gracefully gets to his feet in half the time, reaching steadying hands out towards him, and Jason accepts the help even though Tim weighs nothing and he could’ve easily stood up on his own. 

“So does Wing,” Dick says, voice thankfully lighter now. “This place is so fucky.”

Jason, with Tim scooped into his arms, begins leading Dick back through the merch maze. “Right?” He says. See, Dick knows what’s up. He looks at his brother, considers him with his head tweaked to the side. “So… blood?” He finally asks, nodding towards the suit.

Dick shrugs. “Decided they’d look better with crooked noses.”

Jason grins wickedly. He thinks so, too.

. . . 

At the end of the wharf Dick calls for the Batmobile to take them home, and of course two seconds later Batman calls him and the instant he picks up the familiar tinny question filters through from Hong Kong: “What happened?” There’s a stiff edge of worry in his voice, but he trusts his sons, trusts that they know what they’re doing and trusts that they wouldn’t call the Batmobile unless whatever they were doing was mostly over. If they needed a quick med evac, they’d call the Batwing, and if they needed an emergency med evac, they’d call Leslie or 911. But they had called the Batmobile, so the barely-detectable (but obvious to a Bat) lightness in his tone seemed a little more reasonable, if slightly choked with worry.

Dick starts explaining the situation as he helps Jason get settled into the passenger seat with Tim held firmly in his lap. Neither of them mention the possibility of strapping him into his own chair or into the medical bed that can be brought up in the backseat. It doesn’t even cross their minds. Dick hops into the driver’s seat and sets the car on autopilot to home before crossing his legs in his seat, feet nowhere near the pedals, and transfers the call to the holoscreen in the car. Bruce and Damian appear on the display, and Jason can see the imperceptible downward tug of Bruce’s lips and the slightly more obvious tensing of Damian’s shoulders and the tilt of his mask as his eyebrows pinch inwards. 

“He’s okay,” Dick says quickly, running a gentle hand through Tim’s damp hair. The long strands move with the motion and flop about when it passes. He really needs a haircut. “They had him for about two hours before we realized he was gone, and another forty-five-ish minutes after that while we went to get him. We don’t know what happened during those two hours, but… but we have reason to believe the traffickers were electrocuting him.” Jason sees Bruce stiffen visibly, sees the way Damian’s chest hitches, and he’s suddenly glad that he and Dick were the only ones home to help Tim because he honestly really needs this time to just… to just hold him. To just hold his little brother close like this, to feel his breath and his heartbeat and his weight in his arms, real and solid and here. He needs this. The Red Hood, the dead Robin, the wayward son doesn’t need anything, doesn’t need anyone, but Jason Todd needs this one thing, so he takes it, staring down at Tim’s closed eyes and letting his chest fill with emotions he normally pushes down. Tim is here. Tim is here and Jason has him and it’s gonna be okay.

Jason tunes back into Dick’s talking a moment later, calmer and lighter now. “Heartbeat is regular, pulse and breathing are a little slow but strong; I expect that the slowness is just adrenaline withdrawal. We haven’t gotten to check his burns much yet, but they’re consistent with— with electrocution.” Dick looked at Tim and back to the screen, eyes pinching worriedly. “He’s pretty beat up, B. Some scrapes and cuts, some bruises. He, um…” Jason looks over at the pause, noting the way that Dick’s shoulders are rolling with the tilt of his head; he’s collecting himself. Again, his brother focuses back on the screen, swallowing hard. “When we found him he was bound and unconscious and hanging from the ceiling by a chain around his chest. No broken ribs, but definitely some bruised. And there… there was a pool? In the center of the building. And they dropped him into it and he… god…” Dick stops, pushes his face into his hands, and Jason knows that the full force of what just happened is finally hitting him, settling cold and heavy into his chest like the cannonballs that had almost killed their brother. Christ. 

