Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They said it could take a while for a soulmark to grow. It was a mark of your attachment to another person, and often, that wasn't instant. It took days or weeks or months of knowing each other, learning about each other, until a particular moment when something in the mind and the heart joined together, and the soul gave you a mark to remind you of who you considered to be your family. Instant soulmarks happened, but they were not the norm. Most hearts did not instantly latch onto someone newly met to proclaim a deep bond.

Some instant soulmarks were almost routine, though, and those were the ones between parent and child. The moment a mother held her newborn for the first time and they gazed deeply into each other's eyes, both bodies normally grew the other's mark immediately. The same for the father, a few minutes or hours later. Other family members could create early soulmarks, too, in the first days or weeks of an infant's life: siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins. Sometimes the baby didn't get those immediately, but their caretakers would, and the child's soulmarks for their family beyond their parents would grow in time.

Bruce had always had three soulmarks from as early as he could remember. On his left forearm was his father's mark, a bundle of green leaves in different shapes and shades. When he was a little older, he would learn that these were medicinal herbs, and he would be able to name each one. They all had different properties, different purposes, and though his father didn't actually use medicinal herbs in his work, Bruce enjoyed imagining him as an herbalist in centuries pasts, treating illnesses and injuries just as he did now.

On his left wrist was his mother's mark, a circle of musical notes, pastel and multicolored. It was chaotic, artistic, and he loved looking at it, running his fingers over it and imagining himself playing those notes on an instrument. His mother promised that he could learn any instrument he wanted, and from the age of six or so he started to try different ones so he could choose his favorite. He was supposed to settle on one or two by the time he was ten, but in the meantime, he dabbled.

On his right wrist was Alfred's mark, a blue rose with a strange shape at its heart. The rose made sense, because Alfred loved working in the garden, and Bruce would follow at his heels asking questions about the plants that Alfred always answered patiently. He didn't know what the shape in the middle was until much, much later, because Alfred wouldn't tell him, and neither would his parents. It was a bullet, and in later years, it would seem both painfully ironic and and completely appropriate.

Because in later years, it would be clear that Alfred was Bruce's family because of bullets.

Soulmarks didn't go away, not voluntarily. They only faded if you stopped caring about that person, if they stopped being your family. In school, Bruce would learn that soulmarks between romantic partners could appear and fade quite easily. Many a break up had been presaged by one partner realizing that the other person didn't have their soulmark, that it had faded away or never appeared in the first place. Kids were impatient; they wanted to know immediately that they were loved by the object of their desires. In adulthood, romance could be more measured, but even then, if years passed with no soulmark, the relationship was seen as a dead end.

Soulmarks didn't go away unless you stopped caring. But they changed. The stronger the connection and the bond, the more vibrant the colors. And soulmarks came in every color but black. That was, in life.

That night in the alley, when bullets changed Bruce's family forever, he felt his left arm blaze with pain. When the police and the paramedics came, they asked him if he was hurt, and he clutched his left arm and nodded, sobbing, though by then it only felt numb. The EMT pushed up his sleeve swiftly, thinking there might be a bullet graze.

But it was his mother and father's soulmarks. They had changed from vibrant green, from pastel multicolor. They were like black ink illustrations now, no colors, no life. Beautiful. But dead. No one had ever told Bruce that soulmarks changed when the person on the other side died, losing their color to become monochrome and flat. Alfred would confirm that later, solemnly, as Bruce wept in his arms. But even without being told, in that moment when the EMT rolled up his sleeve, then slumped with a sigh of mingled relief and sympathy, Bruce knew that his parents were never getting up again.

Bruce didn't grow another soulmark for years. Almost two decades. Schoolmates didn't touch his heart. Romantic partners were fleeting. When he traveled the world as a young adult, learning from everyone who would teach him, he formed no bonds with any of his teachers or fellow students. The blue rose sat on his right wrist, vibrant and bright, but nothing else ever appeared. He never felt that sudden sting he'd been told about, the patch of skin tingling and burning in a sensation between pain and pleasure as the soul manifested its love in colors on the surface.

The closest he got was probably Tommy Elliot. They were friends as children, even before the alley. They had a lot in common. Bruce had always expected that he would eventually grow Tommy's mark, a white and gray checkerboard pattern. It seemed to fit, since Bruce's mark was a white knight's horsehead, very like the chess piece. But after the night in the alley, Bruce's heart closed off, and it never happened. At least Tommy didn't seem bothered by the lack; he never grew Bruce's mark, either.

Bruce was twenty-five when he returned to Gotham from his travels abroad. He'd had minimal contact with Alfred for years, and he was afraid, at first, that things might have changed between them. But Alfred took him into his arms, pressing him tight, then pulled back and opened the collar of his shirt. Bruce's white knight mark on Alfred's breast was still bright and clear, as if he'd never left. Bruce raised his wrist to show Alfred the blue rose, so vibrant it almost glowed. They smiled at each other, with only a few tears.

A few months after his return, he had his revelation about becoming a Bat to haunt the streets of Gotham and frighten criminals away from their wicked ways. He would not be a white knight, but a dark one. The next two years were intense as he learned his new role, forming it from dust and ashes, forcing it into the world like a violent birth.

Then, one night, he went to the circus. It was supposed to be a break from the blood, the murder, the constant push and pull of order and chaos that Bruce stood astride. Instead, he saw it close up once again, as two of the three Flying Graysons fell to their deaths, the rope dangling cut above them.

Bruce moved before he knew himself. By the time the Grayson boy reached the floor, nearly blind with tears, Bruce was there. He wrapped his jacket around the boy's shoulders and turned him away so he wouldn't look, so he would stop staring at the twisted forms of his parents lying in pools of blood soaking into the sawdust. The child shook in his arms, and he did not try to escape his grip. Bruce stayed there, holding him, until social workers arrived hours later to take him away.

It was at some point in the second hour when Bruce felt the tingling. A patch of skin on his right breast, not far from where Alfred's mark was for him. He had been told that it would hurt, with a pain that was almost pleasure, deep and intense and transcendent, but he still had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. The strangest thing was that he wasn't surprised. When the pain hit, it was almost expected. He already knew that he loved this boy, this stranger, though they didn't even say a word to each other. His soul only confirmed it with the mark.

The boy's name was Dick Grayson. Hours later Bruce stood in front of a mirror with his shirt open, one hand holding the fabric back so he could see the soulmark on his breast, the other hand holding a flyer from the circus. Dick's mark was a winged heart in shades of blue, somehow both playful and deeply emotional. Bruce could see it peeking out under the leotards of Richard and Mary Grayson: the father's neck, the mother's right shoulder.

He called the social agency the next morning. It was not a quick and easy process, becoming a foster parent, bringing Dick home. The soulmark was not a free ticket, but it did speak in his favor. Not every foster parent grew soulmarks for all of their charges, but if they did, it was taken into consideration by the government agencies that watched over them. Before adoption was allowed to go through, it was expected that at least the parent or parents should have the mark of the child they were seeking to keep permanently, though the child might take longer, especially if they were traumatized or depressed.

Alfred grew Dick's soulmark almost the instant Bruce brought him home. Bruce was not surprised, but he was certainly gratified. This was right. This was the way it should be. Now he had two marks, both in blue, and it felt infinitely correct and perfect. It took Dick a few months to grow both of their marks, but that happened, too. They were a family. It still hurt Bruce to see the dead marks of his parents on his left arm, and he saw Dick's eyes go distant when his eyes fell on the dead marks on his right calf, his left bicep. But they had bright and living soulmarks, too, and that made all the difference.

In time he learned just how quickly and fully Dick loved and was loved in return. He kept several soulmarks from other members of the circus, his old family, and as he grew he quickly gained new ones from his new friends and teammates. By the time Dick was a young adult, he was a patchwork of love, all over his body. Bruce didn't even know who all of the marks belonged to, but if Dick loved them, he knew they were worthy.

Not that he didn't worry. He still did. He worried about the pain Dick would feel if any of those marks faded, or if a person whose mark he bore didn't have his own, winged and blue. Fortunately, Dick seemed to love easily with few expectations. He gave to the universe freely and was delighted when it was returned, but didn't suffer if it wasn't.

Protecting their identities was also a factor to consider. At least soulmarks almost never appeared on the face. Still, Bruce had to modify Dick's outfit early to have flesh-colored leggings and arm sleeves, keeping the look he wanted as an homage to his parents without letting his marks show. School was a little more difficult, but cosmetic applications existed to conceal soulmarks and only improved with time. Dick could never join the track or swim team, but he got his exercise in different ways. He was a mathlete instead, and Bruce was proud of everything he accomplished.

In the end, it seemed that Dick loved too much, too many. Bruce had been right to be worried. Dick felt family with the Teen Titans, and in time those marks became more vibrant on his skin than Bruce and Alfred's. Bruce fought this bitterly, too jealous, too controlling, which only drove Dick farther away from him. By the time Dick moved to New York, fully against Bruce's wishes, the white knight chess piece on his shoulder blade was faded and desaturated.

Bruce choked back his words, his final imprecations, and let him go. He stopped talking for weeks. The image never left his head, though, of the last time he'd seen Dick without his shirt when they changed out of their uniforms, the last night they went on patrol. The last night Dick dressed as Robin. He couldn't stop thinking about that white knight slowly fading, fading, until it was gone.

All his fault, all because he held too tightly and too long. Because he was a broken man who could not love more than two living people, and so he grasped those two with claws, with chains, instead of with an open hand and an open heart. Dick had always been so much stronger, as evidenced by the multitude of soulmarks he bore. They were unequally yoked, and inevitably, the partnership splintered.

The winged blue heart on Bruce's chest was still as vibrant as ever. It never faded. Bruce wished, in his weaker moments, that it would.

Then he met a boy in an alley, and everything changed again. He felt the tingling within five minutes, and he wondered if this was what a father of a newborn felt. This sudden surge of adoration, senseless and overpowering. He tried to fight it, tried to send the child to a foster agency. But he couldn't stop thinking about him, and the patch of skin under his left armpit that bore the new mark kept itching and itching, like a fresh wound that needed to be dressed.

Jason Todd's soulmark was a stylized falcon, red and gray, stooping from a height. It was beautiful, small and fierce and bright. So bright.

When Bruce met Jason again, two days later on another mission, he stopped fighting. This was his child. His little boy. He would not let him go.

He would do better this time. He was older, wiser. He would learn from his mistakes. He would be Jason's father, not merely a teacher and partner as he had been with Dick. He would hold him close, but with a gentle hand.

Jason responded well to this treatment. He grew Alfred's soulmark first, two months after coming to live with them, but Bruce's followed days after. For years, two years, three years, it was good. It was so good.

Then came the warehouse in Ethiopia, and Bruce felt the agony of a soulmark dying for the second time in his life. Somehow it was worse this time. He hadn't thought that was possible. Jason's soulmark didn't just feel like a black ink illustration, beautiful but dead. It felt like a scar. It itched and it burned and it ached. Bruce refused to look at it, but he always knew it was there.

Never again, he told himself. He was broken, just like he'd always believed. It hurt too much. He couldn't bear it.

He was weak, useless and crippled. He had failed two children, two sons. He could not do it again.

All he was meant for was the fight. He was a dark knight, not a light one. He was not a father, and he would never try to fool himself again.

Chapter Text

Tim fiddled with his cuffs and refrained from reaching up to touch his hair. His mom had just spent ten minutes slicking it down with hair gel, and he didn't want the tongue-lashing he would get for disturbing it. Janet Drake stood at the mirror in the front hall, giving her lipstick a touch-up. The car was waiting outside, the anonymous driver patient and unmoving.

"Timothy," Janet sighed. She grabbed his wrist, just hard enough to pinch a bit. "Stop that fidgeting. Don't you want to spend time with your mother?"

Tim flinched back, stung. "Of course I do!" His parents were so rarely home, he wanted to spend every minute he could with them. He wished his dad was coming too, but he understood that he was too busy cataloguing the finds from their recent expedition.

Janet gave him a level stare. "Then is it the event that you object to? You don't like fundraisers for charity? I'm sorry, I promise we'll go to a museum or a concert tomorrow."

Tim shook his head so hard his hair almost moved a tiny bit. "No, no, fundraisers are good. Charity is good. I want to go with you. I do!"

"Then what's the problem?"

Tim swallowed hard and forced himself not to shift from foot to foot. "Is...is Bruce Wayne going to be there?"

Janet raised her eyebrows in surprise and let go of his wrist, straightening back up. "I imagine so. It's his fundraiser."

It's for Jason, Tim wanted to say, but didn't. The Jason Todd-Wayne Memorial Fund. It was going to be used for education for disadvantaged children in inner Gotham.

"Timothy?" Janet prompted. "What's the problem? You don't like Mr. Wayne? You've never even met him."

Tim shook his head. "No, it's just... I don't know what to say to him. I don't want to say the wrong thing."

Janet huffed and turned back to the mirror to finish her lipstick. "Then say nothing, unless spoken to. That's what you should be doing anyway."

Timothy stood still, staring at her. After a moment, she finished and put her lipstick back her clutch, turning back to Tim as she snapped it shut. "Listen, darling, if Brucie talks to you, just say the usual things. You're very sorry for his loss, you hope he's doing well after all that mess, etcetera. It's not likely that he'll even notice you, though, so don't look so worried."

She gently clasped the meat of his cheek between her thumb and the side of her forefinger and gave it a painless squeeze. "This is technically a fundraiser, yes, but it's mostly an excuse for rich people to dress up nice and socialize while pledging enormous amounts of money to show the others in their class how rich they are. You'll probably be bored, but all you have to do is keep looking smart and handsome in your suit and smile when someone smiles at you."

Timothy managed a timid smile. "Do I really look smart and handsome?"

"Very much. My handsome little boy." His mother let go of his cheek and held out her hand instead. "Still want to go with me? You can stay at home, if you'd rather."

Tim shook his head. "No, I want to go with you." Every moment with his parents was precious. He couldn't waste a single opportunity, no matter how uncomfortable and dull the experience was likely to be.

She wiggled her hand, and he took it, being careful not to impale himself on her long, manicured fingernails. She'd gotten them done that afternoon, and Tim thought they looked magical, but a little scary. Janet squeezed his hand and led him out to the car.

The fundraiser was in the main library downtown, because that had been one of Jason's favorite places when he was alive. It was after hours, and the lights were dim. The bookshelves were strewn with little lights, the middle of the atrium cleared of furniture so the rich people could stand around and titter at each other and drink champagne and eat fancy hors d’ouevres. It was a classy library with lots of nice art and decorations. Tim looked around in fascination, wishing he could have brought his camera to take some pictures.

He followed at his mother's heels, doing his best to keep up as she swept through the crowd, stopping here and there to smile and laugh breezily and say words that were fake even to Tim's unpracticed ears. She gave him a champagne flute full of ginger ale, and he sipped it nervously. None of the food looked tasty, and Janet didn't make him try it. He'd had a good dinner, anyway, so he wasn't hungry.

"Such a shame about the Todd boy," the latest socialite Janet was talking to said. There was edge to her voice that wasn't just uncaring, but almost titillated. "Kidnapped and murdered before he could be rescued!" She shuddered theatrically. "What an awful thing. I heard the blood was just…everywhere."

Tim frowned and looked away, his shoulders hunching. The cover story was pretty close to the truth, in the broad strokes, but the truth was so, so much worse. Jason Todd-Wayne...Robin...had been murdered by the Joker while traveling abroad. Tim knew that much from following the superhero fan forums online. That was, the boards knew that Robin had died. Only Tim knew that Robin was Jason, outside the superhero community itself. At least, he was pretty sure.

Tim startled at the hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see that it was his mother's hand, her long nails digging into the fabric of his suit jacket, though they didn't press his skin. Her smile at the socialite was tight. "Yes, a tragedy. I can't imagine."

The woman followed her arm and saw Tim standing there, blinking as if she hadn't noticed him before. "Oh, you have your son with you," she said with forced lightness. There was a look in her face, though, like she knew she'd messed up.

Janet nodded and smiled, sharp-toothed. "Yes, this is Timothy. Let's be respectful of the dead, yes? That poor child was only a few years older than he is."

"Ah, yes. Let's." The socialite blinked rapidly, then looked around and pretended to spot a friend. "Oh, you! Let's catch up!" She hurried away.

Janet watched her go, eyes narrowed, then looked down at Tim with something that looked like concern. "Are you all right?"

Tim nodded mutely. He'd never seen his mother so angry before, at least when it wasn't aimed at his father. His heart was beating a little fast, though, and he pressed the hand not holding his champagne flute to his chest. He hadn't realized that there were such cruel people in the world, outside of the villains Batman fought every night. "Why would she say it like that?" he whispered.

Janet shook her head and looked away. Her lips were tight, her eyes so narrow that Tim could see the little wrinkles at the corner, even through the make up. "Some people are idiots. They read the crime section for entertainment, thinking such things will never touch them, silver-spooned creatures in their golden cocoons. Pay her no mind."

Tim nodded and tried to drink more of his ginger ale, but the flute was empty. He and his mother had stopped moving. They stood still in the eddies of people still moving around in the atrium, continually coalescing and breaking apart. He thought about his mother's make up and how she had covered up the soulmarks on her arms because her dress was sleeveless and she didn't want to look "asymmetrical." He thought about her arm right next to his head, and how he couldn't smell any make up there.

All of Tim's soulmarks were under his clothes, at least while wearing a suit. "The privilege of being male," Janet had called it. Her mark was a ruby in a gold setting, like a pendant, on his inner arm above his right elbow. His father's mark was an elaborate compass, like the kind from an old, expensive map, in several shades of beige and brown. That one was on Tim's stomach.

He hadn't seen his mark on his parents in a long time. It was there in old photos, from when he was a baby. On his mother's left arm, his father's back. They had both posed carefully in those early pictures so the mark would show, smiling like they were proud. Even though the mark was a little weird, a little creepy: a single eye with a blue iris and a red flame in the pupil. They used to like his soulmark, used to show it off, but now his mother covered it with make up. Or she said she did.

What if she didn't have the compass, either? What if his father didn't have the ruby? Tim pressed his hand harder into his chest. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

Janet's hand pressed the back of his shoulder. "Let's go sit down, Timothy. I don't like the way you're breathing."

Tim shook his head gently, feeling his head sway. He let her push him to the edge of the crowd, to a grouping of armchairs that had been moved against the bookcases. Janet pushed him down to sit, then took the empty flute from his hand. "I'll fetch you more ginger ale. Stay here."

Tim nodded numbly. He was doing such a bad job. All he had to do was look smart and handsome and smile when people smiled at him, and he couldn't even manage that.

For a little while he sat there, staring at the tiled floor and trying to breathe. His hands gripped the chair cushion on either side of his legs, and he felt the scratchy fabric pressing into his palms. It helped, a little bit. He wished it was daytime, and there was no party, and he was just at the library because it was a library. He could look for new Star Wars books or play games on the computer or just sit and look at the art.

He heard a shuffling on the floor, felt a shadow on him, and looked up to see a man looking down at him. A big man, broad shoulders, shadows under his eyes. The nicest suit he'd ever seen. The man was frowning. It was Bruce Wayne. Tim's breath hitched again.

Bruce frowned harder and got down on one knee next to Tim's chair. Their faces were almost on level that way, and Tim blinked at him, distantly aware that he was kind of in shock. His tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Hey, champ, you okay?" Bruce's voice was soft and kind. He was trying to be cheerful and positive, but he wasn't making it. "You're looking kind of pale, there. Did the escargot not agree with you?"

Tim shook his head, staring at him without blinking. His tongue got unstuck, somehow. "I didn't eat the escargot. It looked gross."

The corner of Bruce's mouth turned up, just a little, before it went back to sad again. He leaned closer and lowered his voice, like he was telling a secret. "Honestly, it looked gross to me, too. Don't tell the caterers. I'm sure they did their best."

Tim smiled faintly. Bruce was awfully nice. He hadn't expected that.

And oh man, he was talking to Bruce. He was talking to Bruce Wayne. He was talking to Batman.

Except not really, because Tim couldn't make himself talk again. He just sat there, staring at him.

Bruce looked back at him, then straightened up. He grabbed the armchair nearby and pulled it closer, until it was cattycorner to Tim's. Then he sat down in it and rested his forearms on his knees, leaning close to Tim like they were still telling secrets. "What's your name, champ?"

"Tim Drake," he whispered. At least he could do that.

"I'm Bruce Wayne." As if Tim didn't already know. As if everyone didn't already know. "Are you here with someone?"

He nodded. "My mom. She went to get me ginger ale."

"Ah. Your tummy hurts?"

Tim nodded. Kind of. Everything hurt, kind of.

Once again, Bruce tried to give him a reassuring smile, but it didn't quite work. It hurt to look at. "I'm sure you'll be fine. Moms are good at that stuff."

Tim nodded. "Mr. Bruce Wayne, sir..."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. His face was open, inviting, and he was looking at Tim like nothing else mattered in the world, like he wanted to hear everything he had to say. Everything.

Tim's hands rose to his chest and gripped in the fabric there, pressing against his ribs until they ached. "I'm so sorry about Jason, Mr. Wayne. I know it hurts. I wish I could help."

Tears sprang to Bruce's eyes, and Tim panicked inwardly, certain he had done the wrong thing. He shouldn't have brought it up. It had only been two weeks since Jason died. The wounds must be so raw and painful.

Just as painful as realizing that your parents didn't have your soulmark anymore.

But Bruce smiled, through his tears, and it almost looked like a real smile. He reached out and patted Tim's knee, very gently. "That's kind of you to say, Tim. Thank you for that."

Tim nodded, swallowing against the lump in his throat. "I mean it. Every word." So many people were fake here, said fake things, smiled fake smiles. He was almost desperate to convince Bruce Wayne that he wasn't one of them.

Bruce kept smiling, even while two tears tracked down his cheeks, one from each eye.

Sharp heels on the tile, and Tim looked up to see his mother standing there, holding a new champagne flute full of ginger ale. She looked between them, her face as sharp as her heels. "Mr. Wayne. I hope Timothy wasn't bothering you."

Bruce shook his head and stood up. He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his face, then held out his right hand to her. "Not at all. Not at all. Mrs. Drake, I presume?"

Janet switched the drink to her left and shook his hand, warmly but not lingering too long. "Janet Drake, yes. A pleasure. My husband and I don't spend much time in Gotham, so I don't think we've met in person before."

Bruce shook his head. "I don't think so, no. I would have remembered." He looked down at Tim, still with a watery smile. "I think I would have remembered meeting your delightful son, here."

Tim stared up at him, wide-eyed and faint.

Bruce looked back to Janet. "Your child has a very kind heart, I hope you know. Such a good boy."

Janet nodded slowly. "Yes, he's a good boy."

"You should, you should treasure him."

"I... Yes, I..."

But Bruce turned away, suddenly, covering his face and waving a hand behind him. "I'm sorry, I need to go...freshen up."

He rushed across the atrium, moving almost rudely through the crowd. Tim's heart hurt. It hurt so much it made him gasp, piercing and burning. He pressed his hand against the fierce sting and tingle.

Janet stared after Bruce until he disappeared, then turned back to Tim, shaking her head, and held out the ginger ale. "Here, drink this."

Tim held the flute in trembling fingers. After a few moments, the pain in his heart lessened, and he was able to sip at it. "Mom? I...I want to go home."

Janet sighed and tilted her head disapprovingly, hands on her hips and foot tapping sharply on the tile. "You're done spending time with me already?"

Tim shook his head. "No, I just... I'm really tired." He felt exhausted, his eyelids drooping again and again. If he leaned back in the chair and let himself relax, he would probably fall asleep.

Janet shook her head roughly, but untucked her clutch from under her arm and pulled out a phone. "I'll call the car to take you home. But this is the last straw, Timothy. I won't take you to another function like this until you're much, much older, if you can't handle it."

Tim blinked slowly. He hadn't realized this was the last straw. He hadn't realized there were earlier ones. She must have been annoyed with him all evening, and he hadn't noticed. He really needed to be more attentive and observant. "I, I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'll do better."

She looked at him narrowly, holding the phone to her ear. "No, it was my fault. I should have realized you were still too young."

Janet turned away as someone spoke on the other end of the line, and Tim slumped down in the chair and closed his eyes.

As soon as he got home, he dressed for bed, longing to dive under the covers and just try to disappear, try to forget the disastrous evening and all the mistakes he'd made. But when he pulled off his undershirt and tossed it on the floor, he saw something new on his chest, right over his heart. He blinked down at it, uncomprehending, then ran to the ensuite bathroom and stared in the mirror.

It was a white horse head, almost like the chess piece. It was a new soulmark, unchosen, unbidden. But there it was, bright and clear and vibrant. He rubbed it with his hand, but it didn't go away.

It was here to stay. And he knew, as soon as he saw it. He knew. He knew who it belonged to.

But there was nothing he could do about it.

Chapter Text

Dick loved coming home to Haly's. He tried to go back at least every other summer, joining them on their tour through the US for a couple of weeks, just to see how everyone was doing. It was a chance to keep his soulmarks with Elinore and Jacque vibrant, two performers he and his parents had been close to. Getting a hug from Jacque was almost like getting a hug from his dad, and Elinore made the best cabbage rolls Dick had ever had.

This visit was rough, though. The circus had fallen on hard times, partly because of the general waning interest in circuses as entertainment and partly because of a series of suspicious accidents. It was doubly rough because Dick couldn't help but be reminded of the "accident" that had taken his parents from him. He was suspicious, and he was investigating, for very good reason.

And then he ran into the kid. A snot-nosed little punk with a camera wandering around behind the scenes where he should never be. When Dick ran into him, he took him for an intruder, and the kid responded to Dick's attempt to capture him with a well-executed judo throw. Of course, Dick was stronger and more highly trained, so he flipped the throw back and brought the kid down instead. Then he realized that this was...you know...a kid, and stepped back, afraid he'd hurt him.

But the boy jumped to his feet, unfazed. His eyes widened when he saw Dick's face, and he grabbed his arms. "Dick, it's you! I think I figured it out. The old clown killed the lion tamer!"

And well, there were about fifty things in that sentence that Dick needed to deal with. But first, he had to save the circus, and he did not need help from some weird fanboy stalker. He told the kid to stay back, and he went at it.

Once the dust settled, the actual saboteur/murderer was in prison, and Dick was the co-owner of Haly's. The circus was heading to Vegas for a semi-permanent gig arranged through Dick's connections, to a hopeful future, or at least a stable one. His first family was safe, except the ones who had been murdered, and no, Dick would never really be over that.

Then, finally, he had a chance to deal with the kid. Tim Drake. From Gotham. A twelve-year-old boy, traveling alone, who had somehow, for some reason, tracked down Dick Grayson all on his own.

It was all kinds of weird.

He took the boy to a diner in the small town they were stopping at. It was midafternoon, the place nearly empty except for them, and Dick took a corner booth where they could talk somewhat privately. He needed to suss out who this kid was and exactly how he ought to deal with him. He was of half a mind to report him to the police, or maybe to CPS, but he felt obligated to hear him out first.

They got burgers and milkshakes, and the kid ate eagerly, chattering the whole time about the details of the case and how cool Dick was for solving it. Dick watched him with bemusement, mostly, sipping his milkshake and trying not to be endeared. He had to keep reminding himself that this boy was a nosy fanboy, not the cutest kid he'd ever seen. But, well, he was kind of both.

Eventually Tim seemed to remember what he'd come for in the first place. He paused his chattering, blue eyes wide, and slapped his hand on the table, then stared into Dick's eyes. "Dick! You have to come back to Gotham! Bruce needs you. He needs you really bad."

Dick drew a deep breath and shook his head. "Why do you say that? And how do you know Bruce? How do you know me, kid?"

Tim gave him a quizzical look, like the question didn't make sense. "Of course I know who Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson are."

Right, tiny little stalker. Dick grimaced.

Now Tim did quail, just a little, but he rallied. He pushed his empty plate aside and reached into his jacket to pull out a manila folder. He set it on the table in front of himself and tapped it nervously with the fingers of both hands. "Okay, so... Please hear me out, okay? This is going to sound nuts, but I swear I don't mean any harm. I just want the best for you and your family."

Dick nodded slowly. "That's why I brought you here, Timbo. To hear you out."

Tim took a deep, shaky breath. "Okay, so, don't freak out, but I know who you are."

Dick almost smiled. "Yeah, I know, you said that."

Tim shook his head. "No, I mean... I know who you are. At...at night." He opened the manila folder and pushed it across the table to Dick.

It was full of photos of Batman. They were all recent: Dick recognized the change in the costume Bruce had made after Jason...after Jason didn't come back. Photos of Bruce fighting, bleeding, stabbed and shot and beaten, limping away afterward with his cape dragging behind him. Dick sorted through the pile with his fingers, and after a few moments he realized that he was barely breathing. He made himself exhale and inhale, several times, then looked back to Tim. The kid was watching him with nervous anticipation, on the edge of his seat, but with a diamond-hard set to his jaw.

Dick carefully closed the folder and pushed it back across the table. "Timmy, those are...terrifying."

Tim nodded. "Yeah, I know. He's in really bad shape. He hasn't been doing well since..."

Dick waved a hand sharply, cutting him off. "No, I mean, it's terrifying how close you had to be to get those shots. How the heck did you do that? Some of them are night shots, some of them are on, like, a freaking precipice. What the actual..." He bit his lip so he wouldn't swear in front of a literal child.

The kid blinked, nonplussed. "I have a good zoom lens. I didn't get caught or anything. I was careful."

"That's not the point..."

Tim scoffed and shook his head, raising both hands. "No, you're not getting the point! You said you were going to hear me out!"

Dick sat back and closed his mouth, scowling.

Tim leaned over the table, all but vibrating with need to be heard, to be understood. "Bruce is in bad shape, Dick. It's really bad, and it's getting worse. Ever since Jason died, he's been reckless and aggressive and fighting all the time and not resting enough and... It's like he wants to die." There was an edge of desperation in his voice. "You can't let him die."

"Kiddo, I have never once in my life let Bruce do anything. He does what he wants. I've never been able to stop him."

"That's the thing, though," Tim said eagerly, bouncing in his seat. "You do. When you were around, or, or Jason, he was different. He was more careful, he didn't take risks, he was relaxed and happy and, and all of the good things. You did so, so much for him, and I don't think you realize that, but I do, because I saw. I was watching then, and I'm watching now, and I can see the difference. Bruce needs you, Dick. You have to go back. You have to go back and, and fight next to him again."

Dick closed his eyes, his hands closing into fists. He shook his head, slow and deliberate, and looked at the boy again. "I can't do that."

Tim gaped at him. "You have to! He needs you. He doesn't have anyone else."

"That's not true. He has Alfred."

Tim blinked, bewildered. "Who's Alfred?"

"Bruce's butler. More like his dad, really. They share soulmarks, have since Bruce was tiny."

"Oh, that's so cool," Tim breathed. "I'm glad Bruce has a dad. But that's not enough, Dick. You know it isn't. Look at those pictures! I'm sure Alfred is helping him, probably scolding him and telling him to be more careful and stop getting hurt, but Bruce isn't listening to him."

"He's not going to listen to me either."

Tim made an exasperated sound, like Dick kept missing the point. "Yeah, but he doesn't have to. Just...just having you there will make the difference. I know it! I've seen it." He leaned across the table, almost knocking his half-empty milkshake off with his elbow. Dick leaned toward him in return, and Tim lowered his voice. "Batman needs Robin."

They sat back again, and Tim's voice rose in excitement. He clearly felt that he'd played his trump card and had won the argument. "C'mon, you know I'm right! Legend needs legend. He's not the same without you. Please, Dick! You gotta!"

"Tim." Dick made his voice as firm possible. "I can't. And I won't. I've grown up, and I can't go back to being a kid again. It's not an option."

Tim slumped a little, but he wasn't out of juice. "Okay, so you can't go back to your old name, but you could still go and work with him the way you are now, couldn't you?"

"I can't. We don't..." Dick caught his breath in pain. "We just don't...fit together anymore. I tried, I..." He stopped, his chest aching. Tim watched him quietly, his eyes liquid with sympathy.

Dick spread his hands on the table and stared down at them, not seeing them. "I went to see him, after Jason...after Jason died. I just wanted to talk, but we ended up fighting, like we always do. I was angry that he replaced me, after trying so hard to get rid of me, and he even admitted that he took Jason on because he...because he missed me being beside him on the streets. I know he was in pain, I know he was grieving, but he took a swing at me, and I..." He shook his head. "I can't be the one to try again."

He looked up at the boy, not expecting him to understand. These were complicated, adult conflicts, and he was sharing them with a twelve-year-old. But Tim's eyes were shockingly intelligent, warm and sad and understanding.

"He hurt you," Tim murmured. "I'm so sorry, Dick."

Dick wondered, then. But he didn't really have to wonder; he knew. Tim had been hurt by a parent, too.

"You understand why I can't go back? It's not that I don't want to. I just... I need him to acknowledge what he did. How he treated me. I can't go groveling back to him, not after that."

Tim nodded and looked down at the table, scratching it with his nail. "I understand. He has to apologize to you first."

He took a deep breath and sat up straighter, then gave Dick a strong nod. "Then I'll talk to him. I'll make him see what he needs to do."

The corner of Dick's mouth turned up. "If you really convince Bruce to apologize for a fault, truly and sincerely, you'll be the first one."

Tim wrinkled his nose, but didn't seem to have a response to that. He looked back at the table, shoulders slumping. Now that the discussion was over, he seemed nervous and hesitant again, gnawing on his lip and not meeting Dick's eyes.

Dick sighed and leaned over the table on his elbows. "Hey, Timmy, why do you care so much, anyway? I thought at first that you were just an obsessed stalker, but after talking to you...it seems deeper than that. What's up with you, huh? I can't puzzle you out."

Tim cringed and rubbed the back of his neck, shoulders hunching around his ears. "No, no... You were right. I'm just a dumb little fanboy stalker. A stupid kid. There's nothing to puzzle out."

"Hmm." Dick stared at him, something tugging deep at his memory. "How did you figure it out? The big secret, I mean."

"Oh, I... I saw you on the trapeze once, a long time ago. You did a quadruple flip, and the ringmaster said only three people in the world could do it. And then I saw you do it again, you know, years later. In your night gear. It wasn't hard to put together from there."

Dick's eyebrows rose. "How old were you?"

"Um, I was two when I saw you on the trapeze. I was nine when I figured it out."

Dick whistled. "You're kind of a genius, huh?"

Tim shook his head, blushing. "No, I'm just...kind of clever, I guess. I don't even get good grades. I mean, they're okay, my parents would be upset if they weren't, but they're nothing to write home about. Or write to my parents." He tried to smile like it was a joke, but couldn't quite make it.

Dick grunted. He was starting to put it together. A young boy with a high-end camera, rich enough to travel out of state on a whim, unsupervised enough to pull it off. His parents were probably gone a lot, working, leaving him behind to the care of inattentive nannies and tutors. Smart enough to figure out who Dick and Bruce were, lonely enough to get passionately attached to them. Poor kid.

"Ten years ago, huh?" Dick leaned down and rested his chin on his fists, curled on the tabletop as he stared contemplatively at the boy. "You saw me do a quadruple flip ten years ago. Did Haly's stop in Gotham?" He searched back in his mind, trying to remember... And then the penny dropped.

"Holy guacamole, kid," he breathed. "You were there that night? That night?"

Tim nodded, still not meeting his eyes. "I saw them fall," he whispered. "I had nightmares for years. I'm sorry."

Dick shook his head numbly and straightened up, just to slump in the corner of the booth. He was slowly migrating around the table, closer to Tim. "I remember you. At least I think I do."

Now Tim did meet his eyes, lifting his head to stare at him. "You do?"

"I remember a tiny little boy with black hair and blue eyes who sat in my lap for a picture, at least. Was that you?"

Tim nodded, awe in his eyes. "I still have the picture."

"You'll have to show me sometime."

Tim stared at him like he had no idea why Dick would ever want to be associated with him. God, the poor kid had really been screwed over by his neglectful parents. Dick's fingers twitched toward his phone, once again, to make that call to CPS.

"And the way you say Bruce's name... It's like you met him, too. Your parents are rich, right? You've met him at galas?"

Tim bobbed his head halfway between a nod and a shake. "I only met him once. It was at a fundraiser. For, uh, for Jason." He managed a watery smile. "He was really nice."

"That's good. I'm glad he was nice to you."

Tim looked up at him. Dick had scooted closer to him again, so they were practically side by side. Tim's voice was soft and hesitant. "Do you...do you still have his soulmark? Even though he hurt you?"

Dick nodded, thinking of the faded white knight on his left shoulder blade. "Yeah, it's still there. I wish it was brighter, but it's there."

Tim took a deep breath and laid his hand over his heart. "I have it too. I know I don't have the right, but I do." He gave Dick a twisted attempt at a smile. "So we're kind of...partners, right? We both care about him."

