Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne

For as long as he could remember, Timothy Drake found himself waiting for something to happen. He waited for his parents to come back from a trip overseas. He waited for nightfall to sneak out with his camera, a gift his parents thankfully never questioned, and take pictures of the infamous Dark Knight. He was waiting for Dick to apologize and for Damian to go away and for Jason to do something, anything, to show he wanted to be a member of his deteriorating family. He was waiting for Bruce Wayne to wake up.

Tim worked in dangerous diligence to find Bruce based on a beg with the universe rather than an actual hunch with proof, though he claimed Bruce's survival was obvious from the very moment of his disappearance. Tim often snapped at his brothers and sister as they ignored the invisible signs of Bruce’s displacement in time, signs that Tim claimed to be so clear. It was less of a surprise to Tim when Bruce found them again, safe but comatose back in his own time once more following the unpleasantness with Darkseid, but more of a confirmation instead. I knew all along that Bruce wasn’t really dead, he hissed over the phone earlier that week when he called his eldest brother with the news. He wasn't surprised Dick answered his phone call at four o'clock in the morning, because this was the life of a vigilante, but he was surprised the news of Bruce's return brought his brother to a sputtered silence. He did not bother making any other phone calls, spitting out to Dick that he was not willing to speak to their "dense family" yet, and he allowed Dick to pass this information along.

Tim couldn’t remember when Bruce had initially disappeared, had it been weeks or months? How long since Dick ripped away the one thing that I enjoyed in life-the thing I needed to live? He growled to Kon, a mere figment hunched in the corner of the medical bay room. Like it meant nothing, the title was stripped from my chest and I felt the earth crumble around me, threatening to give out from under my feet while I was expected to welcome that murderous brat into my life with a broad smile, he hissed to the near-transparent Bart. This particular figment moved with every hissed word, zipping from Bruce’s side to Tim’s to Kon’s and back again. The flashes of his bright suit brought Tim some comfort as he enjoyed his time spent with his original team of Titans, though he missed his friends now more than he could ever say. When he first began to see the shadows of his friends in their absence, he was terrified. But as the time had passed-Weeks? Months?- he grew accustomed to the hallucinations and even found comfort in complaining to them.

A broad smile. Tim tried that route, he remembered. He tried welcoming Damian into the manor with the promise of acting as an older brother, something that made him feel inexplicably full inside when on the receiving end of that from Dick and, though only once or twice, Jason. Tim huffed, realizing now that he should have expected the resulting mess, Damian threatening Tim for-What was it again?

“Apparently attempting to steal his righteous place as the heir of Batman,” Tim spit out with a hollow laugh. Bruce could not hear him, but someone had said speaking to him might help him wake sooner. And that was an easy enough suggestion for Tim to latch onto and utilize to its fullest. He spoke to Bruce’s unconscious body about his brothers and about his missing friends. He occasionally mentioned Cassandra, though he hardly had news after she moved across the world. But he never spoke about dropping out of school, shame and sinking embarrassment kept him from mentioning that.

“And despite all of that, Dick still thought it fit to give that satanous child the title of Robin, a position that I fought to earn.” He had begged Bruce and worked harder than he’s ever imagined needing to work to prove he deserved to fill the role from which Jason was forcefully removed.

Tim was exhausted and his near-constant anger plagued him as he tapped his feet and slid further down in his chair. Kon and Bart vanished and the familiar nausea flooded his stomach. This was a normal torture over these past weeks, just another part of being alive. Bruce has been unconscious since the moment he returned, but Tim sat with the man in the Watchtower medical bay throughout the entirety, leaving his side only for the restroom, which was few in occurrences because he was hardly drinking water or consuming anywhere near enough nutrients, as he was continuously reminded of by the rotating visitors.

The sound of the door opening with a puff of air drew Tim’s attention and he watched with dazed eyes as Clark Kent stepped in. The alien looked at Tim, shook his head once, and pointed toward the small room’s exit that he had just walked through. Tim opened his mouth for protest, but before his tongue could reach the roof of his mouth to spit out a ‘no,’ Clark moved around the corner of the bed and approached him with an air of ominous and heavy footfalls.

“Timothy,” his voice was sharp and gravely, so different from the Boy Scout chirp he perfected in youth. This would shock anyone except Tim, who often held the company of Clark in vigil throughout the long hours indeterminable between day and night. Similar to the younger, Clark was exhausted and frustrated with the tragedy that befell his closest friend, praying with the universe to bring the consciousness back to the man that finally returned. 

They waited together.

Tim was worried for Clark, but Clark was more worried for Tim. He already knew they wore matching frowns and bruising bags underneath glassy eyes. Clark had Lois though, a constant in his life to support him and ensure that he was caring for himself enough to be able to see Bruce’s emergence from this cold state. The alien knew Tim refused to leave this room, simply watched and sulked as he was accompanied in occasion by a sibling that appeared as removed from reality as the kid in front of him was now. Guilt at seeing such features on the face before him reared its ugly head with deep growls in Clark’s stomach until finally, he saw the faces of his own sons in Tim’s blank expression, the faces of Kon and Jonathan, and he could no longer endure it.

“Go get some food, Tim. You don’t look so good,” he said, officially stepping over the invisible boundary line that separated him from ordering. He tried to refrain from giving Tim any orders ever since his group of young Titans dispatched from one another and Clark found himself without any palpable rights of authority over the kid, especially not with Tim's own guardian within physical reach.

Despite that blatant attempt at jurisdiction, Tim rolled his eyes and immediately snapped back without thought, “That’s rich. Have you seen yourself lately?” The tone bloomed with understanding in his mind after a short beat, and he winced with embarrassment. He hated hearing himself like this, spitting loathing out like a fire hydrant each time someone so much as looked at him. He felt like he was watching someone else interact with his friends and family, someone who was monstrous these days. It was something over which he had no control, but he was forced to watch in sympathy as he spread hurt to those who cared for him.

Clark wasn’t angry though. He sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing a hand across his face, as though he could scrub away the frustration and exhaustion. It was an exasperated motion that felt awfully familiar. Been spending too much time around Brucie, huh? The small whisper in Tim’s mind urged him to say it aloud and make light of their dreadful situation. But he couldn’t. Even with the promise of drawing a dry chuckle from Clark’s lips, Tim was simply too exhausted to say so many words.

“You haven’t left his side for days. You know he wants you to be healthy.”

“He doesn’t want much of anything right now. He’s comatose,” Tim mumbled with deadpan, and flicked a hand out to present the body before him. But Clark ignored this and continued easily.

“Go eat and take a shower. Hell, get some sleep. I’ll keep careful watch over him.”

Tim didn’t like that plan at all, and he scowled in response. “I can’t.”

“You can. It’ll be okay. I will come find you if there is a change.”

“No,” Tim hissed through clenched teeth. “Leave me alone.” He knew he sounded like a pouting child, but he couldn’t find it in him to actually feel the shame that tinted at his cheeks. He didn’t used to speak that way to Clark, or any of Bruce’s colleagues. His parents, who taught him to speak only when spoken to in preparation for the many galas he was dragged to as a young child, would have rolled over in their neighboring graves if they heard him now. Even Bruce expected he speak to the League members with some respect after he first put on the golden 'R' symbol, as long as the members were deserving of it. But Tim wasn’t a young child anymore and with his own vigilante title, one that he created for himself, Tim saw Clark as more of an annoying colleague now. That is what he told himself as Clark met his eyes with thunderous intensity. Both sets of blue eyes staring with heavy-blinking gazes at the other as though competing to see who would drop into a slumber right there next to Bruce first.

“Tim.” A new and snapped voice demanded his attention. Clark remained still in his sharp gaze, having heard the arrival of another long before the voice appeared, but Tim jumped at the noise. He hated that his senses were failing him. Though he knew realistically it was due to his exhaustion, he couldn’t help but wonder if Bruce would be disappointed in his failings, and his eyes snapped sheepishly over to his father’s blank face. From there, Tim raised his head toward the door to meet the narrowed eyes of his eldest brother.

Fucking perfect.

Dick’s gaze raked slowly over his brother and turned into something close to pity that made Tim sick. “Timmy.” Already his voice was softened, the voice of someone wracked with worry for someone they loved. Tim wanted him to feel guilty over that fatal decision that was best for almost everyone. Almost. Tim tried to ignore how Dick's quiet voice touched his chest and tugged on his throat, because he needed to be angry about this and so much else. It was easier to be angry now than to be somber, and he couldn’t let his brother take the feeling from him that he tricked himself into believing was considered coping. But standing before Tim now, he noticed that Dick looked just as exhausted as he felt. “Go get lunch for you and Clark.” It wasn’t lost on Tim that Dick just added Clark’s name in an attempt to give him a reason to leave other than himself. It probably would have distracted him three weeks ago, too. And it definitely would have worked a month ago. But he refused to entertain it now.

“Why can’t you-?“ Tim started, venomous anger coloring his snarl with bright colors that would have startled his parents if they were still living. It didn’t faze Dick at all though when he interrupted.

“I’m ordering it. Go.” In his best Batman voice too, one that demanded attention and obedience. Tim didn’t cower at it but his words did catch in his throat.

Asshole, Tim wanted to growl and his eyes flickered back to Bruce. Tim thought it was shitty enough to rid him of his place as Robin, but to use this voice against him in a way to deliver such an undesirable order seemed unforgivable. Despite that, Tim couldn’t deny that Dick filled those pointy black ears perfectly. Bruce would be proud.

Bruce will be proud.

Clark remained silent, eyes now glued to Bruce’s prone body and no longer listening to the bickering that surrounded him. His glazed eyes were only that of great fatigue; the shock of Bruce’s comatose state had long since worn off. Tim slumped further in his chair for a few extra seconds, nearly long enough to earn another snap from his brother. But just at the last second Dick was allowing him to get up on his own without additional chastising, Tim peeled away from the seat and stood up on shaking legs. Maybe he has a point, Tim thought with near-stupor, because he couldn’t really remember the last time he ate. The morning before? The night before that? It didn’t even matter though, what mattered was-

“You have to call me immediately if there is any change. You already promised.” Tim’s tone was harsh and his voice shaking in timbre. He pointed an accusatory finger at Clark even though he was already nodding in confirmation, remembering his word he gave the boy just minutes prior. “You have to promise too, Dick.”

“I promise, Tim.” It was a whisper now and Dick’s eyes were drawn to Bruce, but he sounded sincere enough.

And despite that promise, Tim now sat in the waiting room next to two crumpled bags of salted pretzels forgotten on the chair next to him. His legs shook rhythmically in anxiety and bounced against the cold floor. The sounds of his heels against the tile echoed through the otherwise empty halls. He should have known they would lock him out of the room in his absence, but it surprised him and that alone made Tim seethe. Dick had informed him through the shut door upon his quick return that Tim needed sleep, something Tim already knew himself but had a difficult time rectifying. Clark told him, also through the door, that he could lay across the chairs of the waiting room and rest until there was a change.

"You promised!” Tim nearly shrieked, using his whole weight to yank on the door handle with an urgency he could only assume appeared as crazed from the outside. But his efforts were without prevail as this was the watchtower, not a shitty hotel door with a broken bolt.

The lock-rattling grated harshly at Dick’s ears and Clark closed his eyes with a click signaling the clenching of his jaw as the jolting metal rained in sound around him. Finally, Dick smacked his hands down on the arm rests of his chair and jumped to his feet with vigorous frustration. The door snapped open in front of Tim, and he stepped back in surprise at the site of Dick standing before him with knuckles white on the door knob. Tim wanted to jump through the open door but receiving the look of his brother’s fiery eyes and bared teeth kept him still. “Nothing has changed. I promised I would get you when he wakes up. Trust me and go lay down right now. Do not touch this door again.”

Holy anger issues, Batman, Tim thought sardonically, because who was Dick Grayson without that dangerous temper? He almost spat back a demand of how exactly Dick planned on earning back his trust. That was something that dissipated with shattered walls alongside Tim’s will to thrive as part of their dysfunctional family. But in his startled silence and before his mouth could so much as fall open, his brother closed the door between them with a warning glare and a soft snick of metal.

Tim huffed dramatically when the door replaced his view of Dick. The finalizing click of the lock slamming closed echoed in the quiet hallway, and Tim’s lip quivered against his will. He stalked to the row of chairs that resided in the room, allowing the small open space to serve as both the hallway and the med bay waiting area, and he tossed the pretzels down on the steel-coated seat. The stupid snack was just a distraction, his mind hissed, Dick doesn’t care if I eat. He just wanted to get rid of me.

Tim knew that wasn’t true but the spite-filled growls cluttered his mind anyway, gnawing at his throat and gripping his stomach harshly.

He was unaware as to how many minutes passed by or even when he fell asleep, lying horizontally across the seats and having pushed the pretzels to the floor. He did not dream. His mind just remained dark and quiet and waiting until gentle fingers carded across his scalp, tugging softly at his unwashed hair. His eyes cracked open and he winced at the sharp blue eyes suspended above him. Near-blinding light danced around the man from the overhead light above, and black hair spilled carefully at his forehead, longer than it had been in several years, as far as Tim knew. Bruce’s mouth spilled into a small smile, one that hardly looked different from his normal frown to one unbeknownst, but easily recognizable by his children. It was a smile with his eyes. Tim couldn’t breathe.

Dad, he wanted to whisper. But-

Tim blinked largely and watched as the deteriorating image in his mind was replaced by the reality of Dick leaning over him and shaking gently. These blue eyes weren’t warmly piercing, but sorrowful instead. Tim’s stomach churned harshly.

“Hey, Timmy. I’m sorry to have to wake you, but there’s a problem back in Gotham now. Do you want to go back in there or keep resting out here?”

His disappointment felt like he was suffocating on thick despair and his throat tightened, but Tim quickly nodded and sat up. He felt drowsy and dizzy from interrupted sleep, but he did not want to risk slipping his eyes closed and letting Bruce wake up without family by his side.

“Come on,” Dick wrapped an arm around Tim’s shoulders and gripped his upper arm, heaving the boy up to his feet. Tim had lost weight, as Dick noticed with a grimace. He had no difficulty helping Tim back to Bruce’s bedside despite Tim tripping over the toes of his shoes and dragging his feet in response. Tim noticed with a lagging gaze that Clark was leaned over and resting his head on the bed. The alien’s eyes were closed and Tim couldn’t wait to join him back in sleep.

“Keep me updated, okay? Try to eat something and get some more rest.” Dick dropped the pretzels on the mattress in front of Tim, who raised his eyebrows in surprise having not heard Dick pick them up. Dick wrapped him in a tight hug, and rested his cheek on the top of Tim’s head. “I-uhm, I am really sorry for yelling earlier. It wasn’t fair to you and I am sorry, Tim.”

Tim leaned helplessly into the hug, wishing to stay there forever. He knew Dick’s apology was earnest and now in his sluggish mind, he didn’t fault anybody for aggravated snaps driven by sleep-deprivation. He spat out plenty of those himself these days while residing in a state of near-debilitating grief.

“‘S’okay,” he mumbled, wrapping his own arms around his brother.

“I mean it though, eat something at the very least. You’re getting too skinny, and Alfred will be mad at me,” Dick ran a teasing finger down Tim’s ribs, grinning when he received a sharp inhale at the tickling. Tim was too sleepy to laugh now, something Dick knew as he ruffled Tim’s hair and stepped away. With one last apology, he snuck out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Tim reclaimed his seat and mirrored Clark, resting his own head on the opposite side of the mattress and closing his eyes once more.

••••

The rough, blistered pad of a finger brushed against Tim’s cheek, and he slowly opened his eyes to peek out into the dimmed med room lights. The obnoxious beeping of the bedside machine slowly pulled Tim closer to wakefulness and he lifted his gaze. When he saw Bruce standing up by the bed, leaning heavily on the mattress with one hand but reaching out to Tim with his other, his head snapped up fully and his mouth gaped.

“Bruce, what are you doing up?” He breathed, hopping up to his feet and staring at Bruce with wide eyes. A chapped smile grew on Bruce’s face, lips cracked and bleeding with prolonged dehydration, despite the tedious efforts of intravenous fluids. “Bruce!” This time, Tim’s voice was loud with emotion and disbelief.

Bruce’s eyes shone instantly with fresh tears at the sound of his son’s voice. Tim approached him hesitantly and offered a hand to help him back into bed, suddenly feeling unsure of his place in the medical room. Now that he was faced with Bruce, awake and looking back at him, Tim wondered if he preferred to wake up to Dick or Clark. But before Tim could step back and reach for his phone to call his brother, Bruce wrapped his arms around Tim and lifted him up into the air. Despite his thinned arms and hollow cheeks, Bruce pressed Tim securely to his chest, resting his cheek against the side of Tim’s head where his hair was sticky with sleep-manufactured sweat.

Tim yelped at the grasp and froze with surprise for several heartbeats before he began squirming. He wanted to stay in Bruce’s arms more than anything in the entire universe at that moment, but his worry of Bruce’s exhaustion wagged its metaphorical finger in the face of comfort. “Put me down. You shouldn’t be lifting anyone. I don’t even think you should be standing up.” Tim kicked a little and shifted his shoulders in Bruce’s hold.

“Tim.” The voice was raw and broken from disuse, but it was filled with love that drew a sudden whine from Tim’s throat. Bruce returned Tim to his feet and collapsed against the mattress with a spent huff of air. With a small, anxious gasp, Tim maneuvered himself under Bruce’s armpit and helped direct his unbalanced movements until he sat on the mattress once more.

Bruce’s eyes flicked to the water on his bedside table, a Styrofoam cup patiently awaiting his conscious arrival. Tim followed the quick gaze and understood the reason Bruce stood up upon awakening. Tim picked up the squeaking cup up and guided the paper straw to Bruce’s mouth, just as the man had done for Tim countless times after he suffered an injury as Robin.

“Why do I get the feeling you look worse than I do?” Bruce finally croaked, doing his best to hide his wince at the dry throat he spoke through.

Tim snorted. “Because you haven’t looked in a mirror yet.”

And to Tim’s absolute shock and pleasure, Bruce laughed. It came out pathetic and painful, but Tim cherished the sound and selfishly beamed with pride that he was the one to draw it from the man. He leaned forward and wrapped his hands around Bruce’s that was closest to him.