“He drowned, B,” Jason takes over quietly, giving Dick a moment. Bruce’s cowled eyes widen and his mouth twitches, and he almost looks like he stumbles backwards a half step, but that’s impossible because he’s Batman and Batman would never do that. But… but this is only partly Batman right now, isn’t it? This is Batman with Bruce Wayne creeping through the cracks, Batman hiding a desperate father terrified for his son. Jason blinks back the rolling sting in his eyes. “He wasn’t under for all that long, but the chain stopped him from getting much air before he fell in the first place. I-I got him back, got him breathing, but he really did… y’know.”

Bruce clearly does know, and what’s visible of his face turns slightly ashen with fear. Damian, eyes wild and jaw tight, steps up to the screen before Bruce can say anything. “I shall be at home when you arrive.”

“What?” Jason and Dick day in unison. 

Bruce looks equally concerned, although he has a distinct knowing tilt to his voice when he puts a hand on Damian’s shoulder and nods, saying, “There’s a zeta tube not far from here. Robin will meet you at home and I’ll talk to Orphan and get there as soon as I can. Or sooner. Batman out.” The screen vanishes, and Jason is left with two raised eyebrows and apparently an extra brother at home. He knows Damian cares about Tim, don’t get him wrong; they’ve gotten much better and much closer over the past few years as the family became a real unit, but he didn’t think Damian would drop everything he was doing as Robin to come see Tim when he was already safe and sound.

“That’s… weird,” Jason finally settles on saying, eyebrows still clinging to his hairline.

In the corner of his eye, Dick shakes his head. “They’ve gotten really close the last few months. I don’t exactly know what changed, but I think it had to do with either nightmares or panic attacks, or something similar. They hang out now. On purpose. Like, watch movies and play cards and stuff.”

Now Jason’s eyebrows might as well be on the back of his head with how high they’ve gone. He’s been out of the house a lot during the past few months working a few back-to-back cases with the Outlaws, so it makes sense that he’s missed some stuff, but something so monumental as his two little brothers actually getting along? Damn. He needs to be paying a lot more attention.

“Wow,” he says genuinely, a little shocked as he looks down at Tim with, honestly, a bit of a new angle. “That’s… uh. Wow.”

Dick grins proudly. “Yeah,” he says, also considering Tim and reaching over to tousle his hair affectionately. “Yeah.”

. . .

When they pull into the Batcave, Damian is, in fact, waiting for them, his costume already neatly stowed away in favor of sweats and one of Dick’s hoodies, and he stands tensely in the middle of the floor with his arms crossed over his chest. The Batmobile’s doors open automatically and Jason steps out carefully, making sure to not bang Tim’s head into the top of the doorframe, and Dick is once again in front of him, one hand patting his shoulder as they turn and walk towards Damian. The boy hesitates, eyebrows drawn, and then exhales and moves to meet them halfway.

Jason slows to a stop as Damian joins them, his face closed off and his eyes focused on Tim, who is still bruised and lax in Jason’s hold. Tentatively, Damian reaches out and presses two fingers under Tim’s jaw, and though the boy doesn’t make a sound, the tension slowly drains from his body a moment later. None of them move for probably longer than they need to, letting Damian take the same moment Dick and Jason had both gotten earlier, or at least a piece of it. 

The Batbrothers, all of them here, all of them together and in one piece. All here.

Dick nods and puts his hand on Damian’s shoulder, beginning to steer them all towards the medbay. “We should get those burns checked out, make sure nothing else is wrong.”

“And then?” Damian says quietly. There’s a pause, and when he tries to speak again it doesn’t work; his voice is smaller than Jason thinks he’s ever heard it. He knows it’s hard for Damian to say things sometimes, so he’s patient, waits him out as they enter the medbay and he carefully lays Tim down on one of the exam tables. Dick sets about removing their brother’s suit and checking him over for injuries and treating whatever he finds, cleaning and stitching and wrapping. Damian takes a breath and tries again. “I do not… I would prefer to… to not leave Timothy alone tonight.” He looks up at Dick pleadingly, hoping that he understands what he’s trying to say, and of course he understands, because that’s what Dick does.