Dick put his arm around his shoulders and pulled him to his side. "Yeah, Timmy. We're partners, for sure. We both care about him, no matter how difficult it is and how hard he tries to push us away."

In the end, Dick did not call CPS, and he hoped and prayed he would not regret it. Instead, he put Tim on a train straight back to Gotham, with the promise that he would go immediately to Wayne Manor and talk to Alfred and Bruce. He knew that all they had to do was meet him, listen to him, and they would both latch onto this sweet, weird, smart, passionate, slightly offputting kid as strongly as Dick had. Bruce would be making that call to CPS within two hours of meeting the boy, or Dick would eat his mask.

He was standing on the platform of the train station, waving good-bye as Timmy pressed against his window, waving back, when he felt the stinging low down on his left hip. He ducked into the bathroom at the station to check his new soulmark, which turned out to be a single blue eye with a red flame in the pupil. It was tucked up next to Jason's black ink stooping falcon and Gar's green jungle leaves. Dick smiled and stroked his fingers over the new mark, his heart aching with new love.

He really hoped that Tim would succeed in making Bruce apologize, so he could finally go home and see his second family again, just like he had spent the last few weeks with his first.

Chapter Text

The closer Tim got to Gotham, the more second thoughts he had about this new course of action. There was no way this could work.

Going after Dick and getting him to come home had seemed like the perfect solution. Bruce was spiraling, heartbroken and grieving after losing his Robin, so he needed his Robin back. Jason was dead, and Tim couldn't fix that, but it had just felt so lucky, so perfect, that Bruce had another Robin. The first one. The original. He just needed Dick to come back and be with him again and be his Robin, and everything would be fine.

Oh, it wouldn't be an instant fix. Tim had no illusions about that. He knew very well how much it hurt to lose someone you loved. Even though his parents were alive, he knew he'd lost them. Lost them long ago. It was almost worse, grieving them now while they were still alive, because he couldn't even share it with anyone. He couldn't tell anyone, because it would reflect badly on them, and Tim couldn't do that to his parents. He had to do everything he could for them, even if they didn't love him anymore and maybe never had. He owed it to them to be a good son, as much as he was able.

It wasn’t a cure-all, but if Bruce had Dick, if he had someone to look out for and take care of and worry about, it would make things better. Tim knew that without question. Bruce was such a sensitive soul. A strange thing, maybe, to think about a man who dressed in black and gray and haunted the city streets, instilling fear in the hearts of criminals. But Tim knew it was true. The reason Bruce was having so much trouble was because he cared, he cared so much, and having that care cut off by the universe with the loss of his second son had wounded him terribly.

Bruce needed Robin. He needed his child. But Dick had refused to return, neither as Robin nor as Nightwing.

Tim wiped his hands on his jeans and stared out the train window, watching the scenery fly by. After hearing the story from Dick, he couldn't blame him for not coming back. Bruce had done wrong by taking a swing at him, even if he hadn't connected. Tim knew there was more that Dick hadn't said, too, about the arguments and the words they said to each other. Yes, Bruce had been in pain and he hadn't been thinking straight, but he shouldn't have taken it out on his remaining son.

Tim had been so stupid to immediately say that he would fix it. That he would talk to Bruce and make him apologize. What an idiotic thing to say, especially as quickly and confidently as Tim had said it.

Who was Tim to Bruce? A weird little boy he had met at a fundraiser once. He was nothing. He was no one. Even Alfred, Bruce’s soul-father, hadn't been able to fix this. Such a presumptuous, arrogant notion, to think that Tim could do something that Bruce’s requited soulmates, Dick and Alfred, couldn't do.

Tim gulped and closed his eyes, pressing his hand over his heart, over Bruce's soulmark. He had no right to this. He had known that from the moment it appeared. He didn't deserve it, hadn't earned it. He was never going to show it to Bruce. He shouldn't have even told Dick he had it. It was weird. It was creepy. It was desperate and pathetic and so, so stupid.

But it was there. And that meant that Tim had to try. He was duty-bound to do everything he could to try to heal his soulmate, even though it was unrequited, even though Bruce could never be allowed to know that Tim’s soul had chosen him.

Even if Bruce thought he was creepy and pathetic and weird, even if he yelled at him and told him to go away and threw him out on his ear, Tim still had to try. He sat there on the bench seat, his hand clenched in the fabric over his heart, and breathed slowly and deeply as he let the conviction settle into his bones. He had to try. He had to do everything he could.

Once the train disembarked in Gotham, Tim went straight to the street and hailed a taxi. He didn't even go home first to relax and unwind from his trip. It was just past sunset, now, so he had to get to Wayne Manor before Bruce went out for the night. Even if it did nothing. Even if he had no chance. He had to try.

The taxi had to stop at the security gate, and Tim felt his insides die. Of course Wayne Manor had a security gate. Why hadn't he thought of that? There was no way they were going to let him in. This plan was doomed before the start.

But he scooted up to the window to talk to the video monitor, and there was a stern-looking older man on the other side, and something clicked.

"Um, are you Alfred?" Tim asked, at the sharp request for his identity and why he should be allowed inside.

The older man's eyes narrowed. "That's Mr. Pennyworth to you, young sir. How do you know my name?"

"Oh, um, sorry, Mr. Pennyworth. Uh, well, Dick sent me," it was technically true, "and he mentioned you, so I kinda figured..."

The sharp eyes softened, just a little. "Master Dick sent you, did he? And what is your name and business?"

"I'm Tim Drake. Timothy Jackson Drake." Somehow he felt compelled to give his full name. "You don't know me, but I met Bruce at a fundraiser once..." So stupid, why was he saying this? Tim's mouth kept running away with his head today. He was so nervous he felt like he was going to throw up. He cleared his throat, sucked in a breath, and tried to steady his voice. "Anyway, yeah, Dick sent me, pretty much. I need to talk to Bruce, if he, if he hasn't gone out already. Please. Please? I really need to see him."

Mr. Pennyworth looked back at him for a few seconds longer, then leaned forward and pressed something out of frame. A buzzer sounded, and the gate began to slowly swing open. "Please do come in, Mr. Drake. Master Bruce will want to hear your message from Master Dick, whatever it is."

The driveway up to the house was long. Really long. Tim spent the whole way trying to keep his heart from punching a hole out of his chest and running away in sheer terror.

And then he had arrived. Tim paid the driver with his credit card, then trotted up the steps to the front door, hauling the backpack that held everything he'd taken with him on his trip to Haly's by one strap. Just as he reached it, the door swung open, and Tim startled back and just barely caught himself from tumbling down the steps again. Mr. Pennyworth stood there holding the door, his face just as grim and stern as it had been over the monitor.

He swept a hand across his body to the open door, giving Tim permission to enter. Tim nodded jerkily and hopped inside before he changed his mind. The door closed behind him, and he was stuck just inside the foyer, staring around at everything with wide eyes.

He had thought the library downtown was classy and had lots of cool art, but it had nothing on Wayne Manor. He spotted a small golden statue on a table under a mirror against the wall and started walking toward it without thinking. "Oh, wow, is that really...?"

He pointed toward it, looking up at Mr. Pennyworth for confirmation, then realized that he was acting like this was a museum and Batman's dad was his tour guide and went abruptly still, flushing horribly. "I'm sorry," he faltered, even as his eyes darted around, trying to take it all in. "This really is amazing, I'd love to see everything, but..."

He shook his head and looked at Mr. Pennyworth. He wasn't sure, but it looked like maybe the man was amused. He coughed into his fist. "Um, may I see Mr. Wayne, please?"

The flesh around Mr. Pennyworth's eyes crinkled, and he reached out for the backpack strap still hanging at Tim's side. "First, perhaps I could divest you of your bag and jacket, Mr. Drake?"

"Oh, uh, sure." Tim let go of the strap and slid his arms out of his jacket as Mr. Pennyworth removed it from his shoulders.

"Wait!" He dived for the backpack just as Mr. Pennyworth started to walk away. He dug into the front pocket and pulled out his folder of photos, then zipped it up again and backed away. "Sorry, got it."

Mr. Pennyworth nodded and deposited Tim's things in a side room, then moved back into the foyer. "I’ve already informed Master Bruce of your arrival, but I'll go and ensure he's ready to see you. You may make yourself comfortable in the meantime." He gestured toward a padded bench against the wall of the foyer.

"Oh. Okay. Thanks." Tim went and sat on the bench, setting the folder beside him. Mr. Pennyworth ascended a huge stairway at the other end of the foyer. Maybe Bruce had a bedroom or a study up there. Tim sat on his hands to stop himself from fidgeting and touching stuff.

He was in Batman's house. This was where Batman lived. And Nightwing had lived here, before he moved away to join the Teen Titans. And Robin, he'd lived here too...

Suddenly, all of the excitement drained away. Tim slumped where he sat, staring blankly into space. Robin didn't live here anymore, but not because he'd moved away. Robin was dead, and he was never coming back.

And Nightwing didn't want to be Robin anymore. What if there was never a Robin again? Tim swallowed hard and blinked rapidly to force back the tears. That would be...awful. He couldn't really articulate why. It just would be.

Then Bruce Wayne slowly came down the stairs, Mr. Pennyworth following behind him. Tim popped to his feet, gaping. Bruce...no, Mr. Wayne, he had to be polite...looked tired, with big dark circles under his eyes, and he was moving like his entire body hurt. Like every step took an effort of will, and he would much rather just lie down and be still. Tim's nose wrinkled up, his chest stinging with pain at seeing him like this.

He wasn't sure what to expect when Bruce saw him. (Why did he keep thinking of him by his first name? Was it a soulmate thing?) Maybe a frown, maybe nothing. But instead, Bruce smiled.

"I thought I recognized your name. You're the boy from the library."

Tim nodded, bouncing on his toes as hope surged in his heart. He hadn't expected Bruce to remember him. Not in a million years.

Bruce finished crossing the foyer and stood before him, still smiling. "It's good to see you, Tim. But where are your parents? Did you really come here alone?" He swung his head back and forth like he was expecting Jack or Janet to pop out of the woodwork.

Tim blinked. "Oh, um. They're not here. I came because I needed to see you, talk to you."

Bruce tilted his head to regard him gently. "You need to talk to me alone?"

"Yes! Well, of course Mr. Pennyworth can be there too."

"And Dick sent you? Is that right?"

Tim grimaced. "Sort of. I mean, pretty much. I was with him this afternoon, and he told me to come here. He made me promise, actually. But I came because I have to talk to you myself, not because Dick gave me a message or anything." He shot Mr. Pennyworth an apologetic look.

Bruce hummed and considered, then swept his hand to wave Tim forward. "Let's go talk in the lounge."

Tim snatched up his folder and followed. Bruce led the way down a short hallway to a comfortable room full of chairs and sofas and small tables. He settled down in a chair, Mr. Pennyworth standing right behind him and to the right, and gestured for Tim to sit. Tim picked the loveseat across a coffee table from him and perched on the edge, the folder balancing on his knees.

Bruce folded his hands under his chin and watched him carefully. "All right, Tim. What did you need to talk about?"

Tim drew a deep breath, then leaned forward and set the folder on the coffee table. His hands were shaking, just a little, and he folded them tightly in his lap. "Okay. Please don't freak out, okay? Just let me finish."

And he told him. Pretty much exactly the way he'd told Dick, but a little better organized because he'd already told someone once.

Bruce sat there, listening. He didn't say a word. His face was utterly blank. He picked up the folder and looked at the photos, then passed it back to Mr. Pennyworth to peruse as well. After that, he sat stock still, his hands on his knees, and stared at Tim practically without blinking.

Tim didn't falter until the end, when he finally got to what he needed Bruce to do. What he needed to convince him to do. The part that Dick had seemed to think was impossible.

"So that's why you need to... You need to talk to Dick, and apologize for hurting him, and get him to come work with you again. He can help you, I know he can, but he needs you to make the first move. And he doesn't want to be Robin anymore, which is sad, because Robin is the coolest, and..." Tim's voice cracked, but he cleared his throat and kept going, "and I would be really sad if there was no Robin anymore. But what I want isn't important. What's important is that Batman is okay, because Batman needs Ro... Batman needs someone. You need Dick. You need Nightwing. You can't keep going out alone anymore. It's going to kill you."

The last sentence came out ferociously, with utter conviction, utter passion. Tim was leaning so far forward that he almost fell off the loveseat, and he had to rock back and grab the arm to steady himself. His face felt red and flushed, his limbs trembling with emotion. Bruce had to hear him. He had to understand. He had to change, he had to do something, he couldn't stay where he was, or he was going to die.

Tim couldn't let Bruce die. He couldn't let Batman fall.

Bruce still didn't move, didn't speak. He didn't make a sound. But Mr. Pennyworth did. It was something between a sigh and a grunt of pain, and Tim's eyes flicked to him in shock.

Mr. Pennyworth was holding the back of Bruce's chair with one hand, white-knuckled, his other hand pressed to his neck. His face was mottled red and white, drawn in pain, and tears glistened in his eyes. Tim jumped to his feet, reaching out a hand like he could catch him if he started to fall.

Bruce was closer. He leaped to his feet and reached out to hold Mr. Pennyworth's arm, then guided him around to sit in the chair. "Al, Al! What's wrong? Is it your heart? Are you having a stroke?"

He cast a wild glance at Tim, who started fumbling in his pocket for his phone to call an ambulance.

But Alfred shook his head. He reached up and grabbed Bruce's sleeve with one hand, dragging him close. The other palm was still clenched to his neck. "It's not a heart attack. It's not a stroke."

"Then what, Alfred, what's wrong?"

Alfred pulled in a gasping breath and looked up at Tim, piercing him with his dark eyes. "It's...this boy."

Tim sat back down as his knees folded beneath him, just like that. He stared at Alfred across from him, unable to speak, unable to even think.

Bruce's hand tightened on his shoulder. "What do you mean, Alfred? What are you talking about?"

Alfred smiled, stretched and sharp and pained. "It seems that we are much the same, this boy and I. We both fear for you. We both yearn to support you. We both feel that you cannot do this alone, that you must make a change, or you will perish."

He looked up at Bruce, still smiling that strange smile. Ever so slowly, he lifted his hand away from his neck. And there was Tim's soulmark, sharp and burning and bright.

Tim caught his breath, his eyes so wide they hurt. It was an instant soulmark, or almost instant. He'd never had that happen before, except with his parents when he was born. Even with Sebastian Ives, it had taken a couple of months for them to grow each other's soulmarks, and Tim deeply cherished his best friend's little curled up orange tabby cat on his right thigh.

Bruce swallowed, but said nothing. Alfred was still looking at him, something quiet and deep in his expression. "It seems that whatever else may happen, Master Bruce, we are meant to care for this boy."

He looked across at Tim, and his smile went soft and warm and wide. "How say you, Master Tim? You must be hungry after your long journey today. I insist you join us for dinner."

And well, what could Tim say but yes?

Chapter Text

Tim was strangely quiet at dinner, compared to how quickly and eagerly, almost desperately, he had been talking before the soulmark revelation. Alfred broke his rule to sit next to him, gently getting to know him better while Bruce sat across the table, observing. Tim only spoke when spoken to, and he seemed oddly skittish of Alfred's proximity. His eyes were perpetually wide, like a spooked horse.

It seemed that the boy wasn't used to an adult paying such close attention to him, talking to him, showing interest in what he said. Bruce remembered Tim at the fundraiser, too, how shocked he had been when Bruce stopped to talk to him. He had seemed nervous and uncertain then, too, but at the time Bruce had put it down to being overwhelmed by the unfamiliar environment. Sitting around a dining table talking with family (because yes, Alfred and Tim were now family, there was no denying it) shouldn't be an unfamiliar environment.

"It's getting late," Alfred said. "Do you need to call your parents?"

"Oh, they're out of town," Tim said nonchalantly. "No need to bother them. I can handle myself."

Bruce and Alfred shared a significant glance. Before Tim arrived, Alfred had been arguing with Bruce that he shouldn't go out tonight, but stay in and heal up from recent injuries. Bruce had fully intended to go out anyway, but now he was rethinking that. There were no urgent cases he needed to pursue at the moment, and he was finding the mystery of Tim Drake much more intriguing. And worrying.

"How old did you say you are again?" Alfred asked. "Twelve?"

Tim gave him a sideways frown. "That's what Dick thought, too. No, I'm thirteen." He sat up straighter in his chair, as if to accentuate his slender height.

Alfred hummed. "A bit small for your age?"

Tim grimaced. "I guess. And I mean...I just turned thirteen last month. But I am thirteen." He gave Alfred an earnest stare. "I'm old enough to stay by myself when my parents are out of town."

"Still, it's late. I would feel better if you spent the night here, rather than traveling back to your home in the dark."

Tim looked across the table at Bruce, his face doubtful. Bruce forced a smile. "Of course you're welcome here, Tim. For as long as you like."

His stomach turned, rebelling against the delicious dinner Alfred had provided of chicken parmesan and garden salad. This wasn't about him. This was about Alfred and the child his heart had chosen to claim. He had no right to feel uncomfortable about another young boy staying under their roof.

Despite the heaviness that weighed him down, blanketing him from head to foot in folds of dark blue, Bruce could recognize that if things were different, he might have grown Tim's soulmark within minutes of meeting him, too. Though the boy had living parents, he felt like an orphan. He seemed untethered in a way that felt wrong, unpleasant and jarring. Such a smart, kind, sincere young man should have parents who doted on his every move, who would worry about him when they were apart and demand constant updates on his well-being instead of leaving him to his own devices.

Bruce had already resolved to look deeper into Tim's home life as soon as he had a chance. Something was off, there, and he wanted to know exactly how bad it was. He knew Alfred felt the same, and Dick had probably picked up on it, too.

But Bruce had not grown Tim's soulmark. He felt the absence of it, somehow, an ache that made him metaphorically itch and squirm. It was as he had thought, after Jason died. Bruce was fundamentally broken. He wasn't meant to be a father. Tim was better off without him.

But that didn't mean he couldn't care. That didn't mean he couldn't welcome Tim into his home, encourage his and Alfred's relationship, and investigate his home life and intervene if necessary. All that he would certainly do, willingly if not enthusiastically.

Tim accepted Bruce's invitation and looked back at Alfred, giving him a small nod. "I didn't, um, I didn't pack any pajamas, though. I thought it would just be a daytrip."

"Oh, I'm sure we can find something for you," Alfred said warmly. "This has always been a house of boys. An old nightshirt of Dick's ought to fit you."

Bruce was helplessly, wordlessly grateful that Alfred hadn't offered Jason's clothes, at least. He couldn't stomach the thought of seeing them on another child, no matter how sweet and deserving Tim was.

He wasn't going to be able to eat another bite, now. Bruce stood abruptly, then bowed his head in apology when Tim and Alfred both looked at him. "Pardon me. I need to be excused. You two should keep chatting. Get to know each other."

As he exited, he heard Alfred say behind him, "Tell me about your hobbies, lad."

"Well, I like computers..."

Bruce walked down the hall until Tim's voice was just a murmur behind the wall, then stood still, his eyes squeezed shut as he mastered himself.

He didn't want this. He didn't want another child in his life. He kept seeing Jason's image interposed over Tim's. Jason when he first met him, young and scrappy and full of life. He'd always been so fearless. The day Bruce met him in the alley, caught him in the act of stealing the Batmobile's tires, instead of running Jason had hit him with the tire iron. It had made Bruce burst into laughter, surprised and delighted.

He couldn't help but compare that to Tim traveling out of state, tracking down a man he only knew from the news, and trying to force him to go home just because he believed it was the right thing to do. Or Dick sneaking out of the group home where he'd been dumped by the system, seaching for his parents' killers. So recklessly brave, so fierce and righteous, all three of these boys.

Bruce's chest hitched with grief. If he kept thinking about this, he was going to start crying. He didn't want to cry again today.

He took out his phone instead, staring blankly at the screen as he tried to gather himself. For all his recklessness and naivete, Tim was right about one thing: Bruce needed to apologize to Dick. He had treated him badly in their last encounter, and it was up to him to correct that.

It wasn't anything that Bruce hadn't already known. How many times over the past few weeks had he done this very thing, pulled out his phone and stared at Dick's name in his contact list, trying to force himself to make the call? And each time he'd taken the coward's way out and put the phone away instead.

This time he had another reason to call as well, though. He needed to hear Dick's thoughts on Tim's situation. According to Tim, they had spent several hours together, and afterward Dick had sent him straight to Alfred and Bruce. He'd made him promise to come here. He must have had a reason for it.

Bruce swallowed hard, then finally selected Dick's name from the list. He leaned his back against the hallway wall, then slowly slid down to sit on the floor, holding the phone to his ear. He listened to it ring. Maybe Dick wouldn't answer. Maybe he was busy, or maybe he didn't want to talk to Bruce at all. Bruce didn't know if he wanted Dick to pick up or not.

But after a few rings, he did. "Bruce?"

His voice was hesitant, wary, but... There was hope, there, too. At least, Bruce thought it was hope. It made his heart lift in response. Maybe Dick didn't hate him after all. Not fully.

Bruce blew out a breath. "Dick. Hello. Yes, it's... It's me."

Dick laughed, soft and incredulous. "I didn't..." He coughed and cleared his throat. "Um, I didn't know if you would really call."

Bruce's eyebrows rose. "You...expected this?"

"I don't know. Not really. But I thought, maybe... If anyone could do it, it would be Timmy."

"Ah, yes. Timmy. Tim Drake." Bruce's words stuck in his throat.

"He did it, then? He went straight to the manor, like I told him to?"

"Yes. He and Alfred have...hit it off. They're having dinner together right now, talking."

Dick laughed. "That's great. I knew they would get along."

"Alfred grew his soulmark."

Dick gave a low whistle. "Wow. I figured it would happen sooner or later, but... How long did it take?"

"About fifteen minutes. Tim was just sitting there, talking, and suddenly Al gasped and grabbed his neck and... They have a lot in common."

"Yeah." Dick was silent for a few seconds. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Do you have something to say to me?"

Bruce closed his eyes and leaned his head back so it bumped the wall. He wanted to say it. He did. But it was so hard.

"I..."

Dick waited patiently, then finally prompted him again. "Yes, Bruce?"

"I... I'm sorry." Bruce huffed, smelling chicken parm on his breath. "I'm sorry, Dick. I treated you badly. I shouldn't have said those things. I shouldn't have swung at you. That was...unconscionable. I'll never do it again. And if I do, you have my full permission to kick my ass."

Dick laughed, though it sounded like he was choking. "I wouldn't hold back."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Bruce said grimly. "I... I've been reflecting a lot, since, since Jay... I'm sure you understand why. I know I've done a lot of things wrong, and a lot of them have been in regard to you boys. There's nothing I regret more."

Now Dick sounded almost tearful. "You don't have to grovel, Bruce. An apology is enough."

"No, I... I need to say this. And you deserve to hear it. When you started getting attached to the Titans, wanting to be with them more than me... I got jealous. I was...cruel. I tried to hold onto you in ways that weren't kind and weren't right, trying to manipulate you, forcing you to make a choice. I should have just let you be the wonderful young man you are, so loving and giving and generous with your time and your talents, but I selfishly wanted to keep you all for myself. Somehow in my twisted reasoning I thought that forcing you to stop being Robin would wake you up, somehow, make you stay with me, but I just drove you away."

"Bruce..." Those were definitely tears now.

"Please, let me keep going. That night, the last night you dressed as Robin in the Batcave, I saw my mark on your shoulder blade. How faded it had become. That image has haunted me ever since. You know I... I don't have a lot of soulmarks. Every single one I do have is absolutely precious to me, but none more than yours. The thought that I could lose that bond through my own actions, my own selfishness... It's horrific. I'm sorry I made that happen. I hope it's not completely gone."

"It isn't," Dick murmured.

Bruce managed a smile. "Good. I... I'm glad to hear that, son."

He drew another deep breath and clenched his free fist, determined to see this through. "The last time you visited me, the time I took a swing at you... I was wrong. Fully and completely wrong. You badgered me into admitting that I had made Jason Robin because I missed having you at my side, and that...broke something inside me. It should have made me recognize just how valuable you are to me, but instead I was just eaten up with guilt, thinking that I had killed Jason in a poor, pale attempt at replacing you. I misplaced that guilt onto you. It was stupid and...and awful. I'm so, so sorry."

"I accept your apology," Dick said solemnly.

"Thank you." Bruce caught his breath. "And I'm sorry if you ever felt that I had used Jason to replace you. I was missing you when I made Jason Robin, but also I just...I loved Jason for himself, as himself. I love...loved you both. Always. I wanted Jason at my side for the same reason I wanted you at my side. Because I loved you and I wanted to spend time with you. And you both loved being Robin, and I wanted to give you something you loved. You were both helpful, you were both wonderful partners, but... It was never about that."

Dick laughed shortly. "Tim's been getting to you. That whole 'Batman needs Robin' schtick."

Bruce smiled mirthlessly. "Something like that. He's wrong, of course. But...he's very sweet. So determined to be helpful. It's...charming. I can admit that, at least."

"Yeah, isn't it?" Dick's voice was fond. "He's adorable. I grew his soulmark, too, you know. Right on the platform of the train station as I was waving good-bye to him."

Bruce caught his breath. Dick and Alfred had both grown Tim's soulmark the day they met. Bruce was the outlier, then. As he had expected. As he already knew.

No, he reminded himself. He didn't want Tim's soulmark. Tim deserved better.

"Do you...want me to tell him?" he asked, voice strained.

"Nah." Dick's voice was casual. "I think I'll show him myself, the next time I come to visit."

A spike of joy pierced Bruce's heart. "You plan to visit?"

"Yeah. I'm thinking I'll stop by Gotham on my way back to New York from Haly's. Sound good?"

"Absolutely." Bruce couldn't stop smiling now, and it was totally genuine. "I'll ask Alfred to air out your room."

"Knowing him, he's probably kept doing that once a week as a matter of principle."

Bruce chuckled. "Most likely."

"And you're keeping Timmy, right? I expect to see him at the manor when I come."

Bruce smile fell, his joy tempered. "So you think something's wrong there, too?"

"Definitely. He's being neglected, possibly severely. At the very least it counts as child endangerment, since he was able to travel unsupervised into what very well could have been a deadly situation."

Bruce nodded slowly, even though Dick couldn't see him. "Please tell me everything you know, everything that he let slip while he was with you."

"Will do. And I doubt it will be hard for you and Alfred to get him to talk about it, either. He doesn't realize that the way his parents are treating him is wrong. Like any mistreated kid, he thinks it's normal."

"Yes. Alfred and I will consult once Tim is in bed. Al has already persuaded him to spend the night."

"Great." Dick's voice was smug. "I knew it wouldn't take long for you two to latch onto him."

Bruce snorted. "Right. I'm thinking that it may be time to get Alfred certified for foster care, since he already has the boy's soulmark."

"Oh?" Dick's voice was mildly surprised. "You don't want to do it?"

"I could, yes. But Alfred has his soulmark."

"You know that's not a be-all and end-all, even in the eyes of the law."

"True, but it's a strong indicator. At least for now. This is all very new, Dick. It will take time to iron out the details. In any case, this is Alfred's permanent residence as well as mine, so it shouldn't make a big difference whose name is on the paperwork."

"Well, either way. I knew you would want to keep him. I'm glad I was right about that."

"Right," Bruce said softly. "Now, about Tim's parents..."

It felt so wonderful to talk to Dick, his first son. To talk about evidence and conjecture on a case, just like the old days. Bruce fell into it so easily, it was like they'd never stopped.

Chapter Text

Everything was happening so fast. Tim really didn't know how to react. He had just agreed to spend the night one time. He was kind of in a state of shock at the time, so no one could blame him.

The next morning he had regained some of his faculties, so he tried to make his excuses. Breakfast was delicious, pancakes and bacon and eggs and oatmeal, way more than Tim normally ate, but it felt rude to refuse when Alfred had gone to so much effort. It was almost like Alfred enjoyed cooking for him. He kept asking if he wanted more, or if he wanted something different, while Tim insisted that everything was perfect and stuffed food into his face until his stomach hurt.

Bruce sat at the end of the table, quietly drinking coffee and reading the news on his tablet. Tim noticed that he avoided the heavy pancakes and oatmeal, sticking to eggs and fruit. It was probably part of his diet, keeping fit to be Batman. The bruise on the side of his face seemed better than last night, anyway. Tim tried not to stare, not wanting to be rude.

"Thank you for having me stay the night, but I should be getting home soon," Tim said as Alfred once again filled his juice glass.

He had done his job. Before he went to bed, Bruce had stopped him on the stairs to tell him that he had called Dick. He seemed kind of choked up, actually, and he said it had been a very good conversation, and he really appreciated Tim coming to give him the push he needed. Tim had blushed like a furnace and made awkward noises until Bruce stopped talking, then hurried away. Despite the mortification he felt at being thanked by Batman, his heart had fluttered joyfully at the thought that he had managed to do some good, after all.

So now it was time to go home. He had done what he had set out to do. Dick was going to come back, and Bruce was going to get better and be happier. It was all Tim wanted or needed.

But Alfred and Bruce looked at each other, and then Alfred sat next to Tim, just like he had last night. He angled his chair so he was looking into Tim's face, his hands folded in his lap. "Is someone expecting you at home? You said your parents are out of town."

Tim squirmed. "I mean, sort of? There's Mrs. Mac, the housekeeper, but she's more there to look after the house than look after me. She won’t be there today, since it’s the weekend."

Alfred kept his face smooth, but Tim could have sworn he wanted to frown. "So there's no one who looks after you while your parents are gone?"

"No?" Tim wasn't sure what else to say. He thought they had already discussed this last night. "I told you, I'm old enough to look after myself."

Alfred nodded gently. "And how long will your parents be gone?"

"I don't know. I could check their itinerary if you really want to know. Is it important?"

"A week? Weeks? A month?"

Tim wrinkled his nose. This was getting very uncomfortable. "Um. More like months? Probably. They said they would be back by Thanksgiving this year."

He knew there wasn't much certainty in his voice. He wasn't pinning any expectations on Thanksgiving. He was mostly just hoping they would be home for Christmas, for once.

Alfred and Bruce gave each other another one of those looks, like they were speaking without talking. Bruce cleared his throat, then set down his tablet and looked Tim in the face.

"Tim, we'd like to invite you to stay here while your parents are gone."

Tim looked back and forth between them, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. He knew his mouth was hanging open, and he forced it shut. "Okay, but...why?"

Alfred reached up and delicately tapped his finger against Tim's soulmark on his neck, peeking out just above his collar. "We're family now, Master Tim. And I don't like the idea of anyone in my family being alone for any length of time, never mind months."

Tim blinked rapidly. "Well, I mean, yeah, you have my mark, but..." Why was his voice so weak? "But, but that doesn't mean you're obligated to look after me. You don't owe me anything. It's just, you know...a thing." He waved his hands awkwardly in the air.

Alfred just smiled warmly, like he'd done something cute. "I know you haven't experienced this yet, Master Tim, but someday, when you meet your own child for the first time and a soulmark instantly blooms on your skin... You'll understand how that feels. It's not an obligation. It's the farthest thing from obligation. I want to look after you because there's nothing else I can imagine doing, not because it is expected. There's nothing I want more than to make sure that you are safe and happy. Please, dear lad, let me do it."

Tim looked down at his plate, breathing heavily. He couldn't say it, but he did know how that felt. That day he met Bruce in the library, and he grew the mark over his heart... Yes, he knew the difference between obligation and a soul-deep desire, almost longing, to be of service to the person he loved.

So he raised his head and nodded mutely, accepting. Alfred smiled, and even Bruce looked momentarily pleased. It was overwhelming, but it felt nice.

Bruce took care of it from there. Something about calling his lawyers and having them call Tim's parents' lawyers, and vague intimations of something Tim didn't quite understand. He just knew that Bruce told him not to worry about it, and then Alfred took him for a grand tour of the entire manor while Bruce dealt with that end of things. The tour was great. Alfred seemed to anticipate a lot of Tim’s questions until Tim got up the gumption to start asking them on his own, and he didn’t mind when Tim touched stuff. Before he knew it he was chattering a mile a minute, excited and interested by nearly everything he saw.

Alfred kept answering his questions, patient and indulgent. And he kept giving him these looks, on and off, that Tim found somewhat unnerving. Not because they were bad or anything, just because they felt so...odd.

When they stopped in the music room, Tim couldn't resist going over to the piano and hitting a few random keys, and Alfred chuckled softly and gave him another one of those looks. And that was when Tim realized what that expression on his face was. Fondness.

And, well, that shouldn't have been surprising. Alfred had grown Tim's soulmark within half an hour of meeting him. New soulmate bonds were especially intense in the first few days after they manifested, too. Of course he was fond of Tim. He felt...affection for him, at the very least, if not love.

He had a feeling Alfred would call it love.

For some reason, this didn't make him feel good. He felt guilty. Tim stared down at the piano keys for a few seconds, then hit one last note and walked back to Alfred's side. The last, discordant note hung in the air behind them.

Tim didn't talk much after that. He tried to recapture his earlier interest and curiosity, but couldn't manage it. His chest felt too heavy, his feet weighed down.

Alfred noticed, of course. A few rooms later, he gently laid a hand on Tim's shoulder and turned him to face him. "Are you all right, Master Tim? You seem disheartened."

Tim smiled politely, like his mother taught him. "I'm okay. Really. Thank you so much for showing me the manor."

"Of course. I want you to consider this place your second home." Alfred squeezed his shoulder. "Are you hungry? It's getting close to lunch time."

Tim considered. Cooking for him had seemed to make Alfred happy before. So he nodded. "Yeah, that sounds great."

Alfred patted his shoulder and led the way back toward the kitchen and dining area. "What would you like? I have supplies for several light meals that should be appealing to a youngster such as yourself."

They made light chit-chat on their way back, and soon Tim found himself sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, watching as Alfred bustled around the kitchen. He swung his legs and asked questions about what kinds of food Bruce and Dick liked to eat, curious about his heroes despite everything, and Alfred answered with funny little stories and quirky anecdotes. The guilt faded, though it didn't leave entirely.

Alfred left the soup to simmer and came over to stand opposite Tim as he leaned on the island, staring down at his hands. "Can you tell me now what's troubling you, lad?"

Tim looked up. Of course Alfred hadn't been fooled by his deflection. He was much too observant and wise for that. "Oh, I..." Tim swallowed against the lump in his throat. "I just..." He pulled in a breath. There was no point in hiding. Alfred wasn't going to stop asking until he told him. "I'm sorry I don't have your soulmark."

Alfred leaned back slightly. "Well, and why would you?" His tone was truly baffled.

Tim fidgeted with his hands, watching the way the flesh wrinkled around his knuckles. "I just mean... It's not that I don't like you, or I'm not grateful that you've taken so much interest in me. I just... I don't know why I can't reciprocate the way you deserve, and I wish I could."

"Master Tim." Alfred leaned over and placed his hand over Tim's, stopping him from digging his nails into his skin. "You haven't even known me for a full day yet. I don't expect you to grow my soulmark anywhere near that quickly, if you ever do at all."

Tim blinked at him. "But... I haven't done anything to earn this. I should at least return it, shouldn't I?"

Alfred frowned. "Of course you haven't earned it. There's nothing a child does to earn familial affection from an adult. It's something that simply exists. That's why caretakers for infants and young children often develop the child's soulmark as soon as they meet, while the child can take months or years to manifest their mark in return. You don't have a grandparent, or aunt or uncle, or anyone like that who grew your mark when you were a baby?"

Tim shook his head. "Both of my parents were only children, and my grandparents have all passed or live far away."

"Ah, that's a shame. Then let me assure you, there is nothing abnormal about the bond between the two of us as it stands right now. I care for you, but you are under no obligation to care for me in return. Master Dick and Master Jason both had to take time to get to know me and come to trust me before they grew my mark. I am not at all surprised that you need the same time, and I am perfectly willing to do whatever it takes to earn your affection as well."

Tim looked down at Alfred's hand laid over his. It was so big and strong, and Tim could feel the calluses on his palm and the pads of his fingers. There was that word again. Obligation.

Alfred had made it very clear earlier that he was not taking interest in Tim out of obligation, and now he had made it clear that Tim had no obligation to him in return. Tim couldn't help but still feel it, a little bit, but he accepted that Alfred had no expectations of him. That helped. A lot. He still felt a tiny kernel of guilt in the middle of his gut, but it didn't weigh him down like it had before.

At last, he looked up at Alfred and gave him a smile and a little nod. "Okay."

Alfred smiled back and gave his hand another squeeze, then went back to cooking.

Things continued to move quickly. That afternoon Bruce took Tim to his house to pack some bags. They took a sensible car, not one of the large number of flashy ones that they passed in the garage, to Tim's hidden but great disappointment.

Bruce was quiet on the drive, and Tim was too nervous to speak. Fortunately his house wasn’t terribly far, just a couple of neighborhoods away. Bruce followed Tim up to the front door, where Tim fumbled with his keys.