“Dad-” Tim whispered, voice shaking and fresh tears spilling over the baby-ish curve of his cheek, running across the waning signs of young childhood. He remembered with a sudden red-painted face that he wasn’t alone in the room with his father. But he turned to see that Clark was absent from his own throne of vigil, having left while Tim was still asleep, and with that realization came more tears. Bruce grimaced and closed his eyes, flooded with emotions that he could not comprehend in his muddled mind. A low hum sounded from deep in his throat, words that wanted to slip out. Tim rested his forehead in the large hand lying limp on the mattress, and he began to cry unabashed. Tim did not understand why he was crying now, but all attempts to choke back the sounds only made it worse.

Bruce’s fingers twitched at the sound of the wretched sobs, wanting more than anything to help his son, to hold his child. His lips moved to form 'baby' in hopes of providing comfort, but Bruce felt his consciousness slipping again and soon the tormented sounds of his son faded alongside his vision of the crumbling form.

When Bruce woke up again, he was pleasantly surprised to see his family surrounding him. Dick sat next to his bed, eyes half-lidded and cheek pressed to Bruce’s open palm, empty gaze proving he was almost asleep. Cassandra perched on the mattress beside Bruce’s hip, smiling softly and raising a hand from her lap in greeting. Jason sat opposite to Dick, eyes slipped closed and breathing deeply in slumber. Damian stood in the far corner, watching with apprehension and worry etched across his face that he was wholly unable to cover. Clark stood next to Jason and grinned broadly, though the smile didn’t cover up the grief thickly clouding his eyes. Alfred stood by Bruce with a thin hand placed over the hospital gown covering his shoulder and wearing a small smirk. Bruce sighed in relief and Jason’s eyes slipped open. Bruce sat up carefully and motioned his family closer, creating a stirring that dragged Dick back from his blank gaze. Soft chatter filled the room as they moved closer, wary at first but slowly blooming into a conversation dipped in relief. His family was safe. Bruce made it home.

But Tim was not there.

Dick Grayson

The sticky blackness faded and Tim regained consciousness, slowly slipping his eyes open to an insipid gray surrounding him. He was laying supine on a chilled floor, and he focused on that cold while he willed his muscles to bring him to a seated position. A sharp pain dug at his temples as he moved, and he groaned loudly with grief, forgetting Bruce’s tedious lessons that he remain quiet while assessing an unknown situation. He brought a shaky hand to the back of his head where the throbbing seemed to be located while he tried to remember what led to him ending up in such undesirable conditions. Worry etched into his eyebrows as he was unable to recall anything since leaving the manor with Batman for patrol that evening. He hissed at the stinging that accompanied a thick, wet feeling under his gloved fingers, and he removed them from his scalp to see scant blood.

“Shit,” he mumbled. Tim still considered himself fairly new to the vigilante life, only over a month of patrolling in at this point, and he still felt nausea swarm his stomach when he suffered a head wound.

“Robin!” The exclamation was coated in relief and Tim looked up from his seated position to see Dick Grayson jogging toward him, grin spread wide. Dick's eyes were hidden beneath his domino mask but Tim knew they were wide to match his tone. Tim breathed deeply despite his fiercely aching head, and he looked around in his foggy haze to find himself in a tile-lined, circular room. A skinny metal ledge ran along the circumference approximately three quarters to the top, with a ladder folded and only reaching down approximately one foot from the ledge, well out of reach. It was windowless save a skylight equal to three stories above Tim. Stars twinkled through the skylight, dimmed only by the small lit bulbs that ran along the ceiling. The room had one door, closing slowly behind Dick. Tim blinked twice and recognized the building as looking like the subject of a documentary he recently watched in school about storing grain. A silo, he remembered with a frown.

“What happened?” He whispered as Dick approached him with outstretched arms.

“Not sure. I just got here,” Dick answered and slowly pulled Tim to his feet with gloved hands gently placed under his arm pits. “I received a distress signal from you. Are you patrolling with Batman?”

Tim considered this with a hum before deciding, “Yes. Yes I was.” That’s good, he sighed in relief because he knew Bruce would come for them if they were met with difficulties trying to escape on their own. Dick wore a small smile, showing he was thinking along a similar line. “But I don’t remember sending a distress signal.”

“I see... I am sure we will find out very soon which Arkham-escapee led us here tonight.”

“We make it far too easy for them,” Tim replied with a smirk, and Dick chuckled. Tim then pointed to the back of his head and added, “Here’s my excuse for ending up here.”

“That’s a pretty nasty bump,” Dick muttered, carefully cupping his hands on Tim’s scalp and bending the kid’s head down so he could get a better look. Tim scoffed and rolled his shoulders before shuffling away as the stinging returned. “Remember who did that?”

Tim didn’t. His lip drew out and he shook his head, eyes roaming once more across the room. “Nightwing, I actually can’t remember any-"

Before he could continue, a dark chuckle was produced from a set of crackling speakers that Tim now noticed lined the ceiling. Thick, green-tinted vapors poured in under the door, quickly moving to surround them. Faster than Tim could interpret, Dick’s arm shot up and a wire snapped up toward the ledge with a soft snip. Before it had the chance to latch onto the metal grate, a red laser appeared and cut through the line. He watched with a frown as the singed line dropped to the ground, and the hook met the metal above them tauntingly.

“Ah ah ah, that’s cheating,” an indistinguishable voice chastised with an ugly snicker.

“What should we do?” Tim whispered sluggishly, watching the approaching gas. Dick grimaced at the slur in his voice. “Think this is Crane or Joker? Or someone else?”

“Robin, take out your rebreather,” Dick ordered, voice quick with urgency. He pulled his own from the pouch secured to his thigh. Expecting the realistic results but still required to check, Dick placed his rebreather and sprinted toward the door in which he entered, now invisible through the gas. Tim watched with wide eyes as Dick disappeared and then he heard the knob jiggle uselessly, followed by a loud thud and a groan.

Tim fumbled with the snap of his belt pocket, failing to notice the singe-edged holes decorating the bag until he found similar holes through the contents.

“Nightwing, it was shot,” Tim relented when Dick pushed through the cloud and returned to Tim’s side. His voice was shaking with worry as they watched the gas creep nearer. He had experienced both Joker gas and Scarecrow’s fear gas already, but neither of those were ever really fun. He crumpled the ruined rebreather in a tight fist, and he remembered a rain storm of bullets flying toward him, grazing his belt and thankfully missing everywhere else. This was by the docks, when Bruce and Tim flew into the drug deal earlier that evening led by annoyingly loyal hence people and... Dr. Jonathan Crane.

“Ahhh, kaputt,” the invisible voice taunted again, and Tim fought the urge to shout with frustration.

“It’s Crane,” Tim informed Dick quickly, and his old brother nodded in understanding. Tim couldn’t help but feel relief, as he’d much rather be under the influence of the fear toxin. Sure, the last time he came into contact with it, he tried to drown himself in the frigid bay as he hallucinated airplanes crashing into the buildings and waves around him, but it was still much better than every encounter he has had with the Joker. “I remember now; it is Crane and those ridiculous goons of his.”

While he spoke, Dick grabbed the grappling hook from Tim’s belt and shot it up to the ledge, but just as had happened with his own, a red laser shot across the room and sliced the cord.

“I thought Batman said these belts were bulletproof.” Tim fumbled through the pouches in hopes of finding another solution.

But Dick was already shoving his rebreather toward Tim. “Only bullet-resistant. Put this on.”

“No, it is my fault I got grazed. Keep yours and just please don’t let me bite my tongue off,” he finished with a chuckle, but Dick wasn’t smiling.

“Robin, there’s no time for this. Take it now,“ Dick instructed, shaking his head vehemently.

“Come on, Robin, don’t ignore your big brother,” the looming voice continued and Tim rolled his eyes.

“Please don’t tell me I will still hear this asshole talking while I’m tripping on this shit...” Tim murmured to Dick with a shit-eating grin, one that Jason would be proud of if he were around to know the kid. But Dick wasn’t impressed.

“You won’t, because you’ll be wearing this,” Dick shoved the rebreather closer to his chest. “Hurry, right now.”

“Uhm, I really don’t think this is a good id-" but his protest was muffled and then cut off entirely as Dick pressed the device to his lips. Tim groaned and rolled his eyes again, but he accepted Dick’s orders as the cloud finally surrounded them, casting green-tinted shadows across their masks.

Dick quickly pulled out a syringe from his own pouch and plunged the needle in his thigh, pushing on the top. “Fingers crossed,” he whispered to Tim in reference to the reactivity of the serum he just injected into himself. Crane changed the chemical formula of his fear toxin faster than they could make antidotes, the changes usually just a tick off but enough to determine their previous work meaningless.

Tim waited in anxious anticipation, and he did not see when Dick’s eyes widened largely under his mask. He did, however, notice when Dick faced him with a strangely feral baring of his teeth, and Tim sighed, understanding that the formula had been changed yet again just for this special occasion where Crane locked them in a silo. Tim took an apprehensive step back when Dick widened his stance, cursing his luck and biting the inside of his cheek. He had hoped for a few moments longer with a focused Nightwing before the toxins flooded his lungs and warped his mind beyond reason. Tim hoped Dick could handle his hallucinations, seeing as he had been trained extensively with this stuff for years longer than Tim became a vigilante.

“Oh ho ho boys, do we have a treat for you today. In this corner, a very special guest. Former Robin himself, and current hunter of the Blüdhaven streets. We didn’t mean to chase the guy right outta Gotham, but hey I guess he couldn't handle the heat, let’s hear it for Nightwing!” The voice cackled through the speakers, imitating a cage-match announcer. Tim rolled his eyes at the dramatics, but he couldn’t help the anxiety that yanked on his stomach when he turned back to see Dick clenching his fists.

“Wing?” Tim whispered, muffled through the rebreather. “Wing, it’s going to be okay. Just hang on a bit.”

“Slade,” Dick hissed and Tim took a leap back now as Dick surged forward. Tim did not see the man’s eyes become sharpened with fury and hatred, but he heard it in his voice. Dick’s pupils shrunk to the size of a pinpoint needle, yet still embedded in a gaze that was drifted far away, as only the fear toxin can create on a face. Dick crouched down into a fighting stance, luckily leaving his eskrima at rest and clipped to the back of his suit.

“And in this corner, weighing no more than a KFC family size meal bucket, we have our newest Little Boy Wonder, Robin!" Crane dragged out the name for several seconds and Tim nearly pressed his palms fiercely to his ringing ears. "He is the current sidekick of the Batman and brand new to the game. Now ladies and gents, I thought I would have to intervene a little, because we all know these birds like to stay prepared, but a fun surprise here for you tonight is that Nightwing has sacrificed his own precious clean air for that little chicken wing protégée! Was that a mistake, or can the little guy handle the battle? Place your bets now, kids! Who do you think will win?”

“Wing, no. I am not Slade. I am not-“ Tim words were pointless and Dick leapt forward, acting as Robin fighting his former nemesis. He caught Tim’s diaphragm in an uppercut and flew a punch to his solar plexus. Tim dropped to the ground and rolled away like Bruce taught him to when he needed time, and with a pounding headache from a mysterious blow to the head that landed him here in the first place, he needed time. He was vastly under-prepared for this fight. He had sparred with Dick plenty of times, some even alongside a promise that he wasn’t holding back. Dick always did hold back though, at least a little, and now while under the influence of clouded despise, he was ruthless in his hits and seemingly deranged.

“I will never let you hurt them,” Dick’s voice cracked with grief and he kicked out hard, barely missing Tim as he threw himself to the side, already panting with exertion. Tim tried to stand up, needing to be on his feet for a hint at a chance of protecting himself, but Dick wouldn’t allow him the opportunity, attacking and growling with a ferocity Tim had never seen from his brother before. 

Tim lost count of how many hits landed. He felt his nose crunch against the floor and warm blood trickled down his chin. He tasted metal from a deeply split lip courtesy of the palm of Dick’s hand. His ankle rolled out from under him when his brother moved faster than Tim was able to account for. He felt a rib crack and his wrist sprained, but still the hits continued. A firm hand gripped Tim’s shoulder and another snatched at the fabric covering his abdomen. And then with strength fueled by fury, Dick picked Tim up, lifted him over his head, and threw him across the room where he landed with a huff as the air was forced from his lungs like a deflated balloon. Tim wheezed, a high-pitch screeching sound in the echoing room, and he dragged himself toward the wall, desperate to move away from the violent hands. He was sure Crane’s annoying voice was laughing harshly above him, announcing to the invisible crowd. But his announcements were hidden safely behind the harsh ringing in Tim's ears. And he couldn’t find the energy to care.

He considering pulling the rebreather off and hungrily sucking in the fear toxin just so he could escape this never-ending pain.

“Please,” Tim begged, the plea slipping with a choke on the blood that pooled in his mouth and coated his teeth. “Please stop...”

But Dick didn’t hear him, and he didn’t stop. A hit to the stomach, a punch to his face, an elbow to his kidney. Another kick landed on Tim’s temple and with relief that felt like a gift from the heavens, Tim passed out.

Tim woke up groggy and still surrounded by that gray, but this time he found himself cradled in the arms of a shaking form. The dimmed light burned his eyes after spending so much time hidden behind his closed, swollen eyelids. He peered around through blurry vision until an intense wave of nausea flooded his stomach and demanded his immediate attention. He flailed his arms and groaned, a sickly sound peeling from his throat, until the arms released him. Tim launched forward on his elbows and knees, and he vomited on the cold floor under him. The retching sound echoed harshly off the metal walls and succeeded in worsening his nausea. He wanted to shriek with pain as his heaving disturbed his tender abdomen and the force of his expel pushed against his sore nose, but he focused instead on breathing deeply. When he finished, he sat back and groaned pathetically at the acidic taste left lingering in his mouth and throat. A hand rested on his shoulder and he slowly turned to see Dick looking at him carefully, breath hitched and cheeks red. Like a film projector coming to life, the past several minutes returned to Tim in a burst of suffering pain and he threw himself back with a yelp, pushing himself away from his brother and simultaneously avoiding the vomit.

Dick recoiled at once and sniffed pathetically. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured sadly. Tim shook his head and shuffled further back. “I am so sorry...”

Tim closed his eyes now, still shaking his head as much as his sore body allowed. The memory of fists pounding against his own skin echoed in loud memory in his ears. He dug the heels of his boots into the floor until his back hit the wall, stopping his reverse shuffle. The contact created an explosion of pain and a gasp lodged in his throat.

“I thought he came back for me... I thought it was all happening again,” Dick’s voice split, and his terror was palpable. He lowered his head once more and wrapped his arms around his own abdomen as sobs wracked his body. Tim knew Dick was abducted during his time with the Titans, and he was forced to work under the terrifying hand of Deathstroke. Neither he nor Bruce spoke about it often, but Tim saw now how deeply it continued to plague his brother. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t seen him on this stuff in a long time, and it-I was so terrified. I have never-" his apology ended abruptly in a choked cry. Dick’s head lowered further until his chin nearly rested against his chest, and he dragged his gloved fingers through his hair with vigor.

At the sight of Dick’s pain and with an involuntary whine, Tim relented and scooted back toward him. Tim carefully reached out with his blood-crusted fingertips and brushed them against Dick’s shaking arm. At the touch, Dick brought his head up, but he remained still and waited for Tim to make the first move. Tim looked away with a grimace. His muscles burned and his skin crawled with the aftershock of receiving such a beating. He knew he would be bed-ridden for the next several days because of this, and he couldn’t go home to his parents during that time. He couldn’t help the selfish and annoyed huff that slipped past his lips. But when he looked at his brother again, he leaned forward and opened his arms in offer for an embrace. Dick took the opportunity immediately, gathering Tim gently into his arms and holding him close as he continued to provide apologies that were wet with tears. Tim bit the inside of his cheek in an attempt to ignore the pain spreading throughout his sensitive nerves because he did not want to disturb Dick.

Dick pulled him tighter, and a pained huff escaped Tim’s throat before he could muffle it. Dick immediately let go and bowed his head in grief.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again, and reached out to gently rest his fingers on Tim’s bruised cheek.

“Wing?” Tim asked, realization dawning. Dick cocked his head to the side in invitation for the oncoming question. Tim leaned closer and spoke in a soft whisper. “Shouldn’t they all be laughing at this? I don't hear Crane anymore.”

Dick froze, listening carefully for a hint from their audience. When the room remained silent save Tim’s loud wheezing, Dick pulled himself up to his feet. He offered Tim a small frown and reached down to assist him in standing up with a groan. At the sound of glass shattering above them, Dick quickly maneuvered Tim closer to the wall, allowing him to hold onto his shoulder while Tim shuffled on his uninjured ankle.

To their absolute delight, a heavy cape fluttered above them and Bruce dropped down to the center of the room as glistening remnants of the skylight fell around him. One quick glance at Bruce quickly dissipated any relief they initially felt, as the man was fuming.

“What happened?” To say it was a growl was a wild understatement. And to say it startled Tim didn’t truly cover the way he flinched hard, pressing himself back against the wall.

Tim's hand slipped from Dick's shoulder as the elder stepped toward Bruce and spoke firmly. “It was the toxin, B. We don’t have a working antidote, and I-“

“Robin, report.” Bruce snapped over Dick, cutting him off mid sentence and turning on Tim, who looked up at him with lips parted and head spinning furiously. Bruce took long strides to bring his cowl-covered glower closer to Tim while he waited for a response.

“Uhm,” Tim began but he cut off with a harsh cough, spitting blood into his gloved hand and swaying on his feet.

“Oh shit-" Dick hissed, stepping back toward him with a hand outstretched, but Bruce quickly stepped between them, halting Dick's path.

“Why did this happen?” Bruce’s voice was even lower now, only a dangerous whisper. Tim bit the inside of his cheek and sucked in a deep breath. But before he could answer, Dick let slip a humorless laugh.

“Why did this happen? B, you can’t be serious. This shit always happens. This whole town is filthy and ridden with maniacs like that crazy freak show that set all of this up!” He waved dramatically to the shattered glass around them. Tim’s eyes widened and he shook his head to deter the oncoming argument, but Dick was not finished yet. “And you weren’t here with him. Why weren’t you with him, B? You were always present for my fights, and if you were here, we would have had enough rebreathers, and we could have avoided this all together.”