He smiles reassuringly, knowingly, and nods. “I’d prefer that, too.” Dick passes Jason a suture packet and peroxide as he returns from washing his hands to the elbow, pointing out a nasty cut on Tim’s shoulder before turning to treat his burns. Jason disinfects the wound and stitches it up, grateful that Tim doesn’t have to be awake to feel it. “Jay? What would you prefer?” Dick asks after a moment, giving Tim a shot of antibiotics. Damian is perched at the end of the table, quietly watching his brothers work. Jason glances over and can’t stop himself from smiling when he catches the boy looking up at him hopefully. 

Y’know what? Fuck his rep. Fuck not needing anything or anyone. His family is more important. His batshit crazy, totally mismatched, wonderfully lovable family.

“I think I’d prefer to stay with him, too,” He says decisively, but quietly, because there’s this blanket of calm and stillness that has settled over them as it tends to when one of their own has just avoided certain death. It’s an introspective kind of quiet, the kind where you don’t think about what you could’ve done differently because you’re too grateful and exhausted to do anything but be glad that everyone’s alive. He fixes his older brother with a somewhat mischievous look. “Your bed is comfiest, Big Bird.”

“This is true,” Damian confirms. “Without a doubt.”

“You know they’re all the same,” Dick says, grinning lightly and bandaging the last of Tim’s wounds.

“Richard’s bed it is,” Damian says. He opens a locker at the other end of the medbay and pulls out a pair of sweatpants, a loose cotton T-shirt, a pair of boxers and a big red hoodie. He tosses everything to Dick, who catches it and begins wrapping Tim’s slightly shivery form in the warm, cozy clothing. When that’s done, Jason scoops the kid back up and the four brothers make the climb up and out of the Batcave.

They pass Alfred by the grandfather clock cave entrance, and they pause hesitantly before the man gives them a proud smile and gently ruffles Tim’s hair. For the first time, the kid shifts in his sleep, head rolling to lean into the touch, and Alfred chuckles in that kind, grandfatherly way they all know so well. “Take good care of him,” he says, eyes sparkling.

“Always,” Dick replies, and Alfred’s eyes twinkle even brighter as he nods knowingly and makes his way past them down to the cave. The boys’ eyes trail after him for a moment before they glance between each other and shrug, continuing their journey to the comfiest bed in the house.

They make it to Dick’s room a few hallways over and step inside. It looks normal, a bit cluttered and lived in as it always does, but crucially the bed looks soft and inviting and damn, Jason’s way more tired than he thought he was. His muscles are starting to strain with even Tim’s meager weight, eyes burning and throat blocked from the emotional toll of tonight. Suddenly desperate to just be warm and sleep, Jason strides forward and begins to settle Tim onto the bed, letting Dick pull back the covers and hold them as Damian climbs in beside Tim, looping an arm carefully across his stomach and burying his nose in his side. Jason goes next, piling into the growing tangle of limbs and idiots and pulling Tim over just enough to get the kid’s head pillowed comfortably on Jason’s chest and thread his arm under his and Damian’s shoulders. Damian moves to accommodate him, which only ends up with the boy squeezed even tighter into Tim’s side, not that he seems to mind. Dick, of course, makes this no less of an issue by burrowing in on the same side of the bed, hugging his arm across both Damian and Tim and even reaching far enough to rest his hand on Jason’s arm. Dick lets the covers flop down, a bit lumpy and tangled, but that’s kinda how everything works around here anyway. A moment passes in silence, calm and warm and here, and then Dick quietly asks Damian about how his Latin test went at school. Damian answers, soft and sincere, and then asks Jason how his friend Roy is doing, and Jason answers, honest and level, and then asks Dick what he thought about the last episode of Game of Thrones, and he laughs when Damian scowls because he wasn’t allowed to watch it, and they go on like that forever, time flowing like honey as they simply lie there together and talk, not as vigilantes, but as brothers.