Bruce stood a little way back, looking up at the house with his arms folded over his chest. "It's a big house to live in alone," he said mildly.

Tim thought that was rich, coming from someone who lived in a manor, but he shrugged with one shoulder and ducked inside. "Mrs. Mac?" he called, just in case she had decided to come in on the weekend for some reason, but there was no answer. He made his way up the stairs to his room, Bruce following a few steps behind.

Tim was embarrassed to have Bruce Wayne, the literal Batman, in his incredibly messy and disorganized room, but he couldn't kick him out. So he just went straight to the closet to grab a duffel bag and started dumping clothes from his dresser into the bag. Bruce stood in the middle of the room, looking around with his hands in his pockets and a small smile on his face.

Bruce crossed over to the desk and picked up one of the action figures that crowded the corner opposite Tim's desktop computer. "Who's your favorite superhero?" he asked, amusement in his voice.

Tim whirled away from the dresser, eyes going wide. Oh God, he had totally forgotten. His room was crammed back to front with superhero merch, most of it Batman related, all of it bootleg, since it wasn't like Batman and his allies had ever signed a licensing deal with anyone. Posters, t-shirts and hoodies, even a replica batarang he'd bought from a street vendor. And of course, action figures. So many action figures.

Bruce happened to be holding a Batgirl figure, at the moment. Tim was particularly proud that he'd managed to find one with authentically long, red hair. Batgirl hadn't been seen on the street for a while. She disappeared around the same time Robin did, actually. He hoped she hadn't retired, but if so, she had certainly earned it.

Tim's eyes swept over the figures on his desk. His favorite should be obvious from the high proportion of representation in his collection, honestly. He cleared his throat. "Uh, my favorite is Robin, actually. The, uh, the original. The second Robin was great, too, don't get me wrong, but... Yeah, the original is my favorite."

Immediately he felt utterly horrible. He had just brought up Bruce's dead son in front of him and implied that he wasn't his favorite. What was wrong with him?

But Bruce's smile didn't disappear. It changed in character, becoming more sad and soft rather than amused, but it didn't go away. He ran his finger over Batgirl's red hair, then set the figure back down on the desk. "Do you want to bring these with you? Maybe we can find some boxes in the garage or something. Or I can hire a mover."

"Oh, that's not necessary. It's temporary, right? I don't want you to go to so much trouble."

Bruce turned to face him, no longer smiling. "I don't want you to think of the manor as temporary, Tim. My home is your home. You should have not just the things you need, but the things you want to have around you, too."

Tim stared at him, clutching the strap of his duffel bag. He couldn't quite wrap his head around the idea of being in the manor for more than a couple of days, yet. He knew Alfred and Bruce wanted him to stay for at least the few months his parents were gone, but that couldn't be right. They were going to get tired of having him around. Tim gave it a week, tops.

He forced a smile. "It's okay, really. I would feel weird bringing a whole bunch of Batman merch to, uh, to your house. Let's just leave it here."

"All right." Bruce looked over at Tim’s bed, then crossed over and, horror of horrors, dug out the Robin plush stuffed under his pillow. He brought it over to Tim and held it toward him, large hands wrapped around the soft, squishy torso and utterly dwarfing it. "I think you should at least bring this one, though."

Tim stared at the plushy, then up at Bruce's face. Bruce didn't seem to be condescending to him or teasing him for having a stuffed Robin, not in the slightest. Tim reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and took the plushy, then hugged it against his chest with one arm. "Okay," he whispered.

Bruce smiled and ruffled his hair, then looked around the room again. "What about your computer? Do you need that, or would you like me to buy you a new one?"

It was a very strange day, and it was all moving much too quickly. Tim could barely keep up. But it was nice, too.

Chapter Text

Dick drove his car down the long driveway to Wayne Manor. He parked in front of the steps, not bothering with the garage. And he sat there, staring up the steps at the massive double doors.

A few days ago, Dick had been certain he wouldn't be coming back here for a long, long time. He had hoped that eventually Bruce would get over himself enough to make amends, but he hadn't believed it would happen quickly. Not for months, maybe years. Then all of that changed when a weird young boy named Tim Drake barrelled into his life with all the grace of a drunken baboon.

Yet for all his lack of grace, Tim had somehow stumbled his way directly into Dick's heart. Into his soul. A few hours later, he did the exact same thing again with Alfred Pennyworth. Dick wondered how long it would take Bruce to fall for him, too.

Then again, Bruce might never. His grief was sharp and all-encompassing. It didn't leave any room in his soul for new connections, new bonds. He was trapped.

A wave of melancholy flowed over Dick as he continued to sit there in his car, gazing sightlessly up at the manor. He hadn't been kind enough to Jason. He hadn't spent enough time with him. Oh, sure, he grew his soulmark, but Dick grew a lot of soulmarks. Sometimes he wondered if it was different for people who had fewer soulmarks, if they loved more deeply, more intensely, devoting larger fractions of themselves to the souls they adored. Sometimes he envied them.

But no, they said it was the vibrancy of the mark that mattered, not the number. Most of Dick's soulmarks were quite vibrant, but there were a few...

He couldn't remember, now, just how bright Jason's mark had been. Before it turned into a black ink illustration.

He couldn't remember, and he ached for it.

Dick drew a deep breath and stepped out of the car, stuffing the keys into his pocket and bounding up the steps. He had another chance, now. Another little brother. He was going to be everything to Tim that he should have been to Jason. He wanted that illustration of a blue eye with a red flame to be bright, bright, bright. Bright as a star, bright as a sun. Bright as the real life eyes of the boy who owned the mark to begin with.

It was the middle of the day on a bright summer Monday, and Bruce would be at WE attending the weekly board meeting. That made it easier for Dick to slip in the doors, a jaunty whistle perched on his lips. Even though they'd made up over the phone, Dick wasn't quite ready to see Bruce in person yet. A few more hours, a little more time to brace himself, and he would be. But not right now.

He found Alfred in the laundry room, humming softly as he folded a small pair of boxer shorts that must belong to Tim. He had a content little smile on his face, standing at a work table with a pile of unfolded clothes on one side of him and neatly folded shirts and underwear on the other. He looked up at Dick's entrance, his smile broadening so the wrinkles deepened on the corners of eyes.

"My dear boy! What a pleasant surprise."

Alfred circled the table so Dick could wrap him up in a big hug, pressing his cheek against the side of Alfred's head. The old gentleman squeezed him back, warmly though not as exuberantly as Dick, then pulled back to look into his face. "I thought you wouldn't be here till this evening."

"I drove fast and didn't take many breaks."

Alfred tsked and shook his head. Dick chuckled and swayed back, his nose wrinkling as his eyes moved to the door. "Actually, I was hoping maybe I could catch Tim without Bruce around. Get in some brother-brother bonding time, you know. Any idea where he might be?"

Alfred hummed and went back to the laundry. "Most likely he is in his room, organizing the new items Master Bruce purchased for him against his will. The last two days have been rather hectic."

Dick laughed and bounced on his toes. "Oh, man, I bet Bruce loved having a kid to buy a bunch of stuff for. An excuse to spend money, hurrah."

Alfred nodded complacently. "Indeed, I do believe that purchasing items for someone he cares for is one of Master Bruce's preferred activities. It was certainly a welcome distraction."

"I'll have to go check it out. Where is his room?"

Alfred gave directions (two doors down from Dick’s room, on the other side of the hall), and Dick gave him a farewell wave, then trotted out.

Tim's door was standing slightly ajar, so Dick knocked on it as he pushed it further open and leaned his head into the room. Tim was sitting at a desk, hunched over a keyboard in front what looked like a brand-new monitor. He jumped pretty high at the sound of the knock, then whirled around to see who it was. Dick grimaced, sorry for startling him.

"Hey, Timbo. It's just me, didn't mean to scare you."

"Oh. Hi." Tim blinked at him.

Dick grinned and straightened up, his arms open, palms toward Tim. An awkward moment passed. Dick was waiting for Tim to come over and give him a hug. But the kid just sat there, blinking.

Dick shrugged and let his arms fall, then walked toward the desk. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Just...you know. Stuff." Tim turned back to the computer. "I told Bruce I didn't need a new computer, but he went and got me one anyway, so now I'm setting it up with my favorite programs and virus and malware protection and all that."

He sounded somewhat harassed. Dick chuckled inwardly. He could just see how that conversation must have gone, with Tim trying to convince Bruce that he didn't need something in a high-pitched, irritated voice while Bruce just sat there with his tablet in his hands and placidly pressed the "Order" button.

When he reached Tim's chair, he tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, get up for a second."

Tim cast a bewildered glance at him, but obediently clambered to his feet. Dick immediately pulled him into a hug, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing tight. Tim stiffened in his hold at first, then relaxed. He didn't hug him back, though.

After a few seconds, Dick released him and held his shoulders instead so he could look into his face. "I'm sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?"

Tim's forehead wrinkled as he frowned in confusion. "No?"

"Do you not like hugs? Or do you not like being touched or something? I'm sorry, I know I can be a bit overbearing."

Tim’s frown deepened, and he fidgeted from foot to foot. "No? I mean, yes, I like hugs. They're, um..." He bit his lip, his hands twisting in front of his stomach. "Hugs are good."

"Then is it me? You don't know me well enough yet? That's understandable, if so. You can tell me to back off."

Tim scratched his head, looking deeply bewildered. "I don't understand what's happening right now."

Dick let go of his shoulders and stepped back a step to give him more space, giving him his best warm, open smile. "I hugged you, and you didn't hug back, so I thought maybe I overstepped my boundaries with you. I'm sorry, if so. I just want to make sure you're comfortable with me touching you, and that you would accept a hug from me."

"Oh." Tim still looked confused, but slightly less so. "No, I don't mind. I didn't mind. I like hugs." His face reddened. "I liked your hug. I didn't mean to not hug back. It just, uh... You just surprised me, that's all."

"Okay. Then let's try that again." Dick smiled broadly and opened his arms. "C'mere and give me a hug, little buddy."

Tim giggled, small and adorable, and went willingly into his arms. This time he wrapped himself around Dick in return and squeezed him back. It was a really good hug. Dick broke it first, trying for slightly less overbearing than usual, and Tim released him as well and stood back. The kid was practically glowing, still smiling and pink-cheeked.

Dick ruffled his hair. "I guess we'll need to practice that more. You're living with Bruce now, so you're basically my little brother, after all."

Tim looked at him curiously, patting his hair back down. "It's just for a little while. It's not that big a deal."

"A few months, at least, I think is what Alfred told me over the phone. Long enough."

Tim shrugged.

He was so different from Jason. Dick felt his breath catch as the thought occurred to him. Jason had been wary, too, but in an entirely different way. Not sure of another older male in his life, not sure of Dick's acceptance of a new boy in his old home. The wariness of a stray dog, too used to being kicked. It had been external, not internal.

Once Dick had won him over, by taking him out into Gotham as Nightwing and Robin and showing him all his favorite rooftops, buying him street food, and calling him "Little Wing," Jason had opened up. He'd been a happy, friendly shadow whenever Dick came home, eager to tell him about what he'd been learning at school, the criminals he'd fought as Robin, the great foods Alfred had cooked for him since Dick's last visit. It had made Dick’s infrequent visits worthwhile, despite the lingering tension between him and Bruce.

And Jason had been easy with hugs, happy to accept Dick's arm around his shoulder, the little bumps and smacks and light punches that came with being brothers.

For a moment, just a split second, Dick was completely overwhelmed by grief. It poured over him like a tidal wave, like the entire ocean rushing into shore and sweeping him away. He wanted that boy back. He wanted him back.

Dick shoved it off, determined to be in the moment, but Tim seemed to catch it. Maybe he heard the break in Dick's voice, maybe he saw the shadow pass over his face. He was frowning, watching Dick with those bright, observant eyes.

Dick gave him a smile, hoping it didn't look forced. No, Tim was not Jason. Dick needed to remember that. He needed to be here for this boy, this new little brother, not stuck in the shadows of the past. Tim was more than a second chance or a shot at redemption. He was his own person with his own gifts and problems and personality quirks. He was not a replacement for Jason. He was brand-new.

"Are you at a good stopping point with your computer?" Dick asked, gesturing at the machine. "There's something I want to show you."

Tim glanced at the monitor. A loading bar crossed the screen, slowly filling up. "It's in the middle of installing the office suite. Yeah, I can take a break."

"Great, then let's go." Dick clapped his shoulder and led the way. Tim followed at his heels, trotting to keep up.

Dick chatted on the way to the study, nothing important, just little stories connected to things that caught his eye as they passed. Tim grinned and nodded, occasionally asking a clarifying question, but not really speaking up on his own. Dick had to push down memories of another young boy following behind him, listening with rapt attention as Dick talked. Tim was not Jason, Tim was not Jason.

At the grandfather clock, Dick hesitated and looked back at Tim, who was bouncing on his toes, eyes wide and sparkling. "Man, I hope I got here first. Bruce didn't show you already, did he?"

Tim shook his head, looking around the study. "Nope, I haven't been in this room before. Well, except for just a second when Alfred gave me a tour on my first day, but we didn't stay long. Why? What's special here?"

Dick grinned. "Awesome. I'm so stoked that I get to show you this. Here, watch carefully."

He turned the hands of the clock to that special time, and there was a loud click and an echoing ka-chunk as the levers slid into place. Tim sucked in a breath, and Dick swung the clock away from the wall, revealing the opening that led down into the rock. "We call it the Batcave."

Tim literally clapped his hands and squealed, a tiny, high-pitched little noise that seemed completely involuntary. It was utterly adorable. Dick wished he'd thought to film this moment. He laughed and waved his hand, beckoning him onward. "C'mon, let's go!"

"Oh my gosh," Tim chanted under his breath as they walked down the steps. "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh."

Dick had missed Jason's first introduction to the Batcave. Had he been this excited, this enchanted? Dick doubted it. And anyway, it didn't matter. Tim was brand-new, and so were his reactions. He raced around the cave from location to location, trying to see it all, blasting out questions at a mile a minute.

"Holy mackerel, what is that thing? Is that a robot? Why the giant penny? That computer is huge! At least the monitors are. Why does Batman need such huge monitors? Do you have a supercomputer hooked up to it? What's that stuff? It looks like testing equipment from a lab! Oh, actually, it makes sense that Batman has his own forensics lab, now that I think about it. Hey, look, it's the old suits!"

With the last one, Tim raced over to the display cases and pressed his palms and his nose against the glass, looking at the first Batman uniform. It was definitely showing wear at the shoulders and knees, and the cape had some bullet holes. Dick was still fond of it, though, just because it looked so kooky compared to the designs Bruce had come up with later. So understated. Over the years Bruce had gotten more and more dramatic. Looking at the first suit filled Dick with a strange kind of nostalgia, even though Bruce hadn't even been wearing that one anymore by the time he came along.

"I have a newspaper clipping with this suit," Tim said. "Well, it was a police sketch, because no one got a photo when Batman first appeared on the scene. It was all witness testimonies, mostly from thugs that Batman had taken down. But it's still a really cool article and a really cool sketch. It's on the first page of my scrapbook."

"You have a scrapbook, huh?" Dick stepped next to Tim and stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the suit.

Tim backed off from the glass, his cheeks flaming. It was like he'd forgotten who he was talking to. "Yeah, I mean, yes. I, I have a scrapbook with articles and photos and stuff. Of Batman and Robin and...and other stuff." He was suddenly very interested in his hands. "Mostly Batman and Robin."

Dick chuckled and put a hand on his shoulder, steering him further along the row of display cases. "Then here, check this out. My first Robin costume."

"Whoa." Tim stood stock still and stared at the suit, eyes sparkling. "It's built on your circus leotard, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Dick stared with him. So many memories bound up in that outfit. "The first time I went out into the streets at night, that's all I was wearing. Later Bruce helped me add more stuff to it, like the Kevlar-lined cape and the flesh-colored leggings and sleeves. But that was the foundation. The...origin."

"Your origin," Tim said in a hushed voice. "It's the same one? From...that night?"

Dick nodded wordlessly, his throat too tight for speech.

"I know I was only two when I saw you wear it that night, but I think I still recognize it. The pieces that are left, anyway. Am I stupid to think that?"

Dick shook his head and squeezed his shoulder. "No," he murmured. "I'll always remember it, too."

They were silent for a few more moments, quietly contemplating. Then Dick led him on down the line, to the next iteration of the costume. He gave the kid an improvised tour on the evolution of the Robin suit, showing him the different additions and modifications he and Bruce had made along the way, continuously improving the design.

And there at the end of the row...

The both stood still, gazing at the memorial case. Dick didn't know why Bruce had chosen to keep the suit Jason had died in, to display it like this. It was torn and bloodied, despite the careful laundering Alfred must have done; it had obviously been through a vicious beating and then an explosion. Maybe Bruce kept it to punish himself, to keep the wound of Jason's death raw and open. That was definitely something Bruce would do.

But he was inadvertently punishing Dick with it, too, and now Tim. When Dick looked at it, all he could think about was how he hadn't been there. He'd been off-world when Jason died, with absolutely no chance to make a difference. He didn't learn about it until weeks later, when they returned to Earth and saw the update in the JLA database. He hadn't even heard about it from Bruce, or from Alfred. He'd learned about his little brother's murder from a computer.

He hadn't noticed when the mark turned black, and that hurt more than anything. Maybe he'd been in a battle at the time, maybe he'd been too distracted or too busy or taking hits from other places. But still, he should have noticed. And he didn't.

"It's so sad," Tim said in a soft, shaky little voice. He had such a compassionate soul, so deeply empathetic and wounded on the behalf of others.

Dick wrapped his arm around his shoulders and turned him away, so they weren't looking at the torn uniform anymore. "I'm gonna talk to Bruce about taking that down," he said, voice rough, almost as shaky as Tim's. "There are better ways to memorialize Jason than a constant reminder of his death. We should remember the good he did while he was alive, not the tragic way he died."

Tim nodded against Dick's shoulder, leaning into his side. Already he was getting used to touches, to contact. He seemed almost hungry for it, soaking it up the way thirsty earth would take the rain.

Dick squeezed him against his side in a half-hug, then walked them away from the suits, toward the training area. Once they had a little distance, he took Tim's shoulders in his hands and turned the kid to face him. "There's something I want to talk to you about."

Tim nodded solemnly, watching his face almost without blinking.

Dick drew in a breath. "I've been thinking about what you said, ever since we had that talk in the diner. About how Batman needs a Robin."

Tim's eyes widened. "Did you change your mind about coming back?"

Oh, his voice was sweet and hopeful.

Dick shook his head. "No, not the way you're thinking. Sure, I'll be happy to team up with Bruce as Nightwing, now and then, when he needs a hand. But I have my own life, my own priorities. I can't just leave it all behind. More to the point, I don't want to."

Tim nodded, deflating slightly.

Dick gave him a gentle smile. "But I think you're right. I think Batman would do better with a Robin at his side. Someone to keep him grounded and remind him of why he's fighting in the first place so he doesn't get lost in it."

Tim's forehead wrinkled. "I don't understand."

Dick grinned and gave his shoulders a jovial little shake. He was absolutely certain that this was right path, and he couldn't wait for Tim to know. He was going to be so excited. "I think you should be Robin."

Tim turned white as a sheet. It wasn't the response Dick expected at all.

Chapter Text

"What's up with that face?" Dick asked, his expression dismayed, though he tried to keep an upbeat tone. "I thought you would be excited."

Tim blinked at him. "I...I need to sit down."

He could barely hear his own voice, the rushing in his ears was so loud.

Dick held him up with a hand under his elbow and led him over to the lab equipment, where there were several chairs. He got Tim sitting down, then dragged another chair over and sat face to face with him, their knees almost touching. Dick was leaning down to look into Tim's eyes, naked concern all over his face.

"Are you okay? Was it that much of a shock?"

Tim nodded and took several deep breaths. He was feeling better now, the shock fading to be replaced by deep and abiding embarrassment. What a stupid reaction to have to Dick Grayson, the first Robin, offering him what was essentially Tim's dream job.

When Tim was little, he used to daydream about being Robin, flying between rooftops on a thin line, following at Batman's heels and fighting the bad guys, saving the innocent, winning the day, always with a jaunty smile and joke on his lips. But lots of little kids in Gotham dreamed about being Robin, Tim was sure. He was nothing special.

He didn't know when he'd first realized that, but as he grew, the knowledge sank deeper and deeper into his psyche. Tim wasn't special. He wasn't unique. He wasn't talented, not like Robin or Batman or any of the other heroes he looked up to. He wasn't charismatic or entertaining; he couldn't even keep the attention of his parents, for goodness sake, and they were obligated to love him and spend time with him. He was nothing and no one, and that was never going to change.

Oh, he was still inspired by Robin, by Dick Grayson. When he had a chance to choose his own activities and lessons, he signed up for gymnastics and martial arts, just to get a tiny bit closer to his hero. This was still Gotham, after all, and terrible things happened to innocent people every single day. If he was ever in a bad situation, he wanted to be able to defend himself, at least a little.

But there was a big gap between being inspired by Robin and...being Robin.

As soon as he got his breath, Tim spoke. "I can't be Robin. I can't."

Dick leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on his thighs. His expression was sober, his eyes thoughtful. "I've thought about this a lot, Tim. I think you would be great."

Tim shook his head wordlessly. He couldn't even articulate how ridiculous that was. He didn't want to contradict Dick or...call him stupid...but it was on the tip of his tongue.

Dick held up a hand and started ticking points off on his fingers. "For one, you're smart. Really smart. And I don't just mean in raw intelligence. You have the kind of mind that can make connections, see the big picture. Like how you figured out that I was Robin just because you saw me do two quadruple flips with seven years between them. That's incredible, Tim. I cannot emphasize enough just how impressive that is. A lot of this job is detective work, and you’ll be amazing at it. You already are. I think that's your biggest strength, and the biggest point in your favor, but there are others, too."

Tim shook his head. It felt like reflex at this point. "No, I'm not. I'm not that smart. I don't even get that good of grades."

Dick frowned. "Getting good grades isn't the be all and end all of intelligence, Timmy. Sure, it's nice, but there are lots of kinds of smarts that school and academia can't measure. Plus, I'm betting motivation is a big factor. You probably just don't like school very much, do you? And without parents at home to push you and ask you how you're doing and help when you get stuck, you don't have a reason to put in a lot of effort. I bet if you tried, really tried, you could get much better grades than you do."

Tim frowned, but he couldn't dispute that. His teachers often got frustrated with him for not putting in enough effort on his studies. Several them had told him that he had potential, a lot of it, and he could do great things if he tried harder. He just...didn't.

Dick waved a hand. "We can talk about that more later." He moved on to the second point, folding his thumb into his palm. "Next, you're strong. And you have some base skills going in. I'll never forget the way you almost judo threw me when we first met. That was great, and the way you hopped over obstacles in your way, too... I can tell you've had some training in gymnastics. All good stuff, and Jason didn't even have that much when he started.

"You can be a lot stronger, sure. You need training, lots of it, for endurance and strength and flexibility, and you're going to need a ton of practice before you can throw a batarang or hit the right spot with a grapnel hook. But that just takes time and effort, and I know you can put it in. I know you can do the job physically, if you want to."

Dick folded down his pinky and moved on to the third point. "Next, you're sneaky." He laughed, loud and delighted, at the memory. "The way you followed Bruce around, taking all those pictures..." He shook his head, grinning with mirth. "And he never suspected! God, that's rich. It makes me so happy, you have no idea. The big bad Bat, bamboozled by a thirteen-year-old kid. It's awesome. It also shows that you have some knowledge of Gotham, and you can get around in the city with confidence, despite living out here in the suburbs. We’ll have you memorizing all kinds of maps, too, but it’s a good start."

He folded down his ring finger, leaving two fingers up. "Next, opportunity. Seems basic, but it is a requirement. You're living with Bruce now, so you have access to the Batcave and you can train to your heart's content. You have me, and I'll be your greatest advocate and your personal trainer whenever I'm home. You have Alfred, who is the best. And I'll get Bruce on board, too, just you wait. When Bruce wants something, he makes it happen. It's scary to watch sometimes, but also very cool.

"But most importantly..." Dick folded down his middle finger, leaving the index. And he pointed it at Tim’s chest.

Tim stared down at it, wide-eyed, then looked back at Dick. "Wh...what? Me? Just me?"

Dick grinned. "Your heart, buddy. You have a big heart. You care about people, and more than that, you're willing to do something about it. You showed that by putting in so much effort, what some people might call a crazy amount of effort, to help someone you barely knew. You put yourself in danger without even thinking about it, and that's definitely something we're gonna need to talk about more, too, but disregarding that... You have compassion. Huge amounts of it. And you put it into action. That, far more than anything else, is what makes you a great fit for Robin."

Tim's hand pressed over his heart, and his entire body curled up in his chair, like a dry leaf before the winter. "But..." His voice was barely audible. "That's just because of the soulmark, right? I care about Bruce because of the soulmark. I couldn't help it. I had to do something. I had to do anything I could, even if it didn't work. I still had to try."

Dick's grin was gone. He shook his head solemnly. "I think you're a little mixed up, kiddo. You don't care because you have a soulmark. You have a soulmark because you care. Yeah, it's pretty extraordinary that you grew Bruce's soulmark after only meeting him once, but that's just proof of how big your heart is, don't you see? You met a billionaire playboy philanthropist that most people see as a fool or a spendthrift, someone to take advantage of or just party with. Or at the very least, someone to ignore, pass over, never think about."

Dick paused, like he was surprised by his own words. Then he went on, his voice tender. "And instead of seeing his wealth or his power, or even Batman, considering that you already knew the big secret... Instead of any of that, you saw a man who was grieving his son. You saw a person. And you cared about him. You loved him. Just like that. Just because you could."

Tim still sat curled up in the chair, staring at his lap and clutching his heart. Dick reached out and gently gripped his chin, tilting his face up to look at him.

"That's amazing, Tim," he said softly. "You're amazing. I can't imagine anyone better to take up my colors."

Dick sat back with a sigh, his hands falling loose at his sides. His face was so open, it was like looking into a clear sky. Tim could see every cloud that crossed it, every passing shadow.

"I didn't... I didn't do a great job with Jason," Dick said painfully. "I didn't choose him. Bruce decided he should be Robin without even consulting me and I was...not happy. Robin had been my thing. It was originally my mother's nickname for me, and then Bruce just took it away, then gave it to another kid when I wasn't even there..."

He looked away, fist clenching in his lap, then looked back to Tim. "I tried not to resent Jason for Bruce's choices, or at least I tried not to let him see it, but I'm sure I didn't completely succeed. I didn't come around much. Jason was always glad to see me when I did visit, but I should have spent so much more time with him, just as brothers, just because, not..."

He stopped, rubbing his hand over his face and staring at the floor, then looked back to Tim. "So now. It's going to be different. You are my choice, in every way you can be, and I want you to know it. I'm going to support you no matter what. I'm sorry I sprung the idea of Robin on you out of the blue like this. I thought you would be happy, but it looks like you have a lot of hang-ups I wasn't expecting. We can work on those, we can make it better, but I guess the most important thing, the most vital question..."

Dick leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, and looked deeply into Tim's eyes. "I forgot the most important thing. The one factor that matters more than anything else, any of the others I talked about. What do you want, Timothy Drake? Do you want to be Robin? If you do, we will make it happen, I promise. If you want to be Robin, I know you can do it. You can be anything, beat any obstacle in your way. But if you don't want it... Well, just say the word. I'll drop the subject and never talk about it again, if that's what you want."

Tim pressed his hands over his face and hunched over, fighting the urge to rock where he sat. What he wanted? What did he want? Did he want to be Robin? Did he not want it?

He felt dizzy, overcome with possibility. He could see it ahead of him, barely out of reach. That dream of flying between the skyscrapers of Gotham, fighting at Batman's side, laughing in the face of danger. Saving innocent people, bringing criminals to justice, making the light in Gotham shine just a little brighter. Being a hero.

He could be a hero. If he wanted to be. If he fought for it. If he tried. Dick was holding it out on a silver platter, promising to support him and have his back. All he had to do was say yes.

But his throat was jammed up, and he couldn't speak. He felt that knowledge like a pulse inside his head. You're not special. You're nobody. You're nothing. You're not a hero. If you try, all you'll do is fail. Fail and fail and fail. You're nothing. You're nobody. You're not special.

"Tim?" Dick's voice was soft and concerned.

Tim pulled his hands down to the level of his nose and stared at him over his fingers. His eyes burned like he wanted to cry, though he couldn't feel any tears. Thank goodness. That would be even more embarrassing, more unbearable.

"Tim, hey." Dick put a hand on his shoulder, holding him warmly. "I didn't mean to cause such a...crisis for you. Listen, if you decide not to be Robin, it's okay. It won't change anything. I'm still gonna think of you as my little brother, no matter what. Look at this."

He turned sideways in his chair, so his left side was facing Tim. He pulled up the hem of his shirt and pushed down the band of his jeans so Tim could see his hip. And there was Tim's soulmark, his weird blue eye with the creepy red flame, staring back at him from Dick's light brown skin.

Tim looked up at Dick's face, his hands falling into his lap. Dick smiled at the look on his face, wry but happy. "That's right, me and Alfred both. You're something special, kid. For real."

Tim looked back at his soulmark on Dick's hip. He waited for the guilt to come, like with Alfred, of not requiting Dick's connection to him. But it didn't. He felt no guilt, just wonder.

It was like he already knew, somewhere deep inside. Give it time, a few weeks, a few months, and he was going to manifest Dick's soulmark in return. He knew it. He could feel it. The potential was there, and already it was ripening toward fruition.

Everything was possible. Everything he'd ever wanted. Everything he'd ever dreamed of. It was all within his grasp.

He just needed a spark. A tiny bit of courage. A single word.

So he said it. "Yes." And then he shouted it. "Yes!"

Dick grinned, his eyes sparkling, and turned around in his seat to look at Tim face to face. "Say it again."

"I want to be Robin!"

Tim jumped to his feet, unable to be still. He felt like running and jumping and skipping, all of sudden. He flapped his arms and bounced on his feet. He was grinning so hard his face hurt.

Yes, he wanted this. All doubt was gone. He wanted to be Robin. He wanted to be a hero. He wanted to help people and save the day and make stupid jokes and hang out with real-life superheroes and everything else that came with it.

Dick hopped to his feet, too, grinning back. He grabbed Tim and pulled him into a big hug, and Tim leaned into it. He wrapped his arms around Dick's middle and squeezed him tight. This was so cool. He could hardly believe it was happening.

Dick took a deep breath and pulled back, holding Tim's shoulders. He was still smiling, though not as hard as before. "All right, now all we gotta do is tell Bruce."

Tim felt his heart sink. Oh yeah. He forgot about that for a second.

There was no way this was going to work.

Chapter Text

When Bruce got back from the mandatory board meeting, he dressed in sweats and went down to the Batcave for his usual afternoon training session. He heard the sounds of Dick punching a dummy when he was barely ten steps down. Bruce smiled as he completed the journey down the stairs, remembering many, many days in the past when the Cave had been filled with Dick's grunts and yells and whoops of victory.

Dick saw him before he reached the training area and stepped back from the dummy, his wrapped hands still held at chest height. He grinned and panted, sweat slicking his hair against his forehead. "Hey, Bruce!"

"Hey, chum," Bruce said warmly. He held back, smiling fondly. "I'd hug you, but frankly, you reek right now."

Dick guffawed and lunged at him. "Just for that...!" He threw his arms around Bruce in a bear hug, smearing him with plenty of sweat. Bruce chuckled and didn't even try to get away, just set his stance to keep from toppling over from the exuberance of Dick's greeting.

It was like they'd never fought. Like Dick had never left with a question of whether or not he would ever return. Like Jason...

But there went Bruce's warm reminiscence. It was not like Jason was still there. It never would be again.

Dick released him and stood back, still grinning. "It's good to see you." He laughed incredulously. "I'm a little surprised to be saying that, to be honest."

Bruce nodded. "I know I already apologized over the phone, but I do feel that I should say it again. I'm sorry, Dick. Truly and sincerely."

Dick nodded solemnly. He walked over to the edge of the mat to grab a towel from the basket Alfred kept there. He mopped the sweat from his face and arms, then slung the towel around his neck. Bruce went to the mini fridge to fetch him a bottle of water. He tossed it to him, and Dick caught it easily, then chugged half of it down in about ten seconds.

He scrubbed his forehead again with one end of the towel, smiling at Bruce more softly now, but still sincerely. "It's funny, you just missed Tim. Did you pass him on the stairs? He'd barely left when you came down."

Bruce shook his head. "I didn't see him on the stairs or in the study."

It was technically true. He'd heard Tim's small, light footsteps coming up the stairs from the Batcave when he opened the clock. Two days and already he could recognize the child's footsteps, though honestly it wasn't that hard to distinguish between the sound of his steps, or Alfred's or Dick's. He'd seen Dick's car outside, so he surmised that Dick must have decided to show Tim the Cave.

Bruce had loitered in the hall until Tim left the study, luckily turning the opposite way from where Bruce was standing. Then and only then did Bruce climb down to the Batcave himself. It wasn't like he was avoiding the boy, he just...

All right, he was definitely avoiding him. The idea of seeing another dark-haired, blue-eyed twelve-year-old in the Cave was just...too painful. He hoped Tim had enjoyed Dick showing him around, truly, but Bruce could not even contemplate doing it himself.

Bruce clapped Dick's shoulder, then moved over to the free weights section of the training area and started setting up his usual bench press. Dick followed him, pausing at intervals to stretch. "Do you want me to spot for you?"

Bruce nodded. Alfred usually spotted for him, but with Dick he might be willing to try a slightly heavier load than usual. Not that Alfred wasn't strong, he certainly was, but Dick was on a different level.

They fell into the rhythm of it easily. Bruce let himself be lullled by the familiar routine, the presence of his oldest boy. They worked in near silence, knowing each other so well that almost no words were necessary. Dick added more weights when Bruce nodded, watched him go through his reps, and took the weights off without being told that Bruce was done. It was perfect. It felt like home.

Between sets, Bruce worked through a series of stretches, Dick joining alongside him, though Bruce was warming up and Dick was cooling down. Bruce wondered idly if Dick had been training with Tim, or if Tim had just watched. He knew Tim had some physical training, he could see that in the way he moved and held himself, but he didn't know how deep it had gone or how far he was interested in going with it.

Bruce didn't want to think about Tim, though. He was here with Dick, enjoying spending time with him. There was no need to think about anything else. This was familiar, welcomed, and above all, soothing. Nothing like the pins and needles that seemed to fill his head, his body, every time Timothy Drake crossed his brain.

Then Dick sat down on the free weight bench next to Bruce's, his hands hanging between his spread legs as he slumped with his forearms resting on his thighs. "Bruce, there's something I want you to think about."

Bruce grunted.

"You should think about making Tim the next Robin."

Bruce blinked, but he didn't pause his latest set. "No."

Dick snorted. "I thought you'd say that. I'm just saying, you should consider it. He has a lot of strengths that would make him a great fit. I could give you a list, if you want."

Bruce shook his head. "I already decided. Robin is retired. I won't put another child in danger."

"No offense, Bruce, but the fate of Robin isn't yours to decide. It's my identity, my colors. You made Jason Robin without consulting me, but I'm putting my hand back in now. And I think Tim would be great."

Bruce finished his set, then racked the weight and sat up, almost mechanically. He swung his body over to sit on the bench across from Dick, facing him. "You didn't approve of Jason being Robin. And now you want to put another boy in that uniform."

Dick rolled his eyes, though he held his body almost artificially still. "I was upset about Jason being Robin because I felt like you were taking my identity and giving it to someone else. My objection wasn't to Jason himself, nor to Robin as a concept. Don't strawman my arguments."

Bruce looked away, his jaw bunching. True, that had been a bad tack. He looked back at Dick. "The answer is still no."

Dick nodded gently. "I understand. I'm not asking you to make a decision right away. I'm asking you to think about it."

Bruce looked down at his hands, so large and strong, and yet so weak. For a moment, he saw them clothed in his black gauntlets, digging through the debris of a collapsed warehouse. He felt the hot sun baking down on his shoulders, felt the terror and dread constricting his throat, weighing down his chest. The burn in his throat as he called for his son, over and over. Then finding him, bloody and torn, and drawing him desperately into his arms.

He blinked, and the image was gone. He was back in the Cave, in the dimness that was never quite banished even with dozens of banks of LEDs and halogen bulbs to light the space. He felt the cool of a cave breeze whispering over his sweaty skin, heard the far-off chitter of bats. He clenched his fists, watching his tendons move under his skin.

"I thought about it. The answer is no."

"What about at least doing some training? Tim is interested in gymnastics and martial arts. He's already taken some lessons, and he has the basics down pretty solidly. He wants to learn more, and we have the facilities to teach him. He'd love it if you trained him."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "You've already discussed this with him."