That last sentence drew Bruce’s attention and his head snapped back to Tim. Dick winced in guilty apology and he tried to speak again, but Bruce glanced at the device now clutched tightly in Tim’s fist and spoke first. Bruce recognized the rebreather as Dick’s rather than his own design. “Robin, where is your rebreather?” Tim opened his mouth to report, and he really did want to explain what happened despite his shaking legs and pounding heartbeat, but his headache was fierce and the room was still spinning too quickly, and he didn’t know whether or not he was speaking out loud. He wasn’t.

“Robin?” Bruce boomed and Tim jumped.

“M’sorry, B,” he whispered in a sluggish voice. “Earlier when Crane’s men were shooting at us, I guess they shot mine through my belt.” He waved his arm out to his side, but his damaged rebreather remained discarded on the other side of the room, so the gesture brought nothing but confusion in its wake. Dick sighed sympathetically, figuring the kid would need several hours of sleep following treatment for an obvious concussion.

“You let them shoot it?” Bruce demanded, not really expecting an answer but wishing to bring shame to the kid’s cheeks and avoid future similar instances.

“'Let?'” Dick bellowed. “B, what are you-"

“That’s enough, Nightwing,” Bruce snapped, efficiently silencing his former Robin. “He needs to learn that there are consequences to his ac-"

“No. This is not teaching. You are scared that he got the shit beat out of him because it reminds you of the last time that happened-"

“That’s enough,” Bruce spit out carefully. Tim took another step away from them at the warning, wishing severely to just be home already. He wanted to be lying in his own bed, in his silent house where Bruce could not be disappointed and angry with him.

“You aren’t being fair to him,” Dick continued. Tim’s presence kept him from pushing his point about Bruce's poor reaction being based on his loss of Jason, and he fought from a different angle instead. “It was a mistake. Someone shot at him, and we are lucky it just hit his belt and not a femoral artery. He carried exactly what you expect from him, he didn’t do anything wrong. And you always taught me when something happened, you didn’t used to act like this!”

But Dick knew that Bruce had lost too much. Bruce was petrified that someone else could die by his metaphorical hands, that his failure as a mentor would steal another child from his life. And so he used his anger and he chose to yell instead.

“Robin,” Bruce ordered while his gaze remained heavy on Dick’s domino mask that concealed eyes wide with anticipation and worry. “You’re benched for the next three months. We are leaving now.” Tim’s mouth fell open, but his stomach was turning dangerously again, and he could not argue. Those months were going to feel like years, he already knew.

“What?” Dick cried out, anguish catching his throat. “B, that is not-"

“Enough,” the room quaked with Bruce’s word.

Tim bowed his head and stepped closer to Bruce. Bruce saw two broken grappling hooks resting on the ground and he quickly tossed one of his own to Dick before reaching out to Tim while he held his other. Bruce pulled Tim against him, grip surprisingly gentle considering his vesuvian tone, and he carried the boy up and out of the room. Tim still held Dick’s rebreather tightly in his fist, and he looked down during the repel to watch Dick cover his face with his hands in frustration and grief.

••••

A small knock on the already-open bedroom door drew Tim from his half-focused gaze on the guest bedroom TV playing Animal Planet. The show was about crocodiles and how they could survive being frozen in a pond, but Tim only lazily listened in. His mug of chilled tea, courtesy of Alfred, remained untouched on the bedside table. His throat burned, and Alfred noted the tea contained honey, but Tim ignored the drink out of hurt.

“Hey, Timmy.” Dick stood awkwardly in the doorway, running a nervous hand through his own hair and scratching at the back of his neck. Tim tried to grin but his jaw ached inordinately so he settled for a polite nod. “I’m glad you’re still here. Didn’t want to go home yet?” Dick asked.

Tim shrugged, “I really want to. But I can’t like this.” He pointed up at his darkly bruised eyes and nose, and he waved his fingers in a gesture that included his entire body, littered with ointments and gauze wrappings. Dick winced. “It’s okay. Told my dad that I’m staying with a friend from school.”

“I see. Tim, I’m so sorry about everything. Bruce, he-uhm. He didn’t mean all of that. He won’t really keep you out for that long. He’s just...” Tim waited as Dick searched carefully for his words. “He’s still mourning, and he isn’t exactly doing it in a healthy way.” Dick finally entered the room and sat on the edge of the bed, next to Tim’s feet. “Hell, none of us are. I made things so much worse by arguing with him, and I am so sorry you had to be caught in the middle of that.”

“It is okay,” Tim offered a small smile. “But maybe next time, you use the rebreather. I think it would have been easier for you to handle my mishegaas, you know?”

“It was selfish for me to make you wear that. But I-uh. I sort of knew the serum I had wouldn't be up to date, and I couldn’t... I couldn’t listen to you screaming,” Dick whispered, looking at the carpeted floor underneath his feet. He had fought Crane alongside Bruce once since Tim joined their family, and the echoes of the kid’s screams never left the hollows of Dick’s mind. The sound brought up images of Tim suffering and of Jason dying.

“I was still screaming,” Tim responded with a smirk, extending his elbow out to nudge Dick with a matching tilt of his head. Dick did not find this funny though, and he paled in response. Tim looked down, ashamed. “I’m sorry, that was in poor taste. But it really is okay, Dick. I didn’t die. And I’m sure Bruce will forgive me eventually.”

“I’ll talk to him, I promise.” Dick stood from the bed and ruffled Tim’s hair. “Now try and rest.”

“Wait,” Tim requested slowly, and Dick stopped his retreat. “Are you okay? You sounded so upset about Slade, and you-" -shouldn’t go back home and be alone tonight, he wanted to add, but instead he shrugged and grimaced.

Dick smiled fondly. “I’m okay. Thank you.” And before Tim could speak up again with some bargain to influence Dick to stay in the manor for the rest of the night, he slipped out of the room.

Tim huffed sadly, and returned his head to the pillow, eyes sliding back to Animal Planet. He wanted to rest because he felt exhausted, but every time his eyes slipped shut with attempt, the sickening thuds of those unforgiving hits jerked him back panting harshly to an icy consciousness. Sleep did not find him that night, nor the following morning. So he kept watching Animal Planet and ignoring the tea.

Jason Todd

“It didn’t surprise anyone when I died. When I failed.”

Tim’s back hit the concrete wall of Titan's Tower, and the breath was forced from his lungs with a choke. He could hardly focus on the words that were so meticulously spat at him. Not that the words mattered, Tim realized, because they were the spiteful words of a mad man.

He was not ashamed to admit he was completely surprised to see his visitor that evening, carefully planned for an evening when he was alone at the tower. Bart was celebrating a birthday with his grandparents and the Garricks, Kon was staying with Martha and Jonathan for the weekend, and Cassie promised her mother a few days off. Even the graduated members of the team were missing from the building. Garfield, Rachel, and Kori were in Africa that entire week to track down an illegal poacher, Donna and Victor were meeting with the Justice League to discuss their findings on the League of Assassins' latest hit, and Dick was running a recon mission in New Zealand with Wally, Roy, and Garth. Tim was excited for the night off and alone, and he finally influenced Bruce to allow him to stay in the tower without interruption. It meant a lot to him of course, that Bruce and Alfred were so insistent that he come over for dinner and a movie night, but Tim promised he would come home the following evening instead. He really wanted to get caught up on his own work and sleep peacefully throughout the night and following morning.

But plans change.

He received an alert on his phone that the tower was housing an intruder and Tim quickly jumped into action, extending his bo staff and listening carefully, formulating a plan. The tower was silent save the feathery noises of the pipes that carried water and the air conditioning unit, until suddenly Tim heard soft movement. He took in a deep breath, lowered himself into a fighting stance to surprise the mysterious guest, and he jumped out from behind the pillar to be met with someone wearing an outfit eerily similar to his own. And just like that, his plan crumbled.

Bruce, he wanted to scream now as his body was tensing with spasms from the pain, because Bruce would know what to do. Tim thought he heard a hint of conversation between Dick and Bruce, short whispers between the two about someone reclaiming the Joker's old title and mask, throughout the past few months. He even raised an eyebrow over hearing the former Robin's name brought up during these discussions. But he never would have guessed that the man had actually returned from the grave, or that he would show up here, pissed to hell and back and wearing a dated version of the Robin suit-

Tim was choking on air and a heavy foot cracked into the back of his head so hard that he thought his skull vibrated in response. His head fell to the ground once more and he felt his hair become matted in the sticky pool of blood in which he laid. Superman, the screech never left his tongue. His throat couldn’t produce words yet and instead, he gasped heavily, silently begging for oxygen. He longed to be released from this encounter.

“I failed,” the voice taunted. “But I’m still beating you.”

A hand twisted in Tim’s cape and he was pulled back up and away from the ground, just for a fist to fly out to his nose and mouth. A heavy crunch ricocheted in his ears and he felt blood pouring. Tim winced and coughed. He dizzily wondered if Clark would hear his grief if he got hit hard enough, or if Rachel would feel his pain across the ocean and call for someone to help.

“Do you think you’re that good now? Do you really, Tim?”

Tim flinched at the way his name was spat at him; the word was coated with despise and hatred, and it didn’t even sound like his name anymore coming from those angry lips. Despite his exhaustion and the warning alarms going off in his mind, begging him to remain silent and take the beating until the resurrected Jason Todd finally got bored and left, he opened his mouth and spoke.

“Yes.” The breathy wheeze even startled Tim. He couldn’t believe that croaked sound escaped his own blood-coated, cracked lips. Jason only showed up here to make a point and see if Tim could prove himself. And Tim refused to let the maniac win, even with him lying pathetically on the floor, bones shattered and muscles pulled. His eyes closed beneath the domino mask, awaiting the hit that Todd would probably find well-deserved after that answer. He was surprised instead to feel rough gloved-fingers, a vital piece of Jason’s own mimicry of the Robin suit, dig into the kevlar over Tim's chest, over the Robin symbol that signified his life as a protector of Gotham and the world, and tear it away. The sound of shredding fabric echoed from the stony walls in the quiet room, accompanied only by Tim’s wheezing and Jason’s impassioned huffing. The cold air hit Tim’s chest and startled him. He slipped an eye open to watch as the fabric containing the golden-colored R fluttered helplessly to the ground a few feet away from his outstretched arm.

And then that well-deserved hit came.

Jason brought his scowling face close to Tim’s, allowing the kid to know exactly who was beating him damn near to death with fiery anger burning through his fists and a growl slipping past his clenched teeth. His hair was sticking with sweat, a white tuft lying across the black. Tim wondered what Jason's eyes looked like behind that domino mask he wore, just how deranged he appeared through the window to his soul. Jason reared a fist back and let it fly until it cracked against Tim’s jaw with a loud shatter that bounced off the walls, accompanied by a yelp that Tim tried so hard to hold back.

Even if Todd was pleased with the pitiful reaction he finally managed to draw from Tim, it did not matter because Tim could not hear.

The world spun around uselessly and without his permission, the walls blending together to create a mirage of empty colors and sounds. The sight reminded Tim of the space-themed carnival ride he suffered through several years ago. His babysitter at the time found out his parents had never taken him to the traveling city fair, and she relentlessly insisted on taking him. She grabbed her car keys and his hand, and she claimed it was for his own good. Unfortunately for Tim, he scarfed down a hot dog just before the teenager grabbed his sleeve and tugged him toward the spinning ride that went upside down. Tim was wary, but she quickly demanded that she needed to ride this one before the park closed for the night. And after the first loop that would have sent Tim flying without the flimsy buckle running across his lap, he turned green and his dinner reappeared. The ride was quickly shut down, set to the sound of Tim's groaning and crying, and he remembers fondly that his babysitter wasn't even mad at him for it. She cleaned his shirt in the single-stall bathroom and bought him a sprite when he continued to clutch at his queasy stomach. She even apologized multiple times. Tim didn’t understand why she apologized to him when he was the one that got sick, but it seemed to help his feel better. She even told him above the time her little brother got sick at the fair after eating an entire funnel cake, and she assured Tim that it was nothing to be embarrassed about. She drove him home after that and once he had showered and changed, she read to him and played with his hair until he fell asleep. Tim had been so young and he didn’t understand why his parents were angry to hear that he went to the fair; he wondered if it was because they wanted to go with him, but now he knew that was delusional hope. They fired her and Tim went through many different babysitters, none of them ever lasting for very long. After he turned six, his parents claimed he no longer needed someone to babysit him, because he had the cleaning lady for when they needed to go out of town again. Tim agreed at the time, but he wondered why that job had such a high turn around rate, was it because of hi-

Tim felt a fist knot into the torn kevlar covering his chest, lifting him from the ground entirely and snapping him back to reality. Tim watched helplessly through half-lidded, swollen eyes as Jason carried him with startling ease toward the wall in the room of the statues. The statues of the fallen, notably missing the second boy wonder, a fact on which Jason had already remarked with an added blow to Tim's side. Tim hadn’t the opportunity to inform him that his sacred memorial rested in the bat cave as a solemn reminder for Bruce and Tim (after Bruce had finally allowed him to join the crusade). After a kick to his stomach, Tim realized the man was really just crazed enough to believe anyone could actually forget about him, as though Jason’s death didn’t follow and torment Bruce every waking minute, as well as his unconscious ones. As though Jason’s death didn’t turn Dick away from coming back home unless he had to. As though he didn’t become so much more than just a cautionary tale to keep Tim acting with obedient behavior to Bruce. As though his family’s lives didn’t nearly end when Jason died.

But Jason did not know this, Tim quickly realized. Jason believed he had been murdered, replaced, and quickly forgotten about by the man that adopted him and the butler that became one of the most loving people he had ever had the privilege to live with. And this anger that radiated from his very being, a sickly kind of anger, was the culprit that brought him here with intentions to let his replacement know that there would be severe repercussions suffered by all.

Jason finally dropped Tim as he approached the wall, and Tim managed to swallow a shriek as he felt his broken body hit the hard ground. Two fingers dragged across his face and something warm smeared on his cheek, making Tim flinch. The fingers disappeared and then came back again, this time running across a burning cut on his thigh for a brief moment. The brushes confused Tim but he couldn’t find the energy to force his eyes open and discover what Todd was doing. Instead, he concentrated on the cold tiles against the back of his suit, the chills bleeding through the fabric in the best way possible, so much that he almost smiled with relief. He knew he would pass out very soon and at this moment, he welcomed the darkness. His head pounded and he absently wondered what state his crown was in after suffering the toe of Jason’s boot.

He’s insane, Tim thought to himself. He’s insane, and my team isn’t here. And I will die alone.

“Shut up, pretender,” Todd’s voice growled from above him and Tim did flinch at that. He didn’t think he was mumbling out loud, but now he doubted his own level of consciousness.

Who will find me, Tim thought again, but this time it was followed by a warning kick to his side that sent fire through his entire body.

"I said, shut up."

This seemed to go on for an eternity. Tim lying on the cold tile, occasionally choking on the blood sliding down his nasal passages and tensing harshly during the heavy waves of severe pain that swept over his entire body. All while random brushes of fingers appeared on cuts and stabs. Touches under his broken nose and at a split lip. Airy on his limbs and torso. Tim almost believed the motions were gentle, and he wondered if Todd realized with shocked horror what he had done. But finally, a firm hand pressed to his shoulder where the swelling bullet hole leaked sluggishly, and Tim did shriek at that. The sound rubbed at his raw throat and cracked in pitch before dying away. He tried to squirm away, willing his feet to shuffle his body away from the torment. But it didn’t matter; the hand lifted once more and Tim finally slipped into a terror-filled slumber.

When he woke again, he peeked out to find he was still in the room of statues, lying on the cold tiles and panting for breath. He sniffed sadly and looked down at his shoulder, the fabric pulled over it turned dark red in color. He felt like he was hit by a train.

A train named Todd.

Despite the desire to slip away into the escape of sleep once more, or even something more permanent than that, Tim opened his eyes wider and forced himself to focus on his spinning surroundings. He was alone in the cold room, he noted with palpable relief. He saw on the walls, written in blood, his own blood he realized with a wave of sickening nausea:

Jason Todd was here

Followed by a hand print. Tim could feel the pressure on his shoulder again and finally, in the privacy of promised isolation, a tear slid down his cheek.

Damian Wayne

“Wake up, Red.”

The voice sounded harsh in his ringing ears, and Tim winced before slipping an eye open. “Sit up.” Still only a quarter present and without consideration as to who barked that order, he carefully unfolded his body out of that comfortably slouched position so similar to a modified child’s pose and gathered himself up to his knees. He sluggishly realized his wrists were bound tightly and being pulled up above his head, and he blinked slowly. Though his mind was muddled with leftover sleepiness, Tim did not want to raise his arms, and he gave a defiant tug back down that earned him a struggled grunt from behind, followed by an annoyed, “Red, stop. Don’t do that again.”

Tim, dragged closer yet to consciousness, now recognized the voice belonging to Damian Wayne, and he scowled with ferocity. He raised his head up slowly to see his bound wrists were being pulled up high above him, the thick rope traveled up to wrap around a thick wooden beam running parallel to the roof, and then snaked back down to land behind Tim, where he assumed Damian was pulling the other end. His head pounded fiercely and a strange taste coated Tim's tongue, proof he was coming off of a drug that he didn't think he took willingly. He yanked his arms down again just to spite Damian's work, but that disobedience earned him a sharp scoff, one that caused Tim’s gut to wrench in worry as he remembered he was bound and kneeling on the floor before someone who had already tried to murder him in their past. A quick deck to his left shoulder stopped his thoughts altogether, and his eyes widened. The tug on his shoulder muscles rang to the tune of Tim hissing in pain, straining even more as the rope was pulled harder and his knees were momentarily lifted from the floor, before slack was reluctantly returned and his knees were returned to the chilled ground. Tim wanted to shout at Damian in demand of an explanation, but he still wasn't aware as to what their current situation was and that uncertainty kept him somewhat compliant.

