Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Facing down Ra’s al Ghul in a one-on-one fight is the height of foolish, but all Tim needs is enough time for Lucius Fox to file the correct paperwork. If he can hold out long enough to guarantee everyone’s safety—Bruce’s safety—then that is all that matters.

“Well done, Detective.”

When Red Robin is kicked out the window, his only thoughts are Bruce will be proud of me. I know he will.

No one catches him as he falls; he hits the pavement and dies.

Tim made contingencies. Should he die while confronting Ra’s al Ghul, Wayne Enterprises goes to Dick Grayson until Damian Wayne is old enough to take over, and a file containing all the evidence of Bruce’s situation is sent out to both Oracle and the Justice League.

He has no regrets, no lingering desire to cling to the world. Either he lives another day, or he can finally rest.

When Tim wakes up in a pool of green, screaming as his very soul burns, there is no plan of action to take, no scheme that factored in returning to life. He never imagined in his wildest dreams that Ra’s would bring him back.

I give and I take, the green water hisses all around him, and a primal, instinctive fear has Tim struggling to get to the stone side of the Lazarus Pit.

“Welcome back, Detective.” A familiar face smirks down at his thrashing, shrieking form.

A haze of rage settles over his mind, and the moment Tim pulls himself out of the water, he’s rushing the nearest ninja. They brace for an attack, a killing blow, which leaves a clear path for him to steal the knife at their hip.

With his newfound blade, Tim attempts to kill the Demon’s Head. He gets in a good enough stab that Ra’s doesn’t hesitate to break his neck.

And so he dies again.

The situation repeats twice more with Tim dying again and again.

On his fourth resurrection, Tim heaves himself over the side of the Lazarus Pit and lies there flat on his face. Someone—Ra’s probably—gently kicks his side when he doesn’t move, and though it takes all his effort to do so, Tim responds by holding up a middle finger.

“Are you ready to cooperate now, Detective?”

“Bitch,” Tim says. “Bastard. Bat shit. Malhat.”

“Language,” is Ra’s' mild chastisement.

Tim dies one more time from an accidental overdose, but that’s after he’s been tossed into a lavish room with a set of immodest green robes and fed something that makes him pass out on the world’s fluffiest bed.

The only one around to witness Ra’s al Gul facepalming is Tim’s cooling corpse.

Dark hair streaked with white flutters in an artificial wind, and a rope made of silky material sways ominously. Green eyes take in the city below. The height would be dizzying to anyone else, but Gotham’s skyscrapers have a way of desensitizing people.

“It’s been three years. Surely you are ready to stop this foolishness?” Ra’s leans over the window to give Tim the driest look imaginable.

“You call it foolishness, I call it ‘escaping captivity.’” Tim shoots back, clinging to his homemade rope.

Bedsheets tied together aren’t the best way to go unnoticed in a city of ninja, but Tim has had literal years to save enough of them to make the attempt. He figures one should always give the classics a try.

Plus, making Ra’s' eye twitch is always fun.

“If you are that desperate to leave, I will have a plane ready for you by tomorrow,” Ra’s says, as if he’s not gripping the windowsill hard enough to leave marks in the wood.

“Seriously?” He wouldn’t be surprised if Ra’s' promise holds a twist of semantics to them. Tim nearly lets go of the rope out of spite, and Ra’s scowls down at him for it.

“With a condition,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Of course, there’s always one with you.” Tim sighs. “What is it?”

“There is something you must take with you. You will find out what that is once you climb up.” Ra’s sees the manic glint in Tim’s eyes and adds, “To safety.”

“Or I could just fall to my death and let you resurrect me again,” Tim muses, swinging idly on his rope of bedsheets.

“Timothy.”

“Like you mind scraping me up and throwing me in the Pit,” he snorts. Despite his words, he climbs back up to his bedroom-slash-cell and blows his captor a kiss once he’s got an arm over the windowsill.

Ra’s looks ready to throw him back out the window, and Tim places another tally on his mental scoreboard. One day, he’s going to make the man regret resurrecting him, and that day will end in either Tim or Ra’s dying permanently.

“So, what is this thing I must take with me?” Tim asks.

The image of Ra’s al Ghul holding a little girl in his arms carefully and lovingly is almost enough to break Tim’s brain. Then Ra’s smirks at him and runs a hand through the toddler’s short, dark hair.

“Say hello to your mother, my dear,” Ra’s says mildly.

“Hello,” the child says blandly.

Tim chokes.

Somewhere between his fourth and sixth resurrection, Tim has apparently procreated with Ra’s al Ghul via the wonders of technology.

If it wasn’t for the toddler watching him, he would probably go for death number twelve.

“Ra’s, we should really talk about consent and what it means,” Tim says, blinking back the green entering his vision.

“Your opinion in this matter holds no sway,” Ra’s says, glancing down at their offspring with a calculating gaze. “The only reason you are learning about this child is because I am curious to see what you and your city will make of her.”

The “I can make more if you mess up” goes unsaid, but Tim eyes the nearest candlestick anyway. Maybe he can shove it through Ra’s' eye if he’s quick enough. He’s managed to kill Ra’s once in his many deaths; he’s sure he could do it again.

“Stop eyeing the décor and take your daughter,” Ra’s says, holding the girl out as if she is nothing more than a baby doll.

Daughter. The word smacks him upside the head. He has a daughter. Approaching the toddler with surer steps than he feels, Tim stands far enough to allow tiny, blue eyes to study him. The toddler’s gaze shines with an intensity reminiscent of himself, and Tim nearly melts on the spot.

He has a daughter.

“Sweetheart, you’re coming with me,” Tim coos at the little girl before gently plucking her out of Ra’s arms. He very pointedly ignores the triumphant expression aimed at him.

“Layla,” the little girl corrects him with a frown.

“Layla, you’re coming with me,” Tim says, shifting so that her itty-bitty dress is tucked beneath her comfortably. “Sweetheart is a nickname.”

“What is nickname?” Layla asks, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

“A name given to someone else alongside their real name,” Tim explains, already sweeping out the door with his new child. “It’s personal to the one giving and receiving it.”

“I am Sweetheart?” Layla asks.

“You are Sweetheart,” Tim nods, already hopelessly in love.

He isn’t stupid. Ra’s is no doubt using the child as part of a long-term strategy. It’s only a matter of whether Layla is being used to further Ra’s al Ghul’s reach, or if she’s part of a revenge scheme.

But this is his daughter now, and he’s not giving her back without a fight.

Over the next day Tim learns a few things about his new spawn.