"A little, yeah. I did a quick evaluation of his skills before you came down. Like I said, they're pretty solid. And he was excited about the idea of learning more. I already promised to be his personal trainer whenever I'm home, but he'll need help between my visits."

A glow of hope lit in Bruce's heart, and he looked into Dick's eyes. "You plan to come home more often?"

Dick smiled. "Yeah, I do. I missed you, B. I missed Alfred, the Cave, all of this. And if I don't come home now and then, I'm going to miss Tim, too."

"Right." Bruce huffed out a breath. "You grew his soulmark within a few hours of meeting him."

"Yeah, I did." Dick was quiet for a moment. "It's okay that you didn't, Bruce," he said softly. "I know your heart is still sore. It will be for a while, maybe a long time. There's no rush. Healing has its own timeline."

Bruce looked down again. There were a lot of things he didn't want to talk about, not even with Dick. That one was right at the top.

"Anyway," Dick continued with forced cheerfulness. He slapped his thighs and pushed himself to his feet, then started another brisk cooldown walk around the weight area. "Think about it. Tim would love to train with you, and you'd be a great teacher for him. And it would be a good chance to bond, too, to really get to know him as a person. You need some way to spend time with him, now that he's living in your home. C'mon. You know you want to."

"Hn."

Thankfully, Dick didn't push. For once, he allowed Bruce to have his resistance. He changed the subject, talking about his trip, the circus, the case Tim had helped him on, what he was expecting when he got back to the Teen Titans. He described his first meeting with Tim, already laughing and nostalgic about an event that had happened just a few days ago.

Bruce listened. He didn't talk much. That was familiar, too. Dick could talk and talk and talk, about all kinds of things, and Bruce could listen to him. He enjoyed listening. It was good to hear Dick talk.

And he didn't mean to, but he considered it. The thought of Tim being Robin. He thought about it when he went through his cardio routine, wondering idly what kind of endurance Tim had built on his own with minimal training. He thought about it when he practiced his fighting forms on a punching dummy, thinking about how Dick had described Tim's skill with a judo throw and his gymnastic abilities. It was all academic, he told himself. He was just curious. He had a new member of his household, and he was curious about him. It was natural.

He considered at dinner, as they sat around the end of the big dining table, the three of them, eating steak and potatoes and salad prepared by Alfred. He observed Tim's shy little glances, his nervous laughter at Dick's jokes and stories at the beginning of the meal. He watched the way he settled into it, eventually joining in and even making Dick laugh in return.

They had chocolate mud cake for dessert. Delicious, of course. Bruce confined himself to a half serving, as usual, but the boys had no such qualms. Dick asked for seconds, egging Tim on to join him, then begged for thirds while Alfred narrowed his eyes at him and shook his head stonily. Tim dared to wheedle as well, a few crumbs of chocolate still clinging around his mouth.

And Bruce remembered another boy. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, shy at first but rapidly warming up to the company, to the food. Always hungry, always eager for seconds and thirds. Rough manners, much rougher than Tim's. Not as polite, not as eager to please. His loud, ringing laughter echoing to the ceiling. Alfred's indulgent smile, Bruce's own in mirror image.

Jason. Jason.

Bruce stood abruptly from the table, his chair scraping loudly on the floor. Dick and Tim fell silent, looking at him with wide eyes.

"I...I need to be excused," Bruce said, his voice broken.

Dick nodded, and Bruce turned on his heel and left.

No. No, he couldn't. The few hours of idle consideration suddenly felt like betrayal. What had he been thinking? Tim as Robin. Tim in Jason's colors. Dick's colors. Whatever. They were both...

No. He couldn't.

He found himself in his room, sitting on his bed and staring blankly at the wall. This was the time of day when he usually retired to the Cave and started to suit up for a night out, going over reports and police scanners and refamiliarizing himself with his notes on his current cases. But he needed this time alone, he needed...

He needed to think. Bruce sucked in a deep, shaky breath, then let out.

He needed his boy. He needed his son.

But Jason was gone.

Bruce reached down to the bottom drawer of his nightstand. There, buried under a pile of half-folded handkerchiefs, was a picture inside a frame, face down. He pulled it out and held it in his hands, hunching over where he sat on the bed and staring at the photo.

Bruce with Jason, his arm around the boy's shoulders, both beaming like they'd never known happiness before that moment. Jason, only a few months off the streets, but already filling out, face glowing with health, eyes bright. They were both dressed in suits, and behind them was the ornate facade of one of Gotham's family courtrooms. It was the day the adoption went through, the day it became official.

Jason still signed his name as Todd at school, just because he was used to it, but the adoption certificate had always said Jason Wayne.

Jason Wayne.

The wooden frame creaked in Bruce's hands. He set the photo next to him on the bed, face down again. He hunched over and buried his face in his palms. And he wept.

The tears were bitter. They burned. He wanted Robin, but he didn't want Tim-as-Robin. He didn't even want Dick-as-Robin. He wanted Jason.

He wanted Jason.

But Jason was never coming back. The stooping falcon under his armpit was always going to be a black illustration. It was always going to be a scar.

Chapter Text

Barbara was bent over a keyboard, typing away, when two sets of footsteps approached the reference desk. One was smaller, lighter, the other only a touch heavier. And infinitely familiar. Barbara smiled at her computer screen. She didn't have to look up to know who it was.

A hand slapped the countertop, and she studiously ignored the interruption, continuing her work. "Dick, I need to finish this up before I go on break."

Dick chuckled and leaned against the counter. "Aw, Babs, you didn't even jump."

"I heard you thundering toward me from a mile away, circus boy. You learn how to walk from the elephants?"

Dick laughed, delighted, loud enough that someone bent over a study table nearby hissed a scandalized "Shush!" at him. Barbara rolled her eyes. Modern libraries were nowhere near the stereotypical bastions of silence from lore. There was always a group of schoolkids running about, a teen playing games at a PC and clattering cheerfully at the keyboard, even artsy performances in the main hall.

She finished collating the references she'd been looking for and sent them off by email to the professor who'd written in, looking for a detailed search. Then she finally breathed a sigh of relief, pushed away from the computer, and stood up, rolling her shoulders and stretching her neck. She really needed to remember to take more stretch breaks.

Finally, she was able to look at her two visitors. Dick, as cheerful and pleased to see her as usual, and a much shorter figure hovering at Dick's side, his eyebrows bent in what appeared to be a permanent furrow. Barbara smiled at them both. "It's good to see you, Dick. And this must be Tim?"

She came around the desk to greet them, and Tim nervously stuck out a hand. "I'm Timothy Drake, ma'am. It's nice to meet you."

Barbara shook his hand warmly, even as Dick swept an arm around her shoulders and dragged her in to place a resounding kiss on her cheek. She shoved him off with a chuckle. "Easy on the goods, lover boy."

Dick backed off with his hands raised. "Hey, totally platonic! That was a schoolboy crush and it's gone now and I'm embarrassed that you even remember it."

Barbara grinned at him, wrinkling her nose. "I know, I know, I was the glamorous college girl and you were the starstruck teen. It's all good. I know you have a girlfriend in New York now."

Dick blushed and rubbed the back of his neck, nodding bashfully. No need to mention that his girlfriend was Princess Koriand'r of Tamaran, also known as Starfire. Well, Dick always did aim high.

Barbara smiled at Tim, much more gently. "How do you feel about bougie sandwiches and hand-made kettle chips? There's a shop renting space from the library just inside the entrance. We can get lunch there."

Tim nodded, his mouth still hanging slightly open. When he called to set up this lunch date, Dick had mentioned over the phone that Tim knew "the secret," which must mean that he also knew she was Batgirl. Or used to be. Barbara had gotten a few starry-eyed teen boy fans in uniform, Dick included, but never in her civilian ID. It was a tad uncomfortable.

But Dick had spoken highly of this boy. He'd spent most of the phone call talking him up, actually, saying how much he wanted them to meet, how they had similar interests and would get along. In person, Tim was certainly as adorable as Dick had described, if a bit socially awkward and unsure of himself.

They walked to the sandwich shop, Dick in the middle with an arm around both Tim and Barbara's shoulders. It was a bustling day at the main Gotham library branch, and Dick effortlessly maneuvered them through the scattered groups of people in the central hall. He chatted about his friends back in New York City, how Bruce and Alfred were doing, his recent visit to his circus family. He'd already mentioned some of it over the phone, but Barbara felt herself relaxing at the sound of his voice, even so.

Hanging out with Dick had always been easy, both in plainclothes and as Robin. Even when his schoolboy crush on her had been at its most cringe-inducing, she'd still enjoyed his company. She found herself idly wondering what it might be like to work with Nightwing, too.

But no, she'd hung up the cape. After taking a break for several years after getting her BA from Gotham University, she was going to Metropolis for her grad degree. It was going to be a whole new life, with new opportunities and new people to meet, and there was no need for a Bat, even a small one, in Superman's gleaming city of lights.

They found an out-of-the-way table in the sandwich shop and sat there, lingering over their food: a pork belly bahn mi for Barbara, a cubano for Dick, and a BLT for Tim. The kid was quiet at first, but Dick got him wound up about something, and boy, once he got going, that child could go. Dick grinned, prodding him now and then when it seemed like Tim was starting to slow down.

Again, Barbara was reminded of listening to Dick chatter when he was a teen, but this was different. Dick's cheerful monologues were usually about his daily doings, his friends, his observations about his surroundings, his thoughts on the future, or trying to prod whoever he was talking to into paying attention to him. Tim, on the other hand, had a few subjects about which he was very, very passionate and could go on about at length. Possibly for hours. He could dive deep down the rabbit hole, bringing up detail after detail until it made you wonder just how intelligent this kid was and just how many random facts he had memorized.

One of those subjects was Star Wars. Dick got him going by saying something about how the prequels were just as good as the originals, and wow. Barbara did not see that coming. Tim had very strong opinions, and most of them were that Dick was wrong.

Dick enjoyed it, too. He kept making little comments designed to frustrate Tim and keep him ranting, and it worked every time. Obviously, Dick was a little troll. But there was method to the madness, too. Tim was relaxing more and more as time went by, swinging his legs under the table and chomping his food, unintentionally eating with his mouth open like the kid he was because he couldn’t bear to stop talking even to chew.

When Tim finally ran dry on that subject, coming down as if from a high with his cheeks starting to flush with embarrassment, Dick did a little side glance between Barbara and Tim. And then he rolled the golden apple down the table. "Say, which computer language is better? Python or Java?"

And, well. Barbara had opinions, too. She didn't exactly disagree with what Tim had to say, but she had nuance to add to the conversation. And in point of fact, neither of those was the best computer language.

About five minutes into a spirited conversation with Tim, Barbara saw Dick smirking out of the corner of her eye and realized what he'd done. The little sneak.

But well, it had worked. Barbara and Tim were definitely friends now. There was no way they couldn't be. This kid wasn't just cute and endearing, he was sharp as a tack and a very interesting conversationalist, for a thirteen-year-old. Barbara was just as smitten as Dick probably was.

Later, Tim took his camera to go take pictures of the art and decor in the main library, something he'd apparently been wanting to do for months. Dick and Barbara remained at their semi-secluded table, finishing the last of their drinks in comfortable silence. Barbara found her eyes sweeping the room, even now, and she saw Dick doing the same. Always keeping an eye out for threats, no matter how unlikely. Once a Bat, always a Bat.

Dick set his empty cup down on the table and leaned back in his chair, giving Barbara an easy smile. "So what do you think of him, Babs?"

"Cute kid. Smart too." Barbara stirred the ice in her cup with the straw. "I get why you love him so much. How did you two meet again? Something about the circus?"

Dick grinned and told her the full story, starting from the beginning. How Tim tracked him down at the circus, then almost judo threw him when Dick startled him. His tone was very admiring as he described Tim's skill and strength, as well as his smarts.

"Can you believe that, Babs? Tracked me several states away from Gotham, just because... Well, just because he was worried about B." His voice went soft and emotional at the end.

Dick tapped his finger on the table, hesitating, and gave her a sheepish smile. "I can't really talk about that part, not out here. But gosh, Babs. That kid is thirteen years old, and he's already a detective. And he cares. He cares so much. I just... He's great. He's going to be so great."

Barbara nodded thoughtfully. Dick was obviously referring to Batman when he used that "B," not Bruce. She'd heard through her dad that Batman had been having trouble lately, getting hurt too much, being too reckless. And no wonder, considering what had happened, but it was still concerning. Definitely it had the folks in the police force that were still decent worried about their ally in the shadows.

But apparently Tim had noticed, too. And he had decided to do something about it. Gutsy move, for a kid. It kind of reminded her of...

Barbara's eyes widened, and she whipped her head around to stare at him. "Dick," she said severely.

He blinked innocently. "Yes?"

"Are you thinking of making that boy..." She cut herself off and bit her lip. "B's little bird?"

Dick grinned, eyes sparkling. "Golly, you're smart. Just like Tim. This is why I knew you two would get along."

Barbara groaned and laid her upper body over the table, pressing her forehead into the cool surface. Still, after the initial shock, the idea made more and more sense. She raised her head slowly off the table and looked him in the eye again.

"He cares about B. And he decided to do something about it. And now you're gonna help him."

Dick nodded solemnly, then put a finger to his lips. "B's not quite on board yet. But we'll get him there, you'll see."

Barbara sighed and pushed herself up on the table, then slumped back in her chair. It wasn’t really her business. She wasn't even going to be in Gotham for that much longer. What did she care who decided to join Batman in his mission, with or without his consent? She had done the same herself, once upon a time.

Still, that boy...

"You're going to be careful, right?" She looked at Dick steadily. "You're going to take all the time necessary to prepare, no matter how long it takes. He's going to have all the tools and protection he needs, plus more besides."

Dick nodded. His voice was determined. "Absolutely. There's no rushing, here. I promise, Babs. What happened to... It'll never happen again. Not to Timmy. He wants this. I know he does. And like I said, he's going to be great."

Barbara rubbed her hand over her face. "You said he's not an orphan, but he's staying with Bruce now?" She picked up her cup and sucked out the cold water that had melted from the remaining ice, mixing with the remnants of her lemonade.

Dick grimaced. "Tim’s home life is...not good. I'm not sure what all we're going to be able to do about it, just yet. But for now, at least he'll be safe."

Barbara sighed, staring sightlessly in the direction where Tim had disappeared into the main hall. "His parents, then?"

Dick’s lips twisted in anger. "Neglect. Possibly emotional abuse. He has the signs of both. I don't know what else."

"Hopefully nothing else."

"Yeah, hopefully. But those two are bad enough."

Barbara put down her cup, her stomach going sour. Though she hadn't spent nearly as much time with Jason as she had with Dick, she'd seen enough to get the gist. Abuse, deprivation, the marks of fear and anger, neglect and want. She’d also seen the way he'd blossomed, getting healthier and stronger the more time he spent in Bruce’s care. He’d been passionate and joyful, angry and frustrated by turns, like any normal teenage boy.

It still hurt that she wouldn't be able to watch that boy grow anymore. It was all cut off, a stump where a tree should have been. She knew the loss was worse for Bruce, for Alfred, for Dick, but she still felt it. Jason had deserved so much better. So much more time.

"So you didn't just want Tim to meet me because you thought we'd get along, right, the kind of 'my friends should be friends' thing? You want me to take a hand?"

Dick looked at her earnestly. "I don't want to put a burden on you that you're not ready for or willing to accept. But yeah, I was hoping you would like him."

"I do." That was easy to say, easy to feel. She didn't know if she would ever grow Tim's soulmark, or he hers, but the possibility was there. She could feel it.

Dick smiled, warm and relieved. "He needs friends, but more than that, he needs supportive adults in his life. I don't think there have been many of those, if any at all. I know you're moving to Metropolis in a month, and I'm not saying you should put any special effort into keeping an eye on him or anything, but just... If you could exchange email addresses, maybe. Talk about computers. Have a reason to be an open ear. Maybe he'll be able to talk to you about things that he wouldn't want to say to Alfred or Bruce, or even me."

Barbara smiled back. "That, I can definitely agree to. I'm looking forward to it, actually."

She was a little surprised by just how much she was enjoying the idea of having future conversations with Tim, by email or text or whatever worked for the both of them. Barbara had never thought of herself as a mentor, a teacher. She'd just gotten done having one, really. But now...the idea was very sharp and lovely in her mind.

Guiding young minds, training young hands, listening to a protege talk, teaching them what she knew... It was an appealing future. After grad school, maybe.

She had so many things she wanted to do. The possibilities were endless. She had no intentions to ever take up the Batgirl identity again, but maybe she could create a new one, something particular to her interests and skills. Completely disconnected from Batman, her own path, but she could still provide support when she was in Gotham. Maybe Dick would even come back, too, and they could fly over the rooftops again the way they used to.

God, just sitting with Dick was making her so nostalgic. It was disgusting.

Barbara's finger idly scratched her left upper arm, just under the hem of her shirt sleeve. It was where Dick's soulmark lay, still bold and blue. Dick saw where her hand had gone and smiled indulgently, then turned his arm over on the table so she could see her mark on the inside of his right wrist, two ravens in green and white connected with a silver infinity symbol. Barbara smiled back.

The rest of their lunch date passed in pleasant reminiscence and easy nothings. And when Tim returned grinning, his camera full, Barbara kissed him on the cheek before she went back to work. He paled, then blushed, then grinned like a star.

It was lovely. He was lovely. Such a sweet, smart, remarkable boy.

Barbara was going to do everything in her power to make sure that nothing bad ever happened again to Timothy Drake. If that meant fighting his parents or the world or the Joker himself, so be it.

Chapter Text

Three weeks later, Tim was still living at Wayne Manor. It still felt strange. It still felt like he was living someone else's life, that he'd slipped into someone else's skin, somehow, and no one had noticed except him. And he kept trying to tell people, but they didn't understand, because he was really bad at communicating.

He kept waiting for Alfred or Bruce or even Dick to come into his room and say, "Okay, the joke is over. Time to pack your bags and go home, Tim." But it didn't happen. Instead, every weekend Bruce asked him if he was missing anything from his old house and if he needed to go back and get it, offering to give him a ride again. Or he offered to just buy him new things if he needed or wanted something. It was so weird.

He'd even given Tim a little Robin bobblehead he'd gotten from a street vendor, just because he said he saw it and he thought of Tim, and just... No one had ever done that before. Just...saw something they thought Tim would like, and then bought it for him, for no reason. Even when his parents brought him back souvenirs from their trips, it was because they thought it was educational or interesting or useful, not particularly because they thought Tim would like it.

And they hadn't even brought him any souvenirs for quite a while...

Of course, there were a lot of cool things about his new life, as well as weird ones. Bruce was training him now, mostly generic strength and endurance exercises, and Tim went to bed sore every night and slept like a baby. Dick came back once or twice a week to see how he was progressing and teach him new things that Bruce wouldn't show him, like how to throw a Batarang. Bruce still said that he wasn't going to be Robin, that Robin was retired and the training was just for general health, but Dick would tip him a wink each time, as if promising him that Bruce was wrong.

It made Tim nervous, feeling like he was stuck between their two goals for him, being stretched. He didn't want to be a cause of contention between these two men, these two superheroes that he admired so deeply. His own feelings wavered between the certainty that Bruce was right, because of course he was right, he was Batman, and his own belief that Batman needed Robin. Even if Batman needed Robin, though, did he really need Tim as Robin? That still felt so outlandish, so ridiculous. But Dick's unwavering faith in him was hard to dispute, too. Pretty much impossible, actually.

It made Tim's head hurt and his heart ache, so he tried not to think about it too much. He just put his head down and worked as hard as he could, every single day, accepting each moment as it came. Maybe he would be Robin in a few months, as Dick so firmly believed. Or maybe they would finally get tired of him and kick him out in a couple of weeks, as Tim's own heart kept whispering to him. Either way, he had no control over it. All he could do was get through the day in front of him.

Outside of training and offering to buy him things, Bruce didn’t seem to like Tim much. He rarely saw him, and when he did it was only for a few minutes. Even at meals, Bruce often excused himself early. Sometimes it felt like when Tim came into a room he happened to be in, Bruce found a reason to leave the room soon afterward, but that could have been his imagination.

It was okay, really. It was already amazing enough, just living in Bruce Wayne’s house. It was too much to expect that Bruce Wayne would like him, too. He was nothing special. Stupid, nothing, no one little Tim Drake. No, it made sense. It just…

It did hurt, though. Tim tried not to let himself think about it, but sometimes at night, if he hadn’t fallen asleep immediately from the exertions of the day, he would lie there and stare at the ceiling. He ached, body and soul, while the white knight mark over his heart seemed to burn. Maybe Tim was cursed to love people who didn’t love him back. Maybe that was just how his life worked. It sucked, but there wasn’t anything he could do to change it, so he just had to soldier on.

One day Alfred called him over to the computer to show him something. When Tim reached him, still panting from his recent run on the treadmill, Alfred showed him the drawings on the screen. "What do you think, lad? This is my preliminary design of the new Robin suit."

Tim panted, staring at the drawings, his eyes flicking back and forth as he took in the details. He could see the throughline from the old design, based on Dick's original circus costume, but this update was much more modern. Still with the familiar traffic light color scheme, but not as garish and operatic.

"I like the way the cloak is black on the outside but lined with yellow," he said. "It will be easier for blending in to the shadows, but it still feels like Robin." He traced his finger over the solid green leggings. "Not having flesh-colored sleeves and leggings makes it feel less like an ice-skater costume, more like a functional outfit. The utility belt looks great, too."

Alfred smiled. "I'm pleased you like it. Shall we begin fabricating the pieces, then?"

Tim blinked at him. "What? Why?"

"For your use, dear boy," Alfred said patiently, gesturing at the screen. "If you're going to be Robin, you'll need a suit."

"Oh, but..." Tim paused, blinking. He'd been about to say that he wasn't going to be Robin, but that wasn't right. He was going to be Robin, wasn't he?

Alfred sat there watching him, waiting for him to answer. But Tim didn't know what to say. His throat felt jammed and clogged again, like when Dick had first offered him the job. His chest ached.

Suddenly, the tension felt unbearable. Tim didn't want to wonder anymore. He didn't want to be uncertain. He wanted to know. But he couldn't know, not the way things currently stood, and it made him dizzy with unhappiness. He felt his face heating up, and his breath came short and fast.

"Master Timothy." Alfred's voice was alarmed. His hands grabbed Tim's shoulders and held him firmly. "Timothy. Tim. You are working yourself into an anxiety attack. You need to calm down."

Tim nodded, his eyes fluttering shut. He needed to calm down. He needed to stop thinking about this.

"Follow my breaths," Alfred's voice echoed somewhere above him. "Deep and slow, like this." He took Tim's hand and pressed it flat over his chest, so Tim could feel it rising and falling. "That's it, lad. In, hold, three, four, now out, two, three, four."

Alfred counted slowly, leading him through it, and eventually Tim was able to follow him. The anxiety faded, leaving him feeling washed out and empty, wavering on his feet. After a few long minutes of just standing there, breathing, Tim was able to open his eyes and look Alfred in the face again.

Alfred was still sitting in the computer chair, holding Tim's shoulder with one hand, the other holding Tim's palm pressed to his chest. His face was lined with concern. "Are you all right now, dear boy?"

Tim nodded faintly. He was too exhausted even to feel embarrassed. "I...I need to go lie down."

"Of course." Alfred rose to his feet and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. "I shall escort you."

Tim thought he would ask again about fabricating the suit, but he didn't say a word. He seemed to know that Tim couldn't stand it. Alfred was always so perceptive. It was one of the coolest things about him.

In his room, he fell into his bed and was asleep almost immediately. It was more like passing out than falling asleep. He was only barely aware of Alfred starting to lift his sheet to tuck it around him before everything faded.

When he woke, the light had changed significantly, so he knew that several hours had passed. His eyelids still felt heavy, his body sluggish and burdened with the weight of sleep. He didn't move a muscle, letting himself just lie there and bathe in the blissful moment of ignorance that came after a deep sleep. He felt no anxiety, no pressure, no pain, he was just himself. Just Tim, lying in bed on a summer afternoon because he could.

There were voices outside the door, one deep and sonorous, the other higher pitched but no less powerful. Alfred and Bruce.

"You're pushing the child too hard," Alfred scolded. "It's time to rethink your methods."

The blissful ignorance was gone, burned away like mist in the sun. Tim lay absolutely still, afraid to move, but his eyes were wide open now.

"He wanted the training," Bruce responded defensively, nearly grumbling. "Dick wanted me to train him."

"I don't mean physically," Alfred spat. "You know what I'm referring to."

A rustling of cloth, like Bruce was crossing his arms over his chest. "Why don't you spell it out for me."

"I mean this limbo that you and Master Richard are forcing him to live in. You insisting he won't be Robin, Master Richard insisting that he will, Timothy trying to please you both because that's all he's ever been taught how to relate to the adults in his life: to please them, to be what they want and do what they tell him. You're sending mixed signals by allowing him to train in the Batcave while simultaneously declaring that he will never be your partner. Just like you've been sending mixed signals by allowing him to live in this house and buying things for him at every turn while simultaneously avoiding him whenever you can and leaving the room when he enters it."

Bruce let out a breath. It sounded pained and stubborn at the same time. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't play dumb with me, my lad. I've known you since you were a babe in arms. You think I can't read your moods the way a sailor reads the sky? You did the same, just now. Stopping by Master Tim's room, asking why he was having a lie-down, but not even opening his door to check on him and instead choosing to ask me how he was. As if I can see through doors by grace of having the child's soulmark. That's not how it works."

Bruce's voice was low. "That's...that's not what I meant."

Alfred let out a long sigh. His voice became softer, more sympathetic. "I know this is hard. I know you are in pain. But you are visiting that pain on a vulnerable young boy, and that I cannot countenance. You must make a choice. You must fully embrace him or fully reject him. Either way, I'll support your decision. But you cannot continue as you have been."

There was a long moment of silence. Tim's heart beat hard in his chest. Was this it? Was this the end? Somehow, even though he'd seen it coming for so long, it hurt to know it really had arrived.

"I can't reject him," Bruce murmured. "He needs to stay here. He's not safe in his parents' house."

"Yes, he will stay here," Alfred said firmly. "That goes without saying. But why did you choose to have him live in a room just down from your door if you couldn't stand to look at him? We can move him to my quarters, instead. They'll be a bit less spacious but no less comfortable. He can be my foster son, as you suggested the first night. You can stop training him, forbid him to enter the Cave. You can see him only at meals, if you choose, or never at all. I will care for him. He is my responsibility. And Master Dick loves him and will continue to see him. But if you truly cannot bear the sight of him, we will make it work. Master Tim will be hurt, but he will understand. And he will accommodate you, because that is just what he does."

The last word was hissed through gritted teeth. There was another long moment of silence. Tim tried to imagine the look on Bruce's face, but it was just a blank in his mind. He had no idea what his soulmate was feeling, and that felt...bad. It felt so bad. He wanted to jump out of bed and run over and throw open the door, just so he could look at him.

"I don't..." Bruce said at last, his voice strained. "I can't..."

"Can't what? Can't decide?" Alfred huffed. "You want to know why the poor lad needed a lie-down on this fine, lovely afternoon? Because he very nearly had an anxiety attack when I suggested we make plans for when he eventually takes his place as Robin. He was about to refuse me out of hand, out of loyalty to you, but then he couldn't, because that would mean contradicting an adult. I suspect it was more about Master Dick than me, but still. What children who have been through difficult circumstances need more than anything else is stability, and you are giving him the opposite of that. It must stop. You must decide. One way or the other."

Another moment of silence. "I can't..." Bruce's voice was nearly inaudible. Tim closed his eyes and held his breath, trying to hear. "I can't...reject him."

A beat. Alfred's voice was soft again. "Then embrace him."

"Alfred..."

"I know, Master Bruce. I know. It is no betrayal. Master Tim is not a replacement for Master Jason, and Master Jason would be the first one to say so. I understand your feelings, but you must grow beyond them."

Tim curled up, pressing his face into the mattress and folding his arms over his head. He felt like his entire body was burning, roasting to a crisp in the afternoon sunlight that came through his window. He should have stopped this. He should have jumped out that window rather than eavesdrop on such a fraught, intimate conversation, but it was too late now.

"I'm going out," Bruce said, and his footsteps walked down the hall, fading gradually until they disappeared.

After a few moments, the door opened, and Tim heard Alfred step into his room. He let out a sympathetic breath when he saw the way Tim was curled up in the bed. "Oh, my poor lad," he said mournfully. "Of course you heard that."

Tim slowly uncurled, letting his arms go limp beside his head. Alfred came over and sat next to Tim's torso, running his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry, Master Tim. I should have taken that conversation elsewhere, but it seemed that once we started, we couldn't stop."

Tim shook his head against the sheets. His face was damp with tears. He didn't know when he'd started crying.

He managed to heave himself into Alfred's lap and wrapped his arms around his waist, hiding his face in Alfred's stomach. "I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Alfred hummed and stroked his hair. "That's all right, dear boy. Let it out. It's been a frightful day. You are entitled to tears."

So Tim let himself cry. It was awful. It hurt. At least it didn't last too long, though it still felt like forever.

Alfred stayed with him and petted him and made comforting noises the whole time. Tim couldn't remember the last time someone had held him while he cried. Part of him didn't want it to end.

But end it did, as all things must. Tim reluctantly sat up, maneuvering himself out of Alfred's hold, and rubbed his eyes with his fists. Alfred patted his head one last time, then folded his hands neatly in his lap.

"I don't want to replace Jason," Tim said in a wavering voice.

"I know you don't." Alfred's voice was so kind and reassuring that Tim's shoulders slumped in relief.

"I just want everyone to be happy."

"I know. But you deserve happiness, too. It's not fair, the pressure this situation is putting on you. I know you feel responsible for Master Bruce, but it's not your job to manage his grief."

Tim opened his eyes and looked at him. "What if I want it to be? You and Dick... You keep asking me what I want. What I want to do and what I want to be. Well, what if I want to be what Bruce needs? If that's Robin, or something else. Or if I need to leave. I'll do that, too."

Alfred smiled sadly. "You do not need to leave. I promise you that."

Tim nodded. That part, at least, he was starting to believe. Even though Bruce didn't like him and couldn't stand to be around him, he didn't want him to leave.

And Tim didn't want to leave, either. He still wasn't sure about a lot of stuff, but he wanted to stay. He really hoped that he would be allowed to.

"Come." Alfred stood from the bed and held out his hand. "I think such a hard cry warrants a spot of tea. What do you think?"

Tim nodded and took his hand, letting Alfred pull him out of bed. "Tea sounds great." He was starting to love afternoon tea with Alfred more than anything else in this new life.

Well, that, and emailing about computers with Batgirl. That was pretty cool, too.

Chapter Text

Bruce was lost. No, Batman was lost. But that wasn't right, Batman didn't get lost. Bruce panted. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears.

He was wearing the armor, so he was Batman right now. Bruce patted his chest, feeling the rigid kevlar under the thin veil of cloth. He was Batman. He couldn't be lost. Batman wasn't allowed to get lost.

He panted. It was dark. It was too dark. He didn't know where he was. Terror dug its claws into his chest and pulled. Pulled long and hard and ruthless. He felt himself ripping. Ripping apart. It was all falling apart.

His legs had given out long ago. Hours? Minutes? It felt like forever. He was kneeling on something hard. Or sitting? He couldn't tell. He was lying down. He felt the cold concrete through the thin veil of cloth. He was sitting up.

He was so afraid.

He panted. He strained his eyes, trying to see something, anything. He heard the far off chitter of bats, and he gasped and curled up in a ball, protecting his head. He hated bats. They were so scary.

But no, he was Batman. He couldn't be scared of bats, not now. He used to be scared, but he wasn't anymore. Right? Right. He wasn't scared.

He was just...lost.

He panted. His breath burned in his lungs. It was so cold. He was sure that if there was any light at all, he would see his breath, curling in front of him in misty wisps. But he couldn't see anything, so he didn't. He was so scared.

He heard a gunshot. Then another one. They were so loud. They filled the world.

Bruce curled up tighter, covering his ears. He sobbed. He was lost, and he was alone, and he didn't want to be.

Why was it so dark? It was like being in a closet. No, because a closet was warm. It was in a house, and it would have cloth that he could wrap himself in. Bruce tapped himself on the chest, feeling something hard through the thin veil of cloth. This wasn't warm. It wasn't anything.

He wasn't in a closet. It was too cold, and it was too dark, and there was no door and no cloth. But he was hiding. Was he hiding? He felt like he was hiding from something.

He sobbed. The air stung the inside of his nostrils. There was a bad smell. A damp, wet, cave smell, but something else, too. Something clinging to his nostrils. An acrid scent, something chemical. Gas. Chemical gas.

Another gunshot. More bats. Bruce pressed his hands over his eyes, even though it was already dark. He was lost, and he was alone. So, so alone.

People died. They kept dying. They kept leaving him alone. He didn't want to be. He didn't want to be alone.

He wanted someone. But they kept dying. His son had died. His little boy had died.

Bruce scraped at the concrete, but he couldn't feel it. He pulled off his gloves, frantic to feel, and dug his fingernails into it instead. He had to get through. He had to find him. He had to find his little boy.

But no, he wasn't here. The little boy wasn't here. He'd left, and Bruce was alone. Wasn't he?

He couldn't stop. He scraped at the concrete, even as he felt the skin on fingertips abrade, then give way. He couldn't stop. He couldn't stop digging through the rubble. He had to find him. He had to find his little boy.

Bruce sobbed. Bruce panted. Bruce was in the dark. Bruce was alone. He didn't want it. He didn't want any of it.

Light, sudden and yellow-bright. It pierced Bruce's head, and he turned away with a gasp, clapping his bloody hands over his eyes again. It hurt. It hurt. It was too bright.

"Batman?" A boy's voice, high and young and tentative. "Can you hear me? I've been looking for you. Are you there?"

The voice... Bruce knew it. He knew he did. Slowly, so slowly, he lowered his hands from his streaming eyes. A dark figure was approaching, holding a yellow beam of light that bobbed back and forth.

"Batman?" The boy's voice echoed off the cold concrete tunnel, almost hidden in the drip of water, the distant calls of bats.

"I..." Bruce couldn't hear his own voice. He panted. He tried again. "Over here!"

He meant to yell. It was barely a whisper. He held his breath, afraid that the boy hadn't heard.

But the light stopped. Then it turned and started moving toward him again. "Batman!" The boy's voice was joyful.

He was running, splashing through the filthy water, the light skittering off the walls of the tunnel. Bruce couldn't help but gasp and shrink back. The boy came to a splashing halt a few feet away. He turned the light on himself so Bruce could see him. "Batman, it's me."

Bruce gasped again, this time in joy. His eyes were streaming, but he would know that boy anywhere. The dark hair, the domino mask, the yellow cape falling around a uniform of red and green. It was Robin.

It was his little boy.

"Jason," he choked out. And he was sobbing. He reached for the boy, his bloody hands shaking in the yellow light.

The boy startled back, his eyes going wide behind the mask. His breath caught, then he breathed out. "Yeah. Yeah, Batman, I'm here. I came to find you."

Bruce sobbed. He wasn't alone. He wasn't lost anymore.

The boy stepped toward him hesitantly, and somewhere deep in Bruce's detective mind, that pinged the wrong way. Jason wasn't normally hesitant. He didn't move so cautiously, unless there was some terrible danger in his way.

The boy lowered the light, his other hand reaching into a pouch on his belt. "Agent A sent me with an updated antidote for the fear gas. You probably don't remember..."

The boy spoke soothingly as he moved, kneeling gracefully at Bruce's side. He was holding an auto-injector, and he stuck it into Bruce's thigh. Bruce barely flinched, all of his attention riveted to the boy, watching his face, tracking his movements. Loving him so completely, so utterly, that there was no room in him for anything else, not even the fear.

"You were gassed. Scarecrow is out there tonight. You captured him, you tied him up for the police, but he'd managed to get you with his attack before you could get a mask on. You crawled in here to hide, down deep in the abandoned tunnels below Gotham. It's a good thing you have a GPS in the suit."

The auto-injector was empty, and the boy gently removed the needle from Bruce's thigh and put it back in the belt pouch. Bruce's hands fumbled out and found his shoulders, holding him tight. "Robin." His voice was as cracked and weary as his mind. "You came back."

The boy smiled, crooked and sad. "Yeah, B. I'll always come for you. You can count on that."

"I can't believe it." Tears trailed down Bruce's cheeks in rivulets and streams, blinding him. "I don't deserve this."

The boy's hands shot up to grab Bruce's forearms, gripping almost painfully tight. "No." His voice was fierce. "Don't say that. You deserve everything good. I wish I..." He bit his lip.