The kid called him 'Red' earlier, twice in fact, and Tim was in a building obviously resembling a warehouse, rather than a room in the manor. But he needed to know what was happening, why he was being strung up with a pounding headache, and if they were expecting company. Tim softly groaned at the lingering taste abusing his mouth. He only agreed to drug use on very specific missions, when he was unable to get through the metaphorical (and sometimes literal) front doors without it. But he always struggled with the gnawing anxiety beforehand, and because of this, he frowned when he could not remember agreeing to being drugged and tied up by his wrists. Then he corrected himself with an eye roll, because of course Damian would not have bothered asking. The rope scratched roughly against his skin and goosebumps raised across his arms and legs. With an annoyed huff, he looked down and took in his clothing, or more truthfully, the lack of. He felt the domino mask closely hugging the skin around his eyes, but he was otherwise only wearing green boxers and a dark undershirt, the clothing he was wearing in the manor just before going to sleep in his bed. He glanced around the room, but he was unable to catch a glimpse of the red that decorated a large portion of his suit and his suspicion was further confirmed; the brat had abducted him from his own bedroom. Most irritating, Tim was missing his gloves that were conveniently lined with small scalpels he could have used to free himself within the second.

“Damn you, demon!” He settled on, seething with fury. Damian snorted and tugged on the ropes again, so Tim's knees were yanked from the ground once more. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and decided to just stand up, giving himself plenty of slack to lower his arms and relax his throbbing shoulder. Damian quickly confiscated that comfort as he pulled on the rope thrice more until Tim's arms were outstretched above his head again. Tim turned toward Damian and was not surprised to see he was wearing his Robin suit in its entirety, complimented with a wide, mocking grin. Tim frowned largely, tugging again on the binding just to show that he could make the brat's plan much more difficult if he needed, or wanted. Damian tisked loudly in taunting and Tim growled back, stepping forward and toward Damian. The kid only laughed and gave the rope another tug, causing Tim to wince and bite his lower lip as his shoulder was pulled and he was dragged up to his tiptoes. His shoulder hurt like hell and the stretch in his feet was already uncomfortable. He planned to bury the kid in the dirt once he was released, no matter his blood relation to Bruce or Alfred's reminder to be always be understanding of one another.

"Robin, what are you doing? That's enough!" He demanded, warily eyeing his wrists and frowning back at Damian. He managed a steady voice, but neither could deny the hint of near-begging.

“Scared, Red?” Damian snickered and Tim ground his teeth together with frustration as, with another heave, he was lifted from the ground with a startled gasp. Damian's cheeks were already red with effort and Tim tried pulling his write back down to his center, hoping for a disturbance great enough to force Damian to drop him. This only worsened the pulling in his shoulder, and he shouted out at the feeling of his muscles being pulled down by his weight and working in opposite of the suspending binding. He experimented by kicking his feet in search of purchase, but there was none to be found, and this too only succeeded in worsening the strain. He stopped kicking with a yelp. He sucked in a shaking, deep breath and twisted his right hand around until he grasped the rope firmly and lifted himself as much as he could to rid his left shoulder of the distracting agony. This was not an easy task, and he kept his breath steady in preparation to hold himself up for as long as Damian required, or until he managed to escape.

He wanted to demand further explanation, but the door several yards from the boys was thrown open with a heavy crash, and four large men stalked in. Tim turned his head toward them, peeking behind him and under his armpit, and he was met with deeply frowning faces. He winced and tried to conjure in his memory what he did to warrant such looks. From where he hung, he could not recognize the men as anyone he had previously met, but when they approached the pair and greeted Damian politely, they spoke with matching thick accents. Tim opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but before he could create a syllable, Damian tugged on the ropes once more, sending Tim a foot higher from the ground. Damian grunted with struggle as he bent down and tied his own end of the rope to a sturdy hook in the floor. Tim glared darkly at Damian and tightened his right handed grip on the rope, still in hopes of easing the pain in his opposite shoulder.

“Alright, assholes,” Damian snapped at the men and Tim rolled his eyes beneath his mask. Damian gripped Tim's sides and turned him around so he faced their company. “We had a deal. I provide you with Red Robin in exchange for a meeting with my grandfather. I assume he is here, is that correct?” Tim barely bit back a groan at that. It had been months since Ra's had sent his hench people out for a kidnap attempt on Tim, and he naïvely hoped the man had given up on trying to recruit him. One of the large men approached closer yet and his deep voice interrupted Tim's thoughts.

“He keeps his word.”

“As do I. I will speak with him first and leave Red Robin here for you to watch.” Damian walked around Tim, his back erect and shoulders pulled back in an attempt to look older than he was. Tim knew Damian had suffered through difficulties with his grandfather, but that did not stop him from wishing to all but skin the brat alive. He wondered what Dick would have to say about this, about his annoying protégée fallen from grace he never had. The thought of Dick flashing that horrible disappointing look at Damian, a look that made any of his younger siblings sick with regret, nearly brought a smile to his lips.

The first man to speak tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “You tied him up? Was all of that really necessary?”

“I’ll gladly cut him loose, though do you really think that’s a good idea? Your track record for keeping up with Red Robin is... less than adequate.” There was an obvious snicker in his voice, one that quickly made the four large men groan in annoyance, but Tim almost reeled back because-was that a compliment? As though he could read minds, Damian spun on Tim and snapped, “Don’t carry too large of an ego now. That was less of a compliment to you than a well-deserved diss on them.”

Of course.

The pair spoke more, but Tim stopped listening as it was quickly becoming difficult for him to focus on anything but that terrible strain now. He knew he could lift his weight with his right arm for a couple of hours longer if he really needed to, but it was uncomfortable and tedious, and his head was still spinning slightly. Sweat formed at his forehead, back, and palms with his great effort, and he tightened his right fist to keep from sliding back down. The grip burned the skin of his fingers and he knew they were already white from the force, but he couldn’t allow himself to fall back down on the still-aching shoulder. He didn’t think he would be able to get back up again once he did fall down. With a mighty pull, he managed to wrap more loop of the rope around his right hand, ensuring a stronger grip.

“Red Robin, huh?” The talkative man snarled. “You’ve caused us a tremendous deal of trouble.” Tim snapped back to his surroundings to see that Damian had left the room and that first hench person to speak had stepped even closer to him. “You know Ra’s Al Ghul has summoned for you. Those weren’t voluntary invites, kid. And yet, you continuously make us follow your evasive prancing around this disgusting city like we are hunting a rabbit. Did you think you had a choice in the matter?”

“We are tired of hunting rabbits.” A shorter man, though still broad with muscle, snapped and this drew a chortle from a man next to him. He stepped forward and around the first-the leader perhaps, since he was doing most of the talking-before stopping within reach of Tim. “And you are even stuck in this snare, just like a little rabbit,” he grabbed Tim’s chin, forcing his face towards him. Tim defiantly closed his eyes, something that hardly mattered underneath his domino mask. “Hello, arnab.” He snarled with a harsh pat to Tim's cheek for emphasis.

He slipped his eyes open once more and with a huff of breath, he yanked himself upward with his right arm and kicked his left leg out, his bare foot connecting solidly with the man’s nose. The man blinked in surprise and pain, and before he could stumble back, Tim’s other foot shot out with equal force and landed right at the man’s chest. He gasped for air and fell backwards, blood poured satisfactorily down his chin. Momentum and gravity brought Tim’s body back down until he caught himself again with his right hand holding him up, the rope burning like embers across his skin and sending shooting pains down his arm. But he still smirked satisfactorily because the shorter man appeared bewildered.

The large leader tisked sadly, looking down at the man who was still catching his breath on the floor by his feet. He lifted his head back up to Tim and warned, “I hope you’ve had your fun. I recommend you behave now, though the Demon's Head won’t go any easier on you. Especially not after you’ve deflected every single attempt-" the man enunciated these words carefully and with intimidation, "-at contact. Not to mention, this...” he waved at the bleeding man.

“You think you are too good for Al Ghul? You are just a kid. Not even seventeen years old and thinking you understand more about a world that you can’t even fathom yet.” One of the remaining two men snarled, but noticeably stayed back away from Tim.

The leader smiled despite his glaring eyes, and he nodded slowly. “That's right. But you will understand soon enough. If he doesn’t beat you senseless for your insolence, trust me arnab, we will. You have made us look like fools to our king, and that is simply unacceptable.”

“Hear me now when I say that Ra’s and all of his stupid goons are far beneath me,” Tim growled in a loud, strong voice. "And most important, you are fools." He saw the raised fist, but he was unable to dodge and was forced to suffer through a thorough hit to his abdomen. He winced but remained silent until a heavy hand slapped across his face, surprising him more than hurting him. It was enough for his right hand to slip accompanying a pained gasp at the burning rope, and his body was pulled back down by gravity, yanking relentlessly on his left shoulder. He cried out between clenched teeth, eyes snapping shut and ignoring the taunting whistles and snickers it received.

“You have a mouth on you, kid. Ra’s won’t like that.”

Tim sucked in deep breaths, releasing them between clenched teeth with a high whistle. He wanted to tell these men that he despised them and their stupid threats, that he would never work with Ra's and no amount of torture would work. But instead, he focused on his breathing and willed the warm tears to stop flowing. They lined the bottom of his mask, slowly seeping beneath until they touched his cheek and chilled in the air. His throbbing shoulder and stinging face brought forth a firm reminder that he was here because Damian brought him here. That kid that Tim had welcomed into their lives, the kid that immediately tried to take Tim's life, he is the one that drugged Tim and brought him here for these men to taunt. The burning hurt of betrayal, despite already knowing the brat didn't consider Tim family, reddened his cheeks and brought an unmistakable ache to his heart. He longed for Bruce to come back and fix everything like he was always able to do.

But Bruce was not here now; he was gone-missing, Tim's mind snapped. Bruce was missing and Tim needed to get out of these ropes so he could fight properly. He tried to gather the strength needed to pull himself back up with his right arm once more, but he was surprised when a cold finger brushed against his left shoulder beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. His eyes flew open again, stinging slightly with the tears that itched behind them. He gnashed his teeth together and kicked out in anticipation, but the leader had learned by the other's mistake, and he stood just directly to the side of him, out of reach.

“That’s enough, wulid saghir. Your shoulder won’t hurt for much longer.” The words were spoken calmly, almost soothing. The man obviously wasn't expecting Tim to appear so mournful during his kidnapping. Tim felt abandoned and alone while tied up in the warehouse, aching for his family, but this was confused for physical pain and possible fear of Ra's' men, which was a realization that almost sent Tim into another eye roll. He tensed up with nervous anticipation as the man's words bloomed with meaning. “Come arnab, you don’t need to sniffle.” This came with a firm brush of a thumb at the tears halted on Tim's cheeks. “Just behave and everything will be fine once again. You are extremely fortunate that Ra's Al Ghul has noticed your tremendous talent. The privilege is something you should hold true to yourself; you should be proud.”

Tim shook his head slowly, and stated fiercely, “I’m not going.”

“You are though, and I believe their meeting is now complete. Let’s cut him down.” The order was spoken so hastily, Tim was not provided with the opportunity to react before a sharp needle was burrowed into his thigh. He sucked in a panicked breath of air and his eyes shot down to the needle and then back up to the leader hench person, the man who wielded the needle.

“What is that?” He demanded, fear tinting his tone, but the man only shushed him. Receiving a verbal answer hardly mattered because Tim knew what it was even before his eyelids became heavy and his aching dissipated into a feeling that his body was suddenly heavy and filled with lead. The man smirked and was provided a knife by another man who swooped down to lift Tim's knees in preparation to hold him as the ropes were cut. Tim tried to stay awake because his window of opportunity to escape was finally present, but it became increasingly narrowed as the corners of his vision swam with inky blackness. The drug was working too fast, and his body was limp before he was cut from the scratchy binding. He tried to push against the tempting unconsciousness that beckoned him with the promise of relaxation, but it was no use and he slipped away into a dreamless sleep.

When Tim woke again, he blinked hard and found himself lying in his own bed at the manor. He was posed under the warm blankets and he felt the bandages wrapped tightly around his left shoulder and right hand. He sat up with slow measure, but he still winced incredulously as his head ached atrociously after receiving two doses of tranquilizer, one administered for too soon after the other. When his vision returned to that baseline hazy that he wish he hadn't become accustomed to, he was surprised to see Damian standing at the door frame, arms crossed over his chest and scowling at Tim.

“Finally,” Damian huffed and turned on his heel, about to disappear in the dark hallway.

“Wait,” Tim barked and Damian faced him, appearing almost amused now. Tim's vision cleared and he glared at the kid with murderous anger. “What the hell was all of that? Where were we?”

Damian shrugged. “I needed to speak to my grandfather. He wasn’t agreeing to see me without compensation. So we made an... arrangement.”

“Me? I was your arrangement?” Tim demanded of him.

“Only in pretend. You served well as bait. You should consider hanging up your cape and becoming a full-time damsel in distress. You could actually be good at your job for once.”

Tim growled, leaning forward over a sore stomach and pointing menacingly at Damian. “This isn’t funny, asshole. You drugged me-"

“Obviously.”

“You should have asked-"

“And yet, I didn’t.”

“You had no right to-"

“Shut up, Drake. You should thank me for not leaving you there with those men. I’ve performed a great disservice to our entire team by bringing you back here in favor of leaving you in the hands of my grandfather.” Tim’s mouth fell open, but Damian continued ruthlessly. “What he sees in your will continuously baffle me, but bringing you there was the only way I could get what I needed. And besides, you were finally useful in a case for once. Maybe you can learn from this experience for next time.”

Tim’s mouth gaped like a fish out of water and awaiting the chopping block, before he suddenly fumed with eyebrows drawn tight and teeth clenched so furiously that his jaw creaked in sound. The change in expression occurred so quick, Damian couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped past his lips. When Tim continued to present with angry, stunned silence, Damian smirked widely and lifted his chin higher in the air with pride. Tim wanted to yell back, to jump out of bed and land a few punched himself, but he felt as though a rusted nail was still digging its way into his temples, keeping him still. His gaze fell back to his lap and something became clear despite his muddy mind. Damian was acting more hateful that usual, even waiting for Tim to wake up just so he could tear someone apart. The meeting with Ra’s Al Ghul was obviously a failed attempt at gathering whatever intel the kid needed.

And with a flash of satisfaction, Tim raised his eyes again. “Now that you have decimated the bridge of trust between you and Ra's, I hope you got what you were looking for there," he spit out, words icy and without a hint of truthfulness.

Damian froze and his smirk deteriorated, replaced with disappointment turning quickly into anger. He placed a hand on the door frame and turned toward the hall. “I didn’t,” he muttered in ashamed admittance, and he stalked away.

Young Just Us

Tim was panting with exertion, his eyes were comically wide beneath his domino mask, and his lungs were becoming constricted with anxious effort. The red aliens they fought were ruthless in their murder, and Tim had already watched them take down three entire buildings. An explosion sounded near yards away from him, and before he could duck down for cover, the force threw him off his feet and sent him flying back. Tim let out a sharp hiss as his skull and back met with a cement building. With ears ringing with tinnitus and mind dazed from the sharp blow to his head, Tim remained on his knees and elbows to catch his breath, just like Bruce had taught him. He wondered where Batman was now, as well as the entire Justice League. The Titans were sent out to take down a few aliens without immediate supervision, sure, but when those few aliens easily became three hundred, the count increasing as more appeared through portals in the sky, Tim had presumed they would be granted back up. Tim enjoyed being the team leader of this group, and he relished in the responsibility of his close friends that looked to him for direction, but sometime he felt as though he was expected to be Batman. This pressure was mostly self-placed, and it was a weight on his shoulders that he did not wish to carry.

A strange buzzing noise harassed his ears, interrupting the slowly-dissipating ringing from the explosion. He looked up and stared with confusion and near-awe as someone stood before him, his eyes focused ever so sluggishly on the body until he registered a blur of red. His heart froze over with fear because he knew he could not move fast enough in this state to escape the alien's wrath. But the body moved closer and Tim realized with a sweeping wave of relief that the red blur was Bart Allen. Tim smiled warily at his friend until he understood that Bart was screaming at him, his words hidden under the high-pitch whining in his ear drums. Tim cocked his head to the side, trying to read Bart's lips, but his friend was speaking too quickly-or Tim was reading too slowly. His vision remained blurred and Bart's words continued to be a mystery for a few long seconds before-

“-OBIN!”

Tim jumped at the sudden snap of sound surrounding him, and gasped in surprise. Bart still burred in his vision but Tim could hear him once more, and he sounded absolutely wrecked. Before Tim could comprehend that he moved, he was lying on his back and dragged by his arms that were being pulled above his head. The rough terrain scraped across his back with a frustrating reminder of his pain, but thankfully he head was lifted from the ground. A screeching sound surrounded him, followed by a loud wailing as a cloud of dust washed over him. His arms were released and his head bounced back to the ground with a solid thud. The pain that washed through his body at that felt cold, and Tim was certain he screamed, though it was noiseless in the chaos. Running foot steps created vibrations through the ground underneath him, and he tried to clear away the stabbing pains in his head with a small groan. He hated hearing so many noises around him, and he tried to cover his ears but realized yet again that his arms were being pulled above his head. A particularly pointed rock dug into his right leg and Tim's vision cleared completely to a milky gray. When object and color returned, he looked down to see a deep, frightening gash in his leg that he did not aware of. His eyes rolled back with a wave of nausea as the horrible sound continued.

A palm landed on his face, gentle on the bruising skin but firm enough to snap him back to consciousness; though he had to admit, he did not remember leaving it again. That screeching sound continued and he pulled his arms, now free from Bart's grasp, to his ears to block out the noise. The palm reappeared at his face and Tim realized with sudden wakefulness that the screeching sound was his own screaming, a sound shredded from his throat that felt like it was dragged through a cheese grater.

Bart was found kneeling over his head, crying softly and looking around through red eyes. His goggles were pushed up to his forehead and tears were running down his cheeks and seeping into the suit covering his neck. Tim tried to reach up to him and provide the comfort that he knew his friend required, but his arm simply refused to move now. “Cassie, please help,” Bart cried into his earpiece, closing his eyes. “I can’t move him fast enough and there is so much blood, please help! I can't move him fast-”

Another scream echoed from Tim's left and he rolled his head over to see people running, tripping over debris, and falling victim to the intruders. Bart listened carefully to the voice that was speaking to him through his comm, something that Tim could not hear. He wondered in fuzzy stupor why his comm wouldn't pick up the sound, but when he raised his hand to his ear and found blood leaking out, he understood he lost his device. Bart's mouth fell open and bursts of appreciations fell out in a rush. A bright light created by fire burned Tim's retinas and he closed his eyes with annoyance. After what felt like a mere second later, he felt a hand on his forehead and he opened his eyes to find himself curled in Cassie's hold. He didn't remember being lifted from the ground but he met her intent gaze and smiled sheepishly.