Layla is three and worryingly intelligent for her age. Her favorite color is the blood of her enemies, and her normal bedtime stories involve the villain winning. Tim feels like he should be concerned about that, but he’s too busy gushing over every snack piece she hands him to think about it.

“Get better, Mother,” Layla says, handing Tim a slice of apple while staring at his white-streaked hair with the saddest eyes.

“Thank you, Sweetheart,” Tim takes the apple slice and tries not to babble about how adorable his mini-me is. “Can you call me something else though?”

Layla’s little nose scrunches up as she examines him from where he sits on the floor. She takes in the fancy robes that flow around him like a skirt, and the thick, gold bangles on his arms that hides his weapons. The “You’re so stupid, but I love you anyway” expression on the toddler’s face is the same one he tends to wear around his friends.

“You aren’t Father,” Layla decrees, “so you are Mother.”

“How about a nickname?” Tim asks, as close to desperate as he’s willing to show.

“Mama,” Layla compromises.

Tim gives up and takes the grape offered to him.

Chapter Text

Layla, Tim soon learns, is already potty-trained and takes fierce pride in it. Even offering to take her to the toilet results in a glare and a high-pitched, “You have insulted my honor.”

Resisting the urge to pinch her cheeks, Tim instead apologizes dutifully. Layla nods with a serious face and tells him that he is only forgiven because he is her fragile, sickly mother. He’s given one last glare before the door to the toilet closes firmly shut behind her.

Tim is struck by the sudden thought that he needs to keep his daughter as far away from Damian as possible. Either they would get along horrifyingly well, or Layla will declare Damian as the enemy.

Maybe he should put off his public return to Gotham for another three years.

While he’s debating the merit of staying legally dead, the ninja nanny brings in Layla’s sleep clothes and toothbrush. He takes them from her and knocks on the toilet door. A long minute passes by before the door opens just enough for one single blue eye to glare up at him.

“Your sleepy time things,” Tim says grandly, holding out the bundle of clothes and toothbrush.

Layla snatches her things and changes into her sleep gown without any help. While she’s brushing her teeth, the nanny ninja sets up a small bed for Layla to sleep in. It goes unused because Tim’s bed is big enough for the both of them, and paranoia is a bitch.

“Tell the story of The King’s Revenge?” Layla asks him as they snuggle up together.

From the title, Tim can guess that it’s a fairy-tale about a king torturing and killing a peasant usurper. He hopes he’s wrong, but he’s pretty sure he’s not.

“I don’t know that one,” he admits, shaking his head.

“The Spider Kills? The Dragon Bites Back? Death by Disease?” Layla asks each time he shakes his head.

No doubt all the bedtime stories Layla enjoys is full of death and the real heroes dying. He’ll need to come up with a story that caters to its theme of death while shifting the view of the villains and heroes around.

“How about the Boy who Flew?” Tim smiles, thinking of the tiny acrobat who would become one of his greatest heroes.

“Okay,” Layla sighs and rolls away to sleep rigidly on her back. Tim tries not to let his smile falter.

Ra’s doesn’t lie. A private airplane is ready for Gotham by morning. It’s only big enough for a small family to ride comfortably, and the bright colors imply official registration. Tim wonders what the price for his ticket home is.

Not that it matters. Ra’s will wait to collect his payment and soon find that he has more serious things to worry about.

“Mama, strap,” Layla orders, trying to put Tim’s restraints on for him and failing.

“That’s my line,” he says before scooping her up and depositing her in the seat next to him. Layla pouts at Tim strapping her in for her, but she also looks absurdly please.

Such a weird child.  

“Good morning Mama Biddy and Little Chickadee, this is your captain speaking!” A familiar voice bellows over the intercom, making reluctant mother and daughter clutch their ears.

“Pru?” Tim eyes the door separating them from the cockpit in disbelief.

“All staff members were not so kindly kicked off earlier and as such,” Prudence continues with clear delight, “take care of your own damn selves. Make sure you buckle up because this is going to be a short flight!”

“Pru, can you even fly this thing?” He asks, sharing a worried glance with Layla.

“I can now!” Pru cackles over the intercom.

The plane begins vibrating.

“Mama, don’t wanna die,” Layla says, grabbing his hand.

“I know, Sweetheart. We can jump off if we have to.” Tim made sure to put the cape that glides in the pouch by his feet. “I’ll put on a movie for you while I keep an eye out in case we need to abandon Pru.”

“Hey! I heard that!” The intercom blares at them. Tim ignores her to smile down gently at Layla’s pale, distraught face.

“Okay,” she eventually says.

The tiny hand in his squeezes tightly once the plan begins moving, and Tim pets Layla’s short hair with his free hand before tapping out “If you kill us, I will bring you back and kill you again” in Morse against the metal wall.

“Don’t be a bitch, bitch,” is the responding beeps over the intercom.

Despite all concerns, Pru manages to land them safely onto a private landing strip in Gotham only a few hours later. They had to have broken almost all flight laws to get there as fast as they did, but no one pays attention as they stumble out of the small aircraft with their luggage.

“Breathe in that damp, dirty air,” Tim says, taking in the grey haze on the horizon. “No place like home.”

“This place is a shithole,” Pru says flatly.

“Yuck,” Layla agrees.

“That’s Gotham,” Tim nods. “Oh, and don’t worry if you can’t breathe. That’s the pollution, and you’ll get used to it.”

Layla’s nose wrinkles, and she clutches onto Tim’s dress slacks with one hand and a bright pink backpack with the other. Tim would think it adorable, if he didn’t know his daughter was using him as a shield and that a small knife is hidden in the straps of her backpack.

Pru drops them off at their apartment building in a rental car before taking off to do Ra’s bidding. Invisible lasers and hidden cameras watch them as they make their way through a small courtyard and to a door around the back of the building.

“This is the real door,” Tim picks up Layla so she can see how the identity scans work, “and the only ones allowed in are you and me.”

The entire apartment building is theirs; it’s one of Tim’s properties, and something he was working on before he got kidnapped by Ra’s. With a few tweaks the place will go from safe house to residence nicely.

“Where about the servants?” Layla looks around their new home with a critical eye. The dust and décor do not meet her standards by the ugly face she makes.

“We don’t have those,” he says, typing away at the terminal in the kitchen and trying to bring the rest of his security online in a way that doesn’t attract Oracle’s attention.

“Oh,” Layla visibly thinks about that while looking at the refrigerator. She nods and says, “I cook, you clean.”

“You can cook?” Tim blinks down at the little girl who doesn’t even come up to his waist.

“No.” Layla narrows her eyes at him. “Father says don’t let you cook. All you make is junk.”