Bruce sobbed. He didn't have the strength to hold back. He pulled the boy to him, crushing him against his chest. The light fell to the side, illuminating nothing but the gray wall of the tunnel. Bruce held the back of the boy's head to press his face into his shoulder. "I love you, Jay. I missed you so, so much. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, son. If only I'd gotten there in time."

The boy was stiff in his arms, but that was familiar. Jason wasn't good at being hugged, and Bruce wasn't good at hugging. It had always been a bit awkward, a bit uncomfortable. But worth it, so worth it. Bruce should have practiced more. He should have hugged his little boy every single day. Eventually they both would have gotten used to it. They would have gotten better.

But then the boy put his arms around Bruce's torso and hugged him back, thin arms like wiry bands around his body, holding him together. He was breathing hard, too, though not sobbing like Bruce. He rubbed his face into Bruce's shoulder, as if to hide tears. And he went still, letting Bruce hold him.

Bruce settled his back against the tunnel wall and held his little boy, his head bent over one small shoulder. He could feel himself sobering up, the antidote doing its job of bonding with the fear-inducing chemicals and rendering them inert. It raced around his body with each pump of his heart, reaching further and further corners of his venous system. The fog that had held his mind imprisoned in nightmare was slowly fading.

The boy in his arms was warm and solid, his soft breaths puffing against Bruce's neck. The sensation of holding him was incredibly comforting, like squeezing a teddy bear, but this child was a thousand times better than any stuffed object. Better than anything in the world, almost.

Bruce had taken off the cowl at some point, he realized. His face was bare, just like his hands. Hopefully it hadn't happened until after he'd crawled beyond the reach of any cameras. He might have ripped it off in one of the paroxyms of terror that had gripped him. He vaguely remembered feeling like he couldn't breathe at some point. It had probably happened then.

He was remembering more and more as the fear faded and his mind reasserted itself. He remembered the fight with Scarecrow, the acrid scent of the gas, the fear that galvanized every limb as he fled the scene, the desperation to escape before the chemicals overwhelmed his senses.

"Bruce?" the boy asked, tentative and soft. His voice was so close to Bruce's ear that he almost flinched, but he held himself still with iron control. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," Bruce murmured. "I'm feeling much better now. You did such a good job, Tim. Thank you. Thank you for coming after me."

The boy stopped breathing. Bruce did not stop holding him. His mind was his own, now. He didn't want to stop.

After a moment, though, Tim drew back, and Bruce let him. He let his hands slide away, reluctant but unwilling to trap him. Tim's hands were shaking, and he clenched them into fists.

"I'm sorry," he said in a tiny voice.

Bruce tilted his head. "Why?"

"I let you think I was Jason. It was a kind of lie. I'm sorry I lied to you."

Bruce shook his head. "If you had tried to explain, I would not have understood you. My mind was trapped in a prison of its own making. I barely knew my own body, my own surroundings. I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable with my mistake."

Tears were forming behind the opaque lenses of the domino mask. Bruce could see that in the tell-tale moisture at the corners, the looseness of the bottom edge as the adhesive began to give way. "I'm sorry I'm not Jason."

"Tim." Bruce couldn't help himself. His hand shot out, streaked with drying blood, and closed around Tim's hand, still clenched in a fist. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that. You don't have to be someone else. I don't want you to be someone else. You're wonderful as you are."

Tim's breath hitched. "But you don't like me."

Bruce's mouth hung open. He felt pole-axed, lost for words. What had he ever done to give the child that impression?

Then he remembered his conversation with Alfred just that afternoon. Had it really been just that afternoon? A scant half dozen hours ago? It felt like an age.

He hadn't realized he'd been so blatant, avoiding Tim when he could convince himself it was okay. Alfred's words had shocked him into realizing it, though, and he'd looked back on dozens of interactions and suddenly seen how cold and heartless he must have appeared to the young boy who now shared his home. Excusing himself from meals, leaving the room when Tim entered, never choosing to spend more than a few minutes in his presence except for training down in the Batcave. And even there, he'd kept telling the boy that his ultimate goal was futile, that he was never going to be allowed to be at Bruce's side.

No wonder the poor kid thought Bruce didn't like him. He'd never shown him otherwise.

"Tim..." Bruce's voice was choked. "I like you just fine, chum. I really do. You're kind, and smart, and brave, and very hard-working. What's not to like?"

Tim trembled. "But you keep... You never..."

"I keep avoiding you? I never spend time with you outside of impersonal training sessions or giving you inanimate objects, as if that could take the place of time and affection?" Bruce chuckled bitterly, not at the boy but at himself. "I know. Alfred finally made me see the way I'd been treating you. I'm sorry. Truly, truly sorry. I've been acting just like your parents, and that was the last thing I ever wanted to do."

Tim frowned. Bruce shook his head to stop him from going down that rabbit trail. They needed to talk about Tim's parents and the way they'd mistreated him eventually, but now was not the time.

"Never mind that. What matters is my behavior. I was wrong, and I'm sorry. Please forgive me, and I'll do my best not to repeat it."

Tim looked down at his hand, still trapped in Bruce's. Bruce started to let go, afraid he was making him uncomfortable again. But Tim just opened his fist and turned his hand so he was holding Bruce's hand in return.

"Then why...?" Still that tiny, tentative voice. Bruce had to strain to hear it.

He let out a breath. "It's not your fault. Really, it had very little to do with you. The reason I've been avoiding you, leaving the room, all of that..." Bruce looked away down the tunnel. His breath misted in the cold air. They really needed to get out of here, go home and warm up. But he needed to finish this conversation now.

He looked back at Tim. At the Robin costume that he could now see sagged on him in places, too large for his slender frame. Even Jason's smallest outfit, which this one was, did not fit Tim. Tim, his new Robin.

"It was because you reminded me of Jason," he said as gently as he could. "I would see you out of the corner of my eye, catch a glimpse of your hair or hear your voice, and all I could think of was my lost boy. I couldn't bear it. The grief kept overwhelming me. I had to leave so I could get hold of myself and stop myself from crying. I often failed."

He gave another low, sad chuckle. "I've cried so much in the last few months. I never thought there could be so many tears in a single man. And yet I keep finding more."

He was surprised by the look on Tim's face. He looked absolutely...devastated.

"But that's...that's terrible," he said in a voice like a soft scream. "I have to leave, I have to leave immediately, I can't keep doing this to you..."

He started to rise, trying to pull himself away, but Bruce held his hand firm. He gave a little tug, and Tim fell back on his knees, wincing when thinly protected flesh met hard concrete.

"Tim, no," Bruce said firmly. "You're not leaving. You belong to us, now. Me, and Dick, and especially Alfred. I was going about it the wrong way, don't you see? Trying to avoid you was doing nothing to fix the problem of me seeing Jason when you were nearby. What I should have done was spend more time with you. I should have been getting to know you, everything about you, so when I looked at you I just saw Tim instead of Jason. That was not your fault, it was entirely mine. And I'm going to start fixing it. Right now."

Tim stared at him, mouth agape. The loose adhesive at the bottom of the mask finally lost the battle, and tears ran down his cheeks. "Really?"

Oh, his voice was small and young and so, so hopeful.

Bruce nodded. "Really." He tugged Tim's hand one more time, pulling him closer. He pulled him into another hug, this time knowing exactly what he was doing, who he was holding.

"Welcome home, Robin."

Chapter Text

"Bruce, why don't we have a Jarvis?"

Bruce was sitting at the computer, looking over his notes on the mob case he was currently working. Tim was sitting in another computer chair nearby, idly pushing his toes on the floor of the cave to swing himself in semi-circles on the spinning chair. His arms were crossed behind his head, body leaning back into the chair and face looking up at the ceiling. He'd dressed in sweats after he'd finished his workout and cooldown and had decided to come over and hang out with Bruce instead of heading back upstairs.

Bruce looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. He was pretty sure Jarvis was a character in the comics Tim was reading. He talked about them now and then, telling Bruce about what he liked and didn't like in the media he was consuming. Bruce enjoyed hearing him talk, though he had to confess he wasn't always great at remembering everything Tim said. He just knew so many esoteric details, and Bruce had never been a huge fan of fiction.

Still, he was pretty sure that Jarvis was...a butler? Something like that.

"We have an Alfred," Bruce said.

Tim gave him a big, delighted grin, as always when Bruce did something to prove he was paying attention to him. In the first week or so he'd always seemed startled, too, but that reaction had mostly faded. Now he just seemed almost ludicrously pleased at being noticed.

"I don't just mean a butler, though," Tim said. "Jarvis is Iron Man's computer AI. He's, like, always helping him out and running things for him. Why don't we have a digital assistant in the Batcave? It could help you with searching and analyzing data and things like that."

Bruce's mind flashed to the variety of evil AIs he'd fought with the Justice League. "I...prefer to do my own data gathering and analysis."

"Well, of course you'd still be the best at it," Tim said with utter nonchalance, as if it was a fact that didn't even need to be mentioned. “But seriously, don't you think a program like that could be helpful? Not a full AI, obviously those have all kinds of opportunities to go wrong, but just...you know. An assistant."

Tim had spun his chair around so he wasn't looking at Bruce, sort of talking at him over his shoulder. And his voice...it was almost too casual. The corner of Bruce's mouth turned up. "Tim... Are you already working on something like that?"

Tim spun his chair back around so he was facing Bruce, smiling hugely. It must have been the amusement in Bruce's voice that did it, convincing him that it was okay to be excited. "Yeah. Can I show you? Do you have time?"

Bruce chuckled and pushed his own chair back from the keyboard, waving for Tim to take his place. "Of course."

Tim giggled, actually giggled like a little kid, and rolled his chair over with a practiced push of his feet. He leaned over the computer, fingers typing rapidly as he minimized the programs Bruce had been looking at and brought up his own using keyboard shortcuts. "I have a long way to go, I've barely started it, but Babs has been helping me with the code, and I think we're really on to something..."

"Babs?"

Tim went still, suddenly hesitant, and looked up at him. "That's what Dick calls her. Is that okay?"

Bruce blinked. He hadn't meant to sound disapproving. "As long as she’s fine with it, of course it’s okay. I was just a bit surprised to hear you say that name, that's all." He tried on a smile. "And I still think of her as Batgirl, honestly."

Tim's smile returned, only a touch subdued from the joyful grin of before. "Yeah, me too, sometimes."

"Master Bruce!" That was Alfred's voice, high with agitation. He was all but running down the stairs.

Bruce leaped up from his chair and jogged over to meet him. "What is it? What's going on?" He was vaguely aware of Tim following right behind him.

"I just got a call. On the upstairs phone." Once he saw Bruce was coming, Alfred stopped on the stairs and turned around to head back. Bruce climbed after him, along with Tim. "It came from the hospital. You need to go."

Suddenly, Bruce understood the urgency, as well as the pained look on Alfred’s face. His pace increased until he nearly ran into his back. "Who?"

Who was in the hospital that would prompt a call to Bruce? He had precious few family and friends left who were close enough. His cousin Kate? Tommy Elliot?

Alfred's voice was grim. "It was Barbara Gordon. She's been shot."

Bruce went still, feeling like he'd been shot himself. He couldn't breathe. Alfred turned around on the stairs to look at him, frowning deeply.

"Alfred, no." It was a quiet sound of negation, almost begging. Not Barbara. Please, not her. He just wanted Alfred to say it wasn't true.

"You need to go," Alfred repeated, grimly.

They ran up the stairs. On the way, Alfred told him what the hospital had relayed. Barbara had been shot in the gut, and the bullet had gone through her spine. Before they'd put her under for surgery, she'd asked for them to call Bruce Wayne. She was in little danger of dying, but lower body paralysis was almost certain.

The crime had been committed by a home invader. The neighbors had seen nothing, or at least claimed they had seen nothing. But whoever did it had also kidnapped Jim Gordon.

Bruce took the car that had a Batman suit in the back.

It was a long night. A horrible night. It was in the top three most terrible experiences of Bruce's life, right up there with losing his parents and losing Jason.

In the end, he rescued Jim from the cage he'd been trapped in, and he put Joker back in the cage he'd escaped from, and he went home. His heart was raw, rubbed bare and bloody by the events of the day. Joker had tried to drive his closest friend mad. He hadn't succeeded, but that wasn't the point. Joker should be dead, and he wasn't, and it was the greatest injustice in the world. Worse, it was an injustice that Bruce couldn't right, and that tore at him. Body and soul.

Bruce stripped off the suit and stumbled into the house, so weary he could barely think. He found himself in the kitchen. Tim was sitting at the table, holding a mug in his hands. Alfred was at the stove, stirring a pot. Bruce smelled hot chocolate, rich in the air. They must have seen it on the news.

Bruce slid into the chair next to Tim. Alfred brought him a mug. Then he got one for himself, and he sat across from Bruce and Tim.

For a few long moments, no one said anything.

"Bruce?" Tim's voice, soft and gentle. "Are you okay?"

Bruce shook his head. He couldn't talk. His tongue felt pasted to the roof of his mouth. He took a drink of his hot chocolate. It was Alfred's special recipe, warm and smooth and rich, prepared with only the finest ingredients. There was a tang of alcohol in his, too, a lingering flavor of brandy.

Definitely the special recipe.

They sat in silence for a few more moments, Tim sitting stiffly at Bruce's side. Then the boy leaned his head over to rest on Bruce's upper arm. Just his head, the rest of his body still kept at a remove, as if he was trying to be comforting without intruding. It was such a Tim-like gesture that it made Bruce choke up even more.

He hooked a foot around the leg of Tim's chair and dragged it closer, then wrapped his arm around his shoulders and pulled him into his side. Tim relaxed, going soft as a marshmallow against him. Bruce continued to hold him with one arm, and he drank his hot chocolate.

Eventually, Alfred excused himself to see to other matters, and it was just Tim and Bruce in the kitchen. Bruce finished his hot chocolate and pushed the mug to the center of the table. Tim continued to fiddle with the empty mug in his hands, turning it around and around in his fingers.

"You saw Babs, right?" Tim asked.

Bruce nodded. Maybe he could at least talk about this. Maybe he could reassure the boy. "She's going to be all right. Changed, but..." He sighed. "She can't be anything but all right. She won't let herself be anything else, and the rest of us will be there to help her."

He remembered her arms around his neck, the desperate way she'd clung to him as she begged him to find her father, murmuring in his ear so the doctors wouldn't hear. He remembered the smell of blood and sweat that clung to her skin, the agony in her eyes despite the morphine they'd had her on. He hadn't gone back to the hospital to see her again after rescuing Jim, but he assumed they were together now. He assumed they were holding each other.

Someone needed to call Dick. He would want to come back and provide support, too. Hopefully Alfred had thought of it. Bruce didn't have the strength to give more bad news, not right now.

"Can we go see her?" Tim asked. "Not right now, but... Maybe tomorrow?" His voice trembled. "I...I'd like to see her."

Bruce squeezed him against his side. "Of course. We'll call ahead to make sure she's up to visitors, but I'm sure she'll want to see you. You're her little coding buddy, right?"

Tim sniffled, but there was shy pleasure in his voice. "I guess."

"Of course you are."

Silence fell again, but more comfortable now. Bruce felt like his tongue had been loosened by that little exchange. Tim was such a soothing presence. Holding him really was like holding a teddy bear. The warmth and the hot chocolate helped, too, of course. The familiarity of the kitchen, the knowledge that Alfred was nearby. All of it was so far removed from that hellish shut-down amusement park and the Joker's horrific games that they felt like two different worlds, two different planes of existence.

"Seriously, Bruce, are you okay?" Tim asked. "You seem really...shaken up."

Bruce sighed. "I am. And I don't want to burden you with it, I don't..." He fell silent. Maybe he did need to talk about it with Tim, at least a little bit. He didn't want to shut the child out anymore. And there was a warning, here, that might be necessary.

"Tim, you know that a soulmark is not a guarantee, right?"

Tim stiffened against him. "What do you mean?"

Bruce grimaced. He wasn't saying this right.

He tried again. "Just because someone says they have your soulmark, or shows it to you, that doesn't mean they truly love you. Not the way you might define love. They may believe that what they feel is love, but it's not always the same thing. It can be a tactic of abusers, child molesters, the worst scum of the earth. There are plenty of stalkers who can show the soulmark of their victim, and they think that gives them a right to that person. It doesn't. That kind of love is...a twisted thing. Ugly, corrupted."

Tim was quiet for a long moment. Then he carefully shrugged out from under Bruce's arm and turned in his chair to look up at him, his little face solemn and pale. His body was tense, like he was trying to keep himself from running. "Who are you talking about?"

Bruce rubbed a hand over his face. He didn't want to say it, but he felt compelled by those bright, concerned eyes. "Joker. He showed me tonight. He has my soulmark on his ankle."

Tim's breath caught, and he turned even more pale.

Bruce rubbed his shoulder. "Don't worry. Even if Bruce Wayne's mark was common knowledge, which it isn't, I don't think Joker will ever reveal my identity. He likes playing the game too much. He likes believing that we have some kind of connection, some kind of...fated rivalry. Or...love. He may believe it's love. I don't know. With all the psychology I've studied, all the books I've read, Joker still confounds me. Is he mad, or does he feign madness to excuse the mayhem he enjoys spreading? Both, neither? I'm not sure. But I do know that he believes we are...meant for each other, in some twisted way. It's...ugly. Corrupted. Disgusting. And I wonder if..."

Bruce closed his eyes, swaying slightly in his seat. Tim curled up into his side, pulling Bruce's arm around his shoulder. He was so warm and soft and kind, such a delightful little presence. Bruce didn't understand how his parents could bear to be away from him for even a minute, let alone weeks and months at a time.

Bruce hugged him into his side again. His voice was so low that even he could barely hear it. "I wonder if he killed Jason because he was...jealous."

Tim swallowed thickly. "I'm so sorry, Bruce. That's so...so awful. It makes what Joker did to you even worse, somehow, and I didn't think that was possible."

Bruce almost laughed, though it was bittersweet. Of course Tim had listened to that little story and was chiefly concerned with the way it had hurt Bruce, not any of the truly horrific implications it had.

"Tim, if...when you become Robin, if you still want to... Joker will want to kill you. Hopefully Arkham will actually be able to keep him in this time, but if he ever breaks out again, if you ever encounter him... You have to run. Don't even try to fight him. You understand? Leave him to me, or Nightwing, or anyone else. Anyone else. Not you. You never fight the Joker. Do you understand?"

Tim hesitated, then nodded. He turned in his chair and wrapped his arms around Bruce, snuggling his head into his shoulder. "Yes, I understand. And I still want to be Robin."

Bruce let out a breath and held him in return. Somehow, he hadn’t expected any other answer.

Chapter Text

Barbara's shoulders hurt. And her arms. And her wrists. And her fingers. And her core.

But not her legs. She couldn't feel her legs.

Everything else, though. It was very sore. Mac, her physical therapist, had put her through the wringer today. She wanted it, of course. She wanted to get better at using the wheelchair. More mobile. More independent.

But still. Everything hurt.

The intercom buzzed, and Barbara shook her head. She realized that she'd been zoning out, still sitting in the front hallway after she got home from PT. She rolled over and hit the button for the intercom. "Hello?"

Dick's voice came through, cheerful and bright. "Babs! We brought pizza!"

Barbara smiled, almost against her will. It was hard not be cheerful when Dick Grayson was coming to visit. He was bringing Tim this time, too. Tim was busy now with school and training, as well as his various projects. It was always a treat to see him.

"Bribery will get you everywhere." Barbara said as she hit the switch to let them up to the Gordon apartment. She unlocked the door and left it ajar for them.

Then she rolled over to the kitchen to get tableware. Her father had moved the things they used daily down to the bottom cupboards. She could reach most of it, if she strained. After gathering three plates, forks, and glasses, she wheeled over to the table and set them out.

Barbara heard the clattering in the hall that indicated her two favorite boys had arrived, and she pivoted to the door to greet them with smiles. Dick came in first, carrying two boxes of pizza, a dozen pink roses tied with a ribbon lying on top. "Hey, Babs!" Tim came in behind him, his footsteps more gentle, his smile more subdued.

Dick handed the pile of stuff to Tim to hold while he pulled off his hat and jacket and hung them on the hooks in the hall. Then he took the pile back and crossed to Barbara, holding out the roses. "Here, I don't know if you want to put these in water or something. Sorry, we didn't bring a vase."

Barbara smiled down at the roses, holding the bouquet to her chest. "Dick, this is so sudden. Did you and Kori break up?"

Dick laughed a bit awkwardly, and pointed his thumb over his shoulder back at Tim. "It was Timmy's idea, actually. Hope you like 'em."

Tim smiled shyly and gave her a little wave, still lingering in the hall as he toed off his shoes. She gave him a warm smile. "I love them. Thanks, Timbert."

Dick took the pizza to the table while Barbara wheeled to the kitchen to look for a vase or a pitcher to put the flowers in. Tim followed behind her, moving so softly she barely registered his presence. After looking around, she realized that the pitcher she wanted was in a cupboard too far above her to reach. She ignored the pinch of frustration in her heart and waved toward it. "Tim, honey, could you...?"

He moved instantly, as if he'd been waiting for her permission. Barbara huffed out a sigh, but didn't remark on it. Still, the frustration pinched harder.

Supper was lovely, of course. Spending time with these two always was. Dick and Tim had built up an easy rapport that was pleasant to watch. Tim even dared to tease Dick back when he got to be too annoying, now, which was delightful.

They talked about Tim's classes at school and how that was going for him. He'd opted to go to public school, after years of boarding school. He wanted to be with a friend of his he'd met several years ago.

"I remember you mentioning him before," Dick said. "Ives, right? Who names their kid Ives?"

Tim rolled his eyes. "Ives is his last name. First name is Sebastian."

"Why do you call him by his last name?"

Tim took another bite of pizza, and a flap of cheese fell down his chin. He sucked the stringy cheese back into his mouth, leaving a smear of tomato sauce on his chin. Barbara resisted the urge to lick her thumb and rub it off for him. "We met at this, I dunno, this preschool for gifted kids? Or kindergarten? I don't remember anymore. It was kind of high class and pretentious, so we were all called by our last names. So it kinda stuck. He calls me Drake, too."

"Must be a good friend for you to want to go to public school to join him."

Tim shrugged. "I'm pretty good at making friends anywhere I end up. I had to be to get along at boarding school, you know? But Ives is the only one I ever got a soulmark for. He has mine, too."

"Oh? That's cool." Dick grinned so hard the dimple in his cheek showed, and he nudged Tim's arm with a meaningful look. "Speaking of soulmarks..."

Tim stopped chewing in mid-bite, his cheek poking out like a chipmunk. He gave Dick an apprehensive look. "Dick..."

Dick nudged him again, more gently and less teasing. "C'mon. Show her. I promise she'll like it."

Barbara sat up straight. This was about her, wasn't it? She looked Tim in the face, doing her best to be open and non-threatening.

Tim swallowed his bite of pizza, his face flushing. His eyes were downcast, looking at the table with only a couple of glances in Barbara's direction. And he turned in his chair and pulled up the hem of his shirt so she could see the side of his torso under his left arm.

There was Barbara's soulmark, the two ravens crossed with an infinity symbol. She felt her face break out in a big grin, entirely outside her control. It felt like she wasn't going to be able to stop grinning for hours.

"Tim." Her voice was soft.

Tim raised his head and looked at her, brave despite his obvious anxiety.

"Yes, I like it. Thank you for showing me. I know that can be scary sometimes."

Tim let out a breath and let go of his shirt, letting it fall down over the mark again. He slumped in his chair, the blush fading. "I just... I didn't want you to feel bad that you didn't have mine. Dick told me it would be fine, but... You know."

Barbara nodded. She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "It's not a bad thing to feel connected to people, Timmers. I'm glad you feel that way about me, honest. Even if I don't have your soulmark yet. I think I will soon, though. You're such a sweet kid, and I already think of you as a little brother. How could I not manifest your mark? Frankly, I'm astonished that you only have one childhood friend with mutual marks. I'm sure everyone you met must have loved you, including most of your teachers."

The corner of Tim's mouth turned up. "Nah, I think my teachers were mostly frustrated with me. I was always either kind of lazy or a little weisenheimer."

Barbara laughed and ruffled his hair. "I bet you were just bored. School wasn't stimulating enough for you. How will you survive public school?"

Tim shrugged and went back to his pizza, his body language relaxed and at ease now. Dick grinned and nudged him again. "Did you tell her where you grew Alfred's soulmark?"

Tim nodded, and Barbara smiled. "On your back, right?"

"Because Alfred always has my back," Tim said, with the dull, exasperated air of a child who had heard this tired dad joke a dozen times already.

Dick snorted laughter and gave Barbara a wink. "And he grew my soulmark on the top of his shoulder, but it's almost on his neck."

"Because you're a pain in my neck," Tim said in the same dull, bored tone.

Barbara's face hurt from smiling. She couldn't remember the last time she had smiled like this. It was using muscles that hadn't been exercised in a while. She wondered if her face would be sore in the morning.

Like her back. And her arms. And her fingers. And her core.

Her good feelings began to fade. She didn't want them to, but they were hard to hold onto. Everything was hard, lately.

After dinner, Tim followed Barbara into the kitchen to help wash up. There wasn't much to do, but it was good to stay on top of things instead of letting the dishes pile up in the sink. The sink was too high for Barbara on her chair, so she had to lean forward and hook her elbows over the side to reach into the water. And there wasn't enough room at the bottom of the cabinet for her feet, either.

Everything was so difficult. Everything. All day long.

Yep. Good feelings gone.

She caught Tim tossing little glances at her as her mood worsened, but he didn't say anything. He definitely seemed to be aware of her feelings. He was such a sensitive kid.

Then she remembered something he'd admitted to her in his emails. His parents weren't home often, but when they were, they fought a lot. Tim tried to mediate sometimes, but sometimes he retreated. He had confessed that he felt that he couldn't be a good Robin if he couldn't even keep the peace between his own parents.

Barbara hadn't known how to respond to that one. She agonized over her answer for hours. She thought about how Dick had said he wanted Barbara to befriend Tim partly so he would have someone to confide in. Now it had happened, and she was failing at being a proper adult in this poor neglected kid's life.

She'd ended up saying something generic about how his parents fighting wasn't his fault and he couldn't take that on his own shoulders. And also that Bruce's training would include things like negotiation tactics, so he didn't need to worry about that kind of stuff right away. By the time Bruce gave him the go-ahead, he would be ready.

Tim hadn't responded to her advice directly, but his next email had been more upbeat, so Barbara took that as a win.

Now, though, she remembered the first part of that. How Tim sometimes tried to mediate, but sometimes chose to retreat. He must have always been sensitive to his parents' moods. Always trying to suss out whether the coming storm was one he could weather or one he should shelter from. And now Barbara was making him use those skills again.

And still, he didn't say anything. He was just waiting and watching. It was...almost a little creepy. Kind of like the eye in his soulmark.

Barbara sighed and pushed herself back from the sink, sudsy water dripping from her hands. She rocked her head back and forth, stretching out the tense muscles in her neck, and rolled her shoulders forward and back a few times. Then she pivoted her wheelchair to look at Tim.

Tim had gone still, holding a wet dish in one hand and a towel in the other. His face was solemn and open. He didn't seem exactly afraid, but he was definitely tense.

"Timbo, I'm not going to blow up," Barbara said.

He nodded carefully. The rest of his body remained completely still. "I know you're having a rough time right now," he said softly.

"Yes, I am. And I have to be honest, part of me wants to sweep those dishes on the floor and watch them break into pieces. But I'm not going to do that, because an outburst like that wouldn't help. It wouldn't make me feel better, and it would most likely scare you, and we could both be hurt by the shattered glass. I'm frustrated and angry, and yes, I'm grieving over my loss of mobility. I'm going to be doing that for a while, I think. But I'm not going to let myself blow up and doing something hurtful. Not to myself, and definitely not while you're in the room."

Tim's shoulders relaxed. He looked more like a real boy, less like a mannequin. "I wouldn't blame you," he said, still in that soft, small voice, so gentle and careful and almost placating.

"No, but I would. I would blame me." Barbara tried on a smile. "Let's leave these dishes and go bother Dickie, huh?"

Tim smiled back and put the dish and towel on the counter. "Okay. We were pretty much done, anyway."

Barbara led the way back to the living area where Dick was going through her DVD collection. Tim followed right behind her.

"Have you and your dad talked about remodeling the kitchen?" Tim asked. "I've been doing some research. I saw all kinds of different ways you can make it easier to move around and access stuff. I'd love to show you what I found, if you're interested."

Barbara stopped and turned the wheelchair to face him, smiling. Tim turned to look at her, too, his face earnest and open.

"That sweet of you, Timmy. But actually, I've been thinking about getting my own place."

Tim tilted his head, intrigued. "Somewhere in Gotham? Or are you still gonna move to Metropolis and go to school?"

Barbara sighed and looked away. All those plans, all those dreams... They were up in smoke, now. She'd had to drop her college classes for this semester, with the long recovery ahead of her. She wasn't hopeful about picking them back up. It would be some time before she would be strong enough to wheel around a sprawling college campus. She still needed to take frequent breaks from her chair to lie down and give her back a rest. Even the thought of trying to figure out how to do that somewhere that wasn't her home was exhausting.

She put a smile back on her face and met Tim's eyes again. "I'm thinking of taking classes online, actually," she said. "I should be able to earn any degree I want remotely. It might even be faster, doing it that way."

Tim looked at her straight on, not even blinking. After a moment, he gave a slight nod.

She started to turn back toward the living room and Dick. Tim reached out and touched her shoulder, light as a butterfly. She stopped and looked at him again.

"It's okay to be sad," he said.

Barbara blinked. "What?"

"It's okay to be sad," he repeated. "You...you lost a lot. Not just your ability to walk, but all your plans, everything you wanted to do... You don't have to be brave all the time. You don't have to put on a happy face for me. It's okay to be sad, you know, in front of me."

Barbara's face crumpled. It was like Tim's words were a needle that pricked her balloon of false cheer, making it deflate. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she was angry at the loss of control, but she was also relieved. And she believed him. She believed that it was okay.

She held out her arms, waving for him to bend down. "C'mere, honey."

Tim bent over and let her wrap her arms around his neck and shoulder, putting his arms around her in return. She cradled his head against her shoulder, caught up in the soft, almost babyish weight of him against her. He was such a good boy. Such a good boy. She was so lucky to have him in her life.

Barbara caught her breath at a sudden stinging on her left bicep. It made her squeeze him harder. After a minute or so, when Tim was starting to shift, she finally let him go. Tim stepped back, his eyes a little red now, though no tears were in evidence. Barbara rolled up her left sleeve to the shoulder.

Yep, there it was. Tim's soulmark. Of course.

Barbara turned her body to show it to him. "Well. Would you look at that."

Tim caught his breath in a soft gasp, then broke into a beautiful grin. "Wow."

Barbara grinned back at him. "I love you, kiddo."

A couple of tears finally broke free and trickled down his cheeks. "I love you too, Babs."

"What's this? You two saying sweet nothings to each other when I'm not here? Frankly, I'm hurt."

Barbara looked up at Dick's voice. He had gotten bored waiting for them and come to see what was causing the delay, no doubt. She grinned at him and pushed up her sleeve a little more so he could see that mark.

Dick gasped, too, much louder and more dramatically than Tim. He laughed and clapped his hands in delight. Then he bounced over and swept Tim into a big hug, squeezing him tight and rocking him back and forth. He turned to hug Barbara, too.

"I knew it! Didn't I tell you, Timmy? I knew it wouldn't be long! Ah, this is great. This is perfect!"

Barbara laughed and hugged him back. It was perfect. Truly.

A lot of things in her life were not perfect. A lot of them were painful and sad and disgusting and difficult to deal with. But this, this wasn't one of them. She wouldn't trade having mutual soulmarks with Tim for anything in the world. Not even her legs.

Chapter Text

Tim couldn't feel his body. He knew he was sitting in the computer chair in front of the Batcomputer. He was aware of his fingers, typing away as he ran code after code to track down the Moneyspider. His eyes burned from not blinking enough, from staring at the screen. From immersing himself in the mystery he was chasing so he wouldn't have to think.

So he wouldn't have to feel. So he wouldn't have to be aware.

He couldn't feel his body, so he couldn't feel his heart.

His parents had been kidnapped. Their secretary had been murdered in front of them.

Batman had gone to track them down. Batman had gotten clues from Gordon, from demands and videos sent to Drake Industries. He was going to find them. Tim was certain of that.

He had to be strong. He had to be patient. Batman was going to rescue his parents.

Was it only a few days ago he'd been thinking that he would have them home soon? Tim had been overjoyed when his parents sent him an email saying that they would be home by the end of the October. He'd agonized over whether he should move back home while they were in town, or if he should stay in Wayne Manor.

He didn't know what the custody arrangement was between Bruce and his parents. He knew it was amicable, on the surface. He knew the courts hadn't been involved. All Bruce would say was that he'd had his lawyers talk to their lawyers, and that was it. His parents hadn't breathed a word of it to Tim. He didn't even know if they were aware that he wasn't living in their house right now. Or if they would care.

Then came the postcard, one with a beach scene and palm trees in the sun. His parents were island-hopping in the Caribbean. They promised to call when they got home the next week. Or the week after. So they did know that Tim wasn't living in their house anymore, or they wouldn't need to call.

And once again, he had no idea when he would see them.

Then the news. The plane was late.

Then the video was sent to Drake Industries and forwarded to Commissioner Gordon.

Now Batman was gone, and Tim was still in Gotham trying to finish their latest case. And trying not to go out of his mind with fear.

Tim had tried meditating earlier. Sitting on the floor of his bedroom with his legs crossed, breathing deeply and trying to control his emotions. Babs had said that meditating helped her sometimes when the struggle of recovery got to be too much, and Tim knew Bruce used it too.

When he'd finished meditating, he'd felt calm and cool. Almost glacial. Detached.

He still did. It felt like part of him was floating above his head, observing. The other part of him chased down leads, focused on the case in front of him to the exclusion of all else. The part that was detached was aware that this was all strange. That none of this could be real.

There was no way that stupid little nobody Tim Drake could be in the cave under Wayne Manor, working on a case solo while Batman was out of town. There was no way that Tim Drake's parents had been kidnapped by a terrorist. There was no way any of this was happening. It was fantastical. Ridiculous. Unreal.

So it was fine. His parents were fine. Everything was fine. Any moment now, he was going to wake up from this weird dream. He'd be back in his bed in his old house, and Mrs. Mac would be standing in the doorway yelling at him to get up and do something productive with his day. Or he'd be back in bed at boarding school, and one of his roommates would be throwing balled-up socks at his face. Or he'd fallen asleep in a recliner reading a book, and his mom was going to come and touch his shoulder to tell him it was time for dinner.

One of those. Surely. Any of those. Please.

Instead, Tim finally got the numbers he was looking for. A string of numbers, an IP address. The real one the Moneyspider was using, not one of the dozens of shells and routing stations Tim had threaded his way through. He pumped a fist of victory and felt his face break into a big grin. Yes. He had him. Finally.

And Bruce still hadn't come back with his parents.

Tim followed the case to the end. He dressed up in a nice civilian suit and made his way into the Moneyspider's apartment on a plausible pretense. And he found him, a kid a year older than him. Real name Lonnie. Villain name Anarky.

Tim ended up punching him in the face. It was relatively satisfying. All in a day's work for a vigilante-in-training, right?

Later, his knuckles hurt in a way that was vaguely irritating, because it reminded him that he had a body.

That night he lay in his bed, slowly coming back to physical existence. He felt the scratchiness of the blankets first, then their warmth. He felt the softness of the mattress beneath him, then the soreness in his body. He felt the weariness in his soul, and he felt how hard and fast his heart was beating.

His breath was coming too fast. Dread weighed down his body. Something was wrong. Something bad was going to happen. He knew it.

Bruce and Alfred had both told him to keep his chin up. To have faith, to trust that everything would be all right. They had tried to hide the video from him at first, until Tim found it on his own. They had tried to protect him. They were still trying. But Tim knew, somehow. He already knew that it was in vain.

Then he felt a sudden sharp stinging on his right arm above his elbow, like someone had pressed an ice cube into his flesh. Tim gasped and shivered all over, then sat up in bed and fumbled for the lamp on his nightstand.

He blinked in the sharp light, his eyes dry and aching. He turned his arm over, clutching his right wrist with his left hand, trying to hold them both still and keep them from shaking. And he watched.

He watched as the red ruby in its gold setting slowly washed out. First the colors faded and disappeared, leaving only a stark black outline. Then ink faded back in, shades of solid black, stippling, gradients. His mother's soulmark turned into a black ink illustration over the course of a minute or so. It burned and froze, like ice, like winter. Tim's teeth chattered. He couldn't breathe.

He lifted his shirt to look at his stomach, but his father's mark was still there. It felt cold, too, momentarily, but not enough to burn the way his mother's had. Then it stabilized, and the feeling disappeared. He was okay. Tim's dad was okay.