“Robin?” Her voice was so quiet in his ears, in complete violation of the dramatic, enunciated movements shown on her face. Tim remembered meeting a mime in Paris a few summers ago, and thought that Cassie could make some pretty good money on the streets of France if she kept this up. “Robin, you aren’t making any sense.” Tim didn’t even realize he was speaking to her and his brows furrowed. He glanced over his shoulder for Bart, and suddenly his friend appeared, mouth wide and moving with shouts directed to Cassie. Tim tried to listen.

“Kon!” Tim finally heard Bart shout. He turned his head back to Cassie, only to read her openly terrified expression. A large explosion sounded, and Cassie's grip on Tim tightened as she was thrown to her knees. Though he never hit the ground, the rocking movement wracked his body, and he screamed with agony. A zipping white flooded his sight as Bart ran around the pair to clear out a few aliens that noticed their congregation. Tim looked across the fields and finally spotted Kon, held between two alien's tight grasps and suspended in the air. They pulled him taut and Kon's eyes were squeezed shut. His jaw was obviously clenched as he concentrated on either using his tactile telekinesis to escape or trying not to throw up from the pain, Tim was not sure which. When Kon's teeth bared, Tim figured it was at least partly due to the latter.

Cassie provided Bart with instructions that Tim did not catch and suddenly he saw Bart standing on the ground under Kon's feet for only a second before throwing himself up and onto the alien gripping Kon's right arm. Bart vibrated viciously until his hands disappeared in the large red body, following by his arms and finally, the rest of him as though he were moving through any other wall. Bart emerged underneath the alien, jaw slung open and resembling the portrayal of Jacob Marley when he removed the cloth holding his ghostly mouth closed. Tim could only imagine how loud he was screaming as he looked down at his red-soaked suit, the alien's discarded pieces surrounding him in mounds similar to a lumpy mattress. Given the distraction and newly free arm, Kon turned on the other alien and launched the two of them yard away with as hefty a punch as he could manage with a pulled shoulder. Kon appeared in Tim's visual field again, flying toward Bart with intentions of assisting him, but another large red body pounced on the Kryptonian and threw him to the side, driving his body into a rock. Tim startled at the sight and looked back up at Cassie.

“S’prm-" he choked out, blood and saliva pooling in his mouth.

Cassie raised her eyebrows and flickered her eyes briefly down at him, nodding. “I see them. Robin, I need to go help Impulse and Superboy now before they get killed. But I need to lay you down somewhere safe first.”

Tim shook his head frantically and tried again, shaping the letters with a shaking fist and mumbling, “-mmnn. Mm. Nn. Sprr-mm.” Cassie's face scrunched as a stinging pierced her eyes and she appeared deeply melancholic.

“Oh Robin, your poor jaw. I’m sorry, I don’t kno-" Cassie stopped, understanding dawning over her face like an illuminated light spilling across a room. “Oh, Superman. We really need him, don’t we? We need them all?” She did not have to say that they were going to feel the tugging of failure later, because Tim already knew that. The feeling of not-good-enough would sit heavy in their throats.

Tim lowered his eyes again and watched as Bart zipped around, trying to shred as many aliens as he could manage until his muscles landed on empty and he collapsed. Finally, after taking down fifteen more, which was highly impressive for the young speedster, Bart fell to his knees and clutched his stomach pitifully. His lowered his head to the ground and curled into a little ball, body shaking with extreme exhaustion. Kon was shouting loudly, this time as an alien carried him up in the sky by his ankles. He flailed helplessly, panting from his own tedious battle. Cassie held Tim's shattered body closer to her, moving only to punch through the violent aliens when they threatened to come too close, but it was never enough.

Their team had failed.

“SUPERMAN!” Cassie shrieked loudly just as another explosion sounded and Tim found himself on the ground once more, Cassie knelt over his chest and her hands wrapped protectively around her head and neck.

With a burst of air and a flash of color, Clark Kent stood before them. He appeared just as disheveled as Tim felt, suit torn over his left bicep and cape all but shredded. His cheeked were blackened with soot and his hair stuck up in places. Cassie and Tim squinted at him with matching confusion, but Clark did not explain yet. His wide eyes were quickly scanning across the rubble until they landed on Kon, and in the blink of an eye, he had moved across the field. He caught his son while the alien who previously held him fell to the ground helplessly. Tim couldn't help the small smile that formed when he saw Kon laughing and offering Clark a high-five for the rescue. Clark reluctantly slapped his palm against that of his child's, and then he was standing right next to Cassie and Tim again.

"I am sorry it took us so long to find you four. These creatures decimated a hospital a few blocks down, and most of our forces were spent there trying to dig people out of the rubble." Clark knelt and raked his eyes across Tim's body, utilizing his X-ray vision to analyze the kid's injuries. "Cassie, can you get him back to the tower?"

Before she could answer, another explosion sounded, this one sounding even closer and Tim fought the urge to be sick. His head was spinning again, even more fierce this time, and he sucked in a deep breath, hoping they would be fine. Clark was there, after all, so everything would be fine. Tim allowed himself to close his eyes and finally tune out the remaining echoes of his friends shrieking around him until darkness clouded his mind and he slipped away into a thankless slumber.

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne

When Tim’s head finally dropped and landed heavily on Bruce’s arm with a small snore passing through his parted lips, the man understood patrol over Gotham’s twilight-shadowed streets was coming to an end for the night. Batman and Robin already stopped two attempted robberies and helped a small child find her parents after accidentally wandering away from a local gas station in the middle of a long overnight trip through the town. Tim was never as talkative as Dick on patrol, or even Jason for that matter, but Bruce noticed when he became particularly quiet just after the Gotham clock rang midnight. Bruce wondered if something related to his schooling was bothering the kid, but Tim just said they were fine when Bruce asked about the classes he was taking. Bruce then asked how Tim’s father was, wondering if the quiet demeanor was due to an argument at home, but Tim said he was fine too.

Bruce understood when Tim’s eyes slipped closed the first time, long past a blink and shown in a mimicking movement of the lenses of his domino mask. His chin slowly inched down toward his own chest and Bruce bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He found it hilarious that the kid could sleep anywhere. Bruce once found him stretched across Dick’s old gymnastic bars in the bat cave, mouth hung ajar and feet dangling over the edge. Alfred found Tim sprawled out across a pool table one evening. He and Dick had been playing but when the older stepped away to accept a work phone call, Tim fell asleep there. Bruce's favorite by far was finding Tim standing propped up against the desk at the bank, bo staff extended and acting as a support beam, while Bruce finished apprehending the robbers. Now, Bruce cleared his throat and pretended not to see when Tim’s head snapped up alongside the sudden widening of the gray lens. The second time Tim fell asleep on patrol that night, the child’s temple landed resting against Bruce’s upper arm and he glanced carefully at his gauntlet to see it was nearly two o’clock in the morning. The hour was earlier than he would normally call off patrol, but the idea of keeping Tim out of a bed for much longer felt heavy in his chest.

Bruce purposefully scuffed his boot against the edge of the building on which the pair were perched, climbing to his feet in the process and watching from the corner of his eye as Tim scrambled up on shaky legs. Bruce knew those blue eyes were blown wide underneath the mask with the surprise of suddenly being woken up. He guided Tim to the opposite edge of the building, momentarily considering they grapple to the neighboring roof to further wake him. But he dismissed that as exceptionally dangerous given his Robin had already fallen asleep twice that night.

Tim crouched down next to Batman, purposefully on his haunches in favor of sitting comfortably flat on the ground, and crossed his arms over his knees. Bruce was bored tonight, but he couldn’t deny he preferred it this way on the evenings that he was accompanied by a child. He still felt his skin crawl when they were forced to fight a violent rogue, particularly after Tim was trapped in a silo with Dick acting violently on fear gas. Bruce often thought back to that night and his cheeks flushed with shame. He despised the way he reacted, so caught up in his anger and terror that he made Tim feel small and like a failure. Alfred had given Bruce a sharp, furious look when he found out what happened during Robin’s rescue that evening. He gave Bruce the silent treatment and provided disappointed looks until Bruce relented and apologized to Tim in earnest.

After another hour of silence disturbed only by the tearing of tires along a road and one screeching car alarm sounding (which was followed by a muttered curse by the owner before the noise ceased and left an echoing of this disturbance in the quiet air), Bruce granted them both the opportunity to go home. Catching up on sleep would benefit him too, as it turns out. He knows he’s heard that enough from Alfred.

“Robin,” his gravely voice was only a hint softer than usual, even Tim had a difficult time noticing. “Come.” With a bitten groan, Tim stood up and stretched up toward the polluted sky, bending his back and yawning largely.

Like a cat, Bruce thought. No wonder Selena thought the kid was adorable.

“What’s happening, Batman?” Tim whispered, listening carefully for sirens. “Did you get a call?”

“No,” Bruce responded easily. “We are done for the night. The streets are gentle enough.”

Tim nodded in agreement. They did seem gentle enough.

They approached the edge of the roof and Bruce glanced down at the hard concrete far below their feet, and sudden terror filled his mind. This particular fear consisted of seeing Robin sprawled out on the sidewalk, so far from the roof and twisted on the ground next to a missed or broken grapple, was a near-constant nuisance in the back of his mind. Sometimes in the thick of his anxious dreams, he still heard the sound of Dick’s parents when they fell to their death before him, a sickening thud that echoed throughout the crowd. Today and standing next to one so tired brought that thought forward with a blow to his gut.

“Robin...” he began, a hesitant whisper that brought Tim blinking largely up at him. “I’m going to repel us both down, okay?”

Tim frowned at the notion. He hadn’t repelled with Bruce since his first few training days when he was still growing accustomed to the sensation of falling that flooded his belly after his feet left the roof top, save one instance in that silo when Tim’s grappling hook was broken. But other than that, Bruce had always trusted that Tim was able to do that himself. Tim was suddenly riddled with the fear that he did something wrong, something to anger Bruce. The man called off patrol early in the night and now he was ordering Tim not to use his own grappling hook. Tim warily looked out at the night sky and wondered if Bruce was planning on firing him.

The thick silence stood in companionship to the changes of worry dancing across the face before Bruce, and he tried to soften the lines tracing his own jaw in response. He could clarify his reasoning, and he even knew that he should do that to alleviate the tension and anxiety. He should tell Tim that he saw him falling asleep and this was simply a precaution, nothing more. But instead, he beckoned the boy with a glove and ordered, “Come.”

Tim’s heels begged to remain planted on the concrete roof, urging him to defend his place as Batman’s new Robin. But his sworn obedience pushed him forward anyway, nearer to Bruce. He tried to ignore the arm wrapping around his waist and the feeling of being pulled against Bruce’s chest as his feet lifted from the ground, but an embarrassed flush colored his cheeks anyway. The position was comfortable and he wished for this modified hug more often after having had the privilege of being held by the very person that he could never admit out loud to holding a parental position in his mind. But his stubborn brain reminded him harshly of the reality surrounding him. Bruce wasn’t his father, and Tim believed Bruce saw him as more of a business partner. Batman and Robin; Tim knew that from the very start of the arrangement.

Tim saw Bruce act fatherly toward his first two Robins, even during their time spent as “normal people.” He had witnessed Bruce hugging Dick and draping his arm around Jason’s shoulders at the fancy parties his own parents forced him to. He witnessed Bruce murmur jokes to his children who snickered in response and shoved him back playfully, and Tim watched as they shared food from a single plate and silently mimicked the ridiculous high society that surrounded them. Tim longed for that attention as he turned back to his own parents who hardly spoke to him during these parties. Instead, they waved toward him and bragged about his grades to other parents who also didn’t really care.

Tim wanted those hugs and shoulder drapes as well, as Bruce’s new Robin. But that was different, Dick and Jason were actually Bruce’s sons. And Tim was not his-

Tim’s feet landed on the solid alleyway stone, his heel dipped in a sticking puddle, and didn’t that suit his situation perfectly?

“Come on,” Bruce said again and Tim sucked in a deep breath through his nose. Bruce never wasted his time on patrol ordering Tim to follow. That was a mandatory expectation since his very first day wearing the dark cape and R across his chest. But he did follow, tailing closely behind Bruce until he slid silently into the passenger seat of the sleekly-hidden Batmobile. He buckled his seat belt as Bruce started the engine from his place behind the wheel.

“Batman,” Tim began, forcing his voice louder than the mere whisper he wished to produce. Bruce grunted in question. “Are we patrolling somewhere else tonight?”

“At home in a bed,” Bruce answered smoothly.

“And is something wrong with my grapple?”

“I sure hope not.” The same easy answer.

Tim bit his lower lip and thought, so Bruce doesn't care that he is ridding himself of me so soon after allowing me to join in crime-fighting. Ouch. Tim took another deep breath and silently worked on removing his domino mask, snatching the solution from the glove box and slowly peeling the corners from his face. When at last he was free of the mask, he stared out the window and watched the street lamps pass by with a pale yellow glow, seemingly taunting Tim throughout the long drive back home.

Not home, Tim reminded himself sharply. Even though he stayed there a few times overnight when patrol leaked into dusk and when he suffered an injury that required him a safe bed in Bruce’s sick bay and guest bedroom, it was not his home. Tim had a home and he had a living father, and Bruce wasn’t his dad. He crossed his arms protectively over his chest, sinking lower into his seat and purposefully ignoring the confused look it gained from Bruce. He watched the shadowed alleyways pass by as his temple fell back to lean against the head rest so he could only watch the streets pass them by. Tim did not notice when his eyes slipped closed.

Bruce finally pulled into the cave entrance and threw another glance toward Tim. The kid was still asleep and Bruce had to fight the urge to chuckle because the poor guy must have been exhausted to sleep through the bumping terrain that brought them back. He turned off the ignition and faced Tim once more.

“Tim?” He whispered, pushing back his own cowl. But the kid still didn’t stir. Bruce couldn’t bring himself to shake Tim awake, and he instead slid out of his own seat and glided over to the passenger side where he opened the door. He bent over and moved toward Tim, just about to slide an arm under his knees and the other behind his back when he quickly froze. What am I doing? His thoughts halted. This child already has a father, someone who specifically is not Bruce. He couldn’t overstep the barrier that sternly separated himself as a mentor from that of a parent, especially while Tim was positioned so that he had no say in the matter.

Sure, he had carried both Dick and Jason inside after they fell asleep either during patrol or the car ride after, but they were his children. Tim already knew Bruce adopted the two Robins that preceded him, but that knowledge itself wasn’t permission for Bruce to fill a similar position in his own life, no matter how much Bruce believed he needed and deserved it. Tim staying at Bruce’s manor several nights each week without so much as a phone call from his father was proof enough that Tim wasn’t receiving attention like one deserved.

But simply having an absent father was not an invite for Bruce to become his. Despite this, Bruce couldn’t leave him in the car  to wake up cold and alone, and he definitely couldn’t wake up that face that relaxed so peacefully while dreaming. And so despite his screeching brain, he reached forward and snaked his arms under Tim, one under his knees and the other behind his back, and he lifted him up to rest against his chest. At the touch, Tim unconsciously moved closer, turning his head toward the warmth that held him, but he otherwise did not stir. This brought a smile to Bruce’s lips.

He carefully carried Tim toward the staircase leading up to the main house’s library, stopping only to flick the lights off. As he entered the manor, he was met with Alfred’s near-frown. It was an expression that meant he was awaiting an explanation for something that he already knew he would not agree with. Bruce shrugged carefully in response to the blatant disappointment at disobeying the one rule of 'no Batman and Robin in the main house.'

“He fell asleep in the car. I couldn’t leave him down there.”

“You could have woken him to change out of the suit first,” Alfred responded coolly, though Bruce noticed the man spoke in a hushed whisper to avoid senselessly waking Tim. Bruce gave him a pointed look and guided the man’s gaze down to the sleeping face below them, only chest-high to Bruce and with his cheeks puffed out with the exhales of the unconscious. Neither man could feign supporting the idea of purposefully waking Tim.

Bruce slipped past Alfred with a swear to clean himself up after he put Tim to bed, something that notably did not receive argument. He climbed the stairs slowly, careful not to jostle Tim too much during the ascent. Despite the efforts, Tim’s eyes cracked open at the top of the stairs as Bruce carried him toward the bedroom door that Alfred and Bruce knew as Tim’s room. His expression flickered from confusion to realization and frustration all in the span of one second. Tim frowned up at Bruce, face so disgruntled that Bruce was forced to swallow a laugh as he met the fierce gaze.

“I can walk.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he stated with a hint of humor still present.

“Bruce, are you going to fire me?” Tim’s voice was firm, a question of business leaving no room for his personal feelings that could so easily be hurt right now.

Bruce didn’t feel the need to laugh anymore; the urge was replaced efficiently with an ache of stabbing guilt. “What?” He whispered. His feet stopped carrying the pair forward immediately, and he was frozen on the carpet.

“I promise I can do better. I am really sorry.” The plea was in stark contrast to the hardness of his previous tone. Now apprehension and begging pounded heavily from behind his words, born deep in his gut. It was obvious Tim didn’t know what he was apologizing for, but he still hoped it would change Bruce’s mind. Tim looked down at the Robin suit he still wore and visibly relaxed a fraction, hoping that because Bruce hadn't already snatched it from him meant it wasn’t too late for Tim.

“Tim, what are you apologizing for?” Bruce asked, voice still hushed but presenting a hint of worry. He did not know what he had missed in the time between driving Tim home and now, standing on the second floor of the mansion and holding the child.

Tim’s eyes met Bruce's for a brief moment before falling and landing at his collar instead, while he threaded the corner of his own cape through shaking fingers. He stayed quiet for longer than Bruce was comfortable with, but the man waited in patient silence anyway while Tim wracked his brain for the thing he supposedly did wrong. “I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough, but I promise I will be. I will try even harder.”

“Tim,” Bruce began again, eyebrows furrowing and tightening his grip on Tim protectively. You have nothing to apologize for. You are already trying so hard and it shows with your excellent work. You are good enough and you have been from the very beginning because you are strong and brilliant and loyal and-

“Please don’t fire me,” Tim whispered before Bruce could spit out any of the overwhelming thoughts that cluttered his worried mind.

“I am not firing you. What is this about?” He asked, instead.