Tim glances around at the most likely places Ra’s has bugged. Placing a hand over Layla’s eyes, he flashes a middle finger at all them.

“Mama?” Layla asks, confused and standing still.

“Just letting your father know what I think of him,” he says pleasantly.

Once the security is good to go and all of Ra’s’ cameras die a swift, staticky death, Tim sets Layla up with a snack and a drawing pad. She goes to town drawing herself killing a bunch of ninja, and Tim pulls up a special program on the terminal.

He begins typing.

RR: How’s the new body holding up?

MS: Good enough to throw Red Hood off a building.

RR: Am I going to have him gunning for my head?

MS: No, it’s just the normal “Pay Attention to Me Damn It” spiel.

RR: Oh good. I can work with that. Make sure Red Robin is seen around the Iceberg Lounge tonight.

MS: Understood. How seen do you want me?

RR: Enough to have all eyes on you without getting a warrant put out.

RR: Get ready. After tonight, Anarky returns.

MS: I have waited a long time for this.

RR: I know. None of them will know what hit them.

“Mama, need more red,” Layla suddenly says, holding up the remains of a red crayon.

Tim glances down to the sketchpad on the table. Layla has moved on from her ninja battle to a new picture; it’s rough on the eyes, but the image is definitely of Gotham drowning in blood. Tim probably shouldn’t be as amused as he is by it.

“Don’t worry, we’ll go get a lot more red,” he tells her.

Chapter Text

For all that he can fake otherwise, Tim knows that he is not sane, knows that the Madness of the Pit lurks in the back of his mind like a nightmare waiting for him to sleep. If he closes his eyes, he can still hear the sound of glass breaking and the imaginary howls that demand he save Bruce’s legacy.

There’s a new scream echoing inside of him now; it demands he protect the little life that depends on him. Layla may be assassin raised, but she is still a toddler clinging to his pants out of fear. All it takes is Ra’s or a Gotham Rogue moving their finger, and she dies.

Tim will do anything to keep his daughter safe even if it means burning the infection out of Gotham with his own two hands.

Once the sun goes down, Tim retreats to the bedroom to change into a bright red costume. The loose fabric keeps weapons tucked away in folds, and a slim Kevlar bodysuit remains completely hidden beneath.

“Mama,” Layla picks up a mask from the bed, “what is this?” The mask is a solid gold color which gives its human face an unsettling inhuman look.

“When overthrowing the government, you need to have a different face on,” Tim says absentmindedly as he secures the knives in his boots.

Layla tentatively places the mask against her face, and the sight of the oversized icon on such a tiny little body makes Tim laugh. If only he had his phone so he could show Lonnie; either he’d be extremely pleased or pissed off.

“Layla, I need you to listen to me,” Tim says. He runs a red glove over her head, and she lowers the mask to stare up at him seriously. “Two friends of mine are allowed in the House, and they will be coming over soon.”

He had given real thought about the name of his residence that doubles as his lair, but in the end, the only codename that made sense was the House in case Layla slips up at school. Because Layla will be getting a normal education even if Tim must kill to make it happen.

“The only one allowed in your room is you. If you feel unsafe at all, go to your room and lock the door, okay?” Tim squats down so he can be at eye level with his daughter.

“Okay.” Layla nods so seriously that he can’t help but reach out to pet her hair. It’s getting to be addictive.

“One of my friends is Pru. You know her.”

“She tried to kill us,” Layla says.

“Yes, she certainly did. She’ll be here to watch you while I go out to work. As for the other—” A breezy-sounding chime interrupts him; it’s the sound of someone passing the identity scans. Tim holds his hand out for the golden mask still in Layla’s grip. “Looks like he’s already here.”

Picking up a hat and cloak from the closet, Tim whirls into the kitchen where his guest waits with Layla’s little legs running after him. Blank lenses narrow from beneath a black cowl, and Tim waves his giant floppy hat in greeting.

“Red Robin or should I say Moneyspider?” Tim greets pleasantly.

“Anarky or should I say Red Robin?” Is the returned greeting that sounds eerily similar to Tim’s own.

Standing unnaturally still in the kitchen is Red Robin. What little can be seen of the face looks like a perfect imitation of Tim’s own, and no matter how much he stares, there is no sign of it being fake skin.

“You weren’t kidding when you said the new body would be a vast improvement,” he notes.

“It is certainly better than the last. If only the face wasn’t so ugly,” Moneyspider says flatly.

“I resent that.”

“I bet you do.”

Layla peeks around his cape, and Tim gently pushes her forward by her shoulder. There’s no reason to keep her hidden away when Moneyspider is already aware of her existence.

“Layla, this is my tech support, Lonnie,” Tim introduces to her.

“Hello, Layla. I am the only reason your mother has a paycheck,” Lonnie says, tilting his head in greeting. The two separate digs at Tim go completely over Layla’s tiny head, but not Tim’s.

“Filthy lies. Don’t listen to him, Sweetheart.”

“Which one of us is currently in a vegetative state and still crime fighting and which one of us was on miracle juice and still held hostage for three years?”

“Oh, don’t even start—”

Layla’s bright blue eyes look back and forth at them in clear fascination. Gaze resting on Lonnie, she opens her mouth and interrupts by asking the one thing she shouldn’t.

“Are you overthrowing the government too?”

Oh no, Tim thinks dimly as Lonnie focuses on Layla with an intensity that can be felt. Tim might be the one wearing the anarchy symbol on his clothes, but Lonnie is the one who has it carved on to his real body.

“I am, and do you know why?” Lonnie asks in clear delight.

“Lonnie.” Tim tries to stop him to no avail.

“Why?” Layla’s gaze is like an innocent lamb being offered up for the slaughter.

“Because society is corrupt. Which starts and ends with a corrupt government. The government starts out wanting the best for its people, but then they start rotting from the inside,” Lonnie begins, tone shifting into a crazed lecturer’s.

“Lonnie.”

“And the people, unable to see this rot, allow it to spread within themselves. Those people so full of rot become slaves to the corporations that puppet their government.”

Lonnie kneels to be on eye level with Layla, and Tim attempts to pick up the toddler to keep her away from his extremist ideology. Layla shows that she is as stubborn as both her parents by swiftly dodging out of arm’s length.

“The people see crime fighters like Batman and think they don’t need to do anything because they believe the problem is being solved while corporations use that belief to extend their control,” Lonnie spits out before uttering darkly, “This is what we must fight against. Down with Batman. Down with corporate control.”

“Down with Batman, down with cor’pret control,” Layla repeats with a nod, eyes wide and practically sparkling.