But his mom was dead. The dread was gone now, because the worst had happened. Tears streamed down Tim's cheeks, but he barely felt them. The greatest thing he felt was...relief. Because it was over.

He felt a great gaping hole in the middle of his gut, but at least the overwhelming feeling of dread and fear was gone. After that, he was finally able to sleep, exhausted into oblivion.

The next day, Bruce returned.

Tim's mother was dead, and his father was in a coma, both because of a neurotoxin they'd ingested right before Batman rescued them. His father's body was paralyzed. He might never walk again. He might never wake again.

Tim raged. He cried. He lashed out at Bruce, then clung to him, then pulled away. He held his father's limp, cold hand and pressed it to his face, and cried again. His emotions shocked him constantly, throwing him this way and that like a rag doll in a washing machine. He'd felt so in control, before, when he was chasing down Anarky, but now all control was lost. He was a child, an infant wailing and thrashing and punching the air, driving away everyone who tried to come near even while he desperately longed for comfort and reassurance.

Through it all, he couldn't stop thinking that this was his fault. Because he dared to want to be Robin, because he dared to try. He dared to hope, even to believe, that he could make a difference in Gotham. That someday he might be as cool as Dick or as Jason.

Because this was what happened to the Batman and his Robins. They lost their parents. It was the way it was. It was the way the world worked. It was fate. That was why the idea of Tim being Robin had felt so wrong, so off-balance. It didn't make sense, because he still had parents.

Well, now the world had intervened to fix that imbalance. Fate had had its way. Tim had lost one parent, and he still might lose the other one. Now he belonged. He had gone through the rite of passage.

So it was all his fault. It was all his fault that his mother was dead. And it was his fault that he couldn't mourn her properly. He couldn't remember all the things about her that a son should know. He didn't know what her favorite flowers were. He didn't know what songs she would want at her funeral, or if she would want any songs at all. He didn't even know if she preferred cremation or burial. He knew none of that.

Nothing. He knew nothing. He was worthless, hopeless, useless. He didn't even feel that much grief, just a terrible, yawning emptiness, a gnawing, slavering guilt. He was a bad son.

His mom deserved better. So much better than him.

When they returned from the hospital, Tim was exhausted. He swayed on his feet when they came in the door and stood there blankly, staring around. Bruce helped him out of his jacket and hat and gave them to Alfred to put away. He put a hand on Tim's shoulder to get his attention, and Tim reluctantly looked up at him.

He could barely see Bruce's face. It was a big, pale blur above him. Like the moon, haloed in darkness.

"Tim, what do you want to do now?" Bruce asked. "You're done in. Do you want to sit in the kitchen and have some tea? Or curl up on a sofa in the lounge, and we can watch TV or listen to music? Or do you want to go to your room? Whatever you want, partner. Just let me know."

Tim looked away. He couldn't make any decisions. It was too much. "I...I don't know."

Bruce made a pained noise. It was like it hurt him to see Tim this way. A distant part of Tim was sorry. He didn't want to hurt his soulmate. But a much larger part of him was yelling, screaming inside his head. Your fault, your fault, your fault, all your fault.

Bruce squeezed Tim's shoulder. It was almost painful, but that might have been because Tim felt so numb. "Why don't you go to your room and lie down? Alfred or I will bring you some hot chocolate and a snack later. Okay?"

Tim nodded. Yes, his room. He wanted to go to his room. Bruce gave him one more awkward pat on his shoulder, then left. Tim turned around and walked out the door.

He walked for what felt like a very long time. The cold air bit at his cheeks, but he was strong now. He'd been training. A couple of miles wasn't even that big of a deal.

Finally, he reached the house. His parents' house. His house. The big, empty brownstone. The automatic lights had turned on when dusk fell, but Tim knew no one was inside. The house was an empty shell, a hollowed-out husk.

It was where Tim belonged. He'd forgotten his keys, tucked into the corner of his sock drawer back at Wayne Manor. But he still remembered where the spare key was: the fake rock in the landscaping bed on the east side of the house. He let himself in and trudged up the stairs.

His feet hurt, despite the training. His legs were sore. His lungs ached from the cold. It was late October, and the furnace in this house hadn't run for months.

In his room, he kicked off his shoes, though he didn't have the energy to do anything else for a bedtime routine. He slipped between the cold sheets of his bed and curled up into a ball under the covers, his teeth chattering.

Eventually, he might have fallen asleep. Or maybe he fell into a kind of stupor. Either way, he didn't have to think, and he didn't have to feel, and that was the way he wanted it. And still, the voice in his head screamed on.

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

Chapter Text

Tim woke slowly, his body surrounded by warmth and comfort. He could smell food cooking, the scents drifting up from downstairs. It smelled like pancakes and bacon. The air was warm, and his cheek rested on a soft pillow. Cloth rustled in the room, like someone was shifting where they sat. A page turned.

Tim opened his eyes. He was still in his room at the old house, but it wasn't the same as when he went to sleep. The shade was open, and morning light was streaming in. His body stretched out, no longer curled under the covers. His head was on his pillow and the rest of his body was covered with blankets. He was completely comfortable, but confused. What was going on?

He turned his head to the side, and there was Dick, sitting in a chair next to Tim's bed and reading one of his comic books. He tapped his foot on the floor and turned another page, lips pursing as he read. Tim blinked.

Tim must have made some sort of noise, or caught the corner of Dick's eye or something. He lowered the book and looked at Tim with a soft smile, his expression kind and sympathetic. "Hey, there, kiddo. You're finally awake."

Tim nodded sluggishly. A hundred questions pushed at his lips, but his brain still felt befuddled and clumsy, and so did his body. "What...what're you..."

Dick chuckled and set the comic aside so he could lean forward and brush the hair from Tim's face. "You didn't think a house full of detectives could figure out where you'd gone?"

Tim closed his eyes in a slow blink, then opened them again. "Thought you were in...New York."

Dick's smile didn't falter. "I came home as soon as I heard."

"Oh." Tears filled Tim's eyes. He didn't know why.

"Hey, Timmy, can I...?"

Dick barely waited for Tim's confused nod before he lifted the edge of the blanket and slid into the bed with him. He pulled Tim into his arms, tucking his head under his chin, fingers combing the hair on the back of his head. "It's okay, buddy. You can cry."

Tim nestled his face into Dick's chest, sniffling wretchedly. He couldn't cry, not really. It felt all backed up inside him, like sewage in a pipe. But a few tears leaked out and wet Dick's shirt, and his body shook. It was close enough to crying for Dick to hold him tighter, murmuring soothing words and petting his hair.

It felt nice. It felt really nice. But Tim felt guilty for taking Dick's comfort, because he wasn't grieving. He didn't feel sad. He felt numb and lost and weird, like the world had tilted on an axis he hadn't known was there.

The tears stopped after a minute or so, but Dick kept holding him. When Tim went limp and must have seemed calm enough, Dick pressed a kiss on his forehead. He pulled back so he could look in his face.

"Hey, do you remember why you came here? The surveillance camera outside the manor door showed you walking away like you were going for a stroll. You weren't even hurrying. You must have walked all the way here, in the cold, at night. Bruce said he'd told you to go to your room and lie down, but he didn't mean this room. You know that, right? He wasn't kicking you out or anything. He would never do that."

Tim blinked. The idea of Bruce kicking him out hadn't even occurred to him. "I...I don't know. I wasn't...thinking. I know Bruce didn't mean for me to come to this room. That's obvious. He just... He said I should go to my room, and I remembered that I had this room, and I wanted to be here, so I came here. That's all."

Dick made a sympathetic noise. "Brain not firing on all cylinders, huh?"

Tim shook his head. No, his brain definitely hadn't been running at full capacity. Not since the moment the news said his parents' plane was late from Antigua. He'd tried to fake it, and he'd done a pretty good job for a while, but that was gone, now.

Another whiff of bacon hit his nose, and Tim leaned back, sniffing. "Who's making breakfast? Did Alfie come with you?"

Dick chuckled and moved to sit up, pulling Tim with him. "He wanted to, but Bruce needed him at home for something. No, Babs came with me. She said pancakes and breakfast meats would cheer up anyone, especially a teenage boy. Are you feeling hungry?"

Tim's stomach growled, as if the word "hungry" had woken it up. He nodded, suddenly frantic for food. He was pretty sure he hadn't eaten anything at all yesterday. He was starving.

Dick climbed out of bed and offered Tim a hand up. "C'mon, let's get down to the kitchen. Babs has been dying to see you, but she can't manage stairs in her wheels."

Tim felt absurdly guilty that his house wasn't accessible, but he shook that off and followed Dick into the hallway. He felt grungy from sleeping in his clothes, still worn out and somehow blank, but food took priority. He hoped Barbara had made a lot of pancakes.

Barbara was wheeling around the kitchen like a pro when they arrived. She flipped pancakes and prodded the bacon sizzling in a pan, holding her spatula like a poised weapon. At the footsteps in the door, she pivoted her chair to give them both a smile. "Hey, Timmers. How are you feeling?"

Tim blinked, then shook his head. Dick pushed him down to sit in a chair at the table, then crossed to the kitchen to help Barbara bring over food. In moments, Tim was staring at the veritable mountain of pancakes in front of him. Dick leaned over to offer him syrup.

"How much do you want, Timmy? A lot, or the whole bottle?"

He started to tip the bottle toward his plate. Tim wondered if he was going to cut up Tim's pancakes and feed them to him, too. He grabbed the bottle away before Dick could start squeezing it all over. "I got it."

Dick sat back and saw to his own breakfast, grabbing pancakes, sausage, and bacon for himself.

Barbara was still in the kitchen, finishing up the last of the pancake batter. "Tim, do you want a fried egg?"

Tim looked up. "You're making even more food?"

Barbara smiled at him over the counter the separated the kitchen from the dining area. "Pancake breakfast with my dad always included a fried egg or two. I can make it sunny side up or over easy, if you like, so you can have runny yolk soaking into your pancakes. It's good."

Tim shuddered, revolted by the idea. "No, thank you."

Barbara chuckled, already reaching for the egg carton on the counter. "Suit yourself. No eggs at all? Not even scrambled?"

Tim looked at his plate. There were a lot of carbohydrates and fat on there, but not a lot of protein. Bruce definitely would not approve. "Actually, I would like a couple of eggs, if you don't mind. Scrambled, please. With cheese, if you have it."

Dick paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Oh, shoot. I knew we forgot something."

Tim frowned at him. Dick gave him a shrug.

"There was nothing in the fridge when we got here, buddy. I did a grocery run while Babs got the furnace running and checked the pantry. She texted me every time she thought of something we needed to feed you up."

Tim looked at his plate. He'd only gotten through a few bites, but already he was feeling much, much better. Not only for the food, but for the warmth, for the company. For the kindness. Dick and Barbara had gone to so much trouble for him.

To his complete mortification, Tim's eyes started welling with tears again. He felt betrayed. How dare his body cry for a second time in less than half an hour. He pushed his chair back from the table and buried his face in his hands, trying to hide it.

Of course, it didn't work. In seconds Dick was kneeling in front of him with his hand on his knee, trying to look up at Tim's face. His voice was tender. "Tim, hey Tim. Please look at me. It's okay. I promise it's okay."

Tim bent over further, turning his head so Dick couldn't see his face. "I can't... I can't..."

"Aw, Timmy."

Dick reached up and grabbed Tim's wrists, trying to pry his hands away from his face. A moment later, he felt Barbara's hand on his shoulder. He hadn't even heard her leave the kitchen.

"I told you, didn't I? It's okay to cry, Tim. Your mom died. Crying is completely allowed."

A wet sob ripped out of Tim's throat. "It's not about...my mom..."

Barbara rubbed his shoulder. "What is it, Timmy-bimmy?"

"I just..." Tim held on for a few seconds longer, then let his arms relax so Dick could move his hands away from his face. He kept his head bent, but Dick was down there, looking up at him. Tim tried for a watery smile. "I didn't ask you guys to do this. You didn't have to come."

"Oh, sweetheart," Barbara murmured. "Of course we were gonna come. We were never gonna leave you to suffer alone. That's not how this works."

Dick straightened up and pulled Tim into a hug, kneeling on the floor while Tim still sat in his chair. Tim buried his face in his shoulder and sobbed. Barbara leaned closer and wrapped her arm around his shoulders, her cheek leaning on his head.

Tim wasn't alone. The house hadn't turned out to be empty and hollow after all. His family had followed him and filled it up.

He was so grateful he couldn't even express it. He squeezed Dick tighter, desperately, and Dick held him back just as hard.

It was like they wanted to be here. Like they wanted him. Wanted Tim.

Tim didn't know if he believed it. But he wanted to.

After Tim calmed down, they finally ate. The food was delicious, of course. There was no way it wouldn't be. Barbara joined them at the table, and she and Dick chatted about what they'd been doing lately. Tim kept his head down and concentrated on his food, feeling that if he tried to talk, he was going to start crying again. Listening to their voices was soothing, though. They didn't try to engage him, letting him retreat to his little pancake fortress of solitude.

After breakfast, Tim searched the clothes that were still left in his room until he found a decent enough outfit to wear, then took a shower. The shower did a lot to help him feel human and alive again, though he found that he was avoiding looking at his mother's soulmark. Maybe later he would be able to bear it better, this mark of love turned into a scar, but for now it was too fresh and painful.

He emerged from the bathroom, dressed but with his hair still dripping wet. He was carrying his dirty clothes from the day before. Dick stood at his desk, packing Tim's collection of action figures and other superhero tchotchkes into a box. Under other circumstances Tim might have been embarrassed. The first Robin was getting way too close and personal with the evidence of Tim's fanboy nature. But right now he was too tired.

"What're you doing?"

Dick looked up at gave him a smile. "I thought it was time you brought more of your stuff home."

"Home?" Tim tilted his head and walked over to the desk, watching as Dick continued to work.

"Wayne Manor," Dick clarified. "You're definitely going to be staying with Bruce, now. Your temporary stay just became a lot less temporary."

Tim's fist tightened on the shirt in his hand. "My dad is going to wake up."

Dick stopped what he was doing and looked up at Tim, his face solemn. "Yes, of course. But it could be months, Tim. Could be years. And even when he does wake up, there could be all kinds of damage, physical, mental... We just don't know.

"Alfred and Bruce are already talking about taking legal steps to make your custody permanent instead of an ad hoc arrangement. That's one reason they're back at the manor, talking to lawyers and social workers, instead of here taking care of you. They trusted me and Babs to do that, though they both wanted to come and be with you. As it is, we've been texting them and sending them pictures to reassure them that you're all right."

Tim nodded slowly. He didn't know how to react to this news. It felt so weird.

Last night, when he'd come here, his brain had been pretty messed up. But somewhere in there had been this devastating feeling of being completely...alone. His mother dead, his father in a coma. Who did he have left? It had felt right to come back to the empty house, this empty room. To be as alone physically as he felt he was emotionally.

But it had turned out that he wasn't so alone, after all. He had gained four new soulmarks in the past few months. Four of them. Three of those people had his mark in return, and the fourth one didn't seem to care that he didn't.

All of these incredible people, three of them belonging to the figures on his desk, cared enough about Tim to follow him when he tried to leave. To chase him down, hold him, make breakfast for him, call a lawyer and a social worker and who knew what else to make sure they had a right to him.

Tim turned away and started looking for something to put his dirty clothes in. If he thought about this much longer, he was going to start crying again. Dick had gathered a motley collection of cardboard boxes, and Tim dropped the clothes into the nearest one. Then he started to help him pack.

He'd left a lot of stuff in this room, treating his room at Wayne Manor more like a hotel room than a home. They were going to have to come back later for some of it. Halfway through the job, Barbara came to the bottom of the stairs to yell at them to hurry up. Dick yelled back, teasing her for not being able to rock her wheelchair up the stairs. Barbara yelled back that if Dick didn't shut up, she would figure out a way just so she could smack him.

Tim grinned. And he worked faster.

He was going home.

Chapter Text

Bruce hurt, body and soul. He wanted the excuse of jetlag, but Gotham and Haiti were actually in the same timezone. The fight hadn't even been that rough, all things considered. Bruce had had more protracted battles with the Mad Hatter back home.

No, this ache was because of loss, though not his loss. It was because of failure. It was because he was standing in a hospital hallway with a bereft child who had just lost his mother. All because Bruce had been a single step behind. A few seconds too late.

The nurse was talking, explaining to Tim that he could see his father, but he needed to be gentle. Jack would most likely be able to hear him, despite the full-body paralysis, but he wouldn't be able to respond. Tim nodded, his eyes fixed on the observation window that looked into his father's room. His hands were shaking.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" Bruce asked, his voice as soft as he could make it.

Tim's hand was already on the door. "No."

The boy hadn't meant to be so curt. Bruce knew that. Still, the single word seemed to cut him.

All he could do was stand there at the window as Tim went into the room. He talked to his father. Held his limp hand. Cried.

Then Jack cried, too, silent tears running down his slack face, his eyes wide open and staring at nothing. Tim was shaken, but there was nothing he could do. There was nothing any of them could do.

Bruce hurt. He hurt. And then he felt himself hurting even more, a palm-sized patch of skin down on the right side of his abdomen. He laid a hand over the area, pressing hard, as if it was a bleeding wound. He knew it wasn't. He knew what would be there when he lifted his shirt and looked in a mirror later.

There was something wrong with Bruce, as he'd known for a long time. He was broken on a fundamental level.

This was when he manifested Tim's soulmark? When the child had lost his mother, when he was crying over his paralyzed father? Why not last week, last month, when Tim's family was troubled but relatively intact? Was Bruce only able to make connections with young people who had suffered tragedy? Who he could relate to, see himself in? Was that what it took?

What was wrong with him?

He couldn't tell the boy. Not now. Not while Tim was so distraught. Not for a few days, until things had calmed down. Until after the funeral, at least.

When Tim emerged from the room, he was pale and glassy-eyed. Bruce put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him to his side. "Let's go home, partner."

Tim nodded vaguely, as if barely aware of Bruce's presence. Earlier he had yelled, cried, clung to him, then torn away when the contact became too much. Now, that energy was gone.

When they got home, Bruce told Tim to go to his room and lie down, hoping that a rest would do him good. A half hour later, he went up with a tray, but Tim's room was empty. A frantic search of the security footage, a few moments reflecting on their last conversation, and Bruce realized where the boy had gone.

He wanted to head over to the empty brownstone immediately and bring his lost lamb home. Alfred counseled patience and giving Tim space and time to process his grief. Still, someone was definitely going to be there when he woke up in the morning. Dick was already on his way back from New York. He might have an idea on how to deal with it.

In the meantime, Bruce sat down in the Batcave. He watched the security feed from the Drakes' house, which he'd hacked when Tim first started living with him. There was nothing to see, of course. It was a quiet suburban neighborhood. There was no camera in Tim's room, where he was no doubt sleeping soundly. Or possibly crying his eyes out.

Bruce's hand drifted down to his abdomen, rubbing over the new soulmark. He wanted to be there. He wanted to be holding his new child in his arms. It was that new-soulmate clinginess, of course, manifesting at the most inopportune time.

Bruce pulled up the hem of his shirt and stared down at the mark, taking it in. He'd seen it before, of course, on Alfred, Dick, even Barbara. But it felt different now that it was branded into his own skin, vibrant and fresh. Funny how it was right over where his appendix would be, if it hadn't already been taken out. It was as if this boy was born to make his stomach hurt.

The next few days were filled with a lot of annoying details. Talking to lawyers and social services, updating Tim's school, filling out paperwork. Planning a funeral. Fortunately, Janet had left a living will with her wishes, so Bruce didn't have to put Tim through the trauma of talking about it. He took care of everything.

Even more fortunately, Dick was home now. He and Barbara went on a campaign to keep Tim occupied and distracted. They took him to the zoo, to the museum. They even invited his school friends over for an evening so they could play Tim’s weird nerd game, Wizards and Warlocks or something. Alfred made sure he ate. Bruce watched from a slight distance. A couple of times, he tried to make sure Tim knew that he was available if he wanted to talk. Tim never took him up on the offer.

The night before Janet's funeral, Bruce was out almost till sunrise working on a difficult case. When he got home, he slipped upstairs, still wearing the suit, to check on Tim. He'd been itching to get back to him all night long, and now he couldn't even wait to change his clothes to see him.

Tim was in the throes of a nightmare, thrashing around and moaning, his face covered with sweat. Bruce sat next to him on the bed and put a hand on his shoulder, his chest aching. Tim woke with a start and a gasp, then lay there, frozen, staring up at him.

"It's okay, Tim," Bruce said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "It was just a dream."

Tim groaned and turned over on his side, pulling his shoulder away from Bruce's touch. Bruce sat there with his hand hovering for a moment, then lowered it to his lap. "Are you all right? Do you want to talk about it?"

Tim lay still and silent for a few moments, his breath still coming in painful pants. "No, thank you."

"Are you sure? I don't mind." He would relish the chance to be able to help his new little soulmate.

Another pause stretched, longer than the last. "It was just... You know. About her dying."

"Ah." The sound came out barely audible. Yes, Bruce knew.

Tim pushed the covers down and lifted his arm. He stared at the black ink mark that had once been his connection with his mother, but now was only a reminder of where she used to be. "Does...does the mark ever fade?" His voice was equal parts hopeful and despairing. "After...someone dies. Does their mark on you ever go away?"

A lump rose in Bruce's throat, heavy and hard. "I've...heard that that can happen," he said. "Rarely, but it does. Such as for a young child who didn't know their soulmate well. If that person dies, and the child's memory fades, so does the mark. But for most people, the mark stays exactly the same as it was when the person first passed. It's a memory etched into your skin."

Tim turned over so he could look back into Bruce's face, his expression somehow bleak. "So your parents...?"

Bruce looked down at his left arm, still covered with the heavy Batman suit. He wished he'd taken a few moments to change, so he could look at them now. Even though he'd long ago memorized the marks, every line, every corner, every shade, over and over and thrice over again.

"Yes, I still have their marks," he said. "They are still exactly the same as they were the moment my mother and father passed out of this world. I believe I will carry them until I die."

Tim hesitated, then laid his hand on Bruce's arm. It felt warm, somehow, even through the suit. It felt pleasant and soothing.

He was such a good boy. Such a calming presence. Bruce grieved for him, and he loved him. So, so much.

He opened his mouth to tell him so, but what came out was, "You should get up soon."

Tim blinked and nodded, his hand sliding away from Bruce's arm. Bruce stood up and opened the curtains so morning sunlight streamed in. "I hate to remind you, but..."

"I know." Tim sighed. "The funeral is today." The next thing came out in a whisper. "My mommy's funeral."

The lump in Bruce's throat all but choked him. He didn't know what else to say, so he ended up saying nothing. Eventually, he nodded and left the room, leaving Tim to go through his morning routine.

The funeral itself was...painful. Not because Bruce felt any connection to Janet, but because he felt so deeply for the grieving child. The first row, which was reserved for immediate family and other soulmates, only had two occupants.

Tim was there, in the middle. Bruce, Alfred, Dick, and Barbara sat behind him in support. A nurse accompanied Jack Drake, who was in a wheelchair hung with IV bags. He sat at the end of the row, silent and staring. Apparently Janet had other soulmarks, but none of their owners had come to the funeral. Perhaps they were overseas and hadn't been able to make it back in time. Perhaps they hadn't made the effort.

The rest of the mourners were from Gotham. Bruce recognized several society folks, as well as those who moved in business circles. A few looked a bit teary-eyed. Perhaps they had respected or appreciated Janet enough to feel her loss. Most were stone-faced and solemn. No one wailed or wept in an unseemly fashion.

Janet's will had specified a short service and no music. Jack was supposed to give words, if he chose, but he was physically incapable. Tim had not been mentioned.

A priest spoke for about ten minutes, a generic set of remarks Bruce had heard many times. He paid little attention, his gaze fixed on the hunched shoulders of the boy in front of him. Afterward, a short viewing was allowed. Jack's nurse wheeled his chair to the coffin, while Tim sat frozen in his chair.

Jack made no response. He didn't even cry, like he had when Tim spoke to him in the hospital. Tim only moved after the nurse wheeled him away, back to the ambulance waiting outside.

Tim moved like his entire body hurt. Like he was aching, head to foot. Bruce and the others moved with him, though they gave him some space. Tim stood at the coffin for a long, painful minute or two, staring down at his mother's body.

Then he reached out and touched his mother's left arm, tentative and trembling. He pushed up her sleeve. There was Tim's soulmark, the blue eye with the red flame. It was a bit dull, but it was there.

Tim gasped. And then he started to cry. He cried in huge, awful, wheezing sobs that filled the entire room with the sounds of grief and loss and utter agony. Bruce moved, galvanized into action. He pulled the boy into his arms, drawing him away from looking at his mother's body. Tim buried his face in Bruce's chest, gripping him with desperate intensity. His entire body shook, and the sounds of his weeping were only a little muffled.

Tim was saying something, but at first Bruce couldn't make it out. After a few iterations, though, he understood. "It's still there. It's still there."

A chill ran down Bruce's spine. Tim had thought his mother didn't have his soulmark. He had thought she had stopped loving him at some point, in all the years she'd been away. Well, and who could blame him?

Alfred laid his hand on the back of Tim's neck, meeting Bruce's eyes with a look of pain. "Perhaps we should take him home," he murmured.

"At least let's move away from here," Dick said, his hand on Bruce's shoulder blade.

It took some maneuvering, but they managed to get Tim to another room without making him let go of Bruce. He continued to cry and mutter for a while, but eventually calmed down and stood back, shakily rubbing his eyes. Bruce continued to hold his shoulders, unwilling to let go of him.

"Do you want to go to the burial?" Bruce asked. "You don't have to. We can go home."

Tim considered for a while, then shook his head tremulously. He looked up and met Bruce's gaze, tears clinging to his eyelashes. "I want to go home."

Bruce nodded. "Okay. We'll go home."

He thought about telling Tim that he had his soulmark, too, but it didn't feel right. Not while Tim was so shaken and grief-stricken.

Over the next few weeks, Bruce kept thinking about telling Tim about his soulmark. About showing him. He could never find the right moment.

He didn't want to replace Tim's parents. He didn't want to intrude. Tim needed time to mourn, to adjust. He already had Alfred and Dick and Barbara, who were much better at talking to him, relating to him, comforting him. Bruce would just be in the way of that.

And besides, who would want him for a soulmate? Bruce was a terrible soulmate. He was bad at taking care of his soulmates. He was bad at being there for them, talking to them, making them feel valuable and loved.

He...he got his soulmates killed. It was a miracle Dick and Alfred were still alive.

Somehow, the right moment never came.

Chapter Text

It was a crackle that woke him. A crackle like electricity, like lightning. It felt so close. It felt like it was in his ear.

Not just his ear. His entire body. There was a crack in the universe, and his body jolted, and then he was awake.

It didn't hurt, at first. He didn't even realize he was awake, for a moment. Everything was dark. Dark, dark, and so, so cold.

It was so cold. It felt like being in the depths of the Batcave, back where the lights barely reached. Back among the chitter of bats, the trickling of ancient water.

But it was quiet. Quiet and still. Dark. And so cold.

Jason blinked, but it was still dark. Not even night-dark, but cave-dark. Nothing-dark. Empty-dark.

It was cold. But he wasn't shivering. It was like that crack had filled him with energy. He was bursting with it. He needed to do something with it.

He lifted his hands. Inches, only inches, and he struck something, fingers and palms. A ceiling, just a few inches above him. It was soft, like velvet. Jason ran his fingers along it wonderingly.

He tried to reach out beside him. Immediately, his arms hit another surface on both sides. It was soft, too.

His breath began to come faster. He kicked. His foot hit something instantly. Only a few inches above. This time, he felt the solidity behind the velvet. Like a steel door.

Or a thick slab of wood.

Jason had to get out. He had to get out. He had to get out.

His breath was coming faster and faster, pounding in his aching chest, his splitting head. His heart was thumping like a drum. He could feel it, everything. Every inch of his body. He could feel the bruises, the cracked bones, the raw wounds that had stopped bleeding but still stung like a motherfucker.

He was buried. He was in a coffin. He had died.

The Joker killed him. The Joker beat him, then blew him up. Jason knew this with raw, stunning clarity. It was his last memory.

His last memory. Before he'd died.

He was alive again, somehow, by some cruel joke of the universe. How? He wasn't Superman. He didn't regenerate under the light of a yellow sun. A human boy, dead in a coffin, was only supposed to rot. But Jason was alive.

Jason was alive, but soon he would be dead again, because he was buried, and there was no air, and there was no way to dig yourself out of your own coffin. That was crazy stuff, the realm of myth and legend. It wasn't a real thing that a normal person could do.

And Jason was a very, very normal person.

He had to try. He had to get out. The energy of the universe was still roaring through him, galvanizing him, filling every limb, making his brain race and his heart pump. Jason pounded his fists against the ceiling of his coffin. Once, twice, and it cracked.

It cracked. Jason didn't question it. This was not something a normal person could do, but for this moment Jason wasn't normal. He was alive, and he was breaking out of his coffin. He was digging himself out of his grave.

He punched. He clawed. He kicked. He screamed. Dirt rained down on his face, and he pushed up, through it. He dug a hole, and he pushed himself into it. He dragged himself through the cold, wet dirt.

He choked on it, on the mud, on the cold, then spat it out and screamed in defiance. He swam his way up through six feet of solid earth, fighting with every inch of his body, every ounce of rage he'd ever felt at the unfairness of the world.

It hurt. It tore at his body, scraping his limbs, shredding his clothes. His fingernails splintered, and the skin on his fingertips split. Still he punched and he clawed and he kicked and he wriggled and he screamed, even with his mouth full of dirt.

Then his hand broke the surface, and he felt the cold air, the blessed rain. His other hand broke up beside it, and he grabbed the strands of grass he felt above him.

He was getting out. He was getting out. He was alive again, and he was going to stay living. He was going to go home. He was going to see his dad.

Jason's face broke above the ground, too, and he sucked in a desperate breath of air. Everything hurt. Everything was on fire. Rain spattered on his face, and he ducked his head down, gripped the grass further away from the hole he'd made for himself, and he pulled.

The energy was fading. That strange crackle, the crack, the lightning that had filled him. It was going, it was going, it was almost gone.

With the last of the energy gifted to him, Jason dragged himself all the way out of his grave and rolled over into a fresh patch of grass, panting and heaving. He lay on his back, letting the rain fall on him and wash away the mud. Everything hurt, but his head ached the most abominably.

Thoughts were starting to slip away, too. He couldn't hold onto what he'd been thinking. The last energy faded away, and now he felt the cold, all the way down deep into his bones. He was shivering, so cold that he was crying with it, his mouth drawn into a grimace.

He had to find...someone. Dad? Bruce. His name was Bruce. Jason needed to find Bruce.

With a desperate surge, Jason forced himself to his feet and began to walk. That hurt, too. His legs were burning. His breath rasped in his throat. He had to find someone and ask them to take him to Bruce.

He saw headlights nearby. A road. There was a road. Jason had to get to the road. There would be people there. He could ask them to find Bruce.

It was the only thought in his head. The only thing he could hold onto.

Jason stumbled toward the road. He was going to make it. He was going to get to Bruce. He was going to go home.

Chapter Text

Bruce was on a stake out when he felt a sudden pain just under his left armpit. He ducked down on the roof where he was crouching with a gasp, pressing his hand to the spot. For a moment, he thought he'd been shot. A sniper on another roof had spotted him, gotten a bead, pulled the trigger. But there had been no crack of the powder exploding, and there was no dent in the armor his fingers pressed against. There was just the pain.

Inexplicably, his mind was flooded by images of Jason. Not in death, but in life. His second son, bent over homework at the kitchen table, training in the cave with sweat running down his face, coming to greet him when he got back from Wayne Enterprises with a big grin. His son, brilliant and beautiful and so, so alive.

And for some reason, the flood of images was not accompanied with pain and grief. He just felt the emotions of those memories, the joy and contentment and pleasure and love, so much love. All of the love he'd ever felt for Jason, from every moment he'd known him, suddenly returned to him like a massive echo. It rebounded and resonated and filled him with a sweetness that was almost like relief. Almost like joy.

Bruce gasped again, dizzy for lack of air. It felt like he'd been punched in the solar plexus, the wind knocked out of him, but without pain. It was just pure startlement, pure amazement.

He was still kneeling there, reeling, trying to figure out what had happened, when the comm in his ear suddenly came alive.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred's voice was as agitated as he'd ever heard it. He'd forgotten to call him Batman or B, and Alfred was the strictest among them when it came to using only code names in the field, even over the radio. He sounded breathless, too, as if he'd experienced the same feeling of being punched.

"Al..." Bruce murmured. "What...what's going on?"

"It's, it's the soulmark. The soulmark! Master Jason's... Jason's soulmark. It's come back to life! It's full of color again!"

Bruce stood straight up, feeling like he'd been shocked in every limb. "I'm...on my way."

He barely took the time to grab the binoculars he'd been using for the stake out before he started swinging back toward where he'd parked the Batmobile. There was no time to question this. No time to wonder if it was real, if it was some trick. If there was any possibility, if it was true, he had to run.

Somehow, though, he knew already. He felt it in his bones. It was true. Jason was back. The hows and whys didn't matter. Jason was back, and Bruce had to go to him.

"Don't, don't come home, Master B... Batman," Alfred said, still sounding breathless. "Go to, to the gravesite."

Oh, God. If Jason had returned to life in the same body, in his coffin... He had minutes, not hours.

"Yes," Bruce choked out. "Yes, that's where I'm going."

Did they have a shovel in the Batmobile? Did he have anything he could use to break through six feet of solid earth to reach his son?

If there was nothing available, no tools at all, he would dig with his hands.

"Alfred, how long will it take you to get there with the backhoe?"

Alfred caught his breath. The grave was on family property, but it was a few miles from the manor. "I will leave immediately. Master Tim will assist me."

"Good."

Tim, yes. Tim would help. He was such a good boy. He would be of great assistance, Bruce was sure. But in the meantime, he had to get there himself. He had to get there now.

It took too long. Every second on the drive over, Bruce was thinking about Jason and how much air he had left. He found himself holding his breath without meaning to, as if testing his own limits. As if he could take his son's place if he just tried hard enough.

How many times had Bruce wished he could take Jason's place? Hundreds. Thousands. Every time one of his boys suffered, he wished that he could take their suffering on his own shoulders and spare them. When Dick got shot in the arm, when Jason was upset by a nasty case, when Tim lost his mother. Each time, Bruce ached and longed and yearned with soul-deep desire to drag all their pain and anguish and heartache into his own body and harbor it for them, leaving them to drift peacefully in a painless sea.

It was a useless desire. Every time Bruce realized he was holding his breath, he stopped immediately and sucked in a huge, gulping gasp. It would do no good to deprive himself of oxygen, no matter how he wished that he could take Jason's place.

Of course, if Bruce could have taken Jason's place at any point, it would have been that cursed warehouse in Ethiopia. Bruce would give everything he had, down to the last penny and the clothes on his back, to be able to do that. But life was not so kind.

Jason must be so terrified, so disoriented, so lost, trapped in a coffin with no means of escape. Whatever alien process had brought him back to the land of the living, it was too much to hope that it had also healed him. The funeral had been open casket, but it was a near thing. Bruce was still haunted by how strange and unnatural Jason's face had looked against the silk pillow, caked over with makeup to hide his many wounds.

Even if the boy were at his full strength, the height of his power as a tough, fully trained vigilante, there was no way he would be able to break out. To bust through the thick wood of his own coffin, to dig his way through several feet of earth packed in over months by the weight of itself. It was impossible for a mortal human, and Bruce knew with deep and abiding certainty just how mortal and how human his second son was.

It was raining when Bruce arrived at the graveyard. He leaped out of the Batmobile and ran for Jason's grave, fumbling to retrieve a flashlight from his utility belt. He couldn't hold the light steady, running so hard and so recklessly. The beam bounced around in front of him, hitting the corners of gravestones, the slick wet grass, the raindrops sliding through the air in front of him.

He reached the grave and fell to his knees, slipping in the wet grass. The light came to rest on the earth in front of him, under the shiny new gravestone, Jason's memorial. Bruce's breath left his body.

The grave was disturbed. It looked like spadefuls of dirt had been turned over and left in messy lumps and tiny hillocks, roughly in a circle. Right in the middle of the plot.

Was it possible? Had Jason been able to dig himself out? Or had some other force removed him? Perhaps whatever creature or process had brought him back to life?

Bruce sucked in three gulping breaths, his lungs aching. He keyed the comm unit in his ear. "Al...Alfred. Alf. Alfred. I need you."

"Yes, Master Bruce?" Alfred's response was swift and crisp, but Bruce heard the rush of sound behind his voice that meant he was out in the rain, too. He was driving the backhoe to meet him, no doubt pushing it as fast as it could go.