Finally, after the huge, squishy comforter has settled down over them and sleep has begun to tug at their eyelids and minds, a soft sound startles Jason to waking. “...Hm?” Says a raspy, familiar voice, followed by a few coughs, and Jason quickly reaches over to the nightstand to snag one bottle of water and another of Advil that Dick keeps there. He brings the water to Tim’s lips and the kid drinks immediately, tension flowing out of him as his throat is soothed.

“Hey, Timmy,” Jason says quietly, but it’s loud enough to wake his stupid Bat brothers.

“Timothy?” Damian says, rubbing his face as he sits up slightly. He blinks and refocuses, a small smile on his face. “You are awake.”

Dicks sits up too and grins widely at Tim’s open blue eyes. “Tim!” Dick whisper-shouts, excitable as ever. His fingers card through Tim’s hair and scratch at his scalp, eliciting a contented hum that Tim probably isn’t aware of. Dick chuckles. “How are you feeling?”

Tim blinks, looking from brother to brother to brother, before his brain seems to connect the dots and he graces them with a smile. “Comfy,” he says hoarsely, and Jason can’t help but wince at the grating sound. 

“Here, Timbo, take these,” Jason says, passing him three Advil and holding the water back to his mouth as he takes several long sips. He sets the water and the Advil back on the nightstand and focuses back on Tim, who suddenly flashes him and Dick a blinding grin. Dick grins back, of course, and Jason blinks. “What’s that for?”

“Knew you’d find me,” Tim croaks, and Jason feels a pleasantly warm feeling creep into his chest. This fucking kid.

“I’m just glad you’re okay, Babybird,” Jason says quietly, surprising himself, but the way Tim — Tim, who is alive and here — burrows further into him, like he’s seeking shelter and he trusts Jason to give him that, makes every sappy thing he’s said tonight so worth it. So, so incredibly worth it.

Tim tilts his head and looks at Damian. “Hong Kong?” He asks.

Damian shrugs. “I had more important business to attend to,” he replies, and Tim just smiles and uses one arm to pull him back down to the bed and closer in towards him. Damia wraps his arms around his brother and buries his face in Tim’s chest, taking care to avoid the long, raw bruise from the chain that had held him up. “Please don’t go and die while I’m not here,” Damian mumbles shakily, and Tim holds him tighter, presses a kiss to the top of his head, which Jason is pretty sure is disallowed under Damian Law, but apparently not for Tim anymore.

“Won’t, Dami,” Tim mumbles back, sleep clearly pulling him again. He relaxes down into the bed, Damian’s weight holding him firmly there.

Likewise, Dick and Jason settle back under the covers, pulling up either side to their chins. “Get some sleep, Timmy,” Jason distantly hears Dick say as he drifts off. “We’re here.”

Here, Jason thinks. We’re all solid, and real, and right here.

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne — not Batman, Batman has long since cracked and fallen away, and he knows how dangerous that is but right now he really can’t find it in him to care — arrives home less than half an hour later. He removes his costume and tosses it haphazardly into its storage space in a crumpled mess of kevlar and body armor. He’ll pick it up later; right now, he needs to see his boys.

Alfred is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, and Bruce feels a jolt of panic that something is terribly wrong, but the look of gentle humor that Alfred gives him sets his mind instantly at ease. That doesn’t mean he slows his pace, but it does mean he comes to a momentary stop in front of the man. 

“Master Dick’s room, sir,” the butler says knowingly. Then his face changes, eyes filling with something like… like wonder, awe, and it’s bizarre because Bruce is pretty sure there’s nothing in the universe that Alfred hasn’t seen, nothing anywhere that would surprise him at this point. But his eyes twinkle with a youth to them that Bruce hasn’t seen in a long time, a hope that’s achingly familiar because it shows up more and more these days. “Master Bruce, the young masters are…” Alfred coughs, almost as if he’s choked up, and Bruce realizes with surprise and concern that it’s because he is. But Alfred silences him with a hand in the air before he can say anything, sighing and swiping at one eye. He sniffs and levels his gaze at Bruce, eyes clear and full of so much of that hope that it’s overwhelming, that it's more than Bruce has ever seen, even before his parents died. “You should be quite proud of those boys, Master Bruce. You’ve raised them well.”