“Patrol ended early tonight, and you didn’t trust me to grapple down from that building...” Tim rambled softly, picking at his fingernail with intense interest.

“I ended patrol and grappled down with you because you fell asleep-“

“I didn’t fall asleep,” Tim snapped gruffly and Bruce couldn’t help the challenge in his fast-lifting eyebrow. Tim appeared sheepish as his cheeks colored, and he murmured softly, “I’m sorry. I promise it will never happen again.”

“You aren’t in trouble for falling asleep, and you aren’t fired. You were tired so we came home a little early,” Bruce stated firmly.

“What?” Tim stiffened, suddenly feeling very small while still clutched firmly in Bruce’s strong arms, who stood like a rock as though Tim’s weight was not a hindrance. “I’m not in trouble?”

“Of course not, sweetheart.” And now it was Bruce’s turn to freeze. He couldn’t believe he allowed that word to slip from his lips while speaking to Tim Drake, the child technically in his care as Batman and Robin, but one that already had a father. Tim was not another orphan in need of love and attention, waiting for Bruce to take him into his home.

“Oh,” Tim whispered, staring with pupils blown and cheeks darkening further. And against all odds, Bruce felt Tim relax in his arms as he returned his head to the man’s chest. With a deep breath of relief, Bruce continued his trek. “But, I really can walk now. You didn’t have to carry me.”

“I’m expecting you to carry me up all of these stairs next time,” Bruce responded easily, earning a small giggle.

“Won’t Alfred be mad about us wearing all of this stuff up here?” Tim murmured, lightly kicking his boot-covered toes and holding a corner of his cape up as clear evidence of their misdemeanor.

“Oh don’t worry about that, I already told Alfred it was your fault.” Bruce tossed Tim onto the bed-Tim’s bed, as it was in Bruce’s and Alfred’s minds. Tim saw the room as the guest bedroom because he didn’t know it was only ever occupied by him. He remained seemingly oblivious to the fact that Alfred had purchased posters of Tim’s favorite movies for the walls and Bruce lined the bookshelves with comics, novels, and figurines all for him. Tim noticed the items, but he assumed they belonged to Dick.

Tim landed on the mattress with a surprised burst of air forced out in the shape of a laugh. Where Dick would complain dramatically while wearing a smirk and Jason would bite back with a playful eye roll, Tim just giggled at Bruce’s antics. Bruce thought they were all three so perfect.

“Do you need to call your father?” Bruce asked, trying to sound passive though watching carefully as Tim toed off his boots and unclipped his cape, tossing them both to the floor in a messy heap. He worked hard to hide the bitterness in his voice regarding Tim’s distant upbringing, but it shone violently when he spoke in private about the matter to Alfred.

“Nah, he’s probably asleep, and he won’t want me to bother him. I’ll text him tomorrow,” Tim’s voice didn’t waver because this negligence was considered normal based on years of experience. Bruce swallowed a frustrated growl that threatened to break through with force and fury, and he turned to the dresser.

“Want clean clothes? We put some of Dick’s old t-shirts and shorts in here for you.” Tim’s chest thumped sore hearing that. Being offered Bruce’s child’s clothing seemed very personal, very loving. But Tim reminded himself that he was not Bruce’s son, though he often wished to be. He wanted from Bruce what he didn’t get from his own father, the things he saw at those fancy parties from afar, painfully apparent with the hugs and forehead kisses. The taste of it he had when he woke up being carried to the guest bedroom instead of left in the dark cave downstairs. Tim longed for that. Bruce didn’t notice his dilemma, and he continued muttering instead, “Most of it is Superman-themed because he is a brat...”

“But you love him,” Tim stated aloud, catching Bruce by surprise. Bruce had noticed that this particular one had a tendency to do that. He surprised Bruce when he admitted he knew he was Batman. He surprised Bruce daily with his impressive detective skills. He surprised Bruce now. The man turned toward him with eyebrows high, but Tim ducked around his look as he hopped off the bed and approached the dresser. The words sounded like a spoken fact but felt almost like a question to Bruce, and so he answered it.

“I do love him.” He confirmed as he watched Tim shuffle through Dick’s clothes before settling on a Mario and Luigi t-shirt and a black pair of shorts.

“And you loved Jason,” another statement-question hybrid as he slipped into the attached bathroom, closing the door and peeling his suit from his body.

“I will always love Jason,” Bruce answered firmly through the door. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

He winced as he said it. Another slip that sounded a bit too parental. Though he couldn’t deny the tug at his chest when he heard the faucet turn on and the sound of bristles against teeth whispered underneath the door.

And of course Tim had a toothbrush in his bathroom at the manor.

“Because they are your sons.” Tim stepped out of the bathroom moments later and walked to the bed, crawling atop and sitting on the warm duvet. “Your mishpachah.”

Bruce slowly approached the bed, tilting his head and drawing his eyebrows with concern. “I love them because I love them. They are my mishpachah and the rest is an added privilege. Is something wrong?”

Tim grinned widely in response and shook his head. “‘Course not, Bruce.” But something was wrong and Tim wasn’t sure how to voice it. “I was just wondering is all.”

The gut feeling deep in Bruce's abdomen poked him and whispered, he’s lying. Bruce hummed in response and gave the kid a scrutinizing look, eyes narrowing slightly. Tim just continued to wear a goofy grin, and Bruce reached out and dropped a hand softly to the top of his head. Tim giggled between his teeth and continued to watch Bruce with an interested look of his own.

“Tim,” Bruce spoke with a light voice, gentle and warm. “You know, you are also my mishpachah.” Tim’s eyes widened comically and his mouth clenched tightly closed. “Even though you don’t live here, you are my family.”

Tim bit at his lip, and he lowered his eyes for a moment. He thought of Dick’s clothes that he wore, his toothbrush drying in the bathroom, this bedroom that he always stayed in when he spent the night at Bruce’s. He thought of Bruce carrying him inside the mansion when he could have simply woken him up. Tim tends to sleep like the dead, or so his father told him, but if he were pulled out of the car by an arm, he would have eventually woken up. Finally, the corner of his mouth lifted in a shy smile, and he whispered, “Thank you.”

Bruce smiled with pride and continued, “You did an excellent job tonight, Timothy.”

“Timothy,” he parroted with a snicker. “So formal.” Bruce rolled his eyes and ruffled Tim’s hair with that hand that still rested on his head. He then stepped away from him while Tim slid under the covers and laid his head on the pillow. Gravity was already pulling his eyelids closed to sleep once more. “Thanks, Bruce. G’night.”

“Goodnight, Tim.” He had to stop himself from leaning in and pressing a kiss to Tim’s forehead. Because the kid already had a father, no matter how much Bruce wanted to fill that role. “Sleep well, ziskayt.”

Though truth be told, he already considered this child his own.

Dick Grayson

Tim rolled over and he heard the soft thud as his patchwork quilt slid from his thick stack of blankets cocooning him and fell off the bed. The third time his cell phone chimed that day finally drew him conscious enough to where he was able to move, though he grumbled loudly as the sound rang in his ears. He shot an arm out of his blanket bundle and slapped it on the  bedside table until he found his cellphone. By the time he brought the device to his face with shaking fingers, the ringing stopped and he sighed in relief. Dreams begged for his return and his eyelids felt heavy as chains. Thick waves of sleep pressed into his skin, and he sank lower into the mattress, drifting closer to-

The next ring seemed louder than its predecessors, and Tim jumped with surprise. With a frustrated growl, he clicked the answer button and brought the dreadful phone to his cheek.

“What?” He snapped, voice thick with remaining rest.

“Oh my, good morning, princess,” Dick snickered from the other end of the phone, voice far bright and more awake than Tim had felt all week. “Did we wake up grouchy today?”

“You woke me up,” Tim mumbled, burying his face in his pillow with a deep sigh.

“I’m sorry.” Tim thought it may have been his imagination, but Dick sounded sincere. “Bruce told me you two had a rough one last night.” They had had a rough one. The Joker escaped Arkham the previous weekend and spent the entire week quietly setting up a giant bowling alley where he used kidnapped victims as the pins and Joker-themed bombs as a balls. Batman and Robin managed to save every person there and get the Joker back in Arkham, but it was incredibly tedious and came with aching muscles. Tim planned to sleep through the entire weekend. When Tim only grunted in agreement, Dick continued. “Well hey, get up and grab a pair of shoes, we are going out. I’m nearly there.”

Tim groaned dramatically. His muscles begged against that idea. “No, I don’t wanna-“

“We can finally go to that park you told me about-Stanley Park or something?” That was all it took for Tim to perk up, lifting his head from the pillow. “Get up! I'll be there in three.”

And the line clicked before Tim could express his excitement. He hopped out of his bed, yanked on clean basketball shorts while running his toothbrush across his teeth, and bounced down the steps. He could be as loud as he wanted today because his dad was across the seas. Tim stuffed his fist into a box of Cheerios and pulled out a handful, accidentally crushing them in his haste as he brought it to his mouth. Stray pieces of cereal escaped and bounced off his cheek to fall to the floor, something that Tim ignored when he heard a car horn sound from the outside.

“I’m coming-" His exclamation was jumbled around the cereal, and he called out to no one in particular, still alone in his house. He sprinted to the living room and bent over to snatch his sneakers, skidded back to the kitchen to claim the water bottle he forgot, and then finally moved toward the front door. Upon opening the heavy door, he found Dick waving to him from the driver’s seat of his Mercedes.

“Thanks for being patient!” Tim called to him across the porch, swallowing his cereal heavily as he dropped his shoes and water bottle to lock the door behind him.

“Come on already, Timmy,” Dick emphasized his demand with an obnoxious press to the car horn.

Tim frowned and turned a deadpan expression to the elder. “Did I say patient?”

His brother snickered and cocked his head to the side in invite, before catching glimpse of the bare feet that were carefully jumping toward his car, avoiding the larger rocks in his path. Tim slid into the passenger seat and held up his belongings.

“No socks?” Dick asked curiously, not waiting for an answer as he revved the car and took off, flying down the extended Drake mansion driveway. Tim frowned dramatically and looks down at his bare toes, wiggling uselessly on the floor. “Lucky for you, I figured this would happen. I brought everything we will need. Elbow pads, knee pads, helmets... socks.”

“What about the-?” Tim asked, turning around in his seat and tugging at the seat belt that dug irritatingly into his skin. “You forgot-!”

“I did not forget; they are in the trunk. Turn around now and pick us a song, alright?” Dick reached into the cup holder, eyes still glued responsibly on the road, and tossed his cell phone to Tim.

“Sure thing, momma,” Tim muttered sarcastically with an eye roll, earning a nudge to the side by Dick’s elbow. With a dramatic shout, he turned back around in his seat, rightening his seat belt and slipping on the socks that he found tucked in his cup holder. “What do you want to listen to?”

“Dealer’s choice today.”

Tim scrolled through the phone before selecting a song and rolling down his window. The warm air ruffled his hair and created goosebumps on his forearms. Dick sang along loudly and Tim giggled before joining in. Halfway to their destination, Dick pointed to the glove box and asked Tim to retrieve the breakfast bars stashed in there. He recognized the treat immediately as the breakfast courtesy of Alfred. The man managed to create a perfect concoction of oats, nuts, honey, and fruits, with a hint of dark chocolate, that came together to be a delicious snack. He occasionally wrapped a bar for Tim to put in his belt on patrol. Most nights, Tim ended up sharing his treat with Bruce on patrol, encouraging Alfred to pack him two. Tim stuck his hand in the ziplock bag with a wide grin, and handed one to his brother before chowing down on his own.

When they arrived to the Stanley Park skate park, Tim jumped out of the car and threw the trunk open to reveal two brand new skateboards.

“Dick!” Tim shouted with excitement. “You got the new Joanne’s boards for us?”

“Of course,” Dick smirked, stepping out of the front seat and circling the vehicle to stand next to Tim. “They had a superhero collection, so obviously I had to get those.”

Dick pulled both skateboards from the trunk and handed one to his brother. Tim examined the board decorated with Superman’s logo. Dick explained that he looked for a Batman one for Tim, knowing that board would be his favorite, but the store had already sold out. So next best thing was Superman, because at least it looks like it could represent Kon. Dick’s skateboards was Flash-themed, which he clarified Wally made him buy during their mall run earlier that week.

“I love this,” Tim exclaimed, hugging the skateboard closer to his chest. He could already imagine the stickers he would purchase and place on the bottom of the board, and he ran his finger along the wheels. "Come on, let's go!"

••••

“Wait, let me get this straight. You can sky walk across a tightrope while juggling five bowling pins-“

“I bet I could get six going there...” Dick interrupted with six fingers held up in the direction of Tim.

“Right, six. And you can hold a perfect one-handed handstand on the edge of a skyscraper-we’ve all seen you do that by the way, and you really shouldn’t- but you can’t keep your balance on a skateboard?”

“I don’t understand what is so hard for you to get. This isn’t easy,” Dick muttered from the ground, picking gravel from the palms of his hand.

Tim snickered and extended his hand to heave his brother up to his feet. “You know, Bart can do this. Bart Allen. And you know how he is-“

“Low to the ground minimizing the damage of a fall?”

“-incredibly clumsy on his feet.” Tim wore a shit-eating grin.

“Bart is too fast for you to even know if he is clumsy,” Dick countered and Tim rolled his eyes, raising an expectant eyebrow at Dick. “Okay, okay. I understand your point, and I admit that I’m bad at this.”

“No kidding.”

“Show me what you’ve got, kiddo.” Dick invited, slowly limping to the curb, where he dropped his skateboard in the grass and lowered himself to a seated position.

Tim grinned widely. “Watch this! Bart and I were practicing all last week at the tower. It’s called the triple flip, but we start out on the curb, see? And then we flip while we are falling back to the pavement.” Dick couldn’t help but smirk as the kid sounded giddy with excitement. Tim performed the move flawlessly and ended with a sarcastic bow.

Dick watched the move with a scrutinizing look and finally nodded. “I can totally do that.” He stumbled up from the curb and kicked the skateboard back to the pavement. 

Tim grimaced and shook his head. “That is probably not a great idea. You should start out with something else; how about the pop shuvit? It’s really cool, and you’ll like that one a lot. Look, I’ll show you how to-"

“No, no. I’ve got this.”

Tim yielded in argument and stepped back, granting his brother the space he required to inevitably hurt himself.

As though watching a film in slow motion, Dick kicked off the curb, and he pulled his legs up tightly to allow the skateboard to spin underneath him. With his feet quickly approaching the rough padding of the skateboard, Tim flinched when he noticed Dick’s feet were going to come down before the board was finished slipping. And just as expected, Dick’s feet hit the edge of the board as the tip of wood caught the curb and sent Dick stumbling forward, right into Tim.

The impact of a body falling against Tim was startling to him, but the pain that shot out from his ankle as he fell backwards to the pavement felt like an explosion. Sitting down on the ground under Dick, Tim bit the inside of his cheek and froze.

“That obviously didn’t go as planned... are you okay?” Dick muttered gruffly, pushing himself up on the palms of his hands. Both of his knees were scraped and bleeding, creating dark streaks on the gray concrete. He felt the rocks pushing into his hands and the scratches that ran along his legs. He felt stabbing at his elbows but before he could examine the injury, he caught a glimpse of Tim. His face was bunched into a pathetic grimace, eyes wide and watering and lower lip puckered out. Dick jumped off of him, sitting down on the road next to Tim’s hip and watching him carefully. “Are you okay?” Despite the obvious pain that was wracking through his body, Tim nodded. “Where are you hurting?”

Tim slowly let out the deep, shaking breath that he had been holding since the collision and looked down at his right ankle. Dick followed his gaze and received permission before slipping Tim’s shoe off of his foot. He placed his fingertips over the top and paused, feeling the strong pulse and relaxing greatly.

“It's okay, we will get this looked at. Can you stand?”

Tim nodded and pushed himself up to his feet, but he wobbled in balance and paled suddenly as the blood poured from his cheeks. He tried to lift the injured ankle from the ground, but that only worsened the pain. Right as Tim was considering simply sitting back down and claiming his new home at the skate park, Dick bent down and wrapped his arms around Tim’s knees, lifting him up and throwing the kid over his shoulder. Tim squawked and tried to push himself away, but his efforts were fruitless, and Dick carried him to the car where he opened the passenger door with his free hand and hip. He carefully maneuvered Tim into the seat and pulled the strap across his chest before buckling it by the console, to which Tim rolled his eyes. He knew he could have buckled himself in at the very least. The first five minutes of the drive to the manor were silent, save the sound of Tim breathing deeply, counting in for four, holding for four, and exhaling for six. Over and over again as the throbbing pain shot up his leg like fire until it morphed into a storm in his stomach.

“So...” Dick started casually, breaking the uncomfortable quiet. “I guess I suck at skateboarding.”

And despite himself, Tim sputtered out a laugh. The tense energy that had plagued the car dissipated and the remaining drive was filled with chatting, though admittedly most of this was from Dick. Tim laid back against the head rest, focusing on the rough leather pressing against his temple, and he watched Dick.

As they pulled into the long driveway, Dick began to snicker in earnest. On the receiving end of a questioning eyebrow, he clarified his humor. “You know what? Barbara is going to die when she hears what happened to you.”

“Shut up, we aren’t going to tell her!” Tim gasped but a smile tugged on his lips anyway. Barbara Gordon had become akin to a sister for Tim, guiding him through his journey as Robin, providing him with tips for hacking, and relentlessly teasing him when he did something embarrassing. “If she asks, we tell her that I was thrown off of Wayne Enterprise by the French mafia.”

Dick yelped out in laughter at that, pulling the car over so he could dramatically clutch at his stomach and wipe the tears from his eyes. In his laughing fit, he tried to explain to Tim what he found to be so hilarious, but the younger only caught small pieces enough to gather that the French mafia was not a believable lie. “Tim,” Dick finally panted out when his laughter subsided. “You are such a brat.”

They pulled into the spacious garage, and before Tim could jump out himself and avoid the humiliation of being carried over his brother’s shoulders in front of Bruce, Dick was at the passenger door. And he did just that.

“I can walk,” Tim insisted with a dramatic groan. “It doesn’t even hurt right now, I think it healed.”