"The grave... Jason's grave. The dirt is broken. It's been dug up. I think...I think he might already be gone."

Shocked silence for a few seconds, then Alfred's voice came again, firm and resolute. "Look for him! He can't have gotten far. I'm still coming, bringing the equipment. We need to know for sure."

"Ye...yes. I'll do that."

Bruce pushed himself to his feet. His head was reeling, and his legs felt weak. He swung his head side to side, then realized it was terribly dark and raised the flashlight to aid him. The beam of light was trembling in the air.

Shock, he realized distantly. This was shock. He wasn't quite himself.

It didn't help to know the reason for his weakness. He couldn't shake it off just by knowing what was wrong. Bruce wagged his head side to side, closing his eyes, then stumbled forward. "Jason!" he called, then much louder. "Jason!"

Alfred cursed suddenly over the comms, and Bruce went still. He could count the number of times he'd heard Alfred swear on one hand. "What is it? What happened?"

"Master Tim..." Alfred sounded frustrated. "He jumped off the backhoe and started running back the way we came. He said something about the Batcave, but I didn't catch all of it over the sound of the rain."

Bruce stood still, blinking. It took him a moment to understand, his brain was moving so slowly, but it finally clicked. "He's thinking that Jason might have already been picked up by someone. He's going to call police stations and hospitals, looking for him."

"Oh." Alfred’s voice was mollified. "That's quite a sound plan, actually."

Bruce smiled, half in bemusement, half in pride. "I've been training him in detective work."

"We all have our tasks, then. You keep looking for Master Jason around the area in case he's nearby. I will reach you soon and will commence to digging up the grave. And Master Tim will look for leads by phone and computer, as is his strength."

"Yes."

Bruce's legs steadied somewhat, and he began looking in earnest. He tromped determinedly through the graveyard, calling and calling. "Jason! Jay! Son, are you there? Where are you? It's Bruce! It's Dad! I'm here! Jason! Where are you, lad?"

Nothing. No answer. Bruce's heart stubbornly refused to leave his throat. He continued to walk and call, swinging the flashlight around and searching behind every gravestone, under every bush. What if Jason had fallen unconscious and couldn't answer? What if he had succumbed to his wounds and was bleeding out somewhere? What if he'd sustained too much brain damage from the repeated blows to the head and didn't recognize his own name?

After what felt like far too long, Alfred arrived with the backhoe, loaded with equipment. He set up several floodlights around Jason's grave. He proceeded to dig while Bruce continued to stomp around and yell, frantic and despairing by turns. He couldn't stop his brain from running from one terrible scenario to another.

What if the disturbed dirt didn't mean what he thought it did? What if Jason was still in his coffin and had already suffocated? What if Alfred didn't take sufficient care with the backhoe and accidentally crushed him? What if he'd wandered out to the road and been hit by a car, or picked up by some pervert?

Bruce had already checked the road and the ditch beside it twice, but that thought had him running back again, choking on his breath. Behind him, he could hear the ominous whirring and clanking of the backhoe. He trusted Alfred, he did. Alfred would never harm Jason, neither intentionally nor by carelessness. But Bruce did not trust the rest of the world.

Jason wasn't on the road. A car flashed by, headlights like starbeams shining through the rain. Bruce began to jog beside the road, heading back toward town. Maybe Jason had started walking, thinking that no one was coming for him.

There were no footsteps, no traces, everything having been washed away by the rain. But Bruce couldn't give up. He had to keep trying. His son. His son was out there. He had to find him.

He fought the urge to strip off his armor and his shirt and look at the soulmark, just to confirm that it really had come back to life, vivid and bright again. But he couldn't waste the time and energy. He would have plenty of time to stare at it later, all the time he needed. Alfred had said his mark came back, too, so it wasn't a dream. It wasn't a delusion.

Oh, no. Dick. Had anyone told him? Did he know? Bruce went still in his tracks, blinking. Dick had had Jason's soulmark, too, once upon a time. Was it still there, or had it faded? Had it come back to life for him, too?

Bruce started to lift his hand to key his comm and ask Tim to make a call to Dick. Before he got there, though, the unit crackled. It was Tim's voice on the line, breathless and triumphant.

"Bruce! Alfred!"

Bruce could almost see his face, just from the tone of his voice. The beaming grin, the sparkling eyes. It made his heart ache in sweet pain.

"What is it?" Alfred asked.

Tim laughed, vibrant with joy. "I found him. I found him! Jason is alive, and he's in Gotham City!"

Chapter Text

"Tim!"

Tim startled at the loud voice and stepped away from the doorway, looking down the hallway. It was Dick, jogging toward him. His face turned from frantic to sheepish as he reached him. "Sorry, Timbo. I didn't meant to scare you. Is this the room?"

Tim looked at the doorway he'd been standing next to, peeking inside. Inside, Bruce sat at Jason's bedside, surrounded by medical equipment. Bruce hadn't even reacted to Dick's voice, that's how wrapped up he was in watching Jason.

Tim nodded. Dick sighed in relief, then pulled Tim into a tight hug, crushing his head against his chest. "Oh my gosh, Timmy. I'm so... I can't believe it."

"Mmph." After a moment to process that he was being hugged, Tim lifted a hand and patted Dick on the back. "S'okay," he mumbled into his shirt.

Dick let him go and stood back, still holding his shoulders. Tears stood in his eyes. "Alfred told me that you were the one who found him here in this hospital. Is that true?"

Tim nodded. It wasn't that big of a deal. All he'd done was call a bunch of clinics and hospitals and police stations. He'd used the same story every time, "I'm looking for my foster brother. His name is Jason. He got beat up and wandered off. He might be asking for his dad, Bruce. Has anyone like that been brought in?"

A couple had been driving on the road by the cemetery where Jason had been buried. They almost ran into him when Jason stumbled into their headlights. He was bruised and battered, mud caking his shoes, his sleeves, his broken fingers. He was incoherent, only able to mutter Bruce's name through numb and swollen lips. They'd taken him immediately to a hospital in Gotham.

Now he was unconscious. A coma, the doctors said. Like Tim's dad, but at least Jason wasn't paralyzed. They didn't know when Jason would wake up. They didn't know if he had brain damage. They didn't know a lot of things.

But Jason was alive. No one could explain it, but here he was, alive and breathing. And Bruce was glued to his side, unable to look at anything but his son's face.

"I just kept calling until I found the right place," Tim said. "I figured if he'd gotten out on his own, someone must have picked him up and called an ambulance or the police. It's a busy road outside that cemetery. Someone was bound to come along before too long."

"You followed a hunch, and it paid off," Dick said. "That was good detective work. And just..."

He hugged Tim again, even harder, unable to express himself any other way. His voice was choked up. "Thank you. Thank you so much for finding my little brother."

Aren't I your little brother, too? Tim thought, illogically. No, that wasn't true. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Sometimes he felt like Dick thought of him like that. It was in the way he ruffled his hair and called him nicknames and teased him and took him on outings.

But he'd never outright said it. And just because both of them had lived under Bruce Wayne's roof at some point, that didn't mean they were brothers. Tim didn't even think of himself as Bruce's foster son, though he had used that story when making his calls. Bruce was only his...legal guardian. For a while. Until his dad woke up. It wasn't the same thing.

He didn't know why he was even thinking about this right now. None of that mattered. He shook his head against Dick's shoulder, then pushed off his chest. "Go see him," he murmured.

Dick gave him a watery smile, ran his fingers through Tim’s hair, then walked into the room. When he was a couple of steps away, Bruce finally noticed and looked up. He murmured something, and Dick answered, but they were too far away from Tim to catch the words.

He kept standing in the doorway like some kind of creeper, watching it all. Bruce stood up and pulled Dick into a hug. There was a sound that was almost like a sob, deep and resonant. Tim looked away.

His cheeks were flaming. He didn't belong here. But he felt drawn to that little room, like magnetism, even though he had no right to step inside.

Eventually, Tim dragged himself away. He went back to the little waiting room down the hall and slumped into a chair. He picked up the magazine he'd been reading earlier. He flipped through it, his eyes passing over the pages, taking nothing in.

Tim gave up trying to read and let his head loll back on the chair, his eyes sliding shut. Why was he feeling so down? It didn't make any sense.

He'd been happy earlier. When he found Jason and told Bruce and Alfred, then called Dick at Bruce's request to let him know the good news. He'd felt victorious. He had been full of excitement and joy for the Wayne family. For this incredible miracle that had happened. It was so impossible, so amazing, he had no choice but to be thrilled.

And he still was. He was very, very happy for Bruce getting his son back. And Dick. And Alfred. Jason was alive, and that was amazing and incredible and all sorts of other superlatives that Tim couldn't think of right now.

Tim didn't know why he was here at the hospital, though. He'd been in the Batcave when Bruce came home from the cemetery, roaring in like he couldn't waste a single second. Bruce jumped out of the Batmobile, already tearing off his cowl. He yelled at Tim to go start the Bentley so they could drive to the hospital, and Tim headed upstairs right away. He could hear Bruce shedding pieces of the Batsuit as he moved. He knew Bruce was going to make this the quickest change into civilian clothes in the history of secret identities.

Sure enough, Bruce jogged into the garage a few minutes later. Tim had been sitting in the driver's seat after he started the car. When Bruce opened the door, he slipped into the passenger seat without thinking twice. Bruce spared him a glance, but most of his attention was focused on driving as quickly as he could without endangering them.

Tim couldn't help watching Bruce on the drive, his gaze fixed to his face. Bruce's face was pale, his hair was rumpled, and his shirt collar was twisted. His eyes were focused and intense, but somehow far away at the same time. A small frown twisted his lips, and a wrinkle creased his forehead.

Tim's heart ached, and he loved him. He loved this man with a deep and burning fire. He wanted the best for him. He wanted him to be happy. He wanted him to have his son back.

If it wasn't Jason in that hospital, if they'd somehow gotten mixed up, or if it was a doppelganger, or a clone, or some trick by an enemy they didn't even know about...

Tim would never forgive himself for giving Bruce this hope, only to have it taken away.

But they'd arrived at the hospital, and a nurse had shown them to that room. Bruce took one look at Jason, and his breath left his body. "It's him," he murmured. Then, louder. "It's him. I know it. That's my son."

The nurse in the room tried to caution Bruce to be wary. They needed to do tests. They needed to be certain. People didn't come back from the dead. There had to be some other explanation.

But Bruce was sure. He turned toward the nurse and lifted his shirt, showing the skin on his side. He pointed at the bright red and gray soulmark under his armpit. "He's back," he said, his voice more full of emotion than Tim had ever heard. "I felt him come back. So did his soul-grandfather. That's my boy. Do all the tests you want, but it's him. He's back. I'm not leaving his side."

The nurse bowed her head and left the room. Bruce pulled up a chair next to Jason's bed and fell into it, already reaching for his hand. His bent his head over Jason's limp fingers. Tim saw the tears begin to fall.

He left the room before he had to listen to Bruce sobbing. It wasn't his place.

Since then Tim had spent most of his time in the waiting room, half-heartedly reading through every magazine in the rack. Every so often, he went back to Jason's room and stood in the doorway, watching for a few moments. He couldn't help himself. Bruce never looked up, never acknowledged him.

He talked to Alfred a couple of times. Alfred stayed at the gravesite and finished digging up the coffin. It was empty, the lid broken through. He gathered all the evidence and took it back to the cave for analysis after filling the grave back in. It was a lengthy process, especially working alone. Tim offered to come back and help him, but Alfred assured him he was fine.

So instead Tim was stuck here in the hospital, being useless. Well, being useless and also brooding. Uselessly.

He didn't know why he was upset. It was stupid. He should be happy. He was happy, on some level. He was happy for Bruce. Happy for Alfred. Happy for Dick.

Happy for Jason. Jason, who was alive, after being dead. Who had a chance to live again, to be with his dad and brother and grandpa again. Who had a life.

Tim's eyes slid to the wall. Jason had a chance for a life, now. With his family.

And Tim... Tim didn't.

Was that why he was sad? Was he...jealous? Of Jason? A kid who had been beaten by the Joker, then blown up in an explosion? Who had experienced trauma beyond measure before his death, then experienced a great deal more when he was resurrected and had to dig his way out of his own coffin? Who was currently in a coma and might have severe brain damage or other physical limitations for the rest of his life? Really? Tim was jealous of him?

Tim groaned and covered his eyes. Yes. He was jealous. Because Jason had a family. He had three people who were over the moon that he was back. They would do everything in their power to take care of him for the rest of his life. They would move mountains and turn over every stone in the world for the slightest chance to help him.

And Tim didn't. He didn't have a family anymore. His mom was dead and his dad was paralyzed. Even when those two things weren't true, they'd never really been available to him. They came around once in while, they took him to fancy galas and museums and symphonies, but they weren't there. Not on a daily basis. Not for real.

If Tim got beat up and blown up and ended up in a hospital bed or a wheelchair or something, they would just...hire people to deal with him. Like they always did. Because they couldn't stand to do it themselves. Because Tim wasn't good enough to merit their attention. He wasn't important enough. He didn't mean anything to them.

But Jason was important. He was so, so important to Bruce. To his mental health. To his stability. Jason was everything.

And Tim wasn't. He was just...a kid. A random kid who had forced his way into Bruce's house and into his life because he thought he could make a difference. Because he thought he was needed.

He'd been willing to do anything, to lay his entire life on the line to be of use to Bruce Wayne. Not just because he was Batman but also because he was Bruce. And Tim had his soulmark. And therefore Bruce was his responsibility, his charge to protect.

But that wasn't true, was it? That was the fevered imagination of a lonely boy who had never meant anything to anyone. Tim fingers closed in the fabric of his shirt, over the soulmark of the white knight chess piece over his heart. And he squeezed, his fingernails digging into his skin.

It wasn't a real soulmark, was it? It was like...the Joker. That twisted soulmark on the Joker's ankle. It was like that.

It was the soulmark of a stalker who thought he was entitled to the person he was following. Tim felt sick. He didn't want to be like the Joker, but he had been all along.

Tim staggered to his feet. He had to get out of here. He couldn't stay around Bruce and his family any longer. He was too toxic. He was going to poison them all.

He found a bathroom partway down the hall and stumbled into the stall. He locked the door behind him and slid down with his back against the wall until his butt hit the tile. He was panting, unable to get enough air. His head was spinning.

Where could he go? He didn't want to worry them. If he went back to the empty brownstone, they were going to figure it out and chase him down again and get all upset. They needed to be focusing on Jason right now. They didn't deserve the stress of worrying about someone who didn’t matter.

Tim dug his fingers into his hair, eyes squeezing shut. He had to think. There had to be somewhere he could go. He could go to a friend's house and send Bruce a text to let him know, and then no one would worry about him. Yes, that was it. That was the answer.

After a few days, when they had time to get used to having Jason back, they would realize that they didn't need Tim. They never had. He was just a stopgap. He wasn't the real thing. None of it was real. Alfred and Dick's soulmarks would fade, and they would forget about him. Things would go back to the way they used to be.

And Bruce would be happy. Bruce would have his son back, and he would be happy again. That was all that mattered.

Tim had no illusions that his soulmarks of them were going to fade, of course. No, he would carry Bruce and Alfred and Dick for the rest of his life. And that was fine. He could live with it. He was used to knowing that he loved people more than they loved him. He could handle it.

All the new soulmarks he'd gained over the past few months, they were precious to him. He would always treasure them, no matter what. Bruce and Alfred and Dick and...

Babs.

Tim's eyes popped open. Barbara Gordon. She was his friend, too. Yes, he'd met her because of Dick, because of the Wayne family, but it was different with her. They had things in common. They talked about computers and coding and all sorts of stuff that had nothing to do with Batman and vigilantes. Though those conversations were in there, too.

He needed someplace to stay. He needed a friend. Last week, he and Dick had helped Barbara move into a new apartment. A place of her own, where everything was set up to her specifications. Tim had spent most of his time in the new apartment doing cord management on her many electronics, but he was pretty sure she had a guest room. If not, she had a sofa.

Would she let him stay? Tim was certain she would. Well, he was almost certain.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Not much charge left, but hopefully enough. He opened the email program with a shaking finger. Their latest conversation thread was near the top. He went ahead and started a new one, since this was a different topic.

To: [email protected]
Subject: Guest room?
Content: Hey, I'm in Gotham City with Bruce and Dick. There's a lot going on and they're really busy. I need a place to spend the night, and maybe a few days, if that's okay. Is your guest room available? Or I can sleep on the couch. Let me know.

He hit the send button and let the phone drop to the floor at his side. He wrapped his arms around his knees and laid his head on top, his eyes closing. The antiseptic smell of the bathroom stung his nose. He wanted to leave, but he had to hold on. A little while longer.

He hoped Babs would answer soon. Tim had to get out of here. He couldn't breathe.

Chapter Text

Barbara was trying to figure out how someone could come back from the dead.

This was, of course, something of a losing battle.

The call from Alfred had been a shock. Barbara's rational mind wanted to fight back. There was no way this was real. It was some kind of trick, or a weird superpower they'd never heard of before. But Alfred was certain, and the more he talked, telling her about the revelations of the evening, the more she believed him. By the time he finally ended the call, she was 85% sure that it was true.

She just couldn't figure out how.

So now she was sitting in front of her huge, new, very expensive computer set-up, searching for leads. She was combing through mythology, reading speculative forum posts, putting out inquiries to contacts with occult or magic connections, everything she could think of. The research rabbit hole was deep, and she knew she was going to be up far too late working on it. Probably all night.

The email from Tim broke her out of the haze for a few moments. She had the presence of mind to pity the poor kid. He must be stuck at the hospital, all of the adults too busy to take him home so he could sleep. Of course she wrote back instantly, telling him to come on over and asking if he needed a ride. He assured her that he could pay for a taxi, and she fell back into the research.

The doorbell ringing twenty minutes later startled Barbara so badly that she threw her pen in the air. She sat still for a moment, blinking, then remembered who it must be. She shook herself and wheeled over to the door to let him in.

Her heart twinged as soon as Tim came into view, standing on her doormat looking hangdog. It was probably just the exhaustion, but the poor kid looked like he didn't have a friend in the world. Barbara tsked and waved him in, then held out her arms for a hug as soon as the door was shut behind him.

"How are you doing, Tim Tam? It must have been quite a shock, huh?"

Tim hugged her back, sighing into her shoulder, then pulled back and went about taking off his jacket and shoes. "So you know, then. I'm okay. It really has very little to do with me."

Barbara narrowed her eyes. "Really? Jason coming back has very little do with you? I think it's going to affect your life quite a bit, kiddo."

Tim shrugged, his eyes downcast.

Barbara frowned, then pivoted her chair. "C'mon, let's go to the living room and have a chat."

Tim followed her with no fuss. In the living area, Barbara pointed at the excellent sofa she had found at a thrift shop. It was both soft and supportive, and it was not too deep for her to get into and out of on her own. "Sit."

Tim blinked, but seemed too worn out to object. "Where?"

"How about in the middle?"

Tim shrugged and complied, eyebrows rising in surprise as he felt just how comfortable the sofa was. His eyelids drooped in comfort almost immediately, a soft smile touching his lips.

Barbara maneuvered her chair to the right spot, then locked the wheels so she could lever herself out to sit next to him. Her upper body strength had improved over the past few weeks, and she could now manage this feat with no difficulty. Tim nodded in appreciation.

"You're getting good at that."

"I've been working out." Barbara settled into the sofa with a sigh of contentment, then wrapped her arm around Tim's shoulders and pulled him into her side. "Okay, sweetie. Why don't you tell Auntie Babs what's bugging you?"

Tim's body was stiff against her, as it always was at first when someone hugged him. It made Barbara a little sad, sometimes, but she was determined to keep practicing until this was easy. Until he could take contact and relax into it immediately instead of always going rigid and uncertain. He shrugged under her arm.

"Like I said, I'm fine. It's really, it's really great, right? It's a miracle. It's...I'm really happy for Bruce and Alfred and Dick. It's just...how did it even happen, right? Like was it some kind of alien thing? Or magic? Or a multi-universe contact? Or something to do with space-time? I've been thinking maybe we should contact the Flash. He knows more than anyone else about the universe being, like, rewritten somehow, or when things happen to the time continuum. If it's something like that, I bet he would know, or he would be able to figure it out. Maybe he was already monitoring some kind of rift and he'll be able to give some insight."

This was deflection, Barbara understood, even while she tucked away some of those ideas for later. She hadn't even considered Barry Allen as a possible source of information. Tim was such an intuitive kid. Already he had great instincts when it came to finding leads and chasing down hunches.

She squeezed his shoulders again to make him stop. "Okay, yes, all of that is true. But I'm not asking what's going on in general. I'm asking what's going on with you."

Tim was stiff and silent, all but holding his breath. And then he went limp against her, letting his head lay on her shoulder. "I think...I think I need to go," he said quietly.

Barbara's breath caught in her throat. "What do you mean?" she asked just as quietly.

Tim drew in a shuddering breath. "I mean...I need to go. Bruce doesn't need me anymore. He has Jason back. Everything will be okay for him again. So I should just...go."

Barbara couldn't breathe for a moment. Her mind went white with fury. For a few long, tense seconds, all she could think about was going to the long-term facility where Jack Drake was staying, breaking into his room, and punching him in the face. Even if he wouldn't be able to feel it. Even though it wouldn't be nearly enough to recompense for all of the damage he and his wife had done to their son.

Tim thought he was supposed to be needed. He thought he only had value when he was being useful to someone, particularly the adults in his life. And when he stopped being useful, he was supposed to go away. Out of sight, out of mind. Put back on the shelf, only to be taken down when he could be of use again.

It took a while, long enough that Tim was starting to get uncomfortable again, shifting on the sofa. But Barbara finally got her mind in order. She took a deep breath, mind racing as she tried to figure out where to start. "Did Bruce tell you that?"

Tim went still in utter confusion this time. "What? No, of course not. We haven't talked. He's been too busy with Jason."

"Did he say something or do something that made you think he wanted you to go?"

"No..." Tim trailed off, frowning. "It's just, you know. It's obvious."

"Is it?"

Tim went silent, flummoxed.

Barbara sat up straighter on the sofa and pushed back a bit, turning her body so she could look in his face. Tim turned his head to follow her, still frowning in confusion. "If Bruce hasn't told you that you should go, why are you so sure that you need to? What signs have you seen, what words have been said that gave you that impression?" Barbara paused. "Or is it what he hasn't said?"

Tim's lip wobbled, and his eyes shimmered with tears. He lifted a hand to dash them away, almost angrily. "No, nothing like that." There was a touch of anger in his voice, too. "Bruce wouldn't be so cruel. He's...he's a great guy. He's been really kind to me."

Barbara nodded. "So you understand that Bruce telling you to leave, dismissing you because his second son has miraculously returned, would be a cruel thing to do. Bruce is a terrible communicator, but at least he wouldn't do that."

Tim stared at her incredulously. "Bruce isn't a terrible communicator."

Barbara almost laughed in his face. She held herself back, barely, and kept it to a sharp grin. "Timberly, Bruce Wayne is the worst communicator. Do you know how many times Dick ranted to me about how bad Bruce was at expressing himself, back when he was Robin and I was Batgirl? At least once a week. They got in fights all the time because Dick would take offense at something Bruce did or said, and he'd be fuming and giving Bruce the silent treatment to try to get him to apologize, and Bruce didn't even notice."

Tim's face softened. "I guess you have a point. I mean, it's kind of why they were fighting before I came along and tracked Dick down at Haly's."

"Yes, Dick told me about that. That wasn't an anomaly. It was just the worst in a long line of miscommunications."

Tim opened his mouth to object again, and Barbara raised her hand to cut him off. "Don't get me wrong, Bruce is a great guy. I agree with you there. He's a good man, and a good father, when he's paying attention. He's a hero. He gives of himself, everything he has, every single day. But he's very, very bad at expressing emotions. It's almost like he's afraid of them."

Tim frowned. "You have a point."

"Yep." Barbara nodded sagely. "Over years of working with him, I've learned how to read him pretty well. You're just beginning that journey. But you can't tell me that you believe he would be happy if you up and disappeared out of his life. You must know him better than that."

"No, I know." Tim's voice was confident. "It would be like last time, when my mom died and I went back to the brownstone. That's why I decided not to do that. I already texted to let Bruce know I'm staying with you, so he won't worry. I won't make that mistake again."

Barbara tilted her head. "So what do you expect to happen, then? You stay with me for a few days, like you said in your email, and then what?"

Tim shrugged. That dejected look was coming back. This was what he believed, but he wasn't happy about it. "I'll give it a few days, and he'll get used to having Jason back. He'll get used to being happy again. Then he'll realize that he doesn't need me. He never did. And he'll forget about me. It's for the best."

Barbara stared at him. "Just like that." She snapped her fingers, and Tim jumped at the sharp sound. "He'll just forget about you."

Tim nodded, reluctantly but with conviction.

"What about Dick and Alfred? You think they'll just forget about you, too?"

Tim looked less certain at this one. "Probably. I mean. I was always just a stopgap. It was never real."

Barbara had to stop and close her eyes in pain. It hurt much more than she had expected to hear him say those words. Especially so matter-of-factly. Almost nonchalantly. It just... It wasn't right.

Eventually she gathered the strength to look at him again. "The soulmarks, too? Those aren't real, either?"

Tim lowered his eyes. His right hand rose and pressed over his heart in what seemed like an unconscious gesture. "Well, I mean..." His voice wavered. "Soulmarks aren't always real, either. Right? They'll fade, after a while. Once they realize that they don't need me anymore."

"You really think Dick and Alfred are that fickle? That shallow? That you mean so little to them?"

Barbara didn't mean to sound quite so harsh. Tim flinched and looked away. His hand tightened over his heart.

Barbara sighed and pressed her hand over her eyes. She was fucking this up. Tim needed reassurance, not accusations. When it came down to it, she wasn't great at expressing emotion and being comforting either.

Dick. Tim needed Dick. Dick could tell him how much he was loved, how much he meant to all of them at the manor. Not only Dick and Alfred, but Bruce, too. Barbara had seen how he looked at Tim, the softness in his eyes, the protective tilt of his body language. Bruce loved this boy, with or without a soulmark.

No, not Dick. Tim needed Bruce. He needed to hear this from the horse's mouth, or he would never believe it. Barbara wouldn't either, if she had been in his shoes. Bruce needed to step up to the plate and take care of this child. No matter how distracted he was, understandably so, it was Tim who desperately needed his attention and his care at the moment. Jason could wait. He was in a coma, after all.

Besides, once Jason had his full faculties again, he was going to love this kid, too. Barbara had no doubts about that. Tim was so very lovable.

Mind made up, Barbara opened her eyes and started to lever herself back into her chair.

"Where are you going?" Tim asked, voice high with distress. God, he must feel like she was abandoning him.

"Just to my desk, honey. I'll be right back. We'll talk some more."

Tim nodded and relaxed into the sofa. Barbara wheeled to her office, where she'd left her phone. All of the screens were still on, inquiries still running. She didn't even glance at them. She shut the door behind her and picked up the phone, dialing a familiar number.

It rang and rang, then went to voicemail. Barbara grunted in exasperation, but refused to give up. She disconnected and tried again. On the third call, Bruce finally answered.

"Barbara?" His voice was bleary and distant. Barbara didn't blame him. But he needed to wake up. Right this instant.

"Bruce." She let her voice be as sharp as she wanted this time. "You need to get over here right now, or you're gonna lose him."

"What?" Bruce's voice was confused, but rapidly came into focus as he responded to the urgency in her voice. "What are you talking about? Who am I going to lose?"

"Tim. You'd better get over here post-haste, mister, and fix this immediately. Or I swear to God..."

"Babs." Bruce's voice was soft, now, but perfectly intent. Perfectly clear. "What are you talking about?"

Barbara paused and took a breath. "Tim thinks you don't love him. He thinks you're going to forget him. He thinks that now you have Jason back, you don't need him anymore. And since you don't need him, he might as well just go away. Permanently."

Horrified silence held for a few seconds as Bruce took this in. Then, "I'll be right there," his voice deep and grim.

The phone disconnected. Barbara put it on her desk with a satisfied thunk and went back to Tim.

She was going to try to talk Tim out of his terrible, terrible misconceptions before Bruce got here. But if that didn't work, well. It was up to the big man to fix what he almost broke.

Chapter Text

Bruce reached Barbara's door and then stood on the mat for a few moments, taking deep breaths to center himself. He'd been here once before, on the day Barbara moved in. He'd mostly helped to move heavy things. It had been a good day, spending time with his boys and reassuring himself that Barbara was healing well and would continue to do so.

Strange how quickly things could change. On that day, Bruce had felt that things were finally coming together. Dick and Tim were his boys, there was no question of that in his mind, though at that point he hadn't grown Tim's soulmark yet. He'd enjoyed watching them interact outside the Batcave, teasing and free with each other. They had seemed happy, too. Tim had seemed happy.

Was that not true? Had Bruce been missing signs all along that should have been obvious? He didn't understand how Tim could possibly believe that he didn't belong. That he was unloved or unwanted. That Bruce could ever forget him.

That was never going to happen. Never.

As centered as he was going to get, Bruce raised a loosely curled fist and rapped his knuckles on the door, not too hard. His hand only shook a little. The murmuring of voices inside stopped, then Barbara declared, loud enough for him to hear, "I'll get the door."

Tim said something, and though Bruce couldn't hear the words, he knew what he was saying. Something along the lines that he would be glad to do it, Barbara didn't have to move. Tim was always so helpful. So eager to please.

Or maybe desperate to please. Maybe that was more accurate. Bruce's felt a stab of pain at the thought.

"No, I'll get it," Barbara insisted, and Tim murmured something that sounded like an assent. A few seconds later, Barbara appeared at the door, frowning up at Bruce with deep disapproval on her face. Of him, or of the situation? Probably both.

Bruce gave her a careful nod and stepped inside. Barbara's apartment was not very big, and he could see the living room from the doorway, just down a short hallway. Tim was sitting on a sofa, looking over his shoulder at Bruce with wide eyes. His face was ashen, and he seemed frozen in place. Barbara hadn't told him he was coming, then. Perhaps she'd been afraid that Tim would try to leave.

Barbara gave him a nod in return and wheeled back to the living area while Bruce took off his jacket and shoes and shut the door behind him, double-checking the locks. Then he followed her, feeling like his shoulders were going to brush the walls on each side. He always felt too big for these small city apartments whenever he visited one. That was good as Batman, not so good as Bruce.

Tim turned his head to follow his movement as he approached, then stood in front of the sofa where Tim was sitting. The boy didn't say a word, though, just staring. Bruce shifted from foot to foot. "Hello, Tim."

Tim opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Bruce glanced at Barbara for help. She rolled her eyes and gestured at the sofa. "Sit. Talk. You know why you're here."

Bruce looked back at Tim. He was sitting in the middle of the sofa, so there was room on each side of him. Bruce took another steadying breath, then folded himself down to sit next to him, on the side opposite where Barbara had parked her wheelchair. Barbara grunted in satisfaction, then levered herself out to sit on Tim's other side.

Tim turned his head to stare at each of them in turn, seeming equally flummoxed by both of their actions. "I..." He swallowed and tried again. "I don't understand. What's happening?"

Bruce made a conscious effort to relax his shoulders, his arms folded toward his stomach as he tried not to crowd the boy. The sofa was surprisingly comfortable, but not especially spacious. "Barbara gave me a call. She said..." He looked at her again, not sure what all he should reveal.

Barbara blinked at him, then angled her body to look at Tim. "I told him he needed to get here immediately and fix this, or he would regret it."

Tim's face wrinkled up. "Fix what?" This time he looked at Bruce. "What are you doing here? You should be with Jason."

Bruce shook his head. "No, I need to be here. There are things you need know, and I should have told you. I'm sorry I waited. I was...foolish. Selfish. Maybe...afraid."

Tim looked scandalized. He opened his mouth, probably to contradict him. Bruce shook his head to cut him off.

"No, son. It's true. Please just...hear me out."

Tim shut his mouth with an almost audible snap. His eyes were so wide it looked like it hurt.

Bruce looked at Barbara over Tim's head. She was watching him expectantly, her mouth pressed in a thin line, her chin lifted.

She wanted him to tell Tim that he loved him. She wanted him to assure the boy that he would always have a place at Wayne Manor. That he was wanted. That Bruce and Alfred and Dick all adored him and wanted him to stay, no matter how circumstances might change.

All of that was true. But Bruce wasn't good with words. Never had been. Never would be.

Fortunately, he had a much better way to prove himself. He angled his body toward Tim, pressing their knees together. He had a moment of unease at doing this in front of a lady, but Barbara had seen much worse.

He unbuttoned his shirt in front of his stomach and pulled it open on the right side so Tim could see the soulmark.

Tim stared at it, his own mark bold and vibrant on Bruce's skin. The blue eye, the red flame. He looked up at Bruce, but his face was nearly blank, eyes still wide, skin still ashen. He looked at the mark again.

Bruce wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it wasn't this. A gasp of delight, perhaps. One of those brilliant, beaming smiles Bruce loved so much. Maybe tears.

He couldn't even tell what Tim was feeling right now, and that pinched in the middle of his chest, in a very bad way. He'd thought he was getting pretty good at interpreting Tim's feelings in any given moment. Tim was quite expressive, in his own way. But right now, Bruce was getting nothing.

He looked at Barbara again. She looked back at him, her face creased with worry. She didn't know what was going on, either.

He looked back to the boy. "Tim?" Bruce asked, soft and cautious. "Are you all right, partner?"

Tim looked up at him. He opened his mouth, but only a squeak came out. He looked back at his mark, looking back at him from Bruce's abdomen. Finally he spoke, though the words were breathless and difficult to make out. "Is...is it real?"

Bruce's shoulders slumped. "Yes, son. It's real. You can touch it, if you like."

Tim reached out, achingly slow. Gentle as a butterfly lighting on a petal, his fingers touched down on Bruce's skin. Then he pressed harder, as if desperate to grasp the reality of this. His palm covered the mark entirely, hiding it from sight. Then he lifted his hand and stared at it again, as if to make sure it was still there.

He looked up at Bruce, his expression helpless and twisted with distress.

Bruce grimaced. The boy still wasn't getting it. He seemed to be in some kind of shock. Was it really such a surprise? He knew that Dick and Alfred had grown his soulmark. Barbara, too. Why was this one so unbelievable, so...shattering?

Apparently he was going to have to use words after all. Bruce let his hand fall away from holding his shirt open, letting it rest on his leg. "Tim. Timothy Drake. This is real. As real as my marks for Dick, and Jason, and Alfred. You are my family. My soul chose you. You have been ingrained in my heart right alongside my other two sons. You belong there." He swallowed, but he knew he had to say it. He had to say the words. "I love you, Tim."

Tim looked up at him again, and yes. There were the tears. They didn't seem like tears of happiness, though. They looked almost as desperate as the ashen disbelief.

"No, that..." Tim's voice was choked. "That can't be true."

Bruce was just as desperate to understand this. To set this right. He didn't understand what was going wrong here, and he had no idea how to "fix it" as Barbara kept insisting he do. "What do you mean, son? I don't understand why you're reacting this way. Please explain it to me."

Tim looked down at his lap, his hands shaking. Then he moved so quickly it seemed like a paroxysm, a seizure. He ripped off the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing, revealing his own naked torso.

Bruce saw it immediately. His own soulmark, directly over Tim's heart.

They were a pair of fools.

Bruce's heart ached, even while it was near bursting with love. "Oh, Tim. How long?"

Tim gave him an incredulous look. Apparently this was not the question he had been expecting. "Since...the first time we met. At the library."

Bruce remembered. He would never forget. "Jason's memorial fundraiser."

Tim nodded.

Bruce didn't have to ask why Tim hadn't told him. He would have felt it was inappropriate. Weird. Out of line. Especially with the stiff, distant way his parents had raised him... He didn't understand that instant soulmarks were a thing of wonder, not shame.

"You must have loved me so much," Bruce murmured. "Before we met, even. For months, years. And then that personal meeting was the catalyst that allowed your soul to acknowledge your love. You have such a big heart, Tim."

Tim's breath came faster, and his face was even more distressed. "Why aren't you angry?" he asked, voice halting and terrified.

Bruce blinked. "Why would I be angry?"

Tim looked down. His hand clutched over Bruce's soulmark, fingernails digging into the skin. If he pressed much harder, he was going to draw blood. The flesh was already turning stark red and white. "Because it... It can't be real. It's, it's like a stalker. Or the Joker." He looked up at Bruce, his face naked with self-loathing. "It's like the Joker having your mark on his ankle."

"Timothy Jackson Drake," Barbara burst out, unable to be silent any longer. "How dare you say such a thing about yourself? You are nothing like the Joker. Nothing! And believe me, I would know!"

He looked at her over his shoulder, his chest heaving for breath. His eyes were swimming with tears. His fingernails pressed harder.