“Lonnie! Stop indoctrinating my daughter!” Tim snaps out, grabbing Red Robin by his cape and yanking it towards the door. The android body is heavier than it looks, but Tim needs to make Lonnie disappear before revolution can be had. “Layla, be good until Pru gets here,” he says over his shoulder.

“Then I can be bad?” Layla asks, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table where her art supplies are stacked neatly. Hopefully drawing is the only thing she plans on doing until Babysitter Pru arrives.

“Then you can be bad,” Tim agrees, somewhat desperately.

“I hardly think I am the bad influence here, Anarky,” Lonnie says admonishingly. Tim slaps him with the gold mask before sliding it onto his face.

“Yes, well, Red Robin isn’t supposed to be encouraging Batman’s demise like a supervillain.”

“I don’t recall Red Robin being a hero.”

They bicker all the way out the door.

“Bye bye,” Layla says to their backs before attempting to draw the anarchy symbol in bright red crayon.

Chapter Text

Taking in the sight of Gotham’s night from the rooftops is both nostalgic and maddening. Fond memories are tinted with helpless rage and spite. The desire to protect Bruce’s legacy wars with his need to keep his daughter safe; Tim isn’t sure where his true feelings end, and the insanity of the Lazarus Pit begins.

He wants to protect the city. He wants to burn it to the ground.

Ashes to ashes, we all fall down.

“What is it you are truly after?” Red Robin asks from beside him, breaking his spiral of thoughts. Lonnie’s tone is casual, but Tim’s every move is being observed and analyzed. No doubt his body language alone is being ran through several different programs at this very second. Any sign of weakness will be filed away for later.

Lonnie and Tim have worked together closely for years, but that doesn’t mean their alliance is permanent. Neither of them have forgotten that their goals don't align, or that they hold two very different views of justice.

There’s a saying about keeping friends close but enemies closer.

“People have only as much liberty as they have the intelligence to want and the courage to take,” Tim quotes from memory, taking off the gold mask hiding his face.

“Emma Goldman, a wise woman.” Lonnie nods.

“Or was she a ruthless extremist?” Tim counters.

Red Robin’s mouth thins in an obvious attempt to bite back a rebuttal. Tim is more than happy to play devil’s advocate despite his own personal beliefs, and Lonnie can’t help himself once he gets started. It’s just one of the many games they play.

“You fly under the banner of Anarky tonight. Make it count,” Lonnie hisses.

“As long as you remember that Red Robin doesn’t punch Batman in the face no matter how much he wants to,” Tim says dryly.

Red Robin motions subtly towards the camera behind them before firing off a grappling gun and swinging away towards the Iceberg Lounge. Tim waits until Lonnie is good and gone before sticking his tongue out.

The camera that can’t see his face belongs to Oracle, and the one that lies directly in front of him is Ra’s’. Both of them will be watching the same scene from two different perspectives, and they will still come to the wrong conclusion.

The only one who knows how to play the new game Tim is setting up is Tim.

It is imperative that Ra’s thinks he is attacking him under the guise of Anarky and for Bruce to think Tim is still running around as Red Robin. Equally important is for Lonnie to think Tim has no other allies aside from him.

Tim is fighting a war against three geniuses, all who oppose each other. They have no idea the battlefield is already filled with traps, and that Tim is building his own side.

Gotham will never be the same once he’s done with it.

“Mama,” Layla greets him upon his return. A red blanket rests around her neck like a cape, and several sheets of paper of a crudely drawn black thing are taped together and tied to a kitchen chair in the middle of the kitchen. The ropes look too good for a toddler to have done it. Must be Pru’s work.

“Were you playing pretend?” Tim asks, tearing off his gold mask and floppy hat and throwing them onto the table.

Layla nods shyly as Pru leans against the door frame with an uncomfortable expression. He figures out why immediately.

“Down with Batman!” Layla chirps before curling her top lip. “Take him to the punishment room!”

“Oh my god,” Tim says in horror. He knows exactly who she’s pretending to be. An unholy combination of Ra’s and Lonnie—her future self.

“Your little demon spawn there is creepy. You know that right?” Pru asks once Layla begins decorating the drawing of Batman with red crayon.

“What did she do?” Tim looks at the clock. Despite the hour, Layla is wide awake since it is late morning in Nanda Parbat.

“She did nothing but talk politely, ask questions, and play quietly.” Pru opens the fridge for a pack of beer Tim knows wasn’t there when he left. “She was so well-behaved it was scary.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Tim’s red cape and gloves join the other clothes on the table.

“Listen, I know you know jackshit about how three-year-olds work, but that?” Pru points to where Layla is silently threatening imaginary Batman with a silver crayon. “That is not normal. The screaming, the random emotions, the inability to think higher than a goldfish? That’s normal. Layla would slit my throat open while reciting a ‘How Doth the Little Busy Bee’ to make you happy.”

What Pru means to say is that Tim and Ra’s’ genes mixed together a little too well, and Layla is a budding genius supervillain in the making.

“I guess I need to throw out all those parenting books,” Tim muses. Not that he’s had time to read them, but he doubts they contain the knowledge of how to prevent the future overlord of humankind.

Getting Layla signed up for preschool is a thing. It’s not a particularly good thing, but Pru is on Ra’s’ payroll and not Tim’s. He only needs a handful of hours a day to get things done, and Layla needs to know how to interact with others her age.

That’s what he tells himself anyway.

“Mr. Jackson, are you aware that Layla decided to use her figurines to show how various executions are done?” Layla’s teacher stares him dead in the eye. “She made the entire class cry when Superman’s head went rolling.”

Day one of preschool sees Tim trapped in a small office, enduring an emergency parent-teacher conference. He now knows sending Layla to school with an entire set of Justice League figurines was a bad idea, but at the time he just hoped it would help her make friends.

“She learnt a lot of bad things from her other parent,” Tim says honestly. “I’m hoping to get her used to socializing normally.”

“I understand, but we would be talking on the phone if that’s all she did,” Layla’s teacher says tiredly.

“What else happened?” Tim tries not to wince.

“A boy, Matthew, tried to pull her shorts down. She hit him in the eye while declaring that he had attempted to ‘sully her honor’ and that he would be ‘put to death.’ Matthew’s parents are justifiably upset about his black eye and his reluctance to come back.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Tim promises, pulling out his checkbook to smooth things over.

Layla waits for him in her classroom, and the moment she catches sight of him, she’s darting off her little plastic chair to hug his legs. He places a hand on her tiny head and tries not to melt on the spot.

“I have asserted my dominance,” is Layla’s first words to him.

“Good job.” Tim scoops her up and struts out the door. Their expensive sports car is waiting for them in the parking lot. “Punch anyone who touches you without your consent.”