Bruce’s face softens, and he pulls the old man into a hug before he can overthink it, because he will if he gives himself the time. “Well, y’know,” Bruce says quietly, “I did learn from the best.” Alfred chuckles beside his ear and rubs his back, and Bruce lets himself just relax into the hug for once. Alfred’s hugs have never changed -- they’ve always been warm and firm, like a father to his son. Well. That’s what this was, after all. 

After an extended moment, Alfred pulls back, hands still on Bruce’s shoulders and that same pride written all over his face for anyone to see, but Bruce is the only one here right now and he’s okay with that. “Well, run along now, son,” he says in a jokingly stern tone before it softens again. “Go see your children.”

Bruce smiles widely, gratefully, not that he could ever be grateful enough for this man in front of him, and gives his arm one last squeeze before rushing up the stairs and out through the grandfather clock. He was at his eldest’s door in  an instant, and while normally he would frown upon invading his sons’ privacy, he’s pretty sure he knows what he would see when he stepped inside, and he doesn’t want the sound of a knock to wake anybody up. He opens the door silently because he’s Batman and he can do that, and then he slips inside silently because he’s Batman and he can do that, and then he turns and immediately loses his composure and lets a quiet aww escape his mouth because he may be Batman but he’s always a father first and he’s absolutely capable of having his heart melted.

His boys are piled up on Dick’s bed, three of them huddled close together in a protective cocoon around the fourth, all of them sleeping like the rocks they are. Dick, on Tim’s right, is facing away from Bruce, but he can still see the arms encircling his brothers as they always do because the kid — the man, he’s a man now, Jesus — loves hugs more than anything and definitely deserves more of them. Jason is half on Tim’s left and half underneath him, his head tilted to rest on top of Tim’s and one of his hands buried in Tim’s hair even in his sleep, because Jason is the kind of person who knows exactly what will help his little brother rest. Damian is almost entirely on top of Tim, lying on stomach-to-stomach and using the uninjured lower half of Tim’s chest as a pillow because he’s still small enough to do that, and his arms are wrapped around Tim’s middle like a koala while his legs stretch out to tangle with his brothers’ even though they don’t quite reach, and just seeing him here, like this, able to love and be loved, makes Bruce’s heart swell with pride for the boy who had come so far. 

And Tim, in the center, definitely banged up but bandaged, taken care of, squished from all sides by his brothers, holding Damian tightly to his chest and leaning his forehead into Jason’s shoulder and holding one of Dick’s hands in his even as his arms are looped around Damian. He’s sleeping more peacefully than Bruce has ever seen, and hell, this kid is the hardest worker and nicest person he’s ever met in his life and he’s never gonna stop trying to convince him to take some time for himself for once. But oh, sure, this is what it takes to get the kid to sleep. Then again, Tim usually sleeps with a weighted blanket, and Bruce figures Damian is probably doing that job pretty well. Bruce chuckles again, trying to be quiet, and pulls out his phone to take a quick photo that he’s totally going to print, frame, and give the boys for Christmas because it’ll be hilarious and they’ll all pretend to hate it even as they hang it in their rooms and look at it every day. These fucking kids.

He moves around the room for several minutes, fussing silently and adjusting blankets and pillows and making sure nobody is going to make up with a sore neck, and just as he’s done taking one last, fond look, he sees Jason’s eyes flutter open gently from his position on the side of the bed. Bruce freezes and almost expects him to startle or panic, but he doesn’t, just blinks at him sleepily for a moment before yawning quietly. “Dad?” He mumbles softly, blinking a few more times, and Bruce feels something immediately prick at the back of his eyes because god, Jason hasn’t called him that in years. 