Bruce couldn't allow it. He grabbed Tim's hand, pulling it away from his chest, and wrapped the boy's arm around his own waist. Then he leaned forward and pulled Tim into a hug, enveloping him and holding on tight. If Tim couldn't believe words, maybe actions would convince him.

His mind was racing with counterarguments, but he was afraid that none of them would work. Tim wasn't working on logic. This was about emotion, not rationality. Tim felt that he didn't belong, that there was something wrong with him, that he didn't deserve or shouldn't be allowed to feel familial connection with Bruce and his household. He'd built a justification for his feelings out of whatever made sense in his mind. It didn't have to make sense to Barbara and Bruce.

So Bruce needed to speak emotionally, not rationally.

"Tim, I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard if you'd known."

Tim shook his head against Bruce's chest, more in confusion than denial. His hand clutched the back of Bruce's shirt, pulling on the fabric. He felt small and delicate in Bruce's arms, though Bruce knew very well how strong this boy truly was.

"I manifested your soulmark when you visited your father in the hospital room, after I brought him back from Haiti. I'm sorry I waited so long to tell you. I told myself that I didn't want to pressure you with another emotional burden while you were suffering so much, but the truth is that I was afraid."

Tim made a small noise of protest. Bruce smiled into his hair.

"I know, you think there's no way that I could be so weak. But the truth is that in many ways, I'm a very weak man. I fear being vulnerable. I fear revealing myself. Even, or maybe especially, with my soulmates."

He pulled back and took Tim's hand again, the one he'd been clenching over his heart. He pressed it to Tim's mark on his abdomen instead. "This is real. It is not a twisted soulmark, like the Joker." He laid his other hand over his mark on Tim's heart. "And I don't believe that this mark is twisted, either. If you can't trust yourself and your own intentions, can you please try to trust my perception of you, instead?"

Tim's eyes widened. It seemed like Bruce's words and actions were finally making an impact.

Bruce looked at Barbara over Tim's head, one more time. She was smiling, and her eyes were moist. Bruce took that as a good sign.

Tim laid his hand over Bruce's hand covering his heart. "Is this really okay?" he whispered.

Bruce nodded. He leaned over and kissed Tim's forehead. "It's okay, son. I promise. I'm your soulmate, and you are mine. You chose me first, but I chose you, too. You're just a little quicker than the rest of us, that's all. There's nothing wrong with that."

Tim laughed, then bit his lip. "I love you, Bruce." And he sighed, like it was a relief to say it aloud.

Bruce smiled. "I love you too, kiddo. Things are going to change now, I have no idea how much and how quickly. But that never will."

Tim shook free of Bruce's hands and threw his arms around him, hugging him fiercely. Bruce hugged him back and rested his cheek on his head. It felt good, and right, and infinitely warm.

Jason was going to wake up, sooner rather than later, God willing. Maybe he would have permanent damage, maybe not. Maybe he would want to be Robin again, maybe not. Whatever it took, Bruce was going to be there for him every step of the way.

And Tim's father was going to wake up eventually, too, most likely. Maybe Tim would have to go home with him, maybe not. Maybe he would be Robin, maybe not. Either way, Bruce was never going to let himself be removed from this boy's life. He was going to be there for Tim, too, no matter what steps he had to take, no matter who he had to fight to make sure that happened. He would take on Jack and the legal system and Tim's own insecurities, and he was never going to stop fighting for him.

He was never going to stop fighting for any of his boys. Dick and Jason and Tim, they were his soulmates. His to love, his to hold, his to care for. He loved them all, and he would do anything for all three of them.

They were his future. And the future was bright.

Chapter Text

The first time Jason woke, it didn't feel like waking. It still felt like a dream. He was floating, high above the clouds, and his head was filled with fog. He was tired: terribly, deeply, unfathomably tired. But someone was holding his hand. Jason groaned and strained to open his eyes, but his eyelids barely made it up a sliver. The hand holding his squeezed, and a face leaned over into his line of sight. An excited voice jabbered at him. Jason couldn't understand the words. He grunted in confusion and fell asleep again, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

There were more wakings like that. There were faces, hands, people leaning over him and talking, the struggle to open his eyes, his eyes falling shut again. Later, Jason would not remember that at all, except for a vague impression of weariness and confusion. And the knowledge that he wasn't alone. He was never alone.

Then came a time when the clouds suddenly lifted. Jason was floating through the air, existing in the fog, when all of the mist and vapor suddenly transformed into rain. It felt like a spring shower, sprinkling all over his body and mind. It refreshed him, rather than chilled him.

He opened his eyes, for once all the way. Bruce was leaning over him, his face cracked open like an egg to reveal all the gooeyness inside. There was relief and pain and love, so much love. Jason managed a smile for him. Then he yawned so hard he almost cracked his jaw, turned over on his side, and fell asleep again.

This time he slept hard, so hard that he didn't even feel it. There were no dreams, just darkness, deep and warm and healing. The next time he woke up, his head was clear. He felt almost like himself again.

Dick was sitting next to his bed, reading something on his phone and smiling to himself. Jason reached a hand out from under the covers and groped at the air between them. Dick saw the movement, and his head snapped up, a joyful laugh ringing out. He grabbed Jason's hand and squeezed it so hard Jason almost winced.

"Jay! You're awake! How are you feeling?"

Jason blinked. "Pretty good." He looked around the room. He was back in his bedroom at the manor, pale yellow sunlight streaming in through the windows. "Where's Dad?"

"I'll get him for you." Dick leaped to his feet and all but ran out the door, yelling as he went. "Bruce! Bruce! He's awake!"

Jason turned over on his back and blinked up at the ceiling. He couldn't remember what had happened to him. Well, maybe that wasn't true. He could remember. He knew the memories were there, just beyond a thin shell. But he didn't want to remember.

Still, once his brain started poking at it, he couldn't stop everything from flooding back. He remembered the rain. The mud. The pain. Slogging through wet grass in his flimsy dress shoes with his hands caked in dirt, his head on fire as he screamed for Bruce. He was trying to get to the road, just trying to get to the road, because there would be people there, and he had to get help. He had to get help, because...

Because he'd just dug himself out of his own grave.

By the time Bruce got there, Jason was sitting up, doubled over in the throes of a full-blown panic attack. He heard Bruce's heavy steps running toward the bed, and then he was there, making the mattress dip as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Jason into his arms. Bruce cradled Jason's head against his chest, his deep voice rumbling between them.

"Jaylad, take a deep breath. C'mon, follow me. You can do it, son. You're going to be okay. Everything is fine. I'm here. I'm with you. Dick is right beside us. You're home. You're safe. You're going to be okay."

Jason stopped hugging himself as soon as he could control his body a tiny bit and threw his arms around Bruce instead. He held on as tight as he could, fingernails digging into the fabric of Bruce's turtleneck. On some level he was aware that his grip wasn't as strong as it used to be, that his arms felt weak and shaky. But most of his attention was fixated on Bruce: the feeling of his arms, the sound of his voice, the steady cadence of his breath.

"I...I was dead," Jason choked out.

Bruce held him tighter. "I know. I'm so sorry, lad."

"Joker killed me."

Bruce caught his breath. His voice sounded watery. "I know. I'm sorry. I didn't make it in time."

Jason froze. He felt something rise within him, something dark and angry and awful. He stuffed it back down. It wasn't fair. He wasn't mad at Bruce, not really. It wasn't his fault. It bothered him to hear Bruce blaming himself.

At the same time... He remembered being so sure that Bruce would come for him. Up until the very last second, he'd been fighting, straining for the door. Deep down, he'd believed with absolute faith that Bruce was going to get there in time to save him.

But that hadn’t happened. Jason had died.

Jason drew in a shaky breath. "What...what happened to Sheila?"

Bruce swallowed. "I'm sorry, son. She didn't make it."

Jason didn't know how to feel about that. On the one hand, she was his mother. But she was also a thief who betrayed him to the Joker and then stood there while Joker beat him with a crowbar. She hadn't deserved to die for her crimes, probably. But Jason didn't know if he regretted her death.

He was going to have to unpack that later. That and the crazy dark anger he'd felt at Bruce for a second. For now, he just relaxed into his dad's arms and let himself be held. He let himself feel safe.

Eventually he felt settled enough to raise his head and look over Bruce's shoulder. Dick was sitting there on the other side of the bed, smiling like it hurt his face. He was holding a cup of water. When he saw Jason's eyes, he lifted it in his hand. "Thirsty?"

Jason nodded and straightened up, reaching out for the water. Bruce let him move, but kept an arm wrapped around his shoulders. Jason felt shaky and weak, so he was grateful for the support.

Dick and Bruce sat on either side of him while he drank the water. Jason looked around the room, trying to settle his mind. He saw the dark tree branches outside the window. It looked like winter.

He lowered the half-empty glass and looked between Dick and Bruce. "How long?"

Bruce winced. "It's November."

Jason blinked. "But...I flew out to look for my mom in April."

Bruce nodded solemnly. Dick looked pained.

Jason's chest pinched. He felt like he might throw up. "Is it the same year?"

Dick grabbed the glass before his fingers slipped and set it aside. "Yes, it's still the same year. You were...gone...for about six months."

"Oh." Jason blinked, slow. He looked at Bruce. He could feel his face twisting up. "Why did you bring me back? I don't... I can't remember much, but... I think I was somewhere warm. Warm, and bright, and nice. I think I was in heaven. Why am I not there anymore?"

Bruce's face was raw with pain. "I...I don't know. I wish I had an answer for you. But it wasn't me. We don't know what did this."

Jason looked to Dick for confirmation.

Dick nodded. "We have some ideas, some leads were following up on with the League. But we don't know what happened. It just..." He blinked, his eyes filling up with tears. "Just, one night, with no warning, your soulmark came back to life. It was like this bright, hot flare, pressing against the skin. For me, and Bruce, and Alfred, and..."

He couldn't speak anymore. He wrapped an arm around Jason's back, under Bruce's arm, and leaned over to rest his forehead against Jason's hair. Jason could hear him sniffling.

He hadn't realized Dick cared so much. He'd always gotten the impression that Dick found him kind of annoying, when they saw each other. Sure, Dick had his soulmark, but Dick had lots of soulmarks. Jason had always figured it was kind of...obligatory.

This was strange. Nice, though.

Jason looked over at Bruce, careful not to move his head and dislodge Dick. "I remember the graveyard. It was really cold, and wet, and I couldn't think straight. Did you find me?"

"We went to the graveyard, when the soulmarks came back," Bruce said, his voice gravelly. "But you weren't there. A couple had picked you up on the road. Do you remember them?"

Jason shook his head. "The last thing I remember was walking toward the road. All I could think about was getting to you."

Bruce’s arm around him tightened. "They took you to a hospital. It was Tim who found you, actually."

Jason could feel himself sagging, his eyes getting heavier. Only a few minutes awake, and he was already exhausted. "Who...who's Tim?" he managed to ask.

"Tim is..." Bruce sighed. "It's a little complicated. But I hope that you will see him as a younger brother."

"Younger...brother?" Jason looked at Bruce in confusion, blinking heavily. "You got busy with some lady while I was gone? I thought you said I was only out for like six months."

Bruce smiled crookedly. "Tim is my new soul-son, no biological relation. He's thirteen. He's a great kid. I think you two will get along."

"You got a new soul-son while I was gone?" Somehow, that felt worse than Bruce having a baby. "You replaced me?"

"Oh, Jason, no." Bruce squeezed him against his side and kissed his temple, making Jason's head rock on his neck. "I could never replace you. You and Dick and Tim are all equally important to me. Tim just...he came along, and he wanted to help me. He cared so much. In the end, I couldn't help caring about him, too."

Jason's brain was buzzing. Everything was so weird. He couldn't wrap his head around the idea of Bruce having another soul-son. He also couldn't understand why Bruce was being so openly affectionate. Yeah, Jason coming back from the dead might have something to do with it. But c’mon. Kissing his temple? Really?

Jason was too tired to figure it out right now, but things were not adding up. Unfortunately, he fell asleep before he could ask more questions.

X

The next time he woke up, Alfred was there with a tray. He burst into a big smile the moment Jason opened his eyes and focused on him, the biggest smile Jason had ever seen on him. Jason smiled back and sat up, struggling a bit with the process. Alfred set the tray aside and leaped to adjust his pillows so he could recline on them.

"Alfie." Jason sighed and held out his arms. "I missed you, you old geezer."

Alfred chuckled and leaned down to hug him. "I missed you too, Master Jason."

The hug held for maybe a little bit too long. They were both misty when Alfred finally broke it off and fetched the tray so Jason could eat. When Alfred leaned over to lift the cloche, Jason noticed something on his neck that hadn't been there before. He stared at it, unable to look away as Alfred finished arranging the tray to his satisfaction, then stepped back with his hands folded in front of him.

"Alf?" Jason gestured at his own neck in the spot where the new thing was. "Whatcha got there?"

Alfred smiled and pulled down the collar of his shirt to reveal the mark. It could have been a tattoo, but Jason knew that it was a soulmark. A blue eye with a red flame in the pupil, staring out from Alfred's neck.

He kind of already knew what Alfred was going to say before it left his mouth. "This is Master Tim's soulmark. Remarkable child. I manifested the mark after knowing him for less than half an hour."

"Oh yeah?" Jason couldn't stop staring at that mark. He ate his food, barely tasting it. A salad? With lots of toppings and grilled chicken? It was probably something like that. "Everyone's a big fan of Tim, huh? Bruce has his mark, you have it. Does Dickie have it too?"

Alfred didn't stop smiling. He seemed pleased to expound on this subject, his voice warm and pleasant. "Actually, it was Master Dick who met Master Tim first and sent him on to the manor. According to him, yes, he also grew his mark within hours of meeting him. Master Tim is a very winsome young man."

Jason grunted and put his fork down, staring down at his plate. "I bet Bruce got it right away, too." His stomach was churning, and he didn't feel much like eating anymore, though he'd been starving when he woke up.

"Actually, no." Alfred's face was grave now, all of that pleasant warmth vanished from his voice. "It took Master Bruce quite a long time to warm up to him. He only grew his mark a few weeks ago."

"Oh." Jason blinked, then looked up at Alfred. "Why? If Tim is so great, like everyone's been saying, Bruce should have fallen in love with him immediately. I mean, he sounds like the perfect kid."

Alfred laughed, then covered his mouth with his hand. "Ah, I'm sorry, Master Jason. It's just... No, Master Tim is far from perfect. He's as stubborn as everyone else in this family, for one thing." He lowered his hand. "And truly, it's no wonder that it took Master Bruce so long to accept him. He was mourning you most grievously, my boy."

Jason stared down at his food, not seeing it. He didn't want to talk about this anymore.

Alfred seemed to sense the tension. He was good at that. He changed the subject, talking about what he'd been doing in the garden lately and expressing his hopes that Jason would be able to come out and see it soon. Jason had always liked visiting Alfred's garden and asking him questions about the flowers and plants and how to take care of them. It made Alfred happy to talk about that stuff, so Jason was happy to listen.

By the time he finished his food, Jason was drooping again. Alfred helped him to the bathroom so he could wash up, then left him to his own devices while he changed the sheets on Jason's bed. So Jason came back to delightfully fresh sheets and slipped into them with a sigh. He fell asleep while Alfred was tucking him in.

X

The next time Jason woke, the room was empty. He looked around and spotted a comm unit on the nightstand next to him, the kind he and Bruce wore in their ears on patrol. He flailed around for it blearily, then brought it to his mouth. "H'llo? Some'ne there?"

"Jason!" Bruce's voice was tinny but audible. He must have turned up the volume on the unit before he left it there. "I'll be right up. Are you hungry?"

"Mm. Yeah."

"Okay. Alfred left some meals in the fridge. I'll heat one up and bring it to you."

Jason nodded and set the comm unit aside, then lay there staring at the ceiling for a few minutes as his body woke up. By the time Bruce arrived, carrying a tray with a paper bag tucked under his arm, Jason was pretty much awake. And full of questions.

The tray was a lot messier than Alfred's version, but everything was there. Bruce sat next to him on the bed while Jason ate, smiling the whole time. Like he was just happy to be there. Or happy that Jason was there. Jason was too hungry to talk at first, but he kept thinking about all the questions he wanted to ask.

Jason finally set his fork down on his empty plate with a contented sigh. Bruce chuckled and rubbed his shoulder. "Feeling better, son?"

Jason nodded, then turned himself sideways to look his dad in the face. "You're being awfully touchy lately."

Bruce's forehead wrinkled, like he hadn't realized that he'd changed. "Yes. I've been reminded of how important it is, how precious and valuable, to be able to hold the ones you love. Does it bother you?"

Jason considered. "Not really." His eyes were drawn to the paper bag, now resting in Bruce's lap. "What's that?" Not the question he'd wanted to ask next, but his curiosity was overwhelming him.

Bruce's smile broadened. "Presents." He passed the bag over to Jason's lap. "Have a look."

"You couldn't wrap it?" Despite his words, Jason was smiling. He hefted the bag in his hands. It was heavy, and the objects inside had square corners and straight sides. His eyes widened. "Books?"

Bruce grinned and nodded. Jason tore into the bag, not even bothering to open the top. It was supposed to be a present, right? There were three heavy hardback books in his lap, now. All three of them were the next volumes in the series that Jason had been collecting. They must have come out while he was away.

Jason lifted them in his hands, appreciating the cover designs and skimming the blurbs on the back. "How did you know?" He hadn't thought that Bruce paid that much attention to his reading habits.

"It was Tim's idea, actually. He said you would want them, and he thought it would be nice for you to have something new to read while you're recovering."

Jason frowned. Suddenly, the present didn't seem quite so wonderful. "How did he know?" he asked suspiciously. "Has he been creeping around in my room?" The very idea set his teeth on edge.

"No, I don't think so. I think he said something about finding your...good...reads? On the internet?"

"Goodreads." Jason's shoulders slumped, and he stared at the books. His Goodreads profile was under his real name, and he'd made no effort to hide its connection to his actual life. All three of these books had been on his Want to Read bookshelf. No wonder Tim had figured it out.

He shook his head and looked up at Bruce. "What happened to me? I was... There was something wrong with my head. I could feel that. It felt really weird when I was unconscious, too. Like I was kind of awake, but also not. It hurt a lot, and it was really confusing. And then something changed all of a sudden, and the next time I woke up, I felt normal again."

Bruce looked serious. "Yes, you were badly hurt. The doctors said you had brain damage. They said you might have limited function for the rest of your life. But, well, I couldn't accept that. We couldn't accept that. It wasn't fair that your life could be destroyed so thoroughly by a madman with a vendetta. So we...well, I...went to the League for help. I can't really give you the details here, but someone came to see if they could help. And they could."

"Oh." Jason looked down at his hands. He knew that even among superheroes, healing powers were pretty rare. Bruce must have really pulled some strings or called in some favors to get Jason healed. And Bruce hated pulling strings and calling in favors. He much preferred to do everything himself, or with his own little team.

But he'd done it. For Jason, he'd done it.

Maybe it hadn't been his idea, though. Jason scowled at the thought and looked at Bruce with narrowed eyes. "Was it Tim who came up with that plan, too?"

Bruce chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "No. It was Dick, actually."

"Huh." Jason looked away.

Bruce grunted back. There was silence for a moment, then Bruce took the shreds of the paper bag and threw them away. When he returned, he nudged Jason's side. "Scoot over, chum."

Jason scowled in confusion, but did as he asked, pulling the books with him as he moved. He kind of wanted to start reading right away, but he also didn't want to read them at all, just because Tim had been involved in their purchase. Bruce wrapped an arm around Jason's shoulders and pulled him into his side. He deliberately relaxed his muscles as he did so, as if urging Jason to do the same.

Jason stiffened at first, instinctively resistant. But Bruce just sat there, holding him. He didn't seem to be in any hurry or have any goal. He was just...being there. With Jason. Holding him. Because he could.

Eventually, Jason felt himself relaxing, his head leaning over into Bruce's shoulder. He kind of wanted a shower. And he kind of needed to pee. But he also really liked being here, actually. It was different, but it was nice.

Bruce sure had changed. It wasn't like he'd never hugged Jason before; he definitely had. He'd shown Jason that he cared about him in lots of ways, both big and small. Not least the fact that he manifested Jason's soulmark, like, the moment he met him. It had been a shock when Bruce told him that little fact, though eventually he got used to the idea. And he knew, from Alfred, that Bruce had very, very few soulmarks. It was Alfred, and Dick, and Jason. That was it for as long as...well, until Jason died.

And now there was Tim, too. Jason huffed out a breath at the thought, but tried to keep his mind from going down that road. He didn't know why the idea of Tim existing itched at him so bad, but it did. It was like an irritant against the skin, like a burr or a tiny bit of grit. He didn't like it, but he could ignore it.

It was much nicer to think about Bruce and how good it felt to be sitting next to him, hearing his breath and feeling his warmth.

Jason's eyes were drooping when Bruce suddenly spoke. "Jason."

Jason opened his eyes wider and took a breath to wake himself up. "Mm hmm."

Bruce was quiet for another couple of seconds. Then, "I love you."

Jason smiled and snuggled his head back into his shoulder. "I know."

"I'm glad." Bruce paused. "But I thought I should tell you. I've learned recently that...it's good to say the words. Sometimes."

Jason huffed a breathy laugh. "Was it me coming back from the dead that taught you that?"

"Yes." Bruce paused. "And also...Tim."

Tim again. Jason growled and lazily punched Bruce's abdomen, not hard enough to hurt. "Enough with the Tim. I'm tired of hearing about him."

Bruce paused. He sounded confused. "You haven't even met him. How could you dislike him?"

Jason shrugged. True, it wasn't fair of him. He didn't even know what the guy looked like, and he was already fighting the urge to punch him in the face. "I dunno," he mumbled, sinking down into Bruce's side.

Bruce considered that. "Tim is not your replacement. I could never replace you. I told you that, didn't I?"

Jason nodded, his cheek rubbing Bruce's shirt. "Yeah, you said that."

"Hn. But you don't quite believe it?"

Jason said nothing.

Bruce lifted his hand and petted his fingers through Jason's hair. "I love you," he said again, more confidently this time. "I love you. I love Dick. I love Tim. I love Alfred. All of those things can be true at the same time. Tim is...wonderful. But you are wonderful, too."

Jason sighed. Bruce really wanted him to like this Tim guy. And Bruce was trying. Really, really hard. Jason should probably try a little, too. "Okay, okay. I get it."

Bruce hummed and rubbed his shoulder.

Jason bit his lip, then forced it out. "Tell me about him."

He could practically feel Bruce's smile. "Thank you, Jay."

"Yeah, yeah." Jason pushed his fist against his side. "And don't just say he's 'great' or 'wonderful' again. What is it about this kid that you love so much?"

"Hn." Bruce was quiet for a moment, then started talking. "He's kind. He always wants to help people. From the moment we met, and even before that, he wanted to help me. He could see that I was hurting myself, I had fallen so deeply into depression after...after losing you. And he wanted to make it better. He put himself on the line. Made himself vulnerable, both to danger and to rejection. And I did reject him, at first. But he kept trying. He's persistent, stubborn. Brave. Too brave for his own good. A lot like you."

Jason wrinkled his nose. "You don't have to keep complimenting me while you're talking about Tim. I get it."

"It's true, though." Bruce kissed his forehead. Again. So weird.

"Fine. What else about him? What does he like?"

"He likes computers. He's good with them, better than me in some ways. He has a knack for figuring things out and knowing just the right search terms to find what he's looking for. He likes comic books. He'll tell me about them, about the characters and what they've been up to in their adventures. Sounds a bit like a soap opera sometimes, but it's fun to listen to him talk. He likes video games. He even got Al to play with him a few times, and now I'll catch him on the Switch running around in Hyrule when he thinks no one is watching."

Jason laughed at the image. He hoped he would get to catch Alfred at that particular pastime, too. "That's awesome."

"Tim also likes to play some rather esoteric games with his friends. They came over once to play it... Wizards & Warlocks? Something like that."

"Warlocks & Warriors," Jason corrected. He'd heard of W&W, though he'd never played. The kids at his school who played that game tended to be in the kind of social groups that got picked on, and Jason was all about getting along at school, though nowhere else in his life. "He sounds like a giant nerd."

Bruce huffed a laugh. "Yes. Like you, but in a different way."

"Does he like to read? Besides comics books, I mean."

Bruce hummed. "A little bit. Mostly science fiction and fantasy, I think. He's a member of a Sherlock Holmes fan club, as well."

Jason snorted. "Yep. Big ol' nerd."

"He is." Bruce's voice was unbearably fond. The same as when he talked about Jason, actually.

Maybe this Tim kid wasn't so bad.

X

Recovery from serious injury was difficult. It was painful. It was distressing. But most of all, it was boring.

Jason spent most of the first week or so asleep, only waking long enough to eat, shower, use the bathroom, and have short conversations with whoever came to take care of him. It was usually Bruce or Alfred, sometimes Dick. Sometimes Jason tried to read his new books, but he kept falling asleep mid-sentence, so he regretfully set them aside until he could keep his eyes open for more than ten or fifteen minutes at a stretch.

He kept learning dribs and drabs about Tim. Sometimes he asked, and sometimes whoever he was chatting with mentioned him without meaning to, because they loved Tim and he was on their mind. He learned that Tim's parents had spent most of his life traveling the world and sending him off to boarding schools or leaving him with hired caretakers. He learned that Tim liked coconut chocolate macaroons. He learned that Tim's mother had been murdered recently, and his father was in a coma.

He learned that Tim was living at Wayne Manor, and Bruce was his legal guardian, but it wasn't exactly a fostering or adoption situation. He learned that Tim's best friend was a kid named Sebastian Ives who had come to the manor a few times to hang out and watch movies on Bruce's ridiculous home theater setup. He learned that Tim had been training to be Robin.

It was Dick who let the last one slip. He froze as soon as it left his mouth, eyes widening, then waved his hands in front of him. "But that's on hold now! I mean, he's still training, and he's helping Bruce downstairs, but it's still yours if you want it. That hasn't changed."

Jason had frozen, too, when Dick said in typical obtuse Bat-fashion that Tim was "training to wear the traffic light colors." Now he just stared at Dick in bemusement. "I hadn't realized that Tim even knew the big secret," he said flatly. "Funny that hasn't come up yet."

Dick grimaced. "Yeah, sorry... Just trying to follow the rules and not talk about that stuff upstairs. But actually, uh... Tim was there the night my parents died. He saw our last performance."

Jason blinked. "What was he, a fetus?"

Dick chuckled. "Close enough. But yeah, it was traumatic enough to stick in his head. He had vivid memories of me doing a quadruple somersault, anyway. Because years later when he saw footage of a certain bird in traffic light colors doing the same thing, he figured it out."

Jason didn't want to admit it, but he was kind of impressed. "Wow."

Oops. He'd just admitted he was impressed.

Dick grinned completely unironically, the way Dick so often did. "I know, right? He's so smart."

Jason looked away, his jaw clenching.

"But you're smart too!" Dick hastened to add. "And Tim doesn't want to take it away from you. Far from it. In fact, when he first started trying to figure out how to help Bruce, he tracked me down and tried to talk me into coming back. Even though..."

Jason held up a hand to make him stop, and Dick shut his mouth. He still looked slightly panicked, though.

Jason sighed. "Bruce told you I was worried about being replaced, right? That's why you're trying so hard to reassure me."

Dick nodded sheepishly.

"Yeah, well. Stop. I admit I was kinda...jealous, at first. It was a lot of big changes all at once, you know? But I've had time to get used to the idea of...of Tim. And I'm not so against it anymore."

Dick grinned in sheer relief. "I'm glad to hear it."

Jason shrugged. "And I mean, if he wants to wear the colors, too, we can fight over it. Or we can share. Or one of us could make our own. You did, after all."

"Yeah, that's always an option. We can talk about it later. Anytime. There's no rush."

"Yeah." Jason glanced around the room, as if Tim would suddenly appear out of the cracks in the walls. "When am I gonna get to meet the little dude, anyway?"

"Anytime you want. Well, he's at school right now, but after that. He, uh, he actually wanted to meet you as soon as you woke up, but after the way you reacted to learning about his existence, we all kind of decided to hold off."

Jason yawned and leaned back into his pillows. "Makes sense. Well, I'm over it now. Tell him he's welcome anytime."

Dick grinned like a whole sky full of rainbows and leaned forward to ruffle his hair. "That's awesome! You're so good, Little Wing. Thank you for taking it so well."

Jason growled and batted his hand away. "Leave me alone. I need my second afternoon nap."

"Okay. I love you, Jay. Have a good nap."

Jason mumbled something that might have been "Love you, too," then faded out.

X

Jason woke up. There was a kid sitting in the chair next to his bed, holding a flat box in his lap and fidgeting nervously. When he saw that Jason's eyes were open, he went totally still, like a rabbit frozen on a path.

Jason blinked a few times to bring him into focus. "You're Tim Drake, right?"

The kid nodded awkwardly and stuck out his hand. "Yeah, that's me. Timothy Jackson Drake. But, um, Tim is fine. Tim is preferred."

Jason eyed him up and down. He knew Tim was thirteen, but he was even smaller than he'd expected. Obviously some muscles from working out, but short and slender, with one of the babiest of baby faces Jason had ever seen on a person who was technically a teenager. He had dark hair and blue eyes, which somehow wasn't a surprise.

Jason reached back and shook his hand, amused at the gesture. "Nice to meet you, Tim."

"Nice to meet you! I'm...I'm really glad you're here." Tim smiled, his cheeks dimpling up, and oh. Oh. Jason could see why Dick and Bruce and Alfred were all in love with this literal child with a heart of gold.

"Yeah, I'm glad to be here, too." Jason struggled to sit up, and Tim clutched the box in his lap and didn't jump to help him the way any of the adults would have. Somehow, Jason preferred it this way.

Jason tipped his chin at the box. "Whatcha got there?"

Tim held it up so Jason could see the front, the pieces inside rattling as he moved it. "It's a board game called Blokus. This is the two-player version. Dick said you were getting bored, but you couldn't concentrate on things like books and movies, so I thought maybe you'd like to play a game?"

Jason blinked, then made a split-second decision. "Sure, that sounds good."

As nerdy as Bruce had described him, Jason would have thought Tim was a chess master or something. But then he remembered that the kid liked W&W. So yeah, it made sense that he was into modern board games, too.

"Do you mind if I...?" Tim gestured at the bed in front of Jason.

"Oh, sure." Jason sat up more and crossed his legs to make room. Tim sat cross-legged in front of him and set up the game between them, using the box as a little platform. Tim explained the rules as he went, which weren't too complicated.

They played a couple of games before Jason tuckered out. They were quick rounds, with a tight strategy. They didn't talk much, but that was fine. It was still a good way to get to know each other.

Yeah, Tim was smart. And he wasn't holding back, either. He beat Jason in both rounds, though Jason knew he could figure out how to get him if he just had more time. Too soon, though, he was yawning and leaning back into his pillows.

"That was fun," he said as Tim put the game pieces away. His eyes were drooping already, and Tim's face was blurring in and out. "You have more games like that?"

Tim flashed a brilliant grin. "Yeah, lots. When you, you know, can stay awake a while longer, I'd be happy to introduce you to them."

"Sounds good." And Jason was out again.

X

After that, Tim was added to the rotation of people who came to visit Jason when he was awake. They played a lot of board games, gradually moving up to more complicated ones as Jason was able to stay awake for longer periods. Eventually Jason was moved to the lounge downstairs sometimes, when the idea of staying in his bedroom for one more minute became too unbearable. They played video games and watched movies and listened to music.

Sometimes they didn't do anything, just existed in the same room together. Tim did his homework while Jason read his new books. They still didn't talk much about anything important, but Jason felt himself getting more and more comfortable with not just the idea of Tim, but the reality of him as well.

Then they watched a Star Wars movie, one of the new ones Jason hadn't watched yet even though they'd been out for more than a year. He made some kind of off-hand comment during the end credits, which set Tim off an astounding rant about the prequel movies and their relative worth to the sequel movies and how there were many, many bad opinions about them on the internet. The rant went on for a while. When it ended, Tim was panting and embarrassed. But Jason was smiling.

And he realized that actually, he liked this kid quite a bit. Tim was a great kid, just like Dick and Bruce and Alfred had kept telling him. He wasn't willing to go so far as to call him "wonderful" yet. But great, yeah, sure.

Then came a day when Tim came home from school and set up his homework in the lounge, emptying his backpack and spreading everything on a coffee table. Then he just sat there on the floor, staring into the distance. Jason, curled up in a nearby recliner with a book he'd read twice before, gave him a curious look.

"What's on your mind, Timbers?"

Tim blinked as if he hadn't realized Jason was there. He tilted his head to look at him, then sighed and leaned back with hands flat on the floor behind him, staring at the ceiling. "Bruce wants me to go to Paris to, like, finish my training. There's this master of a really obscure martial art there he wants me to learn from. But I don't know."

Jason fought down a pang of jealousy. Bruce had never sent him overseas to learn from a cool martial arts master. But that was probably just because Bruce thought he could teach Jason everything he needed to know. Dick had let slip at some point that after what happened to Jason, Bruce was training Tim much harder and more thoroughly before he would consider letting him out on the street.

"That's cool," Jason said. "You should go."

Tim sat up to frown at him. "Are you sure?"

Jason nodded and set his book aside. "Yeah, if Bruce thinks it'll be good for you, I'm sure he's right." He looked at his hand, flexing it into a fist and opening it again. "Maybe I should do some kind of special training, too, before I go out again."

He never wanted to feel vulnerable and afraid again. The next time he met the Joker, he was going to be completely ready, one hundred percent. And he was going to kill the bastard. Bruce couldn't do it, though apparently he'd tried from the stories Alfred had told him. So Jason was going to take care of it for him.

Tim nodded, warming up to the idea. "Yeah, maybe you're right. I've never been out of the country before. It could be an adventure."

Right, even though Tim's parents were globetrotters, they'd never taken Tim with them. The rising excitement in Tim's voice was kind of cute. Jason gave him a smile.

"For sure. And..." He hesitated, then went on. "You should take the suit with you. You know, just in case."

Tim's eyes were wide. "Really? I know we haven't talked about it, but I kinda thought..."

"You thought I wanted it back?" Jason shook his head. "Maybe I did at first, but I mean... I died in those colors. Kind of don't want to wear them again."

Tim looked sympathetic and a little sick. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault, baby bird. Besides, you're switching up the design, right? It's not even the same suit anymore."

Tim smiled crookedly. "I added pants."

Jason laughed. "That's what I'm talking about. Good boy."

Tim's smile bloomed into a grin. "Thanks. It's good to know I have your blessing."

Jason grinned back. "Yeah. You do."

And he realized that he meant it with every corner of his heart. He didn't want to be Robin anymore. And he knew Tim would be good at it.

Jason was going to move on. Once he was recovered enough to train, he was going to go after it with everything he had. He was going to learn new skills, new strengths. He was going to forge his own path. He was going to make his own identity.

He didn't want to stop fighting for the people of Gotham, not at all. Robin had made him magic, but in the end that magic had failed. So Jason was going to find a new kind of magic, all his own, and he was going to keep fighting until Gotham was fixed or until he died again.

Tim would keep fighting by Bruce's side, stepping into the shoes of Jason, of Dick. He was going to be great. Jason felt that in his bones. He was going to be wonderful.

Jason gasped as a new sensation hit him, an intense flare of pain that somehow felt good. It was concentrated in a spot on his right arm just above the elbow. He lifted his arm and shoved up the sleeve of his turtleneck so he could see it, though he already knew what was going to be there. Yeah, it was the blue eye with the flaming red pupil, Tim's soulmark.

He turned his arm so Tim could see, too. "Hey, look at that."

Tim blinked in surprise, then stood up and came over to look at it. "Wow." He gave Jason a look of pure wonder. "Really?"

Jason nodded. "Sure looks like it. Happened just now. We're bros now, for real."

Tim sat down on the floor next to Jason's chair, like he was suddenly overcome with dizziness. "But you've only known me for like two weeks. And we haven't even talked that much. I don't... Really?"

Jason shrugged. "Sometimes it happens like that. It's no big deal that you don't have mine. Don't worry about it."

"I do, though." Tim pushed up the left sleeve of his shirt, revealing Jason's falcon soulmark in almost the exact same place above the elbow, just on the opposite arm.

Jason laughed so loud and hard it almost surprised him. "Dude! We really are bros." He laid his arm against Tim's so the two marks were lined up. "Look at that! They look good together."

"Yeah." Tim's voice was breathless, like he still couldn't believe it.

"C'mon." Jason stood up from his chair, though his head reeled at the sudden movement. His knees wavered, and Tim jumped up and put an arm around his back to support him. "We gotta show Alfie and B."

Tim was confused, but he went along with it. What a great kid. Jason might even go so far as to say he was wonderful.

The End