Dick rolled his eyes and drummed his fingertips across Tim’s ankle with the lightness of a feather. At the sound of a pained hiss, Dick replied. “Sure thing, pork chop. You really are all healed up. So when I drop you back to the ground, it wont hurt you at all, right?” He snickered as Tim gripped the back of his shirt in tight fists.

Because it was not a vigilante-related injury, as was explained to Alfred (despite Tim’s dismay), he was gently laid on the living room couch while the elderly man wrapped his ankle.

“Master Tim, you will be pleased to know that your ankle is not broken,” Alfred informed him tight-lipped, and Dick grinned from him seat next to Tim. Tim always thought the elderly man was angry with him while he tended to injuries because he made such a face, but Dick promised Tim in private that Alfred always acted like that when he had to fix them because their injuries upset him. Tim wasn’t sure if this was any better as guilt replaced bashfulness.

“I am pleased to know that,” Tim grinned. “Thank you.”

They migrated into the kitchen where Alfred could prepare them a light snack-a sympathy snack, Tim knew it was. He was surprised to find Barbara sitting on the kitchen island and eating frozen yogurt from a tub. She still wore her Batgirl suit from the previous night, now with a large Gotham Academy hoodie pulled over it. When Tim asked why she didn’t get in trouble for wearing her vigilante suit up in the main part of the manor but he always did, Barbara simply explained that the hoodie canceled out the leggings. Tim didn’t buy it but he did catch a look from Alfred, encouraging him to drop the question before it blossomed fully into an argument. That was enough for Tim to understand Barbara also had a difficult night on patrol.

Dick snatched a spoon from the utensil drawer and stood next to her, leaning over her to steal a large scoop for himself.

“Stop it,” Barbara yelped, clutching the tub closer to her chest and pushing him away. Tim huffed as they became enthralled in a duel with their spoons, the clink-clank sounds resonating in the kitchen. He shifted in his seat and winced when his ankle caught in the chair leg.

“So, what happened to you?” Barbara asked with concern, pointing to Tim with her spoon. Dick reached out to him and ran his fingers through Tim's hair.

“Get this,” Tim smirked with excitement and leaned forward on the counter, closer to Barbara who in turn offered him a bite of frozen yogurt on her spoon. He happily accepted the treat with an open mouth before continuing. “I was following this crazy group of dealers, right? And they led me right to Wayne Enterprise to rob a bunch of rich folks during their office party. Suddenly, there were flickering light and grenades thrown everywhere! But the losers kept missing me, until one particularly ugly man, a real macher sort of goon, grabbed me by the cape-I keep telling Batman that’s a poor fashion choice and a danger for kidnap situations-and he dragged me all of the way to the roof top. Bruce was lagging behind, as always, and I knew I needed to stall for time. I tried feeding him lies about the safe and everything, hoping that he would keep us in the building, but this man dragged me right over to the edge of the roof! When he finally spoke to me, promising to kill me right then, he spoke with such a stupidly-fake accent that I laughed at him and mimicked it right back. And so he threw me off the roof.”

By the end of his ridiculous lie, Barbara was watching him with wide eyes. Her spoon laid forgotten on the table next to her, still stick form the frozen yogurt that Dick had snatched from her hands during the excitement. "And what kind of fake accent was that, buddy?" Dick asked, hiding his smirk behind his spoon.

"French," Tim answered with feigned earnest. The room succumbed to silence as they all, even Tim who supposedly lived through the event, tried to conjure in their minds just what that would have sounded like.

“I fell on him while trying to skateboard,” Dick clarified simply after the dramatic silence dragged for too long, and he dodged Barbara's utensil that Tim threw at him with an annoyed groan. Alfred turned away to hide his smirk, and Barbara barked out in laughter.

Jason Todd

The warm sun poured across his bare arms as Tim stood before the manor’s duck pond. The birds had taken a recess, and in their leave of absence, Tim wished to capture the gorgeous image before him. Soft lily pads floated in the crystal water, a green that stood in contrast of the light pink reflected in the pond. A tall cherry blossom tree was rooted next to the water, branches hanging over the pads and creating a shadowy home for the fish that lived underneath the surface. The tree was in bloom this month, and Tim waited all week for a partially sunny day to come out and capture the vision. A petal tore from the branch and floated down to the water below, and Tim quickly brought the camera to his eye to snap the shot. His camera shuttered in effort and he stopped after the petal sunk below the surface.

He sat down on the grass and crossed his legs underneath him, hiding the screen from the sun with his hand while he peered at his work. He was so enthralled by the images and his ideas for further ones that he did not hear the footsteps that approached.

“Timbers, I need your help with something. I am working this case with Kor and Roy, and there seems to be contradictory evidence. But I think that-" Jason realized Tim’s gaze hadn’t left the camera screen, and he knew Tim wasn’t listening yet. “What are you doing out here?”

“Taking pictures,” Tim muttered without looking up at him.

“No shit.” Tim could practically hear the eye roll in his brother’s response, but he didn’t care. He had a vision now and he needed to plan out how he could capture the reflection of the cherry blossoms in the pond without having to climb the large tree and spoiling the photograph. “You aren’t snapping many pictures. Forget how to use the camera?” Jason continued after a small pause, followed by a snicker. Tim huffed but finally looked up toward his visitor.

“I’m trying to take a picture from high above.”

“You can't really do that while sitting down." Tim scoffed, and Jason continued. "You know there’s a tree directly beside you, right?”

Tim nodded with a scrunched nose. “Obviously, Jay.”

“And they call you brilliant. So climb the tree.”

“I can’t climb the tree. If I climb onto that branch there, the only one that would be beneficial to the shot, then my shadow would be cast over the grass here at the edge and my reflection will be seen in the water.”

“That sounds like a good thing. You are the photographer after all. So just flash those pearly whites and-"

“It doesn’t work like that. I can’t be in it.”

“What does it matter if you are in the picture?”

“It just does,” Tim answered as he stood up, clearly offended. He knew Jason didn’t fool around with pictures, even with his phone’s camera save a few of him and his outlaw buddies. “Being in this shot isn’t like signing your name to the bottom of a painting. And it needs to be perfect because the blossoms are perfect and the water is clear and the stones at the bottom of the lake are reflecting the sun. The lily pads are almost golden right now too, and the ducks are finally gone. It has to be perfect.”

Jason listened patiently, eyebrows drawing together slowly with something akin to concern. If he were being honest with himself, he would admit he was concerned for his brother.

“Too bad you aren’t taller,” Jason taunted smoothly after a quiet beat. He wore a wide grin that stretched across his cheeks, but Tim just grunted and looked back out at the water. He wondered if he should risk running back to the manor to grab a step-stool, or maybe even a ladder. But during that time, the ducks could return. He bit at the inside of his cheek.

Jason sighed.

“Alright, come on,” he ordered, beckoning Tim toward him with a wave of his hand. Tim’s feet didn't move and he met Jason’s eyes with a gaze deeply confused and mildly suspicious.

“Why?” He asked, eyes narrowed and protectively clutching his camera tighter to his chest.

“I’m going to lift you on my shoulders so you can get your stupid picture. Come on before I decide to push you in the water instead.”

“Oh,” Tim glanced back at the pond. He really did want that picture and it had been a long time since Jason wanted to murder Tim. The worst that could happen was that Jason would drop him back to the ground. Or throw him in the pond. At that last thought, Tim pulled his phone from his pocket and placed it on the ground where a tree root tangled furiously into the dirt. Then he approached Jason.

Jason ducked and threaded his head between Tim legs, lifting Tim on his shoulders with surprising ease.

“Is this-uhm-is this okay?”

“Yes, it’s fine. Where do you need me?”

Tim awkwardly pat the top of the curly darkened hair in front of him. “Thank you, Jay.”

Jason grunted in response, and Tim directed him on where to stand. Tim leaned forward, his elbows digging into his own knees, and his stomach pressing against the back of Jason’s head. He looked through the camera’s screen and couldn’t help but to grin. The angle was perfect, and the picture was exactly what he was hoping for. After several shuttering clicks that sounded soothing accompanying the chirping birds and chattering bugs, Tim found himself quietly laughing through his nose. He lowered the camera down in front of Jason’s face and offered him a view of the scene.

“Remember this is before light adjustments and editing, but there’s the picture you helped me get.”

Jason was quiet for several seconds and Tim began to feel silly. His cheeks flushed and he dreaded to realize he just assumed Jason actually gave a shit about his childish hobby. He lifted the camera back up to his own eye and took more pictures in an attempt to erase the silence that steadily fed his anxiety. He captured the pond, the grass, and a yellow bird that landed on a shimmering stone.

Finally, Jason stated plainly, “Your picture looks very nice, Timbers.”

Tim paused, his finger frozen on the button. “Thank you. I can make you a copy of you want.” He wanted to pinch himself as the words left his mouth, because why would he have asked-

“Yes.”

Tim’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really?”

“Really. Just because I come from a Dickensian part of town doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate good art. Alright, shutter bug.” Jason tightened his hands around Tim’s calves resulting in an anxious grunt from the carried. “Time for a dip.”

“Jason!” Tim yelped and forcefully gripped a fist through Jason’s hair. “Please tell me you are just jok-"

“I am. You know, the rose bushes by that gazebo on the south side of the property are in bloom right now. I think those would make a good picture.” Jason reached back behind his head and gripped Tim by his sides, lifting him over his head and returning the kid to his own feet.

Tim grinned widely now. “Let’s go.”

They spent the next hour outside. Jason pointed out things that he thought looked interesting, and Tim snapped pictures of them before showing Jason the outcome. They found a tranquil stream a mile from the pond, where Tim captured the way the water rippled along the mossy-covered rocks. They found a squirrel perched on a branch a few feet away, and Jason whistled softly so the squirrel looked at Tim for the picture he took. A large fluttering butterfly hovered above a dandelion, and Tim laid on the ground for the shot.

When Jason's phone chimed, Tim sat up and turned to him with wide eyes. "You came out here asking for something. What did you need?"

Jason leveled him with a calculative gaze, as though he were reading Tim before answering. "Right now, I need food. Let's head back to the manor." He ticked his head and they walked together in comfortable silence. Tim flipped through the pictures on his camera and Jason scrolled through his phone. When they reached the manor's front door, Jason threw it open and fished a folder from his backpack discarded by the entrance before nodding his head to Tim in the direction of the kitchen. Tim followed wordlessly, taking a seat at the kitchen island and watching with interest as Jason stood across from him and tossed the folder onto the table in front of Tim. Jason finally declared, "I will make us lunch. Would you take a look at that for me?"

Tim chewed on his thumbnail as he studied the information before him, and Jason pulled ingredients from the refrigerator and heated a pan on the stove. Tim did not know how much time had passed but he discovered the reason for the snag in the case, as well as came up with three strategical maneuvers that Jason and his team could pull during their next raid as Jason plated the crêpes. Tim's attention snapped back when Jason slid a plate in front of him. Tim stared at the food with surprised longing, since he was too enthralled in the case to actually smell the cinnamon and orange that swirled around him. Though now that he did, his stomach ached with hunger and his mouth watered. He figured he probably forgot to eat that morning... and the evening before. Chocolate, whipped cream, and orange zest topped the folded treat and Jason handed him a fork.

"Orange filling," Jason informed him, already tearing into his own food. "Eat it while it is warm."

Tim pulled his plate closer and took a bite. As the warm, fluffy pancake touched his tongue, followed by the burst of orange cream, he couldn't help but to gasp alongside his widening eyes. Jason smirked and lowered his head at the sincere reaction with color akin to a blush shading his cheeks.

"These are amazing!" Tim shoveled more into his mouth, and even considered how he would look if he licked the plate in front of Jason when he finished. As he cleared the last bite from his fork, he gaze rose to his brother's plate pathetically. Jason noticed and relented with a sigh. He pushed his own plate nearer to Tim and invited him to finish it off while he made more for them. Tim politely asked if Jason was sure, and when he received a confirmation, he quickly finished the food.

"Strawberry or apple this time?"

"You can make these with apple?" Tim jumped out of his seat and approached Jason at the stove. His brother laughed and considered that answer enough to snatch a ripened red apple from the bin by the refrigerator. "How did you learn to cook like this?"

"Alfred taught me," Jason responded, lighting the stove once more and adding butter to the pan. He washed the apple he held and began to cut away the peel, handing the pieces to Tim to snack on. "As you probably already assumed, I did not grow up receiving cooking lessons from my parents. The only tip I got in the kitchen was how fast I needed to get a beer for my dad before he got pissed and came after me with his belt." Tim became uncomfortable and shuffled at that, wringing his fingers anxiously. "It's okay, Timburrito," Jason said softly when he noticed the sudden wave of uneasiness. "That man is dead, and I know how to cook now. Besides, from what Brucie has told me, you had a shitty sperm-donor yourself."

Tim rolled his eyes and turned away, crossing his arms. "Brucie needs to mind his own business. I grew up in privileged circumstances, and it was fine." Jason leveled him with a raised eyebrow, and Tim rolled his eyes again. "I was lucky. You do not need to compare us to lessen the tragedy of your own traumas."

"Bruce is your guardian now. Even more so, he is your dad. If he minded his own business, Alfred would call child services on his ass." Jason dug his elbow into Tim's side, eliciting a reluctant giggle. "Look, you are obviously a good kid. I mean, you forgave me for what I did."

"You couldn't help that," Tim interjected with a frown.

"My point stands," Jason continued. "You are a good kid, and I know you work hard to see the best in people. But your parents left you alone far too often, and that isn't right. You and I, we did not grow up in the healthiest households."

"Your father was an abusive man, and he hurt you. We did not grow up the same."

"Yours did not have the touch of an angel, kid. According to the Dickhead himself, you used to show up here for patrol with a few extra lickings that didn't happen courtesy of some goon on the street."

Tim wrinkled his nose and opened his mouth to snap back, but he closed it again when he realized he had nothing to say. How could he deny something that Dick had no reason to lie about. Jason was right, his father was not a good parent. Tim often wondered if he was even a good person. He watched the butter in the pan come to life, sizzling and bubbling up. The smell wafted around him, but this time it felt suffocating, and it caused turmoil deep in his stomach. "Our fathers sucked."

"They were monsters. And yet, here we are," Jason nodded slowly, waving his knife around the kitchen as though this room alone supported his point. His eyes landed on Tim and he grinned. "Dick told me you accidentally called Bruce 'dad' the other day." Tim's cheeks turned dark red and his eyes widened. "I bet the old man loved that."

Tim shrugged with one shoulder, and turned away. "Dick is far too loud for his own good. It was an accident, and I think I was a few quarts of blood low when it happened." He paused for a moment, chewing on another slice of apple peel. "But besides, he sort of is my dad now."

Jason smiled at the kid's response. It was already obvious to him that Bruce was Tim's father, the man adored the genius kid. And Bruce was a wildly significant improvement from the last one Tim had. "You should tell him that, I think he would appreciate hearing it."

Tim snaked his hand in between Jason and the cutting board and snatched a slice of apple, dodging Jason's swat and burying the fruit in his mouth with a sneaky grin. "Jason?" His brother hummed. "Can you teach me how to make these?"

For the first time since knowing Jason Todd, Tim watched as he lit up with excitement. Jason had always loved learning new skills. When Alfred agreed to teach him how to cook fancy foods that differed so drastically from the Top Ramen he grew up microwaving for himself and his mother, his excitement was palpable. He even kept a notebook during his years as Robin. He brought the spiral paper to the kitchen counter and recorded the information that was fed to him in that loving environment. Being able to pass this experience to another, especially a member of his growing family, sparked new joy in his chest that traveled up to his cheeks and drew a smile on his face. He nodded, keeping his eyes fixed studiously on the apple. "Yes, I can teach you how to make these. And I can teach you how to cook other foods too. You and Bruce grew up too wealthy, you know? Everyone ought to learn how to cook and do their laundry and shit." Tim rolled his eyes again and couldn't help his scoff as he insisted he knew how to do laundry. "This pan is heated enough, we can add the batter now."

"How do you know it is heated enough?"

"Do you see how the butter has browned slightly?" Tim nodded. "And do you smell the cooked butter?" Tim sniffed slowly, and he nodded again. The smell didn't feel so suffocating anymore, in light of their new conversation. "That is how you know. With crêpes, the pancake part has to be very thin. I already made this batter, because you want it to sit for at least an hour, though if it sits overnight, those are the best-tasting crêpes you will ever have in your life." Tim raised his eyebrows because he could not possibly imagine that anything could taste better than the food Jason had just served him. "But I can show you how to do that later. Pour a little bit of batter in this pan, and tilt the pan so that it is evenly spread out." Jason backed away from the counter and watched Tim slowly approach the bowl. He accidentally poured too much batter into the pan, just like Jason had when he first learned how to make crêpes. But, in mimicry of Alfred's own response to him so many years ago, Jason said, "Just a tad thinner for next time, but otherwise, it looks wonderful."

Tim couldn't help but smile with pride.

Damian Wayne

“You are being ridiculous. Just give it up.”

“I will not,” Damian growled fiercely, glowering up at Jason with a look that could rival that of a madman. He was still clad in his Robin suit save only the cape, which he detached and dropped to the cave entrance as soon as he stepped out of the Batmobile. Despite a disappointed tisk from Bruce, the black cape remained in a crumpled heap by the passenger door, where it would stay for the few remaining hours of the night. Patrol with his father was boring that particular evening, giving Damian ample energy to waste arguing with Jason now in the cave.

“You are not stronger than me.” It was obvious Jason was trying not to laugh at the absurdity, which only infuriated Damian further.

“I am.” Damian snarled. “My training greatly surpasses yours. No offense, Father,” he added softly and Bruce rolled his eyes from his chair at the computer to the side. He still wore his suit, but his cowl was pushed back to reveal tired eyes scanning the files on the screen before him. “I was trained by my mother, my grandfather, and now my father, in case you have managed to forget. Therefore, I am far superior than you in every aspect. Including physical strength.”

“Funny you should mention your mom, kid-"

“Jason!” Bruce snapped and turned in his chair to glare warning daggers at his second child.

“I was just going to say, I was also trained by his mother,” Jason hissed back, but he couldn’t hide his obvious amusement. “And you, for that matter.”

“Your time with the League was more considered babysitting, Todd, since your brain was equivalent to a scrambled egg.”

“Damian,” Bruce sighed, rubbing at his temples with his pointed fingers and turning back to the computer screen.