“I bit Kasey to defend your honor,” Layla tells him with utter seriousness. “I am now the supreme leader of class. My subjects will bring me off’rings.”

“Sounds like you had a busy day,” he says, setting her down in her car seat where Layla buckles herself in.

“Ready to go home,” Layla admits, rubbing her eyes.

He slides behind the wheel, and a near silent yawn has him glancing into the rear-view mirror. Layla, offended over her body moving without her say-so, frowns like she has been deeply betrayed. It's an expression that Ra's would make over something far more serious.

Tim, trying not to crack up, smiles all the way home.

Chapter Text

Tim is prepared for the inevitability of Layla getting sick. He has every necessary medication stocked and a pediatrician on speed dial. He’s even planned sick days into his time schedule.

What he isn't prepared for is being the one sick.

“Mama is fragile,” Layla says, somehow both sad and condescending in the same breath.

“You know what would make me feel better?” Tim asks blearily before covering his nose with a tissue and attempting to blow out all the mucus in his body in one go. “If you call me ‘Papa.’”

“Mama is fragile,” Layla repeats with emphasis.

“It was worth a shot,” Tim says miserably before adding his used tissue to the virtual mountain taking over his bed. He’s already cleared it off once, but not even an hour later the bed has all but disappeared again.

“I get you soup,” Layla declares, and Tim snags the back of her overalls before she can run off and try to work the stove again. Layla doesn’t seem to understand that Tim will never be sick enough to need the care of a toddler.

At least she now understands that food comes from the refrigerator only. He almost had a heart attack after seeing her chase a squirrel with a kitchen knife.

“I ate already,” he tells his pouting daughter before letting go of her overalls. “I just need to rest. How about you put on one of your cartoons in the living room?” He practically begs.

With a put-upon sigh, Layla drags one of her small, plush blankets over to his bed and attempts to drown him in it. She pats the bed where she thinks his hand is before leaving. The faint sounds of an old cartoon start up not long after.

Tim groans and goes back to hacking up his lungs.

Maybe he could kill himself and let Ra’s bring him back. It’d be an easy way to be rid of the virus at the small cost of his life and whatever sanity he has left.

But then Layla would be vulnerable for that amount of time.

If he remains as he is, however, the chances of getting Layla sick goes up to an absolute certainty. Pru and Lonnie aren’t capable of taking care of Layla longer than a night, and Tim really can’t do anything but stay in bed right now, using hand sanitizer until his skin falls off.

It goes against every Pit-infused bone in his body, but Tim needs to find someone that can take care of Layla until he’s out of the infectious stage.

The question is, who can he trust to defend Layla with their life but still manage to keep up with her possibly genetic megalomaniac behavior? It needs to be someone who can evade Batman too, considering Tim’s plans and Layla’s villain leanings.

Only one person comes to mind in Tim’s feverish brain, and it’s going to cause complications to his plans for Gotham down the road.

“Ugh, why did I get sick?” He bemoans.

Gritting his aching teeth, he pulls himself out of bed and shuffles over to the closet. He pulls out a scarf with a built-in filter and a coat long enough to pull over his pajamas. He loads the coat down with as many tissues as he can fit into its pockets.

“Sweetheart,” he wheezes as he drags himself out the door, “start packing your things for an overnight trip.”

For all that everyone likes to pretend otherwise, Batman’s invasion of privacy can reach to disturbing levels, especially to those close to him. There is a program to keep an eye on who is spending what, where, and Tim uses that to his advantage by keeping a copy of the information for himself.

This is how he’s able to find the so-called safehouse of Layla’s chosen babysitter with minimal effort.

“Who the fu—Tim?” Opening the door in a pair of pants and a slight case of bed head, Jason gapes at the sudden toddler thrust into his face. The gun behind his back drops into view.

Even with his head in a fog, Tim remembers to keep his hair covered in a stocking cap and a pair of sunglasses on his face. How Jason knows it’s him when he’s covered from head-to-toe, he doesn’t know, but with the way pain throbs between his eyes, Tim has no desire to drag out this touching reunion any longer than he has to.

“This is Layla, my daughter. Layla, this is your Uncle Jason. He’s going to watch you until I’m better, so behave, okay?” Tim sets Layla down by Jason’s leg where she latches onto his pants to keep him from running away. “Bye, Layla, I love you.”

“Bye, Mama! Love you too!” Layla waves, clutching the still stunned Jason in a tiny death grip.

“Tim. What.” Jason’s brain appears to have momentarily stopped. Sick Tim tends to have that effect on people.

“I have the flu, so you’ll have to take care of her.” He leans forward, sunglasses glinting menacingly. “Jason, if Layla gets hurt on your watch or somehow ends up with someone else, there will be no need to dig yourself out of your grave again because there will be nothing left.”

The threat is ruined by a series of coughs that end in groans of pain. Tim shoves the bright pink backpack dangling off his arm towards Jason, who accepts it with a frozen expression. He needs to hurry this up before Jason’s brain finishes rebooting.

“She likes bedtime stories that involves people dying, and she likes anything Moomin. Emergency numbers are in her purse, but so are her knives, so ask her for them before trying to get them yourself,” Tim rattles off. “If you see ninja, don’t worry about it unless they get within twenty yards of Layla. Don’t worry about the Batman thing, it’s genetic.”

With nothing else to say, Tim pulls out a grappling gun and aims it at the building behind them. His car is parked near it, and he’d really like to get back before it becomes surrounded by the dead bodies of thieves trying to touch it.

“Tim, wait—” Jason tries to stop him, but Tim’s swinging away before he can finish.

When he manages to get to his car, he’s happy to find that there’s only the faint smell of burnt flesh greeting him. Someone found out about the security measures and booked it instead of trying their luck. Smart thieves.

After hacking up the rest of his lungs, Tim puts the car on auto drive to a pharmacy on the other side of the city. He doesn’t actually need anything, but it goes against his instincts to make a straight line back to his home.

He spends the entire drive feeling like he abandoned a puppy in the rain. Usually, the separation from Layla isn’t so bad, but then she’s always been waiting for him, safe and sound in the House.

Now he can only depend on Jason and the legion of ninja sent to protect his precious daughter. Oh, woe is he.

Once home, he curls up with Layla’s small, plush blanket and tries not to cry. Then he’s hit by a particular bad sneezing fit that makes him try to smother himself unconscious with his pillow. It doesn’t work because he already can’t breathe.

Ugh, being sick sucks.

Maybe Tim should be more worried about using the Red Hood as his personal babysitter, but Jason is a problem for later, specifically a later when he doesn’t feel like jumping in front of a train.