He smiles, wide and maybe a little wobbly, and walks over, sitting carefully on Jason’s side of the bed and trying not to disturb the Robin Pile. “Hey, Jaylad,” Bruce whispers, because apparently they’re going back to old names today, and he has to admit he’s a little shocked when Jason pauses and suddenly gives him a huge, genuine grin. Bruce can’t help but grin back, reaching out to run his fingers through Jason’s hair and rub at his scalp. Where does he think he gets it from?

“Hey, Dad,” Jason whispers back, still grinning and sounding just as surprised as Bruce feels but also a bit like an excited kid on Christmas. He… he sounds how he sounded when he got back from his first night out as Robin, bouncing off the walls and recounting every minuscule detail to Bruce as if it were the coolest thing to ever happen, and Bruce had only smiled and agreed and rehashed the hits of the night with his son even though to him it was just another Tuesday. Because Jason made it a special Tuesday. 

Bruce chuckles. “Hey, Jaylad.” His hand is still brushing through his son’s hair, and he’s savoring the contact, savoring the familiarity, so dammit if he’s not gonna keep brushing until Jason tells him not to because he loves this kid and just wants him to know.

Jason grins wider, but then it fades, and he looks at Tim, checking him over carefully as he speaks, near inaudible in the silent room. “He almost died, Dad.” 

Bruce swallows hard, hating the image, the thought, the fact that he allowed it to happen while he was off in a different country, but he learned a long, long time ago that things happen, that he can’t force his sons to go through life under his overprotective eye, that all that matters is that they’re there for each other when it counts and hopefully the rest of the time, too. “I… I know, Jaybird,” he says softly, looking at Tim’s calm, sleeping face. He’s so peaceful like this. “But you saved him. You got there in time and you brought him home. You did good, Jason.”

Jason looks at him, searching for something Bruce can’t see, but then he turns to look at Tim and goes quiet for a long few minutes as Bruce continues to pet his hair. Bruce almost thinks he’s fallen asleep again when Jason turns back, eyes clear and open, and says, “Dad, I… I’m sorry I blamed you. For what happened to me. It was unfair, and you were hurting and I didn’t… I didn’t…” he bites his lip and looks at Tim again, seemingly oblivious to the utter shock filling Bruce’s body, and then he keeps and Bruce forces himself to sit still because Jason needs this. Hell, Bruce needs this. Jason’s voice is a whisper as his eyes stay locked on his younger brother. “We almost lost him today.” He shakes his head, swallowing hard, and in the moonlight from the window Bruce can see the telltale shine of his eyes. “And Dick was… he was apologizing over and over again, and kept telling himself that Timmy was really alive, and I… that wasn’t because of Tim. It was because of me.” Bruce wants to protest, but holds himself back valiantly, watching carefully as the tears finally spill over and trace little patterns down his cheeks, though his voice remains just as even and quiet. “I died, and Dick was… he was heartbroken , and he already blamed himself and then I came back wrong and I started blaming everyone, too, and he… Dick thinks it’s his fault I died. He thinks he didn’t try hard enough, a-and I let him think that, too, which was fucked up anyway, but then today…” Jason lifts his teary eyes to his father, clearly not expecting to see teary eyes looking back at him, but he presses on because this is something he has to do. “He was so scared, Dad. Like, he was so scared because he felt like he had let another brother die. And I talked to him, and I made him promise he would try to work on not blaming himself for it anymore, but then I thought… I thought about how I put a lot of blame on you, too.” Jason pauses and takes a deep, rattling breath, trying to hold himself together before chuckling and mumbling something about ‘my rep’. He looks firmly at Bruce, eyes huge and round and blue just like that first night of patrol. Bruce almost chokes. “I’m trying to say that I’m sorry I blamed you. For that. And I… I really, really don’t want you to blame yourself. Because I have a feeling that you always have, ever since that night.”