“You’re insane,” Jason chuckled passively, and he thought Damian was going to screech like a pterodactyl at the dismissal.

Tim entered the cave from the main staircase digging the palm of his hand into his eyelid and chewing loudly on the tip of an empty plastic Go-Gurt tube. Bruce looked him up and down, taking in his pajama shirt and boxers with a frown. His hair stuck up in several directions, like his head had met a pillow for a short time before he got up again.

“What are you doing down here, ziskayt? Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Bruce asked, voice low with a specific kindness he reserved just for his family.

Tim should have been in bed. He and Bruce made an agreement that Tim would stay in bed tonight and sleep before they worked intently together on a fast-approaching case the following day and evening.

Tim perked up with sudden intensity and approached Bruce with fast footfalls while ripping the yogurt tube from his teeth. His cheeks were only slightly pinkened at the endearment Bruce called him, as it was one his grandmother used when he was very young. “Well, hang on a sec, B. I actually had to come down here and inform you of a break through I found in our case. Check this...” he unfolded the stapled packet of papers previously tucked securely under one arm, and he smoothed it out over the table in front of Bruce. The man listened silently while Tim quickly explained his findings, leaning over the table and occasionally pushing the bangs back from his heavy eyes. Tim’s hair was longer now than it had been when he first became Robin at thirteen, to the point that he sometimes pulled it up into a runt of a ponytail just to keep it from cutting irritatingly into his eyes.

“Very impressive,” Bruce murmured after the presentation, picking up the packet for himself and flipping through the discoveries. Tim beamed and hopped up onto the computer desk, sitting down next to the monitor and facing Bruce. He returned the plastic to his mouth and chewed aimlessly, watching Bruce for his next instructions and kicking his legs lightly. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Jason speak next.

“I bet you can’t even lift Tim,” Jason planted his hands on his hips and smirked, knowing exactly how this challenge was going to end.

Tim wrinkled his nose and furrowed his eyebrows. From his perch on Bruce’s desk, he quickly intervened before this developed further.  “No, no. Absolutely not. I am not getting involved in-“

“Too easy. Drake maintains atrocious self-care habits,” Damian interrupted with an eye roll directed toward Jason, acting as though he didn’t hear Tim at all.

Tim frowned at the blatant insult to his person, and lifted his arms up with irritation. “Hey, wait a sec-"

“He’s far thinner than he should be. That’s way too easy. Pick something harder,” Damian demanded, pointing an aggressive finger at Jason and nearly growling.

Tim scoffed and muttered, chewing furiously on the plastic, “Bruce, your kid is out of control. You should consider muzzling the mashuganas whelp.”

“Timothy Jackson-“ Bruce reprimanded and reached up to yank the Go-gurt tube from Tim’s mouth. The plastic ripped from his lips with a pop and left behind a surprised O-shaped mouth in its wake. Bruce crumbled the garbage and tossed it into the trash can tucked beneath the desk.

“He started it, didn’t you hear what he said about me?” Tim asked in bewilderment, still spinning after receiving the dreaded middle name.

“I did hear him. And shouldn’t you be in bed now?” Bruce repeated his earlier question with an eyebrow ticked in curiosity.

Tim wrinkled his nose. “I will. But I was hungry and also I had to tell you about this case first, and-" Bruce leveled a warning look at him and Tim rolled his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest. “Point stands, he is being a mashuganas whelp.”

“Drake, you should learn to keep your opinions to yourself and save us all the wasted time of listening to you speak,” Damian snapped in defense, fists clutches firmly at his sides.

Tim laughed loud and harsh at that, a sound that felt grating in Bruce’s ears with the onset of a headache. “I should keep my opinions to myself? Have you even heard-“

“Boys, that’s enough,” Bruce demanded, voice low and holding up a hand to cease all arguing. The only sounds resonating in the dimly lit cave were the quiet snickers of Jason, muffled by his own hand pressed firmly to his mouth. “I am going upstairs now.” He faced Damian with a serious eyebrow raised and stated factually. “You have school in the morning. And you,” he faced Tim, who was silently chewing on the inside of his cheek in the absence of his Go-gurt tube, “will be staying home from school tomorrow because you obviously have several hours of sleep to catch up on yourself." When Bruce found out that Tim had dropped out of school during his unfortunate leave of absence, it took him nearly an entire month of near-begging and vague threatening to get Tim to go back. Once Alfred got involved and asked Tim in the kindest, softest voice if he would please consider finishing high school, Tim was unable to refuse. "I expect to hear both of you upstairs and walking into your rooms within the next fifteen minutes.” He stood up from his chair and walked toward the cave entrance with long strides. “You do not want me to come back down here and collect you, trust me.” And without another word or a look back at the stunned faces left in his wake, he strode into the locker room to change, and then reappeared just to walk up the stairs.

But Jason wasn’t quite finished yet. “I can pick up Tim, Damian. Prove to me that you can and I’ll admit that your training was ‘far superior.’” He crossed his arms with a smirk, and Damian could no longer deny the thrilling desire to annihilate his brother in this argument.

“And that I am stronger than you,” Damian demanded and Jason agreed. “Fine then!” He threw his arms up and spun toward Tim, who scowled deeply and shook his head in response. “Oh come on, Drake. This will only take a minute. Might as well make your time down in the cave useful, for once.”

Tim scoffed and slid off the counter. He flipped his middle finger up in an insult directed toward Damian and stalked off toward the cave exit, following Bruce’s path to the main part of the house. Before he reached the stairs, Jason appeared next to him, grinning hugely like a villainous cartoon cat and wrapping a halting hand around Tim’s wrist.

“No, Jay. Stop it!” Tim hissed and tried to pull away, but Jason ducked down and scooped him up, holding him tightly in a bridal hold. “He can’t carry me, this is a waste of time.”

“Lies!” Damian protested.

Jason ignored Tim and approached the youngest. “You have to hold him for thirty whole seconds. Count starts as soon as I let go. Ready?”

Damian straightened and raised his chin, nodding with confirmation and reaching his arms out in preparation.

“Jason.” The last-second plea fell on deaf ears as Jason bent forward and delivered him into Damian’s arms. The transfer was shaky and Tim grasped at the collar of Damian’s robin suit, wishing to drag the brat down to the floor with him when he would inevitably end up there.

Jason stepped back and waited, smirking.

Tim realized with an eye roll just how annoyingly close to the ground he was in the arms of the child, but his grip didn’t loosen based on principle. Damian was huffing quietly, redness tinted his cheeks.

“See, Todd?” He hissed through teeth clenched tight with effort. “Easy.”

“Sure, bud,” Jason snickered. “You make this look so easy. Twenty seconds left.”

“This is a bad idea,” Tim muttered as he felt Damian’s legs shake beneath his carrier.

“Fifteen,” Jason announced, watching with raised eyebrows that Damian misread as surprise, when instead he was waiting for the expected result. “Ten.”

Tim grimaced, bracing himself for a hard landing. At Jason’s announcement of five seconds, and right on his expected schedule, Damian’s legs buckled and he fell forward, dropping Tim to the ground and landing with his sharp knees digging ruthlessly into his brother’s side.

Tim huffed and slapped his palms to the cold ground beneath him. “Shocker,” he murmured sarcastically and stood up, pushing Damian off of him in the process.

“That landing was pathetic, Drake. No wonder Grayson chose me,” the kid growled, wiping at the suit covering his knees.

Tim’s mouth fell open in response, a hurt crease created between his furrowed brows. But before he could respond, Jason reached out and lightly smacked the back of Damian’s head, sending him a furious warning look.

“The brat is only joking, Tim,” Jason confirmed quickly. “He’s just lashing out because he’s angry that he is the weakest person in the room.”

“The room? Absolutely not, I demand a do-over! I know I’m stronger than Drake.”

Half an hour after Bruce’s departure from the cave, he groaned dramatically under his covers. He never heard his children walk past his door and retreat to their own bedrooms. So now, due to his thin-veiled threat, he had to go get them. He threw the covers aside and heaved himself from the mattress with a grumble. Upon walking down the cold steps to the cave, he heard loud shouts that he was unable to decipher. His feet quickened on the tile until he reached the bottom, where he froze and watched with an irritated, and slightly amused, frown.

“Damian, lift more!” Tim shouted, his arms tucked under Jason’s armpits, and straining to lift his top half to Tim’s bellybutton. Damian held Jason’s calves on his shoulders and was groaning near-constant.

“Focus on your own side!” Damian cried out, more desperate than Bruce has heard from him. Damian pushed his palms up against Jason’s calves but they hardly lifted.

“Ha!” Jason crooned, sounding comically relaxed compared to his struggling brothers. “Told ya you two couldn’t lift me above your heads. My weak, baby brothers.”

Damian growled at the taunt and Tim laughed, his shaking arms dropping Jason’s top half an inch closer toward the ground before he recovered again.

“Boys!” Bruce snapped and looked at their frozen forms with narrowed eyes. “I told you to go to bed. Come up here right now before I carry all three of you up.”

They gracelessly released Jason to the floor, who landed with an “oof” that brought a chuckle to Damian’s throat and a twitch to the corner of Bruce’s mouth.

Tim and Damian fell in line to follow Bruce up the stairs when Damian asked, “Father, can you really carry all three of us at once?”

He did.

Young Just Us

Tim’s back was pressed against the side of Titan’s Tower, the cold metal poured through his t-shirt and ran across his skin, offering relief in the scorching sun. The Journey band t-shirt was large on his body and ran to his knees, having belonged to Dick. It was one of the several articles of clothing Bruce provided for him in the manor, though Tim knew for a fact that Dick still wore this one, and for Tim’s very first full weekend at the tower without Batman or Nightwing present and chaperoning, he accepted the offer. If asked, he would never admit to being anxious about the weekend. He would even move further to remind everybody that he had spent many nights alone while his parents were away.

But he was a little nervous about the weekend, and wearing Dick’s large shirt that ran to his knees over his Robin leggings helped.

Tim held his breath and listened carefully for the sound of someone approaching him. His heart pounded in his chest and he felt it echoing in his temples, offering proof of the excitement. The grass around him remained silent and therefore untouched, and Tim could not hear the rustling of trees. Birds still sang their songs as they hadn’t been frightened away by the presence of someone disruptive. Tim found no evidence of his team’s whereabouts.

In large contrast from the peaceful quiet, Cassie’s high-pitched squeal filled the air, and Tim jumped largely at the sound as he pressed himself closer against the building. When the startling disturbance dissipated in the air and silence surrounded him once more, he inched toward the corner of the building and slowly peered around the tower, listening carefully for a clue as to the location of his attackers.

He really enjoyed the company of his new teammates. He had friends in private school, and he enjoyed hanging out with them after class. But he quickly found his team was so much better. They weren’t rich, preppy brats like those that surrounded him in the classroom. Tim found them kind, down to earth, and (when he was being honest) incredibly odd. Kon-el, the first teammate to which Tim became close, was a clone concocted of Superman and Luthor DNA, something over which Kon presented equally with apathy and concern. He was brave and loyal, and he was an alien. He and Tim stayed up all through the previous night, watching reruns of a mindless sitcom and throwing popcorn and candy at each other during the commercials. Bart Allen was from the future, which was already fascinating to Tim even before he came to realize that he was the grandson of the fastest man alive. Bart was wild and brilliant, and he had the longest first name in the group, something Tim commented on immediately. Bart fell victim to rest long before the prior night’s marathon, but he insisted on sleeping in the living room next to his friends rather than alone his own room. Tim became close to Cassie last because they initially had opposite schedules for several training days. He had school when she was available, and she had missions with Wonder Woman when he was available. After they did get to meet, Tim felt drawn to her immediately. She was strong and durable, and she was the daughter of the Greek god Zeus, which Tim was not ashamed to admit intimidated him. He didn’t know very many Demi-goddesses, after all. She was absent for the TV marathon because her mother insisted she help out at the Gateway City Museum of Antiquities back at her home, but Tim promised they would watch more that very night. Cassie was their center, and Tim found comfort in his team.

His fingers wrapped around the corner of the tower and that shivery cold ran up his arm now with relief. He considered talking to Bruce about installing a pool at the tower, which would be perfect for burning days like this. He blew his hair out of his eyes and peeked around when a sudden burst of red hair filled his vision.

“Bart!” Tim yelped before he could stop himself.

“Got you, Rob!” Bart laughed loudly and reared his arm back behind his head, swinging it forward and releasing the yellow content of his fist. Tim ducked quickly, and he watched as the water balloon zipped above his head, only missing his hair by an inch.

“Bart, you cannot use your powers!” He reminded his friend, heart pounding and limbs feeling itchy with the urge to run.

Bart stood before him with large, poofed sweat pants over his uniform, the top part tight against his skin in juxtaposition to the sweats. He often complained about feeling cold when he wasn’t able to sprint about because he muscles were used to being warmed by his own body vibrating. Despite the hot sun and his layers, Bart was already considering calling time-out and finding a sweater. His goggles were discarded in the tower just to insure his cooperation, and his hair was disheveled from a lack of owning a hair brush. His shoes were left by the front door, a precaution he said helped him refrain from running, but Tim knew he was wanted to play barefoot in actuality.

Bart rolled his eyes and planted his fists on his hips because he already knew not to use his powers, and he clearly wasn’t using them, or the entire team would be drenched. He considered arguing that Tim’s eyes and legs are to him what Bart’s speed is to himself, but he knew that would not be accepted. He understood the reason for the game rule because it would be considered “cheating.” Bart muttered something about “bird brat” under his breath and pictured Tim’s head on a water balloon, hurling toward the rest of his team. The sneaky smirk that brought to his lips was nearly enough to forgive the constant reminder that he had to move his arms and walk with slow, deliberately stiff movements, which he declared were two of his least favorite things. His acuity for speed did make the game more difficult, but he still had fun.

“I know, Rob,” he huffed before reaching into the pouch around his hip for another water balloon. “You would have lost the exact moment this game started if I was using my speed.”

Tim watched him with eyes widened largely, and he ducked around Bart, running around the perpendicular edge of the building with a cackle that rivaled his eldest brother’s during his own time serving as Robin.

Bart shouted from behind him but he quickly dove behind a large formation of rocks and trees, slowing down only to ensure safe maneuvering.

“Robin, this is my hiding spot,” the voice startled Tim and his head snapped up to see Kon already huddled there, smirking widely. Kon did not have a secret identity amongst his team. Being an alien with flight and tactile telekinesis was the real him, rather than the farm boy persona he adopted for cover while living with his grandparents. In fact, unlike the kids at his school, the team actually knew his real name. Because of this, Kon was dressed down. He wore a black t-shirt with a yellow Batman logo on it, a shirt he shamelessly stole from Tim, and shorts.

Tim pointed an accusatory finger at Kon’s chest and whispered, “That is my shirt.”

Kon tilted his head to the side and shrugged, “It’s the first one I saw. Very comfy.”

“It was in my room.”

“So was I,” Kon smirked, and Tim fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I was looking for you this morning, where were you?”

“Eating breakfast, like a normal person.” Tim peered around the rock and relaxed when he saw that Bart was still several yards away, looking behind trees and calling out for Tim and Kon in a taunting voice. Tim turned back to Kon and noticed the clone was looking down and fiddling with something, wearing an intense gaze. “What’s that?”

“Orange,” Kon held it up to him and removed the last of the peel. He split the orange in half and offered one to Tim, who grinned and accepted the orange half happily. “So he got Cassie?” Tim hummed in confirmation and popped a slice in his mouth. “It’s just down to us then, yeah?”

“Yeah, and I’m going to win,” Tim snickered and rammed his elbow into Kon’s side.

“Wanna bet?” Kon wore a sneaky Cheshire smile and popped the rest of the orange in his mouth. Tim’s eyes widened in surprise. He spun around and jumped to his feet to take a leap away, but he was too slow. Kon stood up too, tucked his hands under Tim’s armpits, and lifted him up into the air. “Human shield,” He hissed in Tim’s ear and then announced loudly with a playful grin plastered on his face, “Dinner time!”

Tim tried to squirm out of the grip as he watched Bart jog to them, purposefully slow and showing confusion. Cassie appeared to their left and approached the pair with a chuckle. She was also completely dressed down, like Kon, and wore a gray tank top with purple shorts. Her front was drenched with water.

“Kon,” Bart demanded with his head tilted to the side. “Are you joining my team now?”

“That is against the rules-" Tim interjected.

“Sure Bart! You and me, buddy. And Cassie by the looks of it.”

“He snuck up on me,” she threw a pointed look to Bart who grinned widely.

Tim now found himself facing Cassie and Bart, both armed with water balloons, and a squeal escaped his throat in anticipation. To protect his face, Tim curled into a ball in the air, tucking his knees up to his chest and shaking his head vigorously.

“No, wait!” Tim laughed heavily but his request befell deaf ears and they launched the water balloons at him, soaking him with icy frigid water. Tim’s giggles and pleas filled they air but the sound was quickly drowned out by the laughing of his teammates. When the water stopped pounding into his body, Tim slowly opened his eyes, peeking around his hand that covered his face. Bart was lying on the ground and clutching his stomach with laughter. Cassie was hunched over, holding herself up with a tree, giggling silently. Tim squirmed in Kon’s hold until the grasp under his arm pits slacked and he was lowered to the ground. 

“I guess I win!” Kon announced with fists raised high in triumph. Bart sat up to argue that they won because they formed a team, but he only laughed harder when he saw Tim spin toward Kon. Tim faced the cheeky grin behind him with a smirk of his own, and Kon’s amusement dropped. “No, don’t even think about it, Rob,” he held a hand out between the two and stepped back but Tim followed in suit. “Stop it, you fowl brat!” Kon laughed now, and turned around to run toward the tower. Tim’s smile only grew and he jumped forward, pouncing on Kon’s back and wrapping his arms around his neck in a loose hold. Kon squirmed at the cold water seeping through his shirt and he spun in a circle until Tim flew off and landed on his back, gasping with laughter.

When the core’s laughter died down, Bart jumped up and yanked his sweat pants down to reveal his Impulse leggings. He kicked them off carelessly and disappeared. The remaining trio caught fleeting glimpses of red and white zipping around the tower, and they heard a joyful shout accompany the sight. After several minutes of circling the tower and lapping the vast water around them, Bart returned to his friends with flushed cheeks and a suggestion for lunch.

"Let's order pizza," Tim grinned and they walked toward the tower together.