Chapter Text

The very first thing Tim does after getting back to the House is take some medicine of dubious origins and strip without a care. The second thing he does is crawl into bed, slap a radio down onto his nightstand, and attempt to smother himself once more.

He eventually falls asleep before he can kill himself, but it’s a near thing.

When oblivion loosens its hold on Tim about an hour later, he turns over and switches on the radio. It’s connected to the microphone hidden in Layla’s backpack, but it’s meant for reassurance rather than spying. At first, anyway. He doesn’t count on Uncle Jason being so amusing.

“So, what do you eat?” That’s Jason voice, uneasy and wary.

“The hatred of my enemies.” And that’s his Layla, being adorable as always.

A moment of awkward silence suggests that Jason has no idea how to respond to that.

“How about chicken nuggets?”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve never had—” Jason splutters before exclaiming, “Just what kind of life have you been living?”

“Life without chicken nuggets.”

Layla’s voice is so condescending, he can practically see her little chin jutting up. He ends up laughing hard enough that it makes him curl up, groaning in pain.

Tim’s not worried about the Bats learning something they shouldn’t. Any attempt to interrogate Layla for information beyond simple things such as her favorite color—which is red, replacing the blood of her enemies, Tim is pleased to know—goes about as well as questioning a three-year-old could.

“Where did Tim get you from?” Jason tries.

“From Papa.” Someone at pre-school must have said something about the difference in names Layla uses for her parents. He hopes Ra’s chokes on his stupid cape when he hears his new cutesy title.

“Who’s Papa?”

“He’s Father.”

“And who’s that?”

“A demon,” Layla says before her voice drops slightly for her best Ra’s impression. “‘Take him to the torture chamber!’”

“You know what? I don’t want to know. Forget I asked.”

Tim cackles, and his head and throat attempt to murder him for it. The adventures of Uncle Jason and Little Layla are his new favorite thing. He falls asleep to Jason attempting to get Layla glued to the tv, so he can hide all his guns without her knowing.

It’s two days before Tim is well enough to get out of bed. During that time, Dick stops by to convince Jason to show up for a charity event being hosted by Bruce. Consequences of being declared legally alive, Dick states, is suffering as a family.

“And who is this lovely, little angel?” Dick coos.

“Uncle Jason says I’m demon spawn,” Layla says matter-of-factly.

“Excuse me?” Dick is no doubt leveling his best glare at Jason, who snorts in response.

“Her ‘Papa’ is apparently a demon from hell which makes her a demon spawn. Don’t give me that look. You haven’t seen her playing.”

“And who is ‘Papa?’” Dick asks.

“Father,” Layla answers.

“You’re not going to get more out of her than that,” Jason says with the tone of the defeated.

Tim can’t see what’s happening from where he’s juggling his laptop on his knees, but there’s a sound of a high-pitched snarl followed by a yelp; he’s pretty sure Dick tried to pick up Layla and was bit for his troubles.

“Uncle Jason, I’m going to go play.”

“Don’t jump on the couch again. It can’t take much more of a beating.”

“Understood!” Layla’s voice is already fading away.

“I never took you for the kid-loving type. Who exactly are you babysitting for?”

“Just an acquaintance. Her mom’s come down with the flu.” Jason’s voice is even and nonchalant. “You might want to put a band aid on that. She got you good.”

There’s a sigh and a grumbling about absurdly sharp baby teeth. Tim tries not to let out an evil laugh at Dick’s suffering. He’s not sure he’ll be able to stop if he starts.

(Dick doesn’t know true pain, doesn’t know what drowning back to life feels like, doesn’t know the feeling of his world being ripped away over and over and over—greengreengreen.)

Nothing more is said about Layla, and Tim tunes them out to focus on his emails. He keeps one ear open for anything juicy, of course, but it appears Dick really doesn’t have any other agenda than forcing Jason into a tux.

A week later, Tim’s recovered enough to pick up Layla. He’s wearing sunglasses, a wig, and a femininely cut trench coat to corroborate with Jason’s half-truth should anyone be watching him. He approaches the door, and it swings open before he can knock.

“Mama!” Layla tackles his knees and clutches at his coat. She’s wearing a blue dress dotted with little pink Batman logos that match the shade of her backpack. Tim doesn’t remember buying the dress; Uncle Jason must have gotten it for her.

“Sweetheart, I missed you. Did you miss me too?” Tim lifts Layla and snuggles her close. He melts into goo as her little face nods into his neck.

Heavy footsteps interrupt their reunion, and Tim glances up to see an unimpressed face staring back at him.

“Tim.”

“Jason.”

“First time we’ve seen each other in years, and you dump your kid on me without warning,” Jason says with narrow eyes. He’s wearing body armor underneath jeans and a leather jacket. Tim hopes it’s not in preparation for a fight.

“We’ve been working together to protect Gotham, haven’t we?” Tim smiles thinly.

“You haven’t talked to anyone outside the mask in years. There’s a reason for it, isn’t there?” Jason leans against the doorway and crosses his arms. “He’s good, but I’m not stupid enough to not notice that there’s an impostor walking around with your face.”

Well, that answers the question of why Red Hood has been working so hard to get Red Robin’s attention lately. Good thing Lonnie has been extra careful to maintain distance; if Batman caught on, they’d be screwed.

“I’m not going to ask about the demon spawn. It’s none of my business, but.” Jason grimaces and looks away. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m here if you need me.” The sincere statement is followed by a soft expression as Jason glances at Layla out of the corner of his eyes.

Tim shoves down the pangs of guilt over his plans for Jason. If he plays his cards right, Uncle Jason will become a permanent protector for Layla. He can’t be swayed by sweet words, not anymore.

“When I first showed up, how’d you know it was me?” He asks to both change the subject and answer a question that’s been bothering him for days.

“Your scarf had the Red Robin logo embroidered to it. Those were Superboy pajamas under the coat, and you literally wore a hat anagrammed with ‘Tim’ on it,” Jason says in disbelief.

Oh, well. That’s embarrassing.

“Here.” Tim moves to secure Layla with one arm, so he can reach into a pocket. He pulls out a small, black smartphone. “Your payment for watching Layla and all the birthdays I missed.” He holds the phone out to Jason.

Jason eyes the device warily before reaching out slowly for it. Tim waits until the phone is safe in a tight grip before speaking,

“On this phone is a video file. The moment you watch it, it will delete itself and unleash a virus onto the phone to brick it.” Tim pets the back of Layla’s soft hair before letting out a bone chilling smile. “This is the only evidence remaining of the Joker’s death.”