Bruce flinches hard at the reminder of that night, of the horrible hollow feeling in his chest as he sobbed over the mangled corpse of his son, of the acrid stench of burning flesh still lodged in his nightmares, of the heat of the fire and the twisted wracking laughter that had ripped his child away from him, and all of a sudden he’s back there, mind reeling as he collapses beside the body, uncaring of the blood — of his son’s blood — that soaks through his gauntlets, painting the desert floor red with suffering and hysteria because god, god, he’s a kid, he’s just a kid and I let him die like a soldier and he never even—

“Dad,” a voice whispers gently, pulling the image from his mind. Bruce blinks and his eyes burn like he’s had them open for too long. He exhales and it rattles in his throat, terrified and helpless, and then Jason’s face comes into focus in front of him, sitting up on the bed and holding his shoulders.

“Jay, I—” he starts, but he doesn’t get that far because Jason throws his arms around him and tucks his face into the crook of his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” Jason says, and Bruce shakes his head and pushes Jason back even though he wants to hold on and never let go. 

“No, no, Jay, listen to me,” he says gently, once Jason is far enough away that Bruce can hold his face in his hands and press his forehead against his son’s. “Nothing that happened that day was your fault, especially not how I reacted to it. I… Jason, Dick and I both fell apart. Of course we were heartbroken; he’d lost a brother and I’d lost a son, but you were — you are — more than that to us because of everything it took to get here and all the good you did along the way. I know there were some tough times—” Jason snorted and Bruce tilted his eyebrows is acquiescence, “—sure, some really tough times, but we made it through and we’re still here. Right? And even though the circumstances weren’t the best, I would do absolutely everything all over again if it means I get this second chance with you.” 

Jason gives him a wobbly smile and presses back against his forehead, sniffling. He laughs quietly. “Well… if I hadn’t died, we wouldn’t have gotten Tim.”

Bruce smiles sadly at his sleeping second-youngest. “I have a feeling Tim would have eventually shown up at our doorstep on his own. He’s always been good at sneaking around.” 

One corner of Jason’s mouth quirks upwards. “Probably a little too good.”

Bruce nods and pulls his not-so-wayward son into another hug, this one longer and stronger, more complete. “I love you, Jason,” Bruce says. “All of you. The four of you mean the world to me, and I can’t… sometimes I wish I had never made you all Robin, because it puts you in so much danger, but all the same I might never have adopted you all without Robin, and adopting you boys has made the work I do have a real purpose. I… I really have something — somethings — of my own to fight the good fight for.”

Jason squeezes him tighter, then draws back to see the pride written all over Bruce’s face. For the world’s greatest detective, he sure is easy to read sometimes. “We love you too, Dad,” Jason mumbles, face flushed, before he suddenly yawns and Bruce grins widely and presses a kiss to the top of his son’s head.

“Get some sleep, Jaylad. I’ll be here.”

“Huh?” Jason whispers, settling himself down and squeezing his way back under Tim to fulfill his role as pillow. Whenever Dick and Damian had woken up during that whole conversation, and he was sure they had, they certainly hid it well. Sneaky bastards. Tim would be among them, but post-electrocution naps tend to go pretty hard. 

Bruce picks a book — The Swiss Family Robinson , one of Tim’s favorites as a child — off Dick’s bookshelf and drags the comfy chair in the corner close enough to the bed that he can rest his feet up on the foot of it. He leaves his book on the chair, disappears, and reappears thirty seconds later in sweats and a T-shirt, fitting nicely with the dress code. He settles into the chair, picks up the book, and starts at the beginning, watching over the top of the binding as Jason strokes Tim’s hair for a few minutes and finally falls asleep. Bruce, though, is still a Bat, so he hears it when Tim shifts slightly and whispers an I love you into Jason’s ear. Jason is awake just long enough to poorly hide a smile and return with an equally quiet love you too, Babybird.

Bruce shakes his head and sets to reading, looking up when the door opens silently again. Alfred stands in the threshold, his eyes crinkled with satisfaction, and Bruce just chuckles and nods, going back to his book. The door closes without a sound.

Bruce Wayne sits with his sons through the night, and they are all here, and real, and together, and there’s nothing more he wants.