Jason breathes in sharply.

“How. When?” The grip on the phone trembles so hard, Jason has to use both hands to hold onto it.

“Watch the video. It happened three weeks ago.”

“He was on the news yesterday!” Jason roars.

“Was it really him,” Tim leans forward and murmurs, “or just a good impostor?” Pivoting, his high heel shoes click forebodingly against cracked, cement.

"Bye, Uncle Jason." Layla waves over his shoulder, voice quiet and sweet in the wake of the suddenly heavy situation.

They leave Jason standing in the doorway of his safehouse, staring down at the phone in his hand with wide eyes. Tim doesn't look back.

Chapter Text

Tim has made a mistake. Not of the life or Bruce-threatening kind, but of the “Oops, I didn’t think my kid would be into that” kind of thing.

“Mama, Santa!” Layla points to the store window while tugging on his arm.

Tim eyes the hideous mannequin wearing a ragged Santa suit with a tight smile, “Yes, Sweetheart, Santa.” The display of Santa is both unnaturally thin and beardless, but those details don’t seem to matter in Layla’s eyes.

There are no holidays celebrated in Nanda Parbat aside from the quiet observances done on one’s on time—Ra’s, being neither religious nor belonging to any culture, finds it all a waste of time—and Tim didn’t have the energy to care about Hanukkah or Christmas. He’d been too busy surviving to care about something so mundane.

Now he’s regretting his lack of attention. Despite sending Layla to a preschool that enjoys celebrating Christmas all month long, there are no contingencies for dealing with her sudden desire to join the capitalist nightmare.

“You couldn’t have picked Yule to focus on instead?” At least with the Germanic holiday, there are no mall Santas or repetitive music involved.

“I want a Christmas tree,” Layla says with finality.

“Okay, we’ll go get a Christmas tree.” Tim gives in with a sigh.

Other reasons why Tim would rather forget the holidays exist include but are not limited to: the days leading up to Christmas are the most crime heavy of the year despite being practically nonexistent on the actual day, the knowledge that pets are adopted on a whim only to be sent back soon after, all his favorite radio stations suddenly play the same ten songs without pause, and he never wins at dreidel.

He supposes that all pales in the face of realizing there are no family dinners to attend.

As they wander around the old market district, Layla takes in the various Christmas decorations with glittering eyes and uncharacteristic delight. The grip of her tiny hand around his own loosens as she tries to take in all the sights.

Tim knows there’s nothing he won’t do to keep that look on her face even if it means altering his plans to celebrate a holiday that holds little meaning to him anymore. Even if it means playing nice with the very people who will come to hate him.

“Do you want to get a present for Uncle Jason?” he asks, giving into the urge to scoop Layla into his arms.

“Yes! And Uncle Lonnie and Aunt Pru?” Layla pleads at him with her eyes, and Tim presses an exasperated kiss to her forehead.

“Yes, them too.”

“And Papa?”

“No,” Tim says sharply on reflex before speaking a bit gentler, “he makes it his mission to be on Santa’s naughty list. Wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings, would you?”

Layla pouts at him before snuggling up into the collar of his jacket with furrowed brows. She kicks her legs into his stomach absentmindedly as they make their way back to the car.

“Give Papa coal?” Layla suggests, and he chokes back a laugh. If there’s one thing an eco-terrorist like Ra’s would loathe, it’s a lump of coal.

“It’s perfect. You are the smartest, most wonderful child I will ever have,” Tim decides.

There’s not much time left until the dreaded day is upon them. The first thing that needs to be done is grabbing a Christmas tree to set up in the living room. Tim’s family only ever used real trees with expensive ornaments designed to make others envious, so that’s what he goes for.

Layla wants the Christmas decorations to be red and gold after her favorite heroes. Tim pays a decorator to design their tree, and he ends up bringing home what is essentially a work of art. They’re admiring their tree when Pru kicks down the door with a box that looks like it was grabbed out of a trash bin.

“Got to do this shit right, since it’s her first taste of extreme brainwashing at its finest,” Pru announces before dropping the box onto the coffee table. The sound of breaking ceramics and glass doesn’t faze her.

“Good to see your holiday cheer,” Tim says dryly. He never mentioned what he was doing, but with Pru he doesn’t have to. “What’s with the box?”

“Tradition dictates you’ve got to make your own ugly ass ornaments to hang on the tree or else you’re a bad parent,” Pru says before motioning Layla over to the coffee table. “Come on, squirt. Grab a glue stick and show us what kind of unholy combination you can make!”

Tim’s never heard of that tradition, but he’s not one to turn down a Layla original, so he helps by piling the unbroken ornament pieces onto the coffee table based on color and size.

“I’m going to make an angel,” Layla announces before digging through the piles for several busted-up heads, an inordinate amount of googly eyes, and sticks that might be limbs. “Mama, you do one.”

Tim settles next to Layla and grabs what he needs to make a snowman Nightwing. “I’m going to call this one ‘censored,’” he declares.

The little breakfast restaurant on the corner of Bayson Avenue is still as unfriendly as ever. He’s been sitting here for ten minutes, and the waiter is still ignoring him to scroll through their social media. If it wasn’t for their amazing waffles, Tim would have already turned the staff in for the illegal gambling den in the backroom.

“What’s going on?” Jason slides into the seat across from him, somehow managing to avoid the squeak of the rubber seats. He takes in Tim’s brown-dyed hair and sunglasses with narrow eyes.

“Layla made you a card. She wants you over for Christmas Eve, if you’re free.” Tim slides the invitation across the table and tries to remain calm about inviting an unknown into his lair.

“Tim, about Layla.” Jason pockets the card without looking at it and leans forward to speak lowly. “I know a League of Shadow kid when I see one. Anyone I need to kill?”

The absolute sincerity radiating from Jason takes Tim off guard. “Ra’s. His sister. Talia if you have the balls,” he wants to say. He remains silent, and Jason takes his stony expression for what it is.

“Look, Bruce is still Bruce, but Alfred and Dick will want to see you back along with your kid. Layla can lord her supremacy while talking about killing Batman to make everyone uncomfortable.”

“And Damian?” Tim asks nonchalantly, and Jason sends him an unimpressed look.

“You already know what happened to him.”

Tim tries not to smile at the reminder of Damian’s misfortune.

“Ah, yes, not even two years in the Robin suit and Bruce’s new little bundle of joy replaced him as the baby to be waited on.” Even as a prisoner these past few years, he heard all about Bruce having yet another biological kid thrust upon him out of nowhere. “He’s currently finding himself somewhere in California, I believe.”

“Things got kind of tense between them now that Dick’s a single parent to a toddler.” Jason nods with a grimace. He picks up the laminated menu in front of him and pretends to read it. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but it better not be some supervillain shit.”

“You’re not coming to Layla’s party?” Tim bites back the sudden urge to rake his fingernails into Jason’s skin until it bleeds. Jason glances at him sharply before moving his wrists out of easy striking range.

“Oh, I’ll be there,” Jason says, “but don’t think for a second we’re done talking.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Make sure you bring a present for Layla, or I’ll maim you,” Tim says pleasantly.

Chapter Text

The sheer amount of criminals getting in their last minute thefts means Tim flies as Red Robin the night before Christmas Eve. The snow is heavy, but it’s not as bad as it could be thanks to the thermal cap underneath the costume’s cowl. Robin had to make do with a pair of bright, fuzzy earmuffs, and that is one thing Tim does not miss about the past.

“What is your relationship with Jason Todd?”

Red Robin taps the hidden earpiece on his cowl with a smirk. Ra’s al Ghul sounds disinterested in the answer, but Tim knows him better than that. The fact Ra’s even bothered to ask says everything.

“What, jealous?” He taunts.

“Of course not,” Ra’s denies, “but it goes against your efforts to remain beyond Batman’s control.”

“He’s a good conversationalist. Wasn’t mad that I had boundaries unlike someone I know,” Tim states pointedly.

“Your boundaries tend to involve hostility against my person such as poisoning my favorite 300-year-old wine,” is the flat response.

Tim’s smirk grows into a feral grin. Though he’d been found out before the wine could be served, Ra’s had been so uncharacteristically incensed over the loss of the centuries old wine that Tim had to escape punishment using extreme measures. Death number six turned out to be quite messy.

“Let the wine go,” Tim tells him.

“Never.”

Tapping his boot against the roof below him with a hum, Tim watches the decorations blink in and out in the liquor store’s window across from him. He considers his next words carefully.

“So. Christmas. You coming to Layla’s party?” Please say no, please say no.

Ra’s’ silence gives the illusion of needing a moment to think the question over which is a dirty lie. His chosen course of action has already been planned long before now. “I am afraid I must refrain,” Ra’s says with genuine remorse, and Tim mentally sighs in relief. “I will have Prudence choose a gift in my place.”

“Just so you know, if it’s something assassin-y, I’m throwing it out before she can see it.”

“Duly noted. It’s not like you to change your plans for something as pedestrian as an appropriated Roman festivity.”

“I didn’t change my plans because I wanted to celebrate Christmas.” Tim laughs softly. “I did it because I want to be better than my parents. All of them.”

“You’re spoiling her.”

“I’m loving her,” Tim corrects.

“How long until your love destroys her?”

“Don’t worry, I already have a contingency for that.”

“Jason Todd,” Ra’s realizes. “That’s a dangerous game you are playing, Timothy. How sure are you he will be fine playing house with a child not his own?”

“You let me worry about that and worry more about yourself.”

Turning the earpiece off, Tim waits for any sign of movement in his peripheral. Each breath he takes feels like ice entering his lungs, and not for the first time, he thinks about pulling a Batgirl and going full mask.

There’s a subtle change to the shadows behind him, and he smiles briefly before wiping his expression clear.

“Hello, Batman.”

BruceBruceBruceBruceBruce.

“Red Robin.” Batman keeps his presence out of sight in an obvious effort to intimidate him.

“You really shouldn’t let Nightwing raise another of your kids for you,” Tim criticizes.

There’s no response to the jab, but Tim wasn’t expecting one. It’s always been about the silence with them, and for all that Bruce pretends to be indifferent, he will later obsess over every word Tim says.

“Your alliance with Anarky needs to come to an end.”

The first words Bruce gives, and they’re full of disapproval and barely concealed disgust. If he needs a reminder not to falter from his chosen path, this is it.

“No, I don’t think so,” he says mildly.

“This is not a suggestion.”

“It never is with you.” Tim shakes his head. “You’re just like Ra’s. You both hate and obsess over what you can’t control. You will never be happy no matter how much power and wealth you have. Because it’s never enough, is it?”

I will never be enough.

“I reversed the adoption and gave my shares of Wayne Enterprises to one of your dummy accounts. My access to the Batcave and its systems has been revoked. All traces of my time as your ward have been scrubbed from online sources. We haven’t spoken outside the cowl for the past three years. What exactly gives you the right to order me around?”

Tim expects an asinine answer like “I’m Batman” or “This is my city,” which is apparently too optimistic. He’s met with stony silence and nothing else. Still, apathy is preferable to Batman trying to break every bone in his body.

“Good talking to you, Bruce. Let’s do it again sometime.” Red Robin fades away into the snowy night with Batman following, and no traces of either of them remains.

Hugging his daughter is like a balm to an old wound. Tim buries his head into Layla’s hair, and she endures the embrace that dangles her off the ground with a heavy sigh. She pats him roughly on the arm when it goes on long enough.

“Mama, party time,” Layla says impatiently.

“Uncle Jason won’t be here for another couple of hours. Let’s go take a nap.” He sets her down, and Layla yanks on his sweatpants with a scowl.

“No time for nap,” she tells him. “We need to decorate!”

“We already put up the tree. What else is there?” he wonders.

“This!” He blinks, and Layla somehow disappears the moment his eyes touch. He blinks again, and she’s back and holding up a magazine; on the cover is a busy scene of a living room decked out in heavy Christmas decorations.

“Don’t you think it’s too much?” he asks, fighting to keep the repulsion from his face.

“No.”

Tim sags at the immediate and confident answer.

A breezy-sounding chime goes off, and Tim is too tired to do more than lie on the carpet ungracefully. He’s given Jason temporary access to the House, and he’s told Lonnie and Pru to come tomorrow. It should be fine.

Heavy boots stomp through the kitchen and towards the living room. Layla runs to the doorway with an enthusiastic shriek, and Jason bends down to scoop her up with the arm not holding a bag.

“Uncle Jason!”

“Hey, demon spawn.” He scans the room with unabashed curiosity. “What’s with the holiday card treatment?”

“Being a parent is rough,” Tim says from where he’s buried in paper snowflakes that didn’t meet Layla’s standards.

“It’s about to be rougher,” Jason says cheerfully before setting Layla down. He reaches into his jacket and hands Layla a present wrapped in shiny, foil paper. She tears off the paper and screams in happiness. “I happened to find a Moomin knife and a whole bunch of discount Batman figures. Merry Christmas, demon spawn.”

Tim groans in despair. He’ll be finding Batman parts